tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15366391240870198472024-03-06T00:09:48.925-07:00Writing About YouA voice writing about today for tomorrow...Cicily Janushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16841849529479076806noreply@blogger.comBlogger139125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1536639124087019847.post-59006191360835364992016-06-06T15:41:00.000-06:002016-06-06T15:41:01.168-06:00Finite Hours, Finite Choices<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><i>Quote of the Day:</i></b></div>
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<i>It is our choices, Harry, that show what we truly are, </i></div>
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<i>far more than our abilities.</i></div>
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~J.K. Rowling~</div>
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"Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets"</div>
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<b><i>Current Local Weather: </i></b></div>
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Rain. Let it f-ing rain. There's nothing else left for the </div>
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weather or my heart to do, so let it rain.</div>
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<b><i>Currently on my iTunes:</i></b></div>
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<i>"Waiting on My Real Life to Begin"</i></div>
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Man At Work<br />
Colin Hay</div>
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<i>Dear Family, Friends and my Family of Friends...</i></div>
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I was once handed a smidgeon of advice...I was told that when you love someone, you are making a choice to love them every single day. Some days there won't be love that is obvious, but to love them is a decision that has to be made daily. But the second you decide, whether consciously or not, that you're not in love with the person, the condition of the relationship deteriorates rapidly and it moves on to a state of one-sided denial along with one-sided "feelings." The hours you are to spend with this person then becomes finite and your various stages of grief kick in. </div>
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I believe that love, in every form has its own one-sided, ill-reciprocating version. Even self-love. There comes a time in all of our lives, even if its fleeting, where we find ourselves having fallen out of love with who we are, or thought we were. Some people call it depression. I call it a normalization period of the human condition. Maybe your life was too overwhelming. Maybe you were wearing too many hats and Dr. Seuss called you out on your game. However, when this period of life happens, no matter how short or long, it steals your capacity to do, to be and to love others. You begin to realize that the hours you have with your true self are finite. You've been betrayed, hurt and the change that comes from that betrayal takes time to fit into your actual self in "real time." Once it hits you, the soloistic love syndrome can appear again any time.<br />
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Unfortunately/Fortunately, I've been trapped in this one-sided solo love/hate syndrome for quite some time. Last year, when I was first diagnosed with Leukemia, I had not a thought in my head as to how/when I would succumb to it. I was told I had a favorable "type" and that once in remission it would be YEARS, if ever, until it came back. Regardless of how hard it was to maintain face for the friends and family that knew me best, I started to believe that they were right. I wanted nothing more than to go on with my life. Live it with purpose. Be happy. Find normalcy. Spend the finite hours I had with my kiddos and realize that I had been given a second chance. I WAS FINE...DAMMIT. Fuck the doctors, fuck the cancer. I'm going to live. I began to love who I was, warts and all, in a whole way, again. I began to fight to get back what had once been mine but was lost in the breakup with myself. I sought out a divorce lawyer for the sicko-side of my life and regained my rightful property. Talk about glorious. I rekindled relationships and sought out new ones. I had no idea what was coming...</div>
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It was a mere three and three-quarter months later that this new relationship I had with myself began to unravel. Headaches. Pain. Exhaustion. Arguments that lasted all-night long were omnipresent. I finally went to the doctor to expel my paranoia/hypochondraic ways and was admitted to the oncology ward the next day. At first I was told that my small bowel was up in arms, twisted in on itself and rebelling. Easy enough of a fix. Then I was told that my bloodwork was..."off." I was sent home to rest and get better. Within a week, I was worse. My better half had consciously chosen not to love me anymore. My blood work was worse and the oncologist suggested a biopsy. </div>
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Later that day, I woke up from the sedation of the biopsy to see my doc sitting next to me. People were everywhere. My room was buzzing with nurses and a couple of bumbling paramedics that were ready to take me to University of Colorado Hospital in Denver. Immediately. Doc looked at me and said, Cicily...I don't know what to say other than to tell you that the cancer is back. </div>
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So much for the years and years of time. </div>
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Now...I had finite hours to decide what steps to take next. </div>
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The only coping mechanism I knew to employ was to break things off. I had to consciously make a choice to no longer love myself. Especially the half of myself that was betraying me in the most hurtful and rude way possible. </div>
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As humans we know that no one gets out of this life alive. As a 38 year old woman who has seen more than her fair share of meltdowns and breakups, I realized that not only were my hours more finite than I'd like to admit to, but my choices had to become finite as well. The choice to be happy would have to be finite and immediate. The choice to count my hours was dashed. We've all got finite hours. It's not that aspect of this tale that makes it noteworthy. It's the choice I made, in my right mind and with the right support at my side, that brings this story to its close. </div>
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The part of me that was still alive in my body (a.k.a. my mind) heard these words: I am not a candidate for transplant. My friend who received a transplant relapsed the same time I did, anyway. There's not much else that could be done. Do I want quality or quantity? We could do some treatments but you'd be most likely living out your days in a hospital bed.<br />
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The broken half of my spirit then asked the questions. A very wise man/Best father of all time named Jamie Beasley once told me not to ask questions I didn't want answers to...Well, Jamie...I had to ask them anyway.<br />
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Me: What does the future look like?<br />
Doc P: We can do more chemo but the chances that it'll kill you, and given this is your third "try" its risk is much higher than the benefits.<br />
Me: Without it, what does life look like?<br />
Doc P: You've got...months to live.<br />
Me: What does that look like?<br />
Doc P: When you relapse again, it'll only take a week or two.<br />
Me: What does that look like?<br />
Doc P: You'll get weaker and more and more tired and eventually you'll go to sleep and won't wake up. Pain may or may not be there. (Little did he know, the pain, the real pain in this life, the kind that breaks every organ into an oblivion, had already reached its "10.")<br />
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At this point I heard nothing else. He could have said...KIDDING! Joke's on us. You're fine.<br />
I didn't hear those words either. Every doc, NP and PA that entered the room from that moment on was then quizzed as to if they knew if I heard it right. I had completely broken up with myself and the self that was left was deaf, dumb and blind. Love is suffering. LOVE is SUFFERING.<br />
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In the immortal words of John Mayer in his tune, "Shadow Days": <i>"It sucks to be honest and it hurts to be real." </i><br />
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But as your friend, whether in this life or only in the confines of the internet, I can tell you that this is as real as it gets and I have the feeling that although I want to love more and be in love with who I am/was...my finite hours are actually coming to a close. So, I'm going to spend an infinity's worth of time with the best kids on the planet, help others beyond their own abilities to help themselves and even if its one-sided, I'm going to attempt to feel whole and invincible again. But Lord I pray that this is all just a bad mood I'm in and that it's just a dream. Life, after all, is but a dream.<br />
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I ask myself everyday...Is the doctor right? Lord, I hope not. Only God knows when I'll be whole again. Only God knows when I'll be able to gather my things and trade my tired legs in for wings. And you better believe that I'll be back. I'll be the notes in your solos, the spring in my daughter's steps as they walk down the aisle to meet the man of their dreams and the airbag that catches your beautiful face when life throws you an icy highway.<br />
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I've made my finite choice. Suffering has been my theme for years and I'm finally changing it. So many have asked how they can help me...Please come to see me as I cannot travel to you. Hold my hand. Binge watch The Office and Nurse Jackie. Don't question my choices, unless it's a food choice. Send me your music. Call me. Skype me. Hug me. Hell, forget me. Hug your loved ones. Hold hands with your children. Sing them good night. Read stories and share your actual stories so that when they grow sad, you'll be able to catch them when they fall. I can only say thank you to everyone that's been here and there and everywhere for me. I want to offer more for all who have held me up as the words seem suddenly daft and wrong.<br />
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Yours in Choices, Last Chances and Choking Back the Tears,<br />
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C</div>
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Cicily Janushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16841849529479076806noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1536639124087019847.post-7611819526189877312016-01-05T03:01:00.001-07:002016-01-05T03:32:49.649-07:00Foghorn in the Night<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><i>Quote of the Day:</i></b></div>
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<i>There are two mistakes one can make </i></div>
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<i>along the road to truth....</i></div>
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<i>not going all the way and not starting.</i></div>
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<i>~Buddha~</i></div>
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Just warm enough to forget the coldness of </div>
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my life and start over.</div>
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<b><i>Currently on my iTunes:</i></b></div>
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"Into the Mystic"</div>
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Van Morrison<br />
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Dear Friends, Family and my Family of Friends, </div>
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A bit of news. </div>
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I recently kicked some ass. </div>
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The ass I speak of is Acute Myeloid Leukemia. I'm in remission. If I'm being honest with you, I have to say I didn't, at least at first, expect to make it to the other side of cancer. But I did. I did it with a massive outpouring of love, medicine, poisonous chemotherapy and prayers/healing energy. I am still writing thank you notes...I've been writing them for months now. </div>
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So....now what? </div>
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I have this thing called recovery that I have to tend to everyday. It's a bitch, too. I want to go outside and play but my body is still very slow to start...it's like a car out of gas in the middle of winter. I sleep a lot, text a lot with my lovely BFF Lisa and occasionally get up and out to see a doctor.</div>
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Then what? Work. I'm continuing to read manuscripts and edit. But there is something else I want to do. I want to live more purposefully. I want to live with more truth and honesty than not. I want to LIVE. I want to finish this life game with glitter guns shooting in the air not because I had the most friends or money (although some would be nice...) but because I did everything with love and purpose. I want to sail into the Mystic, just as Van Morrison is singing in my ears, with the foghorn blowing as I come home. But this isn't just a home, it's heaven. </div>
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I have no more fears as everything I've ever feared, other than the occasional spider, has dissipated. I am going to rock more days than not and face life with a renewed spirit and greater love for those in my life. </div>
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If you were one of the people that supported me during my year of hell, bless you for walking into the unknown with your head held high, even if mine wasn't. If you were there holding my hand, especially those that traveled far to be there or physically carried me around, my hand is forever yours and my heart will have your name carved into it. Thank you ALL for giving me a life in which I will live with more purpose and love for everyone that comes into it.<br />
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Thanks especially to the following folks: My folks, Wayne, for giving me a sense of normalcy and checking on me more than anyone else; Seamus and Bill, I'll never forget your love and friendship; Tim, I still can't say thank you enough; Jason and Jen....there are no words sufficient enough; Jessica, you are an angel; Karen...thank you for every second you spent on me; Lisa...forever your sister and Niki, for traveling for a thousand or so miles to hold my hand for a day or two; Matt for keeping me distracted; Keith &Amy for bringing me a dose of real food and smiles; Heather for knowing and understanding; Shannon for sending love via packages and facetime; My children for being brave and loving me through it all; Tina, for coming to visit and bringing me fun things to do; CBCI, without you I wouldn't be here.</div>
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I'm home to stay for now. I've heard that foghorn and the road is now clear. I can say with great certainty that the sun is shining on us all. </div>
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Yours in Kicking Ass, Living on the other side of a cure and feeling blessed beyond words,</div>
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Cicily</div>
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Cicily Janushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16841849529479076806noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1536639124087019847.post-27188880545994079622015-10-08T15:17:00.002-06:002015-10-08T15:40:25.310-06:00Presently Dismissed<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><i>Quote of the Day: </i></b></div>
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<i>Better to be Strong</i></div>
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<i>Than Pretty and Useless.</i></div>
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<i>~Lilith Saintcrow~</i></div>
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<i><b>Current Local Weather: </b></i></div>
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Freezing Heat in the Chicken Coop.</div>
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<b><i>Currently on my iTunes:</i></b></div>
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Cough Syrup</div>
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Young the Giant</div>
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<b><i>Currently Reading: </i></b></div>
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Side Effects off of a Chemo Label. Scary. </div>
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Dear Friends and Family and My Family of Friends, </div>
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Has it really been a year and a half or more since my last blog? I guess it has. A lot has happened. A lot. If you want the Reader's Digest version, call me. But this blog, this is in the present moment. This is the first day I've had clarity in a very long time and I'm so very thankful for it. I start my last treatment in this month's round of Chemotherapy. </div>
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So in case you aren't sure how to read that, here's a hint...</div>
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I've been diagnosed with CANCER. </div>
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To clarify: It sucks. I have Acute Myeloblastic Leukemia. It's not an easy one. Not that any cancer is easy. But this one particularly sucks. Hard to get rid of. The kind of cancer that likes to park itself all inside your body and doesn't even buy you a drink or dinner before hand.<br />
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I have Young the Giant playing in my ears. I love their tune, "Cough Syrup." If you replace the words, Cough Syrup with Cancer, it fits my life, in this moment, perfectly. </div>
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I'm just waiting for this Cancer to come down. I was diagnosed on June 19th. It has turned everything in my world into a swirling sink of cough syrup tinged puke. But I'm ok. Ok with it. Ok with Cancer because it's only a June 19th kinda thing. It's only here for now. Not later. At least I hope so. </div>
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Yesterday, a pastor came to visit me. She was telling me all about her daughter's adventures with St. Baldricks when a friend of hers had cancer in high School and it took a solid two years to grow back her hair to the point where she could push her hair behind her ears. </div>
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I could feel the blood rushing up my very bald head. Ears were hot and tears flowed. I lose my mind easily these days. I started to lose it. Albeit I had thought about the idea of not having hair for a few months, the thought of not having it for several years blew me into a smothering afternoon full of anxiety. It's just hair. I had to ask the question, why did I rely so much on my hair and still rely so much on my hair as part of my identity? Why did I care what others think of me with or without my hair? It's only hair. I fear ugliness. I fear never being kissed again because I'm the weird, pale, funny looking bald chick. I fear not knowing if my fears will come true. I fear dying alone. I fear it all. </div>
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Really. </div>
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Hair. No hair = Fear. </div>
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What the hell is wrong with me? </div>
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Oh yeah. Cancer. That's what's wrong. </div>
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I hear I look good without it. For all those beautiful people with hair...go suck an egg. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPRwdEalL-RizxHdYh_lZ2D5K2dBUvxnNN1g3U77W2G8dm3IFEkDfGhXpJh-WLHidlLPLXTGBtaYfFV9lkJUJzRNFjuWY_w1xkzsiVeXfLEX6cv2tV4EWTI5AuyDFFyO3pHS5GpuwoXBSJ/s1600/11751732_1200208993339611_2775651740038725028_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPRwdEalL-RizxHdYh_lZ2D5K2dBUvxnNN1g3U77W2G8dm3IFEkDfGhXpJh-WLHidlLPLXTGBtaYfFV9lkJUJzRNFjuWY_w1xkzsiVeXfLEX6cv2tV4EWTI5AuyDFFyO3pHS5GpuwoXBSJ/s200/11751732_1200208993339611_2775651740038725028_n.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
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I beg to differ. </div>
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I'm naked without it. </div>
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My health is next to impossible to survive unless you're me. I was told things, after I burst into tears at the thought of never being me with hair like I used to have, like...stay in the present. This is temporary. This is only temporary. It's not temporary when it feels like forever. I've been in this bed since August 20th. It's not October. I was in the last bed for two weeks. The one before that for 6 weeks. I've missed Spring, Summer and now, the Fall. </div>
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And I have no hair. </div>
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No job to speak of. </div>
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And a billion friends that love me to pieces on Facebook and in real life. </div>
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So what's the big deal? </div>
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I'm waiting on the Cough Syrup to come down. This is no way to live life. So I try to think of the future. The future where I'm off this Cancer high and down into the reality I want so very badly. But living in anything other than the room that contains the poison for my veins and mind, is a very bad idea. There are no plans for the future. There are no plans for the past that have worked out and currently, I have lost my ability to dream. So I'm living with the short end of the stick in my hand and praying daily for mercy, grace and a cure. </div>
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I fully believe that now, living in the now, is the only way to go. All of my worries put in the actions and reactions of the past serve no one but my nerves and living in a future I can no longer see is blinding. </div>
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Today. This is all I have to give and all I need. Today. If breathing is the only thing I accomplish in a day and that's ok. My fortune is in my friends and family that hold me solidly in their web of love. </div>
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I have about two to three more chemo rounds to go until I'm "done." And that's if this persistence of molecular level leukemia cells vacates this crack house of a body in the very near future. If not...well, again, that's in the future and I have no desire to plan for it. Only for today. </div>
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If you have any desire to help me and others, I ask that you give what you can to the following: </div>
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<b><i><a href="https://www.indiegogo.com/projects/corey-christiansen-s-new-album-factory-girl#/story" target="_blank">Corey Christiansen: Friend and Client</a></i></b></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgee5eekKbzgo-9MnhOi3rhRERU_yeLS-V5gNHBqCns6fv36g-7a-C-uvjUMRykWNSsplBaW-LTeYpEwu7qz3vaemz-Naldsm9maCsNn1wLabYuDqu4yKhG-1ZNr7siY7iebUoDher-uVb5/s1600/Corey+at+Bar.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="133" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgee5eekKbzgo-9MnhOi3rhRERU_yeLS-V5gNHBqCns6fv36g-7a-C-uvjUMRykWNSsplBaW-LTeYpEwu7qz3vaemz-Naldsm9maCsNn1wLabYuDqu4yKhG-1ZNr7siY7iebUoDher-uVb5/s200/Corey+at+Bar.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
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<i><b><a href="https://www.gofundme.com/prepareaplace" target="_blank">Oscar Perez: Friend and BadAss Pianist</a></b></i></div>
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<i><b><a href="https://www.gofundme.com/xtbcvw" target="_blank">Cancer Fundraiser for My Medical Bills</a></b></i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhW2ORqqTcSPCGqxAyOE8qHSjyZHW_mxNaKBRdyxKe3CSRdH7Dw5rPLlOCMIHwNfq_y_L5SFkSthtMB41hDPhBLLooxUTVb0XWRvbAiyB4R9fawspymuM97KpJf-t_S3eSD0ye3mFNo8E3z/s1600/5060947_1435188906.3425.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="133" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhW2ORqqTcSPCGqxAyOE8qHSjyZHW_mxNaKBRdyxKe3CSRdH7Dw5rPLlOCMIHwNfq_y_L5SFkSthtMB41hDPhBLLooxUTVb0XWRvbAiyB4R9fawspymuM97KpJf-t_S3eSD0ye3mFNo8E3z/s200/5060947_1435188906.3425.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
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The first two are beneficial and come with perks for music lovers. The last one helps me directly to pay the bills that are very in the present tense in my life. Cancer Sucks in that way, too. </div>
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Thank you all for living in the present with me. I love you all and will update you as I can. Never dismiss your present for anything other than the greatness it is, for better or worse, because you never know when you'll have to deal with a June 19th. </div>
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Love in Light, Laughs and Losing your Mind/Hair..., </div>
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Cicily</div>
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Cicily Janushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16841849529479076806noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1536639124087019847.post-27281827572651515422014-06-27T20:56:00.003-06:002014-06-27T21:00:05.485-06:00#MyWritingProcess Blog Tour: Everyday Demons<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><i>Quote of the Day:</i></b></div>
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<i>Most folks are as happy </i></div>
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<i>as they make up their minds to be.</i></div>
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<i>~Abraham Lincoln~</i></div>
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<i><b>Current Local Weather:</b></i></div>
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Damp heat, dank thoughts </div>
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and a strong potential for the thunderous roar of</div>
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forgetfulness to cleanse the palate before</div>
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night falls...</div>
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<b><i>Currently on my iTunes:</i></b></div>
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"Hero"</div>
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<i>Loma Vista</i></div>
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Family of the Year</div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>**I can't stop listening to this...**</i></span></div>
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<b><i>Currently Reading:</i></b></div>
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<a href="http://www.amazon.com/Place-My-Own-Architecture-Daydreams/dp/0143114743/ref=sr_1_9?ie=UTF8&qid=1403919412&sr=8-9&keywords=Michael+Pollan" target="_blank">"A Place of My Own: The Architecture of Daydreams"</a></div>
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Michael Pollan</div>
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Dear Friends, Family and My Family of Friends, </div>
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My client, <a href="http://allisontgruber.com/miscellany/" target="_blank">Allison Gruber</a>, tagged me in the #MyWritingProcess blog tour. This wonderful idea stemmed from other writers, readers and envious folks of the bookish ones in society to get the backstory to the story. </div>
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Let me give you the backstory on Allison, first. </div>
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Allison is one of my most favoritest clients. Not because of all the money she garnered both of us as a first-time autobiographical essayist...(hey, don't judge. She really did get paid..) but because of her creative beauty. She's truly a light in the world. And just as I tend to do with my writerly-type clients, I fell in love with her from sentence one and will be so from infinity and beyond. </div>
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Who needs marriage when you have clients that don't dirty up the bathtub, throw wet towels on the floor and cause a mess...instead they cleanse the mind...</div>
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Clients who never leave your head too early and always stay for as long as you need, just when you need them most? Who needs romance when every time they send you a book you get the privilege of falling deep head-over-bookmark in that lusty bibliophilish phase of love that only a true book lover can know? </div>
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This is why I do what I do.</div>
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Her first book, "<a href="http://www.amazon.com/Youre-Not-Edith-Autobiographical-Essays/dp/0807600059/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1402878652&sr=8-1&keywords=Allison+Gruber" target="_blank">You're Not Edith</a>," started out as nothing but <i>Trouble</i>. (Sorry Allison, couldn't help myself) PLEASE ORDER YOURS NOW! Click the link on the title!</div>
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She has a unique and insightful take on the #Writing process. I hope you'll take a moment to go read her "audio" <a href="http://allisontgruber.com/miscellany/" target="_blank">blog</a> for this series. Thank you, Allison, for giving me this opportunity to talk about #MyWritingProcess. </div>
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This concept consists of writers answering four questions about their process. Who am I to debunk the system? So here's mine: </div>
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<b>1) What are you working on now? </b></div>
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<i>"Deprivation" It's about a narcoleptic pilot that figured out a way to get by the FFA with his disease only to have it come back to bite him after having an affair with a "sky waitress." </i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpnq1gjDqDj7M7AkwJAYMcGq02yrqGxLie0R913chFoiXGFthypW_04u3ZC0U-0q5jCX5JJrVuvz97U994LySe1-AgFmBlYrL7FjT_fIgo1ZUzg6fh6ofpB2hftozpVumXTX5_3JRe052g/s1600/Narcolepsy-TrueMedCost.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpnq1gjDqDj7M7AkwJAYMcGq02yrqGxLie0R913chFoiXGFthypW_04u3ZC0U-0q5jCX5JJrVuvz97U994LySe1-AgFmBlYrL7FjT_fIgo1ZUzg6fh6ofpB2hftozpVumXTX5_3JRe052g/s1600/Narcolepsy-TrueMedCost.jpg" height="209" width="320" /></a></div>
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<i>It's a comedic look at the hazards of chronic traveling and high-altitude scheming. Deprivation combines the wit of "Airplane," the absurdity of "Fight Club" and rounds it off with a bit of "Fatal Attraction."</i></div>
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<i>This is absolutely a "fun" project amidst all of my "serious" ones. Not that all of them aren't fun, but this one just suits the mood I'm in more than not. </i></div>
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<i>I'm also working on a new oral history titled, "Lost and Found: The American Dream and its Greatest Faults." That one is still taking subjects. If you've lost your way and found your dreams in the process of finding yourself, call me, ASAP. </i></div>
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<b>2) How does my work differ from others of its genre? </b></div>
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<i>This is a hard question to answer, even when coming from an agent that has to lecture clients about comp titles...</i></div>
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<i>I believe each work has a lifeline of its own. But all of what I do differs from others in that it doesn't stoop to or rise against any expectations or boundaries. It's offensive and deep and deeply defensive as to the faults that seep out of yours, mine and our skin on a daily basis. </i></div>
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<b>3) Why do I write what I write? </b></div>
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<i> I always write with the theme of humanity. Just like you, I'm trying to figure out the meaning of our commonness, our existence and our demise. Writing about it just helps, it's the only thing that helps me as a matter-of-fact. It's the cheapest and most invaluable therapy there is to get rid of my everyday demons...</i></div>
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<i>Those demons can be muses in disguise. I would recommend that if you're thinking about writing, entertain and host your demons to the party on the page. Blank pages are as good as the infamous "Proton Packs" used on Ghostbusters for exhausting the "Stay-Puff Man" in your life that's haunting you. </i></div>
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<b>4) What does my writing process look like? </b></div>
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<i>I should correct this question to read, "What does it sound like?" </i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiykUK801yKx7GmciI8PhTreN5UrDXCMi9mpwItIkvzlKurSWqeI-mxsxCPI6TecrawhcmcpQiIf8ZbzxVB_coy8hyphenhyphenAcXXsVle9B9iC6QOsDDHw8tSNdq6Rv8Iz2q2_Sghg_tfvJfHKwPf9/s1600/music.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiykUK801yKx7GmciI8PhTreN5UrDXCMi9mpwItIkvzlKurSWqeI-mxsxCPI6TecrawhcmcpQiIf8ZbzxVB_coy8hyphenhyphenAcXXsVle9B9iC6QOsDDHw8tSNdq6Rv8Iz2q2_Sghg_tfvJfHKwPf9/s1600/music.jpg" height="216" width="320" /></a></div>
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<i>I'm completely lopsided when it comes to my sensory experiences. Sound, the making of and the listening to, inspires me. So the first thing I do when I write is to listen to the character's voice. Then I find their playlist and create it to sing to me when I write. </i><i>I then take off with whatever they want me to do. I'm their pawn. Always. Whether it be in the oral-history format or my favorite fictional asshole pilot in Deprivation...I'm their only chance to have a voice. </i></div>
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<i>John, the pilot, he listens to Dead Milkmen when no one is around and Miles Davis when a woman asks and flies...soars to Johnny Cash. He's a lot like me in that respect...Eclectic. </i><i>So when I write in his voice, I have to have him in his full form to write him down. </i></div>
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<i>When I was working on my book, "The New Face of Jazz," I listened to a lot of...you guessed it...jazz. But while doing edits for the book I listened to a lot of R&B, Gospel and even, dare I say...classical. </i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6BYzlw2yAVPXQNIKZTO-HoBtEtjK-nfRN-WVIZRPCs-vCOsQOGGa2OX0YW6ilRxwV6sPfwi87hMqmStQtOiulP9qZiEXNn1wvjDflpreqTRO-CyoIu2S25hxg6azcf2iLZidjlqmKraMj/s1600/NFOJ.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6BYzlw2yAVPXQNIKZTO-HoBtEtjK-nfRN-WVIZRPCs-vCOsQOGGa2OX0YW6ilRxwV6sPfwi87hMqmStQtOiulP9qZiEXNn1wvjDflpreqTRO-CyoIu2S25hxg6azcf2iLZidjlqmKraMj/s1600/NFOJ.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a></div>
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<i>As far as the tangible process: I'm a quiet writer. I can't be around chaos, I can't be too hot but I can be cold and I definitely can't be in any kind of pain. Pain of any kind is the nemesis of writing. Whether it be emotional, physical or intellectual (as in...the research for this novel/article/living will could potentially kill me!)....it has to be in balance and in somewhat dissonant harmony with the project I'm working on. </i></div>
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<i>Thanks again to Allison for tagging me in this! </i></div>
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Next up in the #MyWritingProcess Blog tour is one of my favorite storytellers. Yes, he's Natty-poo's Papa, but before I knew him as a Papa-type dude, I knew him as a full-blown Texan Storyteller. You can find him on <a href="https://twitter.com/jdbeasley1953">Twitter.</a> </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7YI9d1wZOJ-GjNVpvAYplQArH_pcMxQ3mI1Cs2TdUczHjjzx7q7qGSS2nR5mRRPty_EyonxiclWwvIQ-VFyjaXSzaK1Sa8YMd7vbdVWtNwUO6-KKTchHesDTzQYjyskjzmJLVi2SSYZOh/s1600/Papa+and+Natty.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7YI9d1wZOJ-GjNVpvAYplQArH_pcMxQ3mI1Cs2TdUczHjjzx7q7qGSS2nR5mRRPty_EyonxiclWwvIQ-VFyjaXSzaK1Sa8YMd7vbdVWtNwUO6-KKTchHesDTzQYjyskjzmJLVi2SSYZOh/s1600/Papa+and+Natty.jpg" height="212" width="320" /></a></div>
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And, for the record: He's the one that did this to Natty: </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdqPNSQYAa40ZQ4Sok-4aZVIMGEOG4Dxqx8-Zu7nkbz96pkeY7ndNCbJZHQLFSn2S8E-_xgHEJJZ-THLwiJUzy3EETLm7J2zRnPDKKG-RzmjX0ScE6qrIsmCnEUDOnIBy3ziIxMC9NaW6G/s1600/Natalie+redneck+Princess.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdqPNSQYAa40ZQ4Sok-4aZVIMGEOG4Dxqx8-Zu7nkbz96pkeY7ndNCbJZHQLFSn2S8E-_xgHEJJZ-THLwiJUzy3EETLm7J2zRnPDKKG-RzmjX0ScE6qrIsmCnEUDOnIBy3ziIxMC9NaW6G/s1600/Natalie+redneck+Princess.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
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Regardless of his role and its proverbial coat of many colors through the last four plus years I've known Jimmy, I've never grown tired of his stories, his writing or his love for his family. Here's to you, Papa! And thanks for giving a great set of genes to Natty's Daddy and Natty. Sometimes the best storytellers are sitting right in front of you. Time to listen to what they have to say. </div>
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Yours in Writing, Wordsmithing and Wondering About it All, </div>
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Cicily</div>
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Cicily Janushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16841849529479076806noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1536639124087019847.post-14312549922480297842014-03-25T23:10:00.000-06:002014-03-25T23:10:27.114-06:00Negative Assets<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><i>Quote of the Day: </i></b></div>
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<i>No one is useless in this world that </i></div>
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<i>lightens </i><i>the burden of another.</i></div>
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<i>~Charles Dickens~</i></div>
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<i><b>Current Local Weather: </b></i></div>
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Muddied waters are a-comin' due to </div>
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the endless supply of the spring tears.</div>
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<b><i>Currently on my iTunes:</i></b></div>
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<i style="font-weight: bold;">"</i>Waltz of the Nuke Workers"</div>
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<a href="http://www.seabrookpowerplant.com/wp/albums/" target="_blank"><i>Seabrook Power Plant</i></a></div>
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<i><b>Currently Reading:</b></i></div>
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"Big Spoon, Little Spoon"</div>
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<a href="http://www.amazon.com/Nick-Belardes/e/B001ZEUP8M" target="_blank">Nick Belardes</a></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">*haha, I get to read this before anyone else!*</span></div>
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Dear Friends, Family and My Family of Friends, </div>
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<i>To See the World...</i></div>
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<i>This blog is for the writers and artists in my life... and I'm writing this as your mentor, your boss, your agent, your lover, your hopeful liaison to everything you see when you close your eyes.</i></div>
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I just went to see the movie, The Secret Life of Walter Mitty. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrn0RoQ-xFR8wXOtOYvpu344igRCuTTYvcNddGgMOvN5bep_djZmSrikj1HAMUOWj6dtBMq2fU8a5F3gUOervN4MGWufLTdDC7M-P4fH5L0xL27-yqECNC38QP0U-HnonhmQphX41bcg3c/s1600/the-secret-life-of-walter-mitty-DF-03424C_rgb.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrn0RoQ-xFR8wXOtOYvpu344igRCuTTYvcNddGgMOvN5bep_djZmSrikj1HAMUOWj6dtBMq2fU8a5F3gUOervN4MGWufLTdDC7M-P4fH5L0xL27-yqECNC38QP0U-HnonhmQphX41bcg3c/s1600/the-secret-life-of-walter-mitty-DF-03424C_rgb.jpg" height="160" width="200" /></a></div>
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As an unabashed fan of the original short story, I was curious to see how Ben Stiller was going to treat it and more importantly, stretch it into a feature length movie. I ignored and refused to read any criticism or reports on the movie and patiently waited for it to deport from the big guns into the dollar theater. I didn't even sneak a peak and watch the "old" version of the movie or even entertain the idea of bootlegging it. I read it to my girls one night in preparation for going to see it. Their response to the story was...that's it?!?! But...what happened to this...to that? Was it a dream? Was it real? </div>
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<i>Things Dangerous to Come....</i></div>
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As a budding literary snob, I had those same questions when I read it the first time. I am an American. I WANT EXCESSIVE DETAIL AND SWAG IN EVERYTHING I CONSUME! Dammit. I should have been a Gatsby.</div>
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I digress.</div>
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I could hardly contain myself during the movie. Ok, that's a partial lie. I couldn't contain myself. I had to get out my cell phone to light up my purse so I could pull out business cards, scraps of paper and gum wrappers to write down my thoughts while I watched. This kind of inspiration doesn't come easy to me. But G*d Dammit....that movie was the very best I've seen in...well, let's just say I feel a bit on this side of greatness having been one of the privileged ones to see it. </div>
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<i>To See Behind the Walls...</i></div>
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To treat this itty bitty significant story....so grand... with so much techni-f'in-color wonderfulness was far beyond any expectations I may have had. It's as if Jon Bon Jovi decided to put out his next hard rock album consisting of all Phillip Glass music. </div>
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<i>Draw Closer...</i></div>
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But through all the master cinematography and visual imagery, the <i>AHA</i> moment I walked away with lied simply in Mitty's job. He was the head of Negative Assets. </div>
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Walter Mitty had everything in the world in his dreams and nothing, at least that he could think of, in his waking life. Sure...he has a great mom (Shirley McClaine is A.M.A.Z.I.N.G. as a momma) and a quirky but lovable sister. </div>
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<i>To Find Each Other...</i></div>
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However, every great man deserves a woman. But where, as the E-harmony guy (Paton Oswald...another favorite) points out were his "Been there, done thats?" Surely he had to have ONE....</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYxduMTwZvUMdj5egr-bCiyU66KoZ0MpSJYVZhJfVd0SM6MO3obj_P2lySfFsARbBorIZ9dKKmjX1JgIr0EsgJTCr1G5sAs_j6HNnDes0yWq0QRpZ35CblyS8CAabCTvkgsENC7rXCLAk3/s1600/been-there-done-that-300x231.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYxduMTwZvUMdj5egr-bCiyU66KoZ0MpSJYVZhJfVd0SM6MO3obj_P2lySfFsARbBorIZ9dKKmjX1JgIr0EsgJTCr1G5sAs_j6HNnDes0yWq0QRpZ35CblyS8CAabCTvkgsENC7rXCLAk3/s1600/been-there-done-that-300x231.jpg" height="154" width="200" /></a></div>
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Alas, Walter Mitty had many in his dreams. Until one man left a message thanking him for his work...</div>
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<i>And to feel...</i></div>
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I recently had to conquer a negative asset and figure out how to create assets that ooze positives. So, in my fashion, I started my own company. <a href="http://www.janusartisticservices.com/" target="_blank">Janus Artistic Services.</a> </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnoCYblcOW4RHim8L8Gj4aqGPSPluuddIVCQS8U0OlaiED1W0AHmnpEn88QtaZfK92mBDcBj4YTWO5sLQaivxf7-lyUh7XzBvRR5-LJFOtYSS3Qt1C6UvwwiMWSiBHhFU4VkjsPL_cjgUV/s1600/Screenshot+2014-03-25+22.20.49.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnoCYblcOW4RHim8L8Gj4aqGPSPluuddIVCQS8U0OlaiED1W0AHmnpEn88QtaZfK92mBDcBj4YTWO5sLQaivxf7-lyUh7XzBvRR5-LJFOtYSS3Qt1C6UvwwiMWSiBHhFU4VkjsPL_cjgUV/s1600/Screenshot+2014-03-25+22.20.49.png" height="106" width="200" /></a></div>
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In an extensive meeting last night all four of us in the company worked out the verbage for the "why..."of the company. </div>
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In very non-eloquent terms, I said that we basically exist to deal with all of the <i>bullshit </i>that no one else wants to do. We are here to serve artists in their every need and want. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuxXvsiGR4YdkFXOTRYQKnZFDwFr6D05G__eXyz_1q0CcjP24zh26a9BJka0Pn_7PFRJZ9Aab9WYhkAFqXLdDbIyCr-ETxM4YWEy6EVmMnaTQa8ALW-O78FL1pUfdjEsAk5A8t5-ai3zOF/s1600/01-no-bullshit.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuxXvsiGR4YdkFXOTRYQKnZFDwFr6D05G__eXyz_1q0CcjP24zh26a9BJka0Pn_7PFRJZ9Aab9WYhkAFqXLdDbIyCr-ETxM4YWEy6EVmMnaTQa8ALW-O78FL1pUfdjEsAk5A8t5-ai3zOF/s1600/01-no-bullshit.jpg" height="190" width="200" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Our company slogan is, <i>We Don't Sleep, So Artists Can Eat. </i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">The impetus, a.k.a. WHY...behind the company is the wanton need to take care of those that need us most so they can fulfill their dreams. We are here to serve those that are in the fight of their lives to find their true purpose and value. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">And I believe, having worked in this industry for...well, for a long time, that the journey must be done without the awareness of others but with the knowledge that often it's what we want most whether it's to be that star, to be the success we see when we close our eyes, is absolutely not something that needs the "like" button on Facebook. It's something that must be an asset to your character. It has to be DEEP inside of you to reach past the skin on your teeth. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpQXqmb2C_KRBxZMBhbTTD6wmBreKANURTItJtNY9H89cg2rTqYnnc6QhSbVshoiXxWEPynmm2z9OVwKwtXxgLu1aU4Lq7-IHiX6G4lzjxAi-RFbFuAQw5Ixh3DdeXZZPkeNK-8DdCHWRQ/s1600/Like+Button.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpQXqmb2C_KRBxZMBhbTTD6wmBreKANURTItJtNY9H89cg2rTqYnnc6QhSbVshoiXxWEPynmm2z9OVwKwtXxgLu1aU4Lq7-IHiX6G4lzjxAi-RFbFuAQw5Ixh3DdeXZZPkeNK-8DdCHWRQ/s1600/Like+Button.jpeg" height="127" width="200" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">This life of yours needs to take place for yourself before seeking any kind of approval. You need to be the office, space cadet. You HAVE to be the Walter Mitty in your mind and dream a thousand dreams before you employee someone to listen to you talk about it. Hearing that it CAN'T be done your way or that YOU can't do what you want to do can kill your spirit, your heart and more importantly the invincible <i>will</i> when facing the impossible. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Shooting down your dreams is like acquiring a manager to those negative assets in your life. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAuX6q-ZtmbsBvunKPWcotd8-oFQ4JeOnkUGfll74CmJ8COykywxWGxOJO2s6vhZPBOjrkvOvPRcOnyu_j-f-QWYXJ1CDlqkOf54LrJ8TkJTeL3LsNVuEmYO6HJTWWwboOYKTdF72xzJej/s1600/Negative.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAuX6q-ZtmbsBvunKPWcotd8-oFQ4JeOnkUGfll74CmJ8COykywxWGxOJO2s6vhZPBOjrkvOvPRcOnyu_j-f-QWYXJ1CDlqkOf54LrJ8TkJTeL3LsNVuEmYO6HJTWWwboOYKTdF72xzJej/s1600/Negative.jpeg" height="150" width="200" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>It's dictionary time, kids! </b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><i>Asset </i></b></span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">(</span><i style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">n)</i><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">is defined as a </span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">useful or valuable thing, person, or quality. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><i>Negative </i></b></span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">(</span><i style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">adj.) </i><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">is defined as </span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">the absence of distinguishing</span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">, marked qualities or features, lacking positive attributes (opposite of positive). </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">The words or job of someone that is a negative asset manager is a double negative in of itself. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Whether you're an artist, a budding novelist, or musician with 40 yrs of gigs behind you and only 20 left ahead, your greatest asset is that you're POSITIVE that you've got your dreams in the palm of your hand and your head on your shoulders...and you should be able to rest knowing that what you have to offer the world, even if at the time it's only in your head, it will surely be of great use to others in the human race. Why would anyone with a dream take it...a noun with an adjective that's the most POSITIVE attribute of your core and turn it into a very dark, smellly, damning horse? </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">You wouldn't. Never Compromise. Always Realize.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">And in the end, Walter Mitty, the most selfless man in the story, had to realize that the hardest work is often done without the intent of recognition. Sometimes the pay you receive is only in knowing that you helped somebody else recognize their positive effects, assets and hidden life in their daydreams. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">The truth, even if only in your head, is tough. You must learn that in order to get the girl, realize your dreams, ignore the "Major Tom Weird Beard Guy" in your office and rid yourself of that negative asset taking up your hard-wired drive, that the truth lies in knowing what it means to be yourself.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqMLbzvI4gaOTk6yU63CvqoHQfma3xUGb-YCv-q4MvYikXupp-rCxUYBJC-BJO0fB1wIMwZpaqnSdH16f-V0GGis8cjY4w23iMPgE-vMCaeZddxsr6KZ3_5ZrFi21lKx38KFMP8NqqWH9V/s1600/Truth+.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqMLbzvI4gaOTk6yU63CvqoHQfma3xUGb-YCv-q4MvYikXupp-rCxUYBJC-BJO0fB1wIMwZpaqnSdH16f-V0GGis8cjY4w23iMPgE-vMCaeZddxsr6KZ3_5ZrFi21lKx38KFMP8NqqWH9V/s1600/Truth+.jpg" height="135" width="200" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">And that is exactly what Walter Mitty did. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">He was no longer a dreamer, he was a doer.<br /><br />And yes, SPOILER ALERT, he got the girl. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjo28y5AvunZdvyPACsgk9jldTah09vgEtSbmUe36qmJ0Q9eAD28mR_mN1nl887z2rQiBTz_zy6NLdkMF0C4VmORqQ9ey378JSWj7J2zRfwjaIBWcctRx0kuIXUlOX35qQbuZd8k_W7k8lS/s1600/Kristen-Wiig-and-Ben-Stiller-in-the-Secret-Life-of-Walter-Mitty.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjo28y5AvunZdvyPACsgk9jldTah09vgEtSbmUe36qmJ0Q9eAD28mR_mN1nl887z2rQiBTz_zy6NLdkMF0C4VmORqQ9ey378JSWj7J2zRfwjaIBWcctRx0kuIXUlOX35qQbuZd8k_W7k8lS/s1600/Kristen-Wiig-and-Ben-Stiller-in-the-Secret-Life-of-Walter-Mitty.jpg" height="200" width="200" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">And...he found the cover shot negative that seemingly spoiled his whole world.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Which, ironically, turned out to be a positive. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgG5lxlK-VMmrt__DSY0mr6mQf9tTXlqr-rDlp5n-tB_tv6M3bsTzmqpx0GA_EbHv4VOPnWG5088Rvfcx5LiBnZWYCMB7PTggTY67TfongXJqhACd09Qy92PNCzXn-2oHv108ZukPMegL41/s1600/mitty-penn.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgG5lxlK-VMmrt__DSY0mr6mQf9tTXlqr-rDlp5n-tB_tv6M3bsTzmqpx0GA_EbHv4VOPnWG5088Rvfcx5LiBnZWYCMB7PTggTY67TfongXJqhACd09Qy92PNCzXn-2oHv108ZukPMegL41/s1600/mitty-penn.jpg" height="107" width="200" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">I hope that all of you will be true to who you are regardless of your job. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">That you'll realize the "WHY" behind the "WHAT" you do every day and turn your assets away from the negative...</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>That is the purpose of life...</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Yours in Assets, Office Assholes and Acclimating to the Truth, </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Cicily </span></div>
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Cicily Janushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16841849529479076806noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1536639124087019847.post-1798039267559357872014-01-10T05:34:00.001-07:002014-01-10T11:18:20.076-07:00Wake Me Up<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<b><i>Quote of the Day: </i></b></div>
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<i>It is not true that people stop pursuing dreams </i><i>because they grow old, </i></div>
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<i>they grow old because they stop pursuing dreams.</i></div>
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~Gabriel Garcia Marquez</div>
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<b><i>Current Local Weather: </i></b></div>
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Stagnation of cold weather. Mother nature swooping in </div>
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at alarming rates to make us all remember why seasons exist.</div>
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<b><i>Currently on my iTunes: </i></b></div>
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"Wake Me Up" </div>
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(Acoustic)</div>
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Aloe Blacc</div>
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<b><i>Currently Reading:</i></b></div>
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Dear Friends, Family and My Family of Friends,</div>
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I've got this catchy tune stuck in my head...so much so, the blog is themed over and above its lyrics. The tune, as above, "Wake Me Up" by Aloe Blacc. It makes me want to dance and cry all at once. Strange, wonderful feelings are evoked by his "carry-on" thematics and strong vocals. Mr. Aloe, you're brilliant.</div>
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Favorite lines: </div>
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<i>So, Wake me up when it's all over. </i></div>
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<i>When I'm wiser and I'm older...</i></div>
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<i>all this time I was finding myself and </i></div>
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<i>I didn't know I was lost. </i></div>
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<i>I</i><i> tried to carry the weight of the world</i></div>
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<i>but I only have two hands....</i></div>
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<i>Life's a game for everyone </i></div>
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<i>and love is the prize. </i></div>
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I haven't showered in two days. Haven't bothered to brush my hair. Haven't even removed the yoga clothes, of which yoga was not practiced in during said past days. I keep thinking that the time to clean up will come. (and I assure you that as soon as I get the demons out of my head this morning, it will happen...no worries!) But as of the last 48 hours, the time has escaped me. I've been working. Kinda. Well, it's not actually work. It's been a journey and one, quite frankly, that I'm still on and hope to be on for life. </div>
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I'm one of the fortunate few in this world that gets to do what I love. What is it? Cleaning up the world and spreading love one musician/writer at a time. I was talking to my friend Bibi Green the other day and she said, upon hearing my complaints about scheduling a mega-jazz festival..."you've finally got a real job...you're creating another venue for jazz musicians." </div>
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She wasn't being condescending or placating or anything negative at all...She was being herself...and as usual, she was right. I finally have a "real" job. She says this on the heels of me being unemployed for many many months due to illness. She says this on the heels of knowing how dark and deep my waters ran when I didn't feel as though my purpose mattered to anyone anymore. Trust me, Bibi had to hear it all from me. As the song says, and for too long, "I tried carrying the weight of the world, but I only have two hands." I no longer subscribe to that motto. Delegation is the key to happiness. So says the girl with control issues. </div>
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But now, I'm finally waking up. Although there is no man that is sitting by my side, Mr. Coffee has been consistently wonderful in waking me up each and every morning with his odiferous roar for the past few months. </div>
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Purpose is a very liberating stone to throw. Creating, fielding and stuffing your purpose down your own throat until you pop is a good thing no matter how you slice it. We all have purpose, we all have a reason to be here. Some, like Mr. Aloe, has the purpose of writing music that wakes some of us up. </div>
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Most of us don't know we're lost until we're found. After lamenting to a friend that I was down about potentially"losing" a man I don't ever want to lose whether it be as friends or more or acquaintances (the worst of all possibilities), one I don't really even know but desperately want to, I wrote the following post on my FB wall: Sometimes being lost is the only way to find yourself. I have talked many times with this said "person" about finding purpose and living for something that really drives you. He is someone that you only meet once. If you're lucky. A connection past the normal threads in the fabric of life. But we often talk about drive...And no, not the Driving Miss Daisy kind of drive...Driving as in if you don't do what is driving you, you might actually fall apart and die. I'm so blessed to know what it is in my life that drives me. Love, Music and everything else is just...buttah! </div>
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Once again, I woke up. I had to realize that by lamenting for "what isn't in existence" isn't a good thing. I can want all of the things in the world but that doesn't mean that I'll ever get them. It doesn't mean that they were ever mine for the taking in the first place. I guess I'm just as human as the next redhead is. (Yes, we're human) Himming and hawing over anything is an anesthetic for the mind. It will soon knock your bright shiny lights right out of the park. Your purpose cannot be a thing of the past. It begs to be the only thing you do in the everyday here and now; the one thing that builds toward that greater picture known as your reason for breathing. Ahhhh....Life. As Aloe sings, "Life's a game for everyone and love is the prize..." </div>
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Love has to stretch over into all you do. It has to be the all-purpose flour that glues your feet to the ground and stretches your personal rue into the gravy of your dreams. (Yes, sometimes I dream about gravy...) </div>
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The bigger part of what drives me, however, is to see others find their driving dreams; to find their purpose. Whether it's the man I think of when I fall asleep and the conversation we had about losing your way or whether it's a young (even those that are just "young" at heart) jazz musician trying to find a way to reach an audience more effectively or a writer that has words that scream out PUBLISH ME!...this is my purpose. My purpose lies in others. And this purpose, the one where love is truly the prize, mostly, wholly and totally, includes my daughters. The three of them are so innocent, sweet and loving. </div>
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The only thing I can truly think to do for any one of them is to keep loving them until they pop open like a can of All-Purpose flour Pillsbury GMO soaked biscuits. Loving them in such a way that they always know I love them even when they get to the age where they're dreaming of a man, a way of life and their greater purpose on this earth. I'm glad they're too young to understand where they are now and have that very-cool dream of a different life than their parents still lies ahead. I hope they get the chance to roam the earth until they're ready to settle for a bigger picture. They continuously provide a way to wake me up...and I'm glad they waited until, as the tune says, I was wiser and older. </div>
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Purpose is sometimes the elephant in the room. It's not scared of you if you're not scared of it. </div>
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<i>Yours in Waking up, Wishing the Best for Him/You/Us, Wanting More Purpose & Less Fluff 'n' Stuff, </i></div>
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<i>Cicily</i></div>
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Cicily Janushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16841849529479076806noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1536639124087019847.post-87889268079683483022013-11-24T11:04:00.000-07:002013-11-24T11:10:31.966-07:00Forget You<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><i>Quote of the Day</i></b>: </div>
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<i>One of the keys to happiness</i></div>
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<i>is a bad memory.</i></div>
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<i>~Rita Mae Brown~</i></div>
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<i><b>Current Local Weather: </b></i></div>
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150% chance of ice storms on the outside. </div>
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99.9% chance of warmth, calm and beauty </div>
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shifting from the west moving on towards the inside of my heart.</div>
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99.9% Chance of a break in all things bad from yesterday </div>
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carrying over until all the tomorrows to come.</div>
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<b><i>Currently on my iTunes: </i></b></div>
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"Lost in the Light"</div>
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<i><a href="http://www.bahamasmusic.net/" target="_blank">Barchords</a></i></div>
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Bahamas</div>
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<b><i>Currently Reading: </i></b></div>
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"Hope Dies Last"<br />
<a href="http://www.studsterkel.org/" target="_blank">Studs Terkel</a><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>**For my new, old friend, Tim.**</i></span></div>
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Dear Friends, Family and My Family of Friends...</div>
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Have you ever had a song break your heart? A musician? A writer? An artist? A man? A woman? Anyone? Have you ever had to forgive someone that at the time, didn't seem forgivable? Did you ever want to "Forget" them...but just couldn't? Did you ever want to say..."Although there's pain in my chest, I wish you the best...but I'd love to Forget You...oh, I really hate your ass right now" Cee Lo couldn't have said it better...</div>
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However, as the quote of the day says, "One of the keys to happiness is a bad memory." Forgetting, er, rather...unremembering, is sometimes the best remedy for everything that ails you. But forgetting anything isn't an instamatic super power that has been granted to many of us. <br />
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I've recently reconnected with an ex. But this wasn't just any ol' ex...this was one I was deeply in love with. One that helped me in so many ways, if I began to tell you about it all, you'd get bored with me and stop reading right about now...This hasn't been an easy reconnection, though. Seamless isn't something either of us know. There are those lingering feelings of...do I still have "those" feelings for him? Do I still want...this...the <b>"thing"</b> that broke my heart and left me for a pile of nothing on the floor? I had to stop before I began. </div>
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This "thing," I had to remember, is not a thing at all. "It's" a person. A very kind, warm, open and friendly...and HAPPY....person. What truly broke my heart was the idea that what we "had" was over. I felt lost. And I felt that way for a very long time afterwards...and although all seemed lost, the map to find something in the space that was vacant, to occupy it again, turns out, wasn't too far away from where I was standing. </div>
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After many discussions and conversations, we both realized that there was definitely something more at fault than any other thing...that huge thing known as <b><i>"miscommunication." </i></b></div>
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We realized that we had to be bigger than our selves and learn from what had happened months prior to our renewed discussion of all things, "WTF." We learned many, many things but the one thing I walked away with was this: </div>
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<i>Sometimes you have to realize that the pain you go through has a purpose. Pain is one of the best educations anyone can receive. Sometimes you don't realize it at the time, but after it's always clear. </i></div>
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I was talking with a friend this morning about how music has a massive effect on everything I do. (I know, duh!?!) In all seriousness, music sits on the edge of gravity for me. Sometimes it's the only thing separating me from the clouds, sometimes, it, itself, becomes the cloud on which I sit and observe life from. Sometimes, it is my soul, removed from me to teach me about myself. Music is not a misnomer, or a background color in my life, it is my life. It is everything to me. It is my living color, it is where I stand, it is who I am in so many beautiful ways. Music has the ability to break you into a million pieces, but as I told him, I'd rather feel the pain and live with the limp and scar than cast it and "fix" the <i>piece</i> it broke away from my soul. </div>
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There's a "new" (new to me) band out there by the name of Bahamas. (pronounced Ba-hahm-ahs) They have a tune called, "Lost in the Light." I think this is one of the most soul-filled and alluring tunes on forgiveness, losing love and love lost and found and lost again, that has ever been heard by man. Please, listen while reading the lyrics below. </div>
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<i><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 23px; text-align: left;">I</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 23px; text-align: left;">'m lost in the light </span><br style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 23px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;" /><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 23px; text-align: left;">I pray for the night </span><br style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 23px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;" /><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 23px; text-align: left;">To take me, to take me to </span><br style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 23px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;" /><br style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 23px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;" /><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 23px; text-align: left;">After so many words </span><br style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 23px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;" /><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 23px; text-align: left;">Still nothing's heard </span><br style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 23px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;" /><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 23px; text-align: left;">Don't know what we should do </span><br style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 23px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;" /><br style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 23px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;" /><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 23px; text-align: left;">So if someone can see me now, let them see you </span><br style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 23px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;" /><br style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 23px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;" /><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 23px; text-align: left;">It was my greatest thrill </span><br style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 23px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;" /><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 23px; text-align: left;">But we just stood still </span><br style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 23px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;" /><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 23px; text-align: left;">You let me hold your hand 'til I had my thrill </span><br style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 23px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;" /><br style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 23px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;" /><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 23px; text-align: left;">Even countin' sheep </span><br style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 23px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;" /><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 23px; text-align: left;">Don't help me sleep </span><br style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 23px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;" /><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 23px; text-align: left;">I just toss and turn right there beside you </span><br style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 23px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;" /><br style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 23px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;" /><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 23px; text-align: left;">So if someone could help me now, they'd help you too. </span><br style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 23px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;" /><br style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 23px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;" /><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 23px; text-align: left;">They'd help you to </span><br style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 23px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;" /><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 23px; text-align: left;">See you through </span><br style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 23px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;" /><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 23px; text-align: left;">All the hard things we've all gotta do </span><br style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 23px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;" /><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 23px; text-align: left;">Cause this life is long </span><br style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 23px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;" /><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 23px; text-align: left;">And so you wouldn't be wrong </span><br style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 23px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;" /><br style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 23px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;" /><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 23px; text-align: left;">Bein' free you and me on my own! </span><br style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 23px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;" /><br style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 23px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;" /><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 23px; text-align: left;">And I held my own </span><br style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 23px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;" /><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 23px; text-align: left;">Still I rattled your bones </span><br style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 23px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;" /><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 23px; text-align: left;">I said some awful things and I take them back </span><br style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 23px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;" /><br style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 23px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;" /><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 23px; text-align: left;">If we would try again </span><br style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 23px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;" /><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 23px; text-align: left;">Just remember when </span><br style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 23px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;" /><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 23px; text-align: left;">Before we were lovers, I swear we were friends </span><br style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 23px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;" /><br style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 23px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;" /><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 23px; text-align: left;">So if someone could see me now let them see you </span><br style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 23px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;" /><br style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 23px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;" /><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 23px; text-align: left;">Let them see you </span><br style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 23px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;" /><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 23px; text-align: left;">See you through </span><br style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 23px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;" /><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 23px; text-align: left;">All the hard things we've all gotta do </span><br style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 23px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;" /><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 23px; text-align: left;">Cause this life is long </span><br style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 23px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;" /><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 23px; text-align: left;">So you wouldn't be wrong </span><br style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 23px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;" /><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 23px; text-align: left;">Bein' free here with me on my own!</span></i><br />
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Where my words miserably fail, this tune picks up. I believe that the friendship and new facet of love that this man and I share is so much better for what we went through than not. It's allowing me to learn that not all love that is lost is a lost or just cause. We all have to learn this lesson at some point or other. We all have to figure out that our belief in love is there for a reason.</div>
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I might be in love again. I might always be in love. Of course, one can always hope that it's always there or always a possibility. Otherwise, what's the point? It's not just in existence for sex, for pain, or for pursuit of the almighty ending to our perceived fairytale life. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgK1lhNemdfwmvOOXnsJXG1rA_XrnwXrFTTlp4uUma4HOOWOIuR3uodsTheN0fL-ijMx6P_kgHoCBnSMXxZMhp0EPyDztSjpjTshLjaMjUG7T3PeYHHpdUu6ZssMBRwTe8iaCsA4vGFcwmQ/s1600/fairytale.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgK1lhNemdfwmvOOXnsJXG1rA_XrnwXrFTTlp4uUma4HOOWOIuR3uodsTheN0fL-ijMx6P_kgHoCBnSMXxZMhp0EPyDztSjpjTshLjaMjUG7T3PeYHHpdUu6ZssMBRwTe8iaCsA4vGFcwmQ/s320/fairytale.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Love that is lost is there for our benefit. I've learned to love regardless of being hurt by even my own words and hurting someone else through them. I've learned that there is no "perfect" fit for any one soul, especially mine. And believe me when I say, that's no easy pill to swallow. There are only two people that can learn to love through understanding, forgiveness and allowing each other the freedom to be two within the relationship that makes them one. Thank you, Alfie, for writing and singing beyond the skies, beyond any cloud I've ever sat on...thank you for your tune "Lost in the Light." </div>
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I hope most of all, that through finding a new friend in an old lover, that every one that has gone through this can find it in their hearts echo the line (as the tune says) "I swear we were friends before we became lovers." There is too much pain and too many ice cold shoulders rubbing against the sustainable warmth that is easily found inside each of us to deny ourselves the happiness we deserve. The point of loving is to love with reckless abandon. To love someone so very much that when others see you, they see them, too.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIBNJNK0GmqcECTM5yKWSgPp0NLb3_Lsmv5z5ux1RoZSWTw9wYwFcJgemwd9L1eyAtDuNGI8WAH6GN8nbUmgV7COHNlsbwhDQlBTffgX5PChaOlHpiTLJfckOxm5TUItzgBeg0W4g-xd1n/s1600/Forget.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIBNJNK0GmqcECTM5yKWSgPp0NLb3_Lsmv5z5ux1RoZSWTw9wYwFcJgemwd9L1eyAtDuNGI8WAH6GN8nbUmgV7COHNlsbwhDQlBTffgX5PChaOlHpiTLJfckOxm5TUItzgBeg0W4g-xd1n/s1600/Forget.jpeg" /></a></div>
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Your assignment for this week is to find the person that hurt you and forget them. Forget them as you knew them or as you remember them. Forget you, too. Remember this...remember that you've forgotten them as they were, remember them as they are and remember you were there too. Help them through all the hard things we've all gotta do when the opportunity to love again finds your soul. </div>
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Yours in Difficult Lives, Loving Life and Living as though I've Forgotten It All Just to Do it Again, </div>
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Cicily </div>
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Cicily Janushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16841849529479076806noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1536639124087019847.post-81661307638569388192013-11-02T16:59:00.002-06:002013-11-02T17:01:55.953-06:00Shadow Days<div style="text-align: center;">
<i><b>Quote of the Day:</b></i></div>
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<i>Grief does not change you, Hazel.</i></div>
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<i>It reveals you.</i></div>
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<i>~John Green~</i></div>
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<i><b>Current Local Weather: </b></i></div>
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100% Chance of Showers. The lighter side of </div>
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revelation only to be seen through curtains of tears.</div>
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<b><i>Currently on Spotify: </i></b></div>
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"Shadow Days"</div>
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John Mayer</div>
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<b><i>Currently Reading:</i></b></div>
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"The Fault In Our Stars"</div>
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John Green</div>
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<i>For Kathy, Wes, Matt, Jenny, Jordan, </i></div>
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<i>Penny, Steve and everyone else that is now a bit too lonely without her.</i></div>
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Dear Friends, Family and My Family of Friends, </div>
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This is probably the hardest blog I've written to date. I sent my mother a sympathy card today. I could barely pick it up at the store, I could barely write in it to send it. I did it anyway. She lost her best friend last week. I lost my "other mother." The only way I can even pretend to deal with anything like this is to write about it. So please, bear with me. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQoLWGPLm1rjHoDhBtlVM8iW95HPUy165E_D5hCLq99VqiNhdMtRQ_0LWIDYz-Zr1DrxHwE0_scfbBXON3FbdgaFXaYXUp6l6Mv6DyYGOK2wRgs0_rgqw15zXQZcJrjsjfSgElW3M3hOE7/s1600/Kathy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="256" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQoLWGPLm1rjHoDhBtlVM8iW95HPUy165E_D5hCLq99VqiNhdMtRQ_0LWIDYz-Zr1DrxHwE0_scfbBXON3FbdgaFXaYXUp6l6Mv6DyYGOK2wRgs0_rgqw15zXQZcJrjsjfSgElW3M3hOE7/s320/Kathy.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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This blog isn't all about the fault of grief or the way it molds and shapes and changes the way you look and see and feel day after day as your soul absorbs its damn impact, it is about the way that letting go of the soul that once was is more about letting go of an idea and opening up to a new one. </div>
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The concept of letting go is one most of us have to learn despite ourselves. Truth be told, I've always been the kind of person that deeply mourns when someone leaves my space. Sometimes, I mourn the loss of company and the natural "high" a friend's smile or laugh can bring to you just by taking up relative space...sometimes I mourn the loss of my own space. (We've all been there...own up to it. As Ben Franklin says...<i>Fish and relatives smell in three days</i>) But mostly, I have to just call myself a "people" person. I'm happier with people than without. I'm happier when my tribe is all around me, whether they like it or not. That's why I started a writing retreat program. </div>
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<i><span style="font-size: x-small;">**God Bless the survivors of my first retreat...**</span></i></div>
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Selfish, really...Those retreats gave me the perfect excuse to have a week long house party with accommodations fit for kings, queens and those miscreants known to the civilized world as "writers." There should always be a purpose and reason to everything you do and betcha by golly wow, there was a very deep purpose to my retreats. There still is and they'll be back up in business before any of you can say, NANOWRIMO! </div>
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But that's neither here nor there. I regret most that I didn't have one last fall when my ill-health took me down yet again. I had to cancel what was going to be my last one for a while. My mother and Kathy arrived in Denver anyway and came to see me at the hospital. Just like mothers should do. But Kathy wanted so badly to be at that retreat house...to just go...I wanted to help her get down her stories about "Cluck..." and all the characters from day one in her life that gave her reason to laugh and live. I'm so honored that she shared so many of them with me and that alone gave me reason to love her even more. They will always remain with me. </div>
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But learning to let go of the physical being, not the metaphysical that can be held in the palm of your hand...not the memory...as that will live on for as long as your brain allows, but of the body of another person in the forever of our eternal todays and tomorrows and yesterdays isn't something I'm very good at doing...at all. I've had to let go of all grandparents, too many friends, pets....and now someone so close to me, she was a very essential part of my soul and a very large part of my funny bone. How do you get rid of a bone in your body without having chronic or even phantom pains? How do you get rid of the feeling of loss? Is it ok to just let it go? It will be ok? Right? It doesn't matter how you cope with this, it is what it is when it is...what it is. And Kathy wasn't an "it." She was the only one that could even come close to being a mom without being a mom. </div>
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As I do with most of my coping skills, I set the "it" that's plaguing me, to song. I am just one big, phat episode of Glee away from having my life on Broadway/T.V. But everything is better when set to song. Everything is much more understood when you can sing about it. However, when trying to find <i>the</i> tune that could only deal with this kind of marrow-level loss of the soul, I found one that dealt more with letting go in the way I would expect Kathy to do and certainly in Kathy's honor and it seemed to fit. John Mayer always seems to have the right words even when they're not always immediately fitting. He's the pair of jeans bought at the boutique store that you pray, will your ass and hope to fit in time for a date on Saturday, and it's only WEDNESDAY!... Three days to lose that extra 10 lbs...but then remember that you've never been a size 8 but who cares, you'll squeeze them on and make it work. </div>
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I picked John's tune, <i>Shadow Days</i>.</div>
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This Kathy, is for you. Your <i>Shadow Days</i> are over. Thank God, you're living in the right place now. There is no pain. There is no loss of feeling...there is, I'm assuming and let me know if I'm wrong, chocolate that doesn't hurt your sugar level. And thank God for your comfort...for the level of living you're finally in, it's right. Hard times always helped you see...you were always the good soul that learned to let all that bad shit go and taught me and everyone else in your life to let it, whatever it is, go, too. And with a smile and a laugh that infected even the most resistant. </div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i style="background-color: #660000;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, Arial;">Did you know that you could be wrong</span><br style="border: 0px none; font-family: Verdana, Arial; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" /><span style="font-family: Verdana, Arial;">And swear you're right</span><br style="border: 0px none; font-family: Verdana, Arial; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" /><span style="font-family: Verdana, Arial;">Some people been known to do it</span><br style="border: 0px none; font-family: Verdana, Arial; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" /><span style="font-family: Verdana, Arial;">All their lives</span><br style="border: 0px none; font-family: Verdana, Arial; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" /><br style="border: 0px none; font-family: Verdana, Arial; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" /><span style="font-family: Verdana, Arial;">But you find yourself alone</span><br style="border: 0px none; font-family: Verdana, Arial; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" /><span style="font-family: Verdana, Arial;">Just like you found yourself before</span><br style="border: 0px none; font-family: Verdana, Arial; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" /><span style="font-family: Verdana, Arial;">Like I found myself in pieces</span><br style="border: 0px none; font-family: Verdana, Arial; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" /><span style="font-family: Verdana, Arial;">On the hotel floor</span><br style="border: 0px none; font-family: Verdana, Arial; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" /><br style="border: 0px none; font-family: Verdana, Arial; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" /><span style="font-family: Verdana, Arial;">Hard times, help me see</span><br style="border: 0px none; font-family: Verdana, Arial; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" /><br style="border: 0px none; font-family: Verdana, Arial; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" /><span style="font-family: Verdana, Arial;">I'm a good man with a good heart</span><br style="border: 0px none; font-family: Verdana, Arial; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" /><span style="font-family: Verdana, Arial;">Had a tough time, got a rough start</span><br style="border: 0px none; font-family: Verdana, Arial; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" /><span style="font-family: Verdana, Arial;">But I finally learned to let it go</span><br style="border: 0px none; font-family: Verdana, Arial; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" /><span style="font-family: Verdana, Arial;">Now I'm right here, and I'm right now</span><br style="border: 0px none; font-family: Verdana, Arial; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" /><span style="font-family: Verdana, Arial;">And I'm open, knowing somehow</span><br style="border: 0px none; font-family: Verdana, Arial; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" /><span style="font-family: Verdana, Arial;">That my shadow days are over</span><br style="border: 0px none; font-family: Verdana, Arial; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" /><span style="font-family: Verdana, Arial;">My shadow days are over now</span><br style="border: 0px none; font-family: Verdana, Arial; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" /><br /><span style="font-family: Verdana, Arial;">Well it sucks to be honest (honest)</span><br style="border: 0px none; font-family: Verdana, Arial; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" /><span style="font-family: Verdana, Arial;">And it hurts to be real</span><br style="border: 0px none; font-family: Verdana, Arial; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" /><span style="font-family: Verdana, Arial;">But it's nice to make some love</span><br style="border: 0px none; font-family: Verdana, Arial; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" /><span style="font-family: Verdana, Arial;">That I can finally feel</span><br style="border: 0px none; font-family: Verdana, Arial; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" /><span style="font-family: Verdana, Arial;">Hard times, let me be</span><br style="border: 0px none; font-family: Verdana, Arial; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" /><br style="border: 0px none; font-family: Verdana, Arial; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" /><span style="font-family: Verdana, Arial;">I'm a good man with a good heart</span><br style="border: 0px none; font-family: Verdana, Arial; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" /><span style="font-family: Verdana, Arial;">Had a tough time, got a rough start</span><br style="border: 0px none; font-family: Verdana, Arial; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" /><span style="font-family: Verdana, Arial;">But I finally learned to let it go</span><br style="border: 0px none; font-family: Verdana, Arial; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" /><span style="font-family: Verdana, Arial;">Now I'm right here, and I'm right now</span><br style="border: 0px none; font-family: Verdana, Arial; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" /><span style="font-family: Verdana, Arial;">And I'm open, knowing somehow</span><br style="border: 0px none; font-family: Verdana, Arial; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" /><span style="font-family: Verdana, Arial;">That my shadow days are over</span><br style="border: 0px none; font-family: Verdana, Arial; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" /><span style="font-family: Verdana, Arial;">My shadow days are over now</span></i></span></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I love you, Kathy. The world is with you. Always has been. </span></i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAbCIpnjyzyUWmFzGDokxa2gQ6Cuuz05CMT3wesqa4KZyzLRlEhtIwdQHATM8wS1dCGyYtVozkWBxpK10nYfeNNm-G48lBKsuMFJZBD7FcNC_7HVoDCCZ-Q_zrTJAiUXIA3IQGQK2mFjPa/s1600/Barker.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAbCIpnjyzyUWmFzGDokxa2gQ6Cuuz05CMT3wesqa4KZyzLRlEhtIwdQHATM8wS1dCGyYtVozkWBxpK10nYfeNNm-G48lBKsuMFJZBD7FcNC_7HVoDCCZ-Q_zrTJAiUXIA3IQGQK2mFjPa/s320/Barker.jpg" width="239" /></a></div>
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<i>Yours in Love, Loss, Living for Laughing with those you Love, </i></div>
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Cicily</div>
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Cicily Janushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16841849529479076806noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1536639124087019847.post-3943673176809123422013-10-10T23:05:00.003-06:002013-10-10T23:05:52.970-06:00Never Give Up, Never Surrender<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><i>Quote of the Day: </i></b></div>
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<i>No man is great enough or wise enough for any of us to surrender our destiny to.</i></div>
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<i>The only way in which anyone can lead us is to restore to us the belief</i></div>
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<i>in our own guidance.</i></div>
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<i>~Henry Miller~ </i></div>
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<b><i>Current Local Weather:</i></b></div>
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Chicken Little was right. Too bad no one </div>
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believed him. </div>
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<b><i>Currently on Spotify:</i></b></div>
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"Edge of Desire"</div>
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<i>Battle Studies</i></div>
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John Mayer</div>
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<i><b>Currently Reading:</b></i></div>
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"The Fault in Our Stars"</div>
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Dear Friends, Family and My Family of Friends, </div>
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Defeat. Defeat. Degradation. Defeat. Deprivation. Disgust. Damnation. Darn-tootin'. Doodlin'. Darling. Divine. Defeat. Defeat. Defeat. Desire. Destitute. Depressed. Determined. Defeat. Defeat. Defeat. Diversity. Dead. Death. Defeat. Defense. Deficit. Defending. Defeat. Downfall. Defeat. </div>
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The letter D has so much diversity in its little compact half-moon design. It is the letter of the month in my household. </div>
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Think of how many "D" words you can name in the next twenty seconds...now, run with them...rinse, repeat and stare at yourself in the mirror until you feel like others want you to feel. Are you on the edge of your desire? Are you, as Mayer sings...<i>"...just about to set fire to everything I see...I'll go back on the things I believe. There, I just said it, I'm scared you'll forget about me..." </i></div>
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Tell me what "D" letter words are in your head? Given the last two week's exercise in medical hell/futility, I am surprised I haven't lost it. The only word I could think of when I marched out the hospital doors this evening, was defeat. Ask <a href="http://www.karendegrootcarter.com/" target="_blank">Karen</a>, my best friend, my confidant, my sister-from-another-mister in this life and, depending on mood, she'll tell you that for a moment, and maybe for a lot of moments in the meantime, I have been defeated by an archaic medical system built around egos and ergo, I say, assholes. I wanted to make sure that although I'm in the middle of what feels like defeat, I am not sinking in it. I am not going back on anything I believe and after the scene I made tonight, I sure as hell am not worried about anyone forgetting about me. </div>
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This is not the first time that I feel as though I've been defeated, I have to step back and realize that I wasn't the one defeated by this system, I was the one defending my life. Defeat and defending are ooooohhhh so close in their sound and some would say in their meaning. But accepting what has happened to me over the last umpteen years as a form of defeat is just meaningless if there is no balls-to-the-wall followup "Shaun of the Dead" style. </div>
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Defeat will only take you so far in this life. Often, it will take you as far as 6ft. under, if that's the direction you're pointing towards, but for me, defeat creates a wall around my mental insecurities and physical ailments. It is very stressful to live behind this wall and creates more hell than not in this life. And unnecessary hell, at that. I have no more plans to take back everything I've said. I have no more plans to set fire to everything I see...I'm on the edge of my other world, the one created by the ever burning desire to live and live well despite the big-ass defeat sitting on my bruised and tainted shoulders. </div>
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This desire is burning so fast, bright and hard that I think heartburn is actually a sign of entering that kinetic energy space known as greatness. My desire is to tell everyone about what's really been going on, what's really been happening, what's really behind this so-called medical schmuck of a system in our country and give everyone a leg to stand on if, God forbid, you or anyone else you know is ever in my shoes. </div>
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I believe the last time I had a desire as great as this, I produced this baby: </div>
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My very big defeat is going to be turned into some very big defense for others. Someone has to start saying something and well, my big mouth seems to want the job more than any other its been granted in the last few decades. I encourage you to not let defeat in any form become your downfall. <a href="http://writingaboutyou.blogspot.com/2013/03/standing-tall-while-falling-down.html" target="_blank">As falling down is no way to stand tall. </a> And as I say over and over again, if I can fall this many times and rise up from the ashes, wipe the dust off my shoulders and still have a shit-eating grin plastered on my face, you can too. </div>
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And if you don't feel you are strong enough to get through the hell in your life, please, please, please go find your Karen Carter and let her/him shoulder your tears and back you up when you need it the most. Defending your life is your only job in life. Accepting defeat is the mostest, worstest thingamajig you can do to that spirit inside your soul. </div>
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I will never give up. I will never, ever, surrender. </div>
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Thank you Karen. </div>
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Yours in Karen Carters, Keeping Your Cool, and Not-So-Random Acts of Kindness, </div>
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Cicily</div>
Cicily Janushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16841849529479076806noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1536639124087019847.post-83249182652288655482013-05-29T06:23:00.003-06:002013-05-29T06:29:43.249-06:00George Michael and Other Lessons on Love I've Yet to Learn<div style="text-align: center;">
<i><b>Quote of the Day: </b></i></div>
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<i>Joy, sadness, confidence, anxiety, love, hatred, fear--all of these feelings </i><br />
<i>and thousands more that make up the human "heart" are as useless to the living dead </i><br />
<i>as the organ of the same name. Who knows if this is humanity's greatest weakness or strength? </i><br />
<i>The debate continues, and probably will forever.</i></div>
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<i>~Max Brooks~</i></div>
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<i><b>Current Local Weather: </b></i></div>
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The glorious freckle-adding warmth of summer's arms </div>
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have finally joined me for hugs, kisses and tea.</div>
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<b><i>Currently on my iPod: </i></b></div>
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"Kissing A Fool"</div>
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<i>Faith</i></div>
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George Michael</div>
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<b><i>Currently Reading: </i></b></div>
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<i>White Teeth</i></div>
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Zadie Smith</div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: georgia, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;">Dear Family, Friends, and My Family of Friends, </span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: georgia, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;">One of my favorite tunes of all time is George Michael's, "Kissing A Fool." When his album <i>Faith </i>hit the airwaves it was scandalous and I believe it was the catalyst in my life for learning the definition of lust...er, love. Yep, love. </span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: georgia, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;">When all of this was going on in my loins and petty-hormone stained brain, I was an upstanding member of the fifth grade class at Compton Elementary School in the progressive metropolis-like city known as Powder Springs, GA. Surely, I jest.</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: georgia, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;">However, my most fond of fondest memories stems from our end of year talent show...it was one of those sweltering, sticky Georgia kind-of-hot pre-summer days. A few of us walked on stage and made silliness out of our talents in front of our class. We knew that there would be quite a few folks we'd never see again as we were all on the verge of parting ways and moving on to that glory-less place better known as MIDDLE SCHOOL.</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: georgia, serif; line-height: 18px;">Personally, I feared it. I knew there were kids that had gone into the building as 6th graders and were never heard from again. Big kids, pre-teens that could eat me alive walked up and down, trolling for lunch/6th grade meat. Oh, the stories were endless and no matter how hard I tried to quit school to move onto better things as a 5th grader, my parents were strangely adamant that I at least make it through High School. Sheesh, what the heck did they know? </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: georgia, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;">But the theme du jour for our talent show (I can't remember the actual theme) had to have been: Reckless Abandon. We were a talented bunch of kiddos. All was not lost on us. Culture? We had it. Or at least I thought we were some defining generation just waiting to bloom. Our teachers were VERY supportive of us and all of our talents. </span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: georgia, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;">Yet once this kid that went by the last name Cathey, first initial J. (must protect the innocent) came sauntering onto the stage, many of us girlie girls changed our mind about the definition of the word TALENT. </span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: georgia, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;">I digress. We left that day with </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: georgia, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;">a bird's eye preview of what was in store for us as "older" kids. The first "taste" of love/lust, still fresh on our lips, had been handed to us from one of our very own. And it was as digestible as circus peanuts and Fiber One cereal. </span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: georgia, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;">What the hell were any of us supposed to do with this? We were fools. </span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: georgia, serif; line-height: 18px;">I know that J. and the rest of us girls present that day are now closer to the age of 40 then we were the age of 13 back then, nonetheless, he still represents that year of my life in a very strangely funny/serious way. Many of us are responsible citizens now paying taxes so our children can attend public school and get albeit, very different educations than we received, an education in life, love, and the great beyond just as we did.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: georgia, serif; line-height: 18px;">But what I failed to learn and am still trying to find the appropriate "Dummies" book for is how to handle the feelings of love, lust and the grey area in-between. I think most of us considered ourselves in "LOVE" with J. that fateful day. Yet, it was obvious that we were in lust despite the fact that lust wasn't allowed at that age. And as an adult, I can't say that I truly believe in myself and my ability to know the difference between the two, at least not </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: georgia, serif; line-height: 18px;">I've had a number of intense loves in my life. I've had plenty of lust and won't ever say that it was ever, ever, ever a bad thing. Most always a great thing. Except for that one time. KIDDING. However, what I find to be my biggest challenge as an adult approaching the middle school of life, a.k.a. post-divorce life and love and dating, is knowing the difference, acting on what is right not only in the loins but in the heart and making sure that no one gets hurt in the process thereof. And as the picture above kindly points out, if you combine the two, both words create the product of love and lust known as LOST. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: georgia, serif; line-height: 18px;">Most days I wish I was back in that gymnasium thinking that J. was the new definition of love. It was seemingly easy to feel everything in the world while nothing happened. Sixth grade was on the horizon and boys were sure to be there. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: georgia, serif; line-height: 18px;">But I'm not in the middle of the summer before middle school. I'm nowhere close. I'm lost again, not sure of where feelings begin and end and how to start trusting that love isn't always lust in disguise...a criminal sans faith that enjoys stealing my emotional GPS system from my car, leaving me lost. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: georgia, serif; line-height: 18px;">What I do trust in the here and now is the feeling of love for friends and family. My life has blossomed in many more ways than it did that summer. I've got far away friends that I'm absolutely falling in love with. No, I'm not IN LOVE in that way, I'm in love with their love and loyal-for-no-reason friendliness. I'm in love with the world, lusting after all it has to offer on the other side of a hospital wall. The world has become my George Michael vinyl cover. My friends are the scandalous types, earring wearing, leather jacket bare-chested shelter from too much of a good thing. We are all fools for the J. Cathey's of the world regardless of our age and our past loves and lusty experiences. Divorce and broken relationships may change our/my ability to trust and have faith, but there is always the church of life waiting to show us how to be "born again" in love. Sometimes having reckless abandon and faith in the world is the safest, most fool-proof method to happiness. Sometimes, the world is too scary to have faith in it. But there is always going to be that tempting first taste, even if the taste is foreign and peppered with scandalous seasonings that burn your tongue...it is our job as the up-and-coming older kids of this life to let expectations go and become those bright-eyed, fearing middle schoolers of love, </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: georgia, serif; line-height: 18px;">Yours in Love, Lust, and Lessons Lost Among the Lazy Days of Summer, </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: georgia, serif; line-height: 18px;">Cicily </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: x-small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;"><i>***</i></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: georgia, serif; line-height: 18px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Backstory, rather, fast-forward story...I must confess that great music and the musicians bringing music into the world are always lovely...I love most musicians I meet and even those I don't meet...and it's surely not lust...it's that instant, sweet, sticky-kisses, bubble-gum rock kinda love. I want to make musicians cupcakes with little hearts on them at all times and have to stop myself from doing so.*** </i></span></span></div>
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Cicily Janushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16841849529479076806noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1536639124087019847.post-10676336522340625102013-05-06T00:34:00.002-06:002013-05-06T00:34:48.374-06:00Staring at Myself in the Mirror<div style="text-align: center;">
<i><b>Quote of the Day: </b></i></div>
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<i>It is not in the stars to hold our destiny;</i></div>
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<i>it is in ourselves.</i></div>
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<i>~William Shakespeare~</i></div>
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<i><b>Current Local Weather: </b></i></div>
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WTF? 100% chance of </div>
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no discernible seasons</div>
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<b><i>Currently on my iTunes: </i></b></div>
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<i style="font-weight: bold;">"</i>Fix You"</div>
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<i>X & Y </i></div>
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Coldplay</div>
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<b><i>Currently Reading: </i></b></div>
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Manuscripts. No-name, generic manuscripts.</div>
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Too many of them to count.</div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><i>This is for all of you. And yes, especially you. </i></span></div>
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Dear Friends, Family, and my Family of Friends,</div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">T</span></b>here are so many of us today that are alone. We're divorced, afraid of commitment, on tour, recovering, on the prowl for our best friend, waiting for calls that never come and wondering if this is the norm. We aren't alone in our numbers. However, we're sleeping alone, waiting in line...alone, sitting in our living rooms...alone, fixing hot tea...alone, drinking wine...alone. Life, it seems, just didn't follow the script we initially drafted nor were supposed to live out according to the society that attempts to dictate the norm. It seems as if this loneliness is just one ugly, hermetic, hateful bitch. </div>
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However, when this loneliness strikes, although most of us, including myself, have the knee jerk reaction of crying and crawling in a hole to make the most out of our pity party, it isn't always a bad thing. This lonely life is sometimes a blessing. Maybe we have to take this "blessing" at its face value. Regardless of how hard it may seem...just like the doctor telling you to lose weight the same day your boyfriend tells you to lose weight. It's hard to hear but maybe it's the truth. Or when your mom comes to town and says she hates the safety orange color on your walls right after your husband came home and started crying at the sight of the walls you painted while he was at work...it's not that you didn't have good intentions or love behind your eyes, it's just that what your hearing or feeling or experiencing may be the most truthful form of experience and time you've been privy to yet. </div>
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Whatever form it comes in, loneliness is astonishingly humbling and bring most of us to our knees when we're at our worst. Even the strongest and most fiercely independent people can be brought down when company is needed but nowhere to be found. I have a friend that is severely depressed right now. I can't possibly do what I want to do for her. I can't possibly change her situation. Yet she spent a lot of nights and days helping me out of my own depression and offering up love when it didn't seem there was much to be found. And yes, there were days when I wouldn't talk to her, just as she doesn't want to talk to me now. I understand that completely. COMPLETELY. Sometimes, I wanted to be lonely and run amuck in my own muddy waters singing my own version of the Blues. </div>
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However, my depression didn't (thank the heavens) sink me below my personal drowning level. I was fortunate enough to have people that would sing to me until I fell asleep if I asked or at the very least, call me up and say good night if I asked, tell me they love me (even when I didn't want to hear it), and there were more than enough good people in this world that don't know me other than on the internet that would call me when I woke up to tell me to get my ass in gear (if I did or didn't ask), some even yelled at me and told me to keep on keepin' on regardless of my obstacles (didn't matter if I asked, ever). Thank God. I was alone but not lonely; I was lonely but not alone. I had bi-polar depression. I couldn't make up my mind if I wanted to be alone, stuck in my ways or lonely and wishing I had someone at all times to bug me, even when I didn't want it. I suppose indecisiveness is the best most of us can hope for when we're at our worst. Deciding on the worst is never an option. Deciding on the best is usually overlooked. Deciding to choose happy just doesn't happen enough. </div>
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Too many of us know someone out there in the here and now, whether in person or online, that are in this situation. Too many of us are busy working, talking, chatting, caring for others, caring not to care. Too many of us choose to send benign messages of hope to those we know are hurting. And although we want to think that what we're saying is to them is doing them good but all too much it is self-serving and doesn't serve the person who needs it most. Having been on both sides of the mirror: the one that stares back at me and shows me for who I am and the one that stares back at me and shows me who I think am/want to be, I know all too well that people in the position of severe loneliness, often can't see past their nose. People who don't hear the words, I love you, before they go to bed, begin to whither away or turn into that ugly hermetic cat hoarder at the end of the street with no will to live. But it doesn't have to be this way. </div>
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At all. </div>
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There can be loneliness without being alone, there can be alone time without loneliness. Promise. It can change with you. And in the immortal genius of the Beach Boys, "God only knows what I'd be without you." Try to be there for the people in your life that are suffering. When you look in the mirror don't let it show you two different people. Stand tall and look at ONE person. You. And if you're the one that's lonely and looking in the mirror night after night, wishing that someone would answer your call or that someone would magically appear in your living room to hold your hand, stand tall and know that help is coming. Soon. You're not going to perish alone. You're not alone. You're not going to be the picture perfect version of lonely. Promise. </div>
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We will take care of you and make sure that the stars you're staring at through your tears are the same stars we're sitting under while thinking of you. If no one has told you they love you, know that I do and always will. Promise. Don't worry about what we think of you in this moment. Don't worry about how you'll look when you ask for help and love. I've been there and it doesn't serve a purpose. I've tried on more than one occasion to send myself to the other side of this lonely world. I'm horribly unsuccessful thanks to all of the schmucks, loves, friends, lonely beings that recognized my worldly scares and cares and took the time to save me from my lonely thoughts. </div>
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So, even if I don't say it or am in a phase of sheer loneliness too, I still feel it and mean it. Patience is a virtue, cake/wine/brownies/love, even from afar, is a gift, and friends are your lifeline. Call us. Call me. Send us a message out across the sea and tell us that you need us. We'll respond. As the song, "Fix You" by Coldplay says, </div>
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<i>and the tears come streaming down your face, when you leave something you can't replace...when you love someone but it goes to waste...could it be worse? Lights will guide you home. And ignite your bones, and I will try to fix you...if you don't try, you'll never know just what you were. </i></blockquote>
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It's too hard to be alone and fix yourself. It's much harder to feel lonely, alone, broken and not know where the human equivalent of duct tape is in the junk drawer of life. Please stop looking for the tape. That's only temporary. Just rest, close your eyes, let the tears water your flowers and help them bloom. We're here. I'm here. I love you.<br />
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Yours in Staring Contests in My Mirror, Seamless Stars Sewing Broken Hearts, and Soundless, Sleepless Nights,<br />
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Cicily<br />
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Cicily Janushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16841849529479076806noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1536639124087019847.post-6669042230394264972013-03-19T06:23:00.002-06:002013-03-19T06:23:57.149-06:00Standing Tall While Falling Down<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><i>Quote of the Day: </i></b></div>
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<i>She stood in the storm and when the wind did </i></div>
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<i>not blow her away, she adjusted her sails.</i></div>
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<i>~Elizabeth Edwards~</i></div>
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<i><b>Current Local Weather:</b></i></div>
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Seriously? Again? </div>
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Spring is here. Allergies are here.</div>
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Almost dead is here...again.</div>
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<b><i>Currently on my iTunes:</i></b></div>
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<i style="font-weight: bold;">"</i>I Won't Give Up"</div>
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Jason Mraz</div>
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<i><b>Currently Reading: </b></i></div>
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<a href="http://pinterest-savvy.net/" target="_blank">"Pinterest Savvy"</a></div>
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~Melissa Taylor~</div>
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Dear Friends, Family and my Family of Friends, </div>
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Where am I? Where's Waldo, for that matter...did anyone ever find that creep with the weird shirt that looks like an aftermarket Gap reject item? Actually, he looks like this guy I dated in college that was on the track team. It was a brief romance that started over a bag of purple grapes in the common fridge. I wonder how he's doing these days. I wonder if he's stuck in crowds of people that kinda look like him and is lost. If I could remember his last name, I'd try to find him just to make sure he didn't need finding. </div>
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Anywho, I'm starting to feel as though I no longer know the answer to this question (Where am I?) nor do I really care to answer it with any real platform beneath my words. Instead, I think the more important question is, who the f*** am I? I thought I knew. I thought I was in the middle of resolidifying the answer to this question over the last few months as I've recovered from last year's horrid buffet of physically nightmarish days. But as usual, just as I think it's an answerable question, I forget the answer I had in my head and had studied. </div>
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But most people, when asked who they are, find themselves stuttering and shuttering and shaking while trying to answer it. It's the essay question from hell. </div>
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It's involved, invasive, and impossible. If you can answer your question with confidence, then good for you. I'm happy for you. Write a book about it. I'll rep it. But it has to have the right ingredients. The right voice. The right everything. And if you have the "right" everything in your life, you're probably too busy and too damn happy to write a book. Right? Right. </div>
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Most days, these days at least, I've been WAY too busy to write a book, too. I've been standing tall. Falling down. Waiting on the sky to fall. Waiting on the stars to come to me. Waiting on my real life to begin. Waiting on the doctors to tell me this is all a joke. Waiting on everyone around me to say, ha! we're just kidding. You're fine. This is just a REALLY bad dream. </div>
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Maybe this will happen. Maybe all of you will read this blog and say, ok, joke's up and on us. We need to tell her where she is, who she is and how she can get out of the party house without being ruffied or raped by her own bad health. Someone give her a red Solo Cup full of cheap wine and we'll tell her the truth. </div>
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Unfortunately, there isn't a red Solo cup anywhere near me and none of you are here. At least you're not here in the physical sense of the word. I have no choice but to sit here on my ass in this uncomfortable bed and continue to stand tall while falling down. I have to lead myself through this "ordinary" world of mine and realize that while there is no mapquest or googlable set of directions for the rest of my journey, that I am still here...wherever here is. And ordinary as life can be, it isn't ordinary when it's yours. It isn't ordinary when holding your breath and waiting for the world to move for you isn't working. It isn't ordinary to wait for anything. Or to have the patience to want to wait for anything. It is what it is when it is what it is. </div>
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And just as Jason Mraz sings in his beautiful tune, <i>I Won't Give Up</i>, "Cause even the stars, they burn; some even fall to the Earth." Sometimes you have to burn. Sometimes you have to fall. And sometimes you have to do both to find the Earth of your dreams and the trail you were meant to walk. Even God, Buddha and all their friends will tell you that it doesn't matter how far you are on your journey, it doesn't matter how alive or dead you may feel; you must look up to the stars, the sky, those that have walked that road before you and sit upon their shoulders in order to see the way. </div>
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Does this mean that you're completely set on your journey by looking up instead of down? Does this mean that you're set if you have the world's biggest shoulders to sit upon instead of walking the trail yourself? Hell to the no. You're never going to be "set." If you think you are, think again. If you think you are, just wait. It will happen to you, too. You'll fall while standing tall. It can happen. It does happen. And sometimes, just sometimes, it happens for all the right reasons. We all travel on roads that are long. Roads that have smelly rest stops and no place to rest and roads that need repaving. Unfortunately/Fortunately the roads I'm talking about are our roads. The stars are all the same above these roads even though the places they lead to are very different. </div>
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We all need road work. We all need to continue to stand tall while we fall. Regardless of your health, your place in this world, your perceived needs-vs-wants, your love or lack thereof...you need to look ahead, look up, look around you and watch the stars fall, burn out and shine on your journey. It doesn't matter how you answer your life's essay question. It's subjective, objective and as I said before, impossible. What matters is that you try to answer it with all you have at that moment. God knows, you're worth the world. God and all his friends know that we're all friends in the end and if your journey is different, it's still the same. It's all the same. It's all hard. It's all easy. It's all you need to survive. Keep standing tall while falling down. </div>
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If I can fall this many times...if I can die again and again in my journey and revive in time to catch the next Greyhound to my unknown destination, you can, too. Am I perfect in my wisdom? Ha! Yeah, right. All I know is that all of you, yes, even you, are allowing me to stand on your shoulders and giving me the love and help I need right now. Thank you. I wouldn't be able to walk, stand, type, talk, and/or exist without you. </div>
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And if there's ever any doubt as to how I feel about you, all of you, just ask me. I'll always tell you I love you. Even if it doesn't seem appropriate or right or the right time. Love is always, in my eyes, the right thing at all times. </div>
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Yours in Road Work, Realizing that Bruises and Scrapes Heal and Rousing Yours, Mine and Our Spirit, </div>
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Cicily Janushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16841849529479076806noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1536639124087019847.post-25949516662151574422013-01-20T12:13:00.001-07:002013-01-20T12:13:24.521-07:00Love of a Different Color<div style="text-align: center;">
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<i>Being deeply loved by someone gives you strength, </i></div>
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<i>~Lao Tzu~</i></div>
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Ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous. </div>
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<b><i>Currently on my iTunes: </i></b></div>
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<i>"</i>Higher"</div>
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<i>Creed</i></div>
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"The Art of Happiness"</div>
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Dalai Lama</div>
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Dear Friends, Family and my Family of Friends, </div>
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I heard a quote today. It hit me like a ton of bricks. And no, it's not the one above. The man on the travel show, while looking at the Alps said, "Immersion in Nature is man's consolation for having to face his own mortality." Earlier this morning and for a good portion of yesterday's afternoon, I was immersed in nature. Having recently faced my own mortality, and believe me this isn't a journey that is over...yet...I am beginning to see things differently. Finding ways of saying Thank you in less grand ways for my life and finding more in my life to be thankful for is what I got out of these "walks." As I wrote on FB the other day, to everyone that knows me, I am still in love with the world despite the shit that has happened. More specifically, I'm embracing the world much more as a lover would than a brother, sister or worse, a parent. I am not in control of the world, I am in awe. </div>
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You know that feeling you get when you're in love. The first feelings of anxiousness, the wealth of energy the other man's/woman's smile gives you when you're near them or on your way to see them? The beauty of their touch and the giggles that only that ONE person can give you? That's where I'm at. And it feels amazing. As a matter of fact, it feels so good I'm in that glorious stage of denial that only this feeling brings into your life. </div>
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Red flags, red schmags. </div>
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Who cares. I don't care if this world has serial killers and fires that burn its surroundings to the ground. I do, but well, just not right now. It's about embracing the present. As I look outside the window to my left, I see cerulean skies, a neutral palate of winter starkness...with arms wide open, I embrace it. I soak in the sun. The unusual, although I'm not sure how unusual it is now, 60 degree temps in January are embracing me back. It's amazing how dim lighting, dark attitudes and deeply imbedded pain, both real and imagined, can cloud your soul and even more amazing how a crack of light can make months and months of hell find their way back underground. </div>
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As Creed is singing in my ears right at this very moment, I have to ask you, what are you going to do this year? What are you going to do to rid your soul of the darkness you've been hiding in? Leave the comfort of your place. Put the tune on and sing along. </div>
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<i>Leave the comfort of this place...cause there's a hunger, longing to escape from the life to live when I'm away. Let's go there, let's make our escape, let's go there....Can you take me higher? To place where blind men see. Can you take me higher? To a place with golden streets? I'd like to make the Earth and my dreams the same. Only difference is to let love replace all of our hate. </i></blockquote>
I have to realize that this is a moment I might lose if I don't take it now and run with it. This is going to be better. Everything. Don't question. Run with it. Let's make our escape while we still have each other. Don't question. Don't question.<br />
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Yours in Love, Lusting for the Beginning, Middle and End of Life and Living it Up,<br />
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Cicily<br />
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Cicily Janushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16841849529479076806noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1536639124087019847.post-71106830707716084592012-12-19T05:37:00.000-07:002012-12-19T05:38:26.640-07:00Christmas Card for All of My Modern Family <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<i>Bah Humbug.</i></div>
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~The Grinch~</div>
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Weather? Drama? Cookies?</div>
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Where'd they all go?</div>
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<b><i>Currently on my iTunes: </i></b></div>
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<i>Greensleeves</i></div>
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Vince Guaraldi Trio</div>
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<b><i>Currently Reading: </i></b></div>
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<i>Skipping Christmas</i></div>
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John Grisham</div>
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Dear Friends, Family and my Family of Friends, </div>
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Throughout the last few years I have become a super fan of Modern Family. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2YKqRUsHWLNSFIYs5PB5p9E1WIEgon6eTxOrsJ3RXM_m7s3L7SGkPAbBwZoqx5hekz291AGnNVdsfEdY1RD3yFAYN5bAhmOo_I46C1ogAjABs1ynkr28joIV5GXgFY4ATdE3XcXMjAaZU/s1600/Spotlight_Modern+Family_02.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="224" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2YKqRUsHWLNSFIYs5PB5p9E1WIEgon6eTxOrsJ3RXM_m7s3L7SGkPAbBwZoqx5hekz291AGnNVdsfEdY1RD3yFAYN5bAhmOo_I46C1ogAjABs1ynkr28joIV5GXgFY4ATdE3XcXMjAaZU/s320/Spotlight_Modern+Family_02.jpg" width="320" /></a>Phil Dunphy is my dream husband, Cam is a close second and to say that I wouldn't be Jay's trophy wife if given the chance...well, ok, I wouldn't, but the family itself has been a source of fake comfort for me over the years. The lessons touched upon in each episode, whether it's not using a taser gun until you know you really need to, or making the most out of a bad situation (like when a relative gets arrested and you get excited about the court time because you get waffles out of it), Modern Family is the IT factor show for me these days. And I'm not a huge TV watcher, so this is a stretch and to go above my usual favorite of Glee, says a lot. </div>
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Recently I watched again, the episode titled: <i>Express Christmas</i>. This was from the third season and if you have Hulu.com, you can watch the episode too if you go <a href="http://www.hulu.com/watch/302469" target="_blank">here</a>. </div>
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But there is a line at the very end of the show that gets me every time. Yes, I cry. There wouldn't be that emotion though if it didn't have significant meaning to me. Gloria (Played by the classic/timeless latino beauty, Sofia Vergara) narrates the end of the episode with these words: </div>
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<i><b>Family is family...whether it's the one you start out with, the one you end up with...or the family you gain along the way, which makes every day, December 16th.</b></i></blockquote>
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I do have to admit that you have to watch the episode to get the last few words of her line, but the core of what she says should be taken seriously. This year I have had drama...ok, I lie, over the last decade or so, it seems as though the familial drama has taken its toll on me. And this isn't just the blood relatives. This is the family I've started out with, ended up with and gained along the way. And it seems that if there were ever a better time to apologize for things that happened in the past that cloud the future, to say those wonderful words: I Love You or to say, thanks for the memories, I'm sorry there weren't more of them...this time would be it. <br />
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So listen to this tune and please, read what I've written. This is my Christmas Card to you. Yes...you. All of you.<br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><b><i>For the Family I started out with: </i></b></span></div>
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<b><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">***Pics are in no particular order***</span></i></b></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZaBDhKCwLBuagCabDuFLHxc7m0pAunMv3RYyfEmrzZXHRZYmN-VXRfLbzjSFTKZ17ONJrA2lvlKOvKIyiP4pLWChM8gjAN0voKkRSZGejmGHgrLHWv4ma2kWm3Q94fyTfhU6oCgAwSeHV/s1600/306624_3358614684143_1396009479_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZaBDhKCwLBuagCabDuFLHxc7m0pAunMv3RYyfEmrzZXHRZYmN-VXRfLbzjSFTKZ17ONJrA2lvlKOvKIyiP4pLWChM8gjAN0voKkRSZGejmGHgrLHWv4ma2kWm3Q94fyTfhU6oCgAwSeHV/s200/306624_3358614684143_1396009479_n.jpg" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mom and her Boss holding the Olympic torch</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWsXAB3OTNaAES_KiSYzxNiI3CEOfEJ6e2NUHd6w2Efq8MIsu_I4kCdzNqmgwlh_hjXP_S0EMc6UoP2fQ_x8K9Tveu2fd41fJLgWWKzugBx3yFovOFKz2_LELhVB52UUOc8ggLREruVVW8/s1600/409215_343261355701050_112139997_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWsXAB3OTNaAES_KiSYzxNiI3CEOfEJ6e2NUHd6w2Efq8MIsu_I4kCdzNqmgwlh_hjXP_S0EMc6UoP2fQ_x8K9Tveu2fd41fJLgWWKzugBx3yFovOFKz2_LELhVB52UUOc8ggLREruVVW8/s200/409215_343261355701050_112139997_n.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dad and his Natty. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjexa4rL32Atx7pVShTNu6AV-8Mdmyjx3A1bbKrAr7jerSzAU8mKJkWcs4AchNd7ODomiF7nYMN_ROu1mckwdp8ZqeTMPkPPqvN-FT-N88NB-rPH9Zyoq5Zniu0Jo65iRgNQ8AJJjIj7SaN/s1600/396191_343368095690376_1350030102_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjexa4rL32Atx7pVShTNu6AV-8Mdmyjx3A1bbKrAr7jerSzAU8mKJkWcs4AchNd7ODomiF7nYMN_ROu1mckwdp8ZqeTMPkPPqvN-FT-N88NB-rPH9Zyoq5Zniu0Jo65iRgNQ8AJJjIj7SaN/s200/396191_343368095690376_1350030102_n.jpg" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Margo and My Uncle Leon. Crazy man, but adorable.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinTYbQhc9GzxAlGbZY5Pc_0BgnIIuf9C3ld56FLrCuS-nssl4cUHbaSMtJI1tA3dndrs82HeXAelp0JYx0UP02pfRW5nj6T3XW6qk1i6vpYwV5JuhnedSY4TxyF6SWt3MwbtoeSzMRvxlt/s1600/69522_118931411507751_7525419_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinTYbQhc9GzxAlGbZY5Pc_0BgnIIuf9C3ld56FLrCuS-nssl4cUHbaSMtJI1tA3dndrs82HeXAelp0JYx0UP02pfRW5nj6T3XW6qk1i6vpYwV5JuhnedSY4TxyF6SWt3MwbtoeSzMRvxlt/s200/69522_118931411507751_7525419_n.jpg" width="118" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Aunt Pam</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8sPPTfvyqBVP8lZ5rWMgg5-Q4mMCt0IQW1eXQGtnNOPJeSD9koIum0WYmtBOx1LcQufYE0lFRQ3T6ndk08CYyJZPR2eV50GT8M_65FnealY8hlYmD-QKMsAqbMhq20wRuOQCxtottHiJU/s1600/196427_1008111172877_7355_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8sPPTfvyqBVP8lZ5rWMgg5-Q4mMCt0IQW1eXQGtnNOPJeSD9koIum0WYmtBOx1LcQufYE0lFRQ3T6ndk08CYyJZPR2eV50GT8M_65FnealY8hlYmD-QKMsAqbMhq20wRuOQCxtottHiJU/s200/196427_1008111172877_7355_n.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
Noodle. My favoritest cousin.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoe6Ebc7qbFTfOBfgsQmkOjNTRbB3lHKPW2VtvjeSu8UaEgOuiiMbth4lTsNFIf0jOS2KlAvpcDQIuzAZ1z4RhziKVJXEHnk5qZWBPXkmWl66En_qknzv5LznBu-LcuD_d8qT-c09rAsdN/s1600/403332_10101853596205161_888611020_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="133" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoe6Ebc7qbFTfOBfgsQmkOjNTRbB3lHKPW2VtvjeSu8UaEgOuiiMbth4lTsNFIf0jOS2KlAvpcDQIuzAZ1z4RhziKVJXEHnk5qZWBPXkmWl66En_qknzv5LznBu-LcuD_d8qT-c09rAsdN/s200/403332_10101853596205161_888611020_n.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Wanted fugitives/Sostheim Men</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinBWuUmBKIb0MqdtnVI-a60hU8jrrw38TU-ViNdJbRDywP4BP5RdPnmCefJWSXfxnyxWeQERBLkxf7sVnT4e4_Ikh6zs5ZfSYF0mYukhx-Y8YsIV3V_uRscnIKeDXDgEuyK3r9AQbv0QPL/s1600/387609_334000186612246_262168193_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="132" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinBWuUmBKIb0MqdtnVI-a60hU8jrrw38TU-ViNdJbRDywP4BP5RdPnmCefJWSXfxnyxWeQERBLkxf7sVnT4e4_Ikh6zs5ZfSYF0mYukhx-Y8YsIV3V_uRscnIKeDXDgEuyK3r9AQbv0QPL/s200/387609_334000186612246_262168193_n.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sostheim Family</td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-style-span">Of course, this group of miscreants multiplied throughout the years. I'm an only child and my cousin Niki, although she had three brothers that are awesome, is still my best friend and closest confidant most days. We've had very good times, horridly bad times and many memories between us. Wouldn't take back or say I regret one minute of time with her. </span></div>
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<b><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">The Family I Ended Up With and Gained </span></i></b><br />
<b><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">through the years:</span></i></b><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiS72jsINLZrau9U5pYyF6vh1s4wLrtLFFO3yVl5VZM_Lop_jTOWvi1oCpRPc2aDNYx42UPI0Q5eIAAuGN_qcpO1VKV-mtI08IrxhgYGqF0C1vGxrg0CVC1smGo8kah-acD0SxqHZsrmPmx/s1600/20101210182753.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiS72jsINLZrau9U5pYyF6vh1s4wLrtLFFO3yVl5VZM_Lop_jTOWvi1oCpRPc2aDNYx42UPI0Q5eIAAuGN_qcpO1VKV-mtI08IrxhgYGqF0C1vGxrg0CVC1smGo8kah-acD0SxqHZsrmPmx/s200/20101210182753.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Natty's proud daddy and her half-sisters, Evie and Hope.<br />
These girls are such a huge part of my heart. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9d_OIcJUJA6lrcBWvbH8PkRCh6Ecns8i3O8QXyU8nkNwnUT4xVfxj0-EXWwPkUOQwCErdnUDn_k11vhi3TvF3NMFSkKYKkQy4fCngQgKi7gTfVXg0JxAMJjVDKJftx-8LPuWbLzp17vV-/s1600/1122121316.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9d_OIcJUJA6lrcBWvbH8PkRCh6Ecns8i3O8QXyU8nkNwnUT4xVfxj0-EXWwPkUOQwCErdnUDn_k11vhi3TvF3NMFSkKYKkQy4fCngQgKi7gTfVXg0JxAMJjVDKJftx-8LPuWbLzp17vV-/s200/1122121316.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Nat's Papa and Gram and Aunt Sherie. These folks have kept Nat going<br />
when her father and I could not. So very thankful! </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKQAkVtGfukgZo_a_NTAwp793tq04stDsrNm8o_BofyX3pgI_l0T5-SWxC283xngw-oJu_JmhO21tV0DpILkkoLZoxtWvKbcQFoa_pmunKUEFt6VhUPaR6fKjzQTtAKsMdE15S54PHVa_S/s1600/0918121916.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKQAkVtGfukgZo_a_NTAwp793tq04stDsrNm8o_BofyX3pgI_l0T5-SWxC283xngw-oJu_JmhO21tV0DpILkkoLZoxtWvKbcQFoa_pmunKUEFt6VhUPaR6fKjzQTtAKsMdE15S54PHVa_S/s200/0918121916.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Heather. She lives downstairs from me<br />
and is always willing to help and show love.<br />
Her daughter and Natty Poo get along amazingly well! </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjX01gimDO0naGQjmBq3wnD9cngnFPovYT_T2xzi5hnqxT5Qa3ii7uYSntbxGtJWo0J6ynCsR7sgGRd0vzC5OFCTog8itYVbfVBdtIZvOpQUMKAjRWGD7DNJE4VXJHJT7j0c2WLBnW3ODmm/s1600/20120630115618.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjX01gimDO0naGQjmBq3wnD9cngnFPovYT_T2xzi5hnqxT5Qa3ii7uYSntbxGtJWo0J6ynCsR7sgGRd0vzC5OFCTog8itYVbfVBdtIZvOpQUMKAjRWGD7DNJE4VXJHJT7j0c2WLBnW3ODmm/s200/20120630115618.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Brent, Blaise and Miles. Meditation<br />
on the fly!<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3cJhWqYAjX8G5sJWvpEcZRS-xXo5qHOKbmWd7ANJhhvhmuVzTzXJNTTB1q-Rbs5eIikolIy1hagQFR2dysIP0KSIyfWftJrsRk0TmXklW_zN8HChNtKr5p26TcJOh84Sif_zmaLr3uqKF/s1600/Signe.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3cJhWqYAjX8G5sJWvpEcZRS-xXo5qHOKbmWd7ANJhhvhmuVzTzXJNTTB1q-Rbs5eIikolIy1hagQFR2dysIP0KSIyfWftJrsRk0TmXklW_zN8HChNtKr5p26TcJOh84Sif_zmaLr3uqKF/s200/Signe.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Incredibly talented, Signe Pike and I<br />
after climbing Red Rocks last spring.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjU61VAlZFXFr-kYiTwajw4vge95iU0CAWhyHnamYiWOYffiUnDaYJF4QyZAYKrphH34OwQYZdF4gYrOKoUBd260b675S-9c1Rt6pl-Mk1wYha-vy7RtxWId63iI5rWQ9xfhEpW88BojEWC/s1600/Ward.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="133" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjU61VAlZFXFr-kYiTwajw4vge95iU0CAWhyHnamYiWOYffiUnDaYJF4QyZAYKrphH34OwQYZdF4gYrOKoUBd260b675S-9c1Rt6pl-Mk1wYha-vy7RtxWId63iI5rWQ9xfhEpW88BojEWC/s200/Ward.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sax player Chris Ward and I in NYC, Jan 2010.<br />
Great listener, friend and amazing, amazing talented soul.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizM-mjE1U7jOgF35W2ilp0A5tfKeUOVHfYmve1V_0IUMJwXXxAZ3saXCREUMnpG5y0UIgjY0DbdHUTIQSV-WGVXNuHQdd6jMh0159Bj6lCtodEzM0EfERsr5BBN9cp6PUpje72NlDzoKcX/s1600/Jones.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="154" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizM-mjE1U7jOgF35W2ilp0A5tfKeUOVHfYmve1V_0IUMJwXXxAZ3saXCREUMnpG5y0UIgjY0DbdHUTIQSV-WGVXNuHQdd6jMh0159Bj6lCtodEzM0EfERsr5BBN9cp6PUpje72NlDzoKcX/s200/Jones.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sweaty, shiny, Cicily and Sean. Sean is the trumpet player<br />
that creates my absolute favorite go-to music. My ears and<br />
soul wouldn't be the same without him.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglZsH418UUDlCg4jvv-EFcCikOl3vYau0fPPo6EvI-BboYZDc9PpGPAg-Z9KSnvnyb2mxnsaDkPJG6sRI-9K0BhtCfyIBEaZIM4xu6TaV1IkqsnH31gTcMdlxlgdRA1Hg3A_HJnz_KTl5z/s1600/Scott+.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglZsH418UUDlCg4jvv-EFcCikOl3vYau0fPPo6EvI-BboYZDc9PpGPAg-Z9KSnvnyb2mxnsaDkPJG6sRI-9K0BhtCfyIBEaZIM4xu6TaV1IkqsnH31gTcMdlxlgdRA1Hg3A_HJnz_KTl5z/s200/Scott+.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My first mentor in the agenting world, Scott Hoffman<br />
Along side one of my secret writing crushes, Andy Mele. But no worries, I have<br />
a crush on his wife, Lisa, too. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7egHsZRUuQ-ZAMo8GVWoxyfyceiea8WmymO_eq-qHEChzejqIowYvueZM82Tr8gDgYs-419KQNrCXGZzn-t4PMn9h4jsMtLG3iA8IiemltCKfZHxlusoA_zfzenxggOAB9v1G-Df7ZAnk/s1600/0906121727.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7egHsZRUuQ-ZAMo8GVWoxyfyceiea8WmymO_eq-qHEChzejqIowYvueZM82Tr8gDgYs-419KQNrCXGZzn-t4PMn9h4jsMtLG3iA8IiemltCKfZHxlusoA_zfzenxggOAB9v1G-Df7ZAnk/s200/0906121727.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Nick Belardes, aka Bakersballs, and I have been<br />
talking online for years now. Finally met this fall. Was<br />
a pure joy and gift to get to spend time with him.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicz4nEggvc8Bwsm054D3DHK1wipYX824IG2uQEtazUMXzmc47GUClOFfHeJzC7n0578pUopJ8p_1OuG2pGFHttwBGbNGFvzFa4XULJZw3YmKY1u6eoKRAvDmphgGwh_M0iEU6zyKANp92q/s1600/0907121351a.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicz4nEggvc8Bwsm054D3DHK1wipYX824IG2uQEtazUMXzmc47GUClOFfHeJzC7n0578pUopJ8p_1OuG2pGFHttwBGbNGFvzFa4XULJZw3YmKY1u6eoKRAvDmphgGwh_M0iEU6zyKANp92q/s200/0907121351a.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bonita and C at the retreat house. Giggling<br />
like school girls. She's one of the best people<br />
you'll ever meet. Her soul walks with God and<br />
her words inspire. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJpfgbOzz2_mwk1J1iPti9U6hkrqmfGli5Mg_lWvkayH95OF3uSL_1gBilmlVfnB-Zu1_4DK1-DaHzllv0knaPFioP-6WdZr5SEKXa0nygBnyv_5iRP3aJ6R0BpIkcy0EUzvFE5-QUtJWN/s1600/0907121729.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJpfgbOzz2_mwk1J1iPti9U6hkrqmfGli5Mg_lWvkayH95OF3uSL_1gBilmlVfnB-Zu1_4DK1-DaHzllv0knaPFioP-6WdZr5SEKXa0nygBnyv_5iRP3aJ6R0BpIkcy0EUzvFE5-QUtJWN/s200/0907121729.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Toxic Avenger at the retreat house...AGAIN!<br />
If there is anyone who knows how life can<br />
grab you by the balls until you do something<br />
to change it, it's Phyllis.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBPRlzz3iCfCchrfGAYMpi9CMyz1XH5LmQV0qp2ecG_VebrUJJbWZE-UAhFtnosYc2b6XjCntyRsdi2azc0Yf-FvNM33GTqMZS40FewiKzwOhQAVOBm3JjV9T9cVOO8G4uQm-LA7dIhGiq/s1600/Celia.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBPRlzz3iCfCchrfGAYMpi9CMyz1XH5LmQV0qp2ecG_VebrUJJbWZE-UAhFtnosYc2b6XjCntyRsdi2azc0Yf-FvNM33GTqMZS40FewiKzwOhQAVOBm3JjV9T9cVOO8G4uQm-LA7dIhGiq/s200/Celia.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Celia and my twins. She helped me out as a babysitter,<br />
grew into one of the best gal pals I've ever had.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgswaX2mbeJKOPt26pKxQ9PV-VxnaN6wrXc0Odi75bZB36nzuSdB2LMy7uDtw2KdSGaN3BJ0W4Nk5nUwT61mC18E94W1DySLbcd-qtRWGrkdw0aejr86RJ3J3lzWDpG7PrHjbi7BKjiWuNV/s1600/0905121028.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgswaX2mbeJKOPt26pKxQ9PV-VxnaN6wrXc0Odi75bZB36nzuSdB2LMy7uDtw2KdSGaN3BJ0W4Nk5nUwT61mC18E94W1DySLbcd-qtRWGrkdw0aejr86RJ3J3lzWDpG7PrHjbi7BKjiWuNV/s200/0905121028.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Crazy Becki and I posing with<br />
the rest of our friends. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOcbmyD8xPOIrKWR-maI_GagjPtO3Dduy42JF1e0xRO6MKnIeX7mOAka3u0OKUDg40Dwa_3-fzMg3YhszIH8-HzeRmft7p_-t4IO2Ixnx6JKEkEkDSC17BtMFDAfcTMyIQudkjpj061IAT/s1600/Lemmig.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOcbmyD8xPOIrKWR-maI_GagjPtO3Dduy42JF1e0xRO6MKnIeX7mOAka3u0OKUDg40Dwa_3-fzMg3YhszIH8-HzeRmft7p_-t4IO2Ixnx6JKEkEkDSC17BtMFDAfcTMyIQudkjpj061IAT/s200/Lemmig.jpg" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dubious Chris Lemig. We were at Catamount<br />
Reserves on Pikes Peak. This is his<br />
best Catalog Modeling imitation. He has<br />
taught me to laugh in the face of adversity<br />
and stick with those that love you at all times.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghQ4MyGLmmUbHa1_98YoRyLb8NfkDme5Tuyi-7FkdrTzM-x8M34sVsHI-SL_8WTI1rZdAZzw9qPhaf2NAi6xO-pJjWXimgsyNiX4xl1ITOzF6EoE7eC6NU7fpg4bGjwXgz5euyb1x-njrR/s1600/MHS.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="136" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghQ4MyGLmmUbHa1_98YoRyLb8NfkDme5Tuyi-7FkdrTzM-x8M34sVsHI-SL_8WTI1rZdAZzw9qPhaf2NAi6xO-pJjWXimgsyNiX4xl1ITOzF6EoE7eC6NU7fpg4bGjwXgz5euyb1x-njrR/s200/MHS.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">McEachern High School Seniors, '95.<br />
Without these folks, I would have never known<br />
what real friends did and still do for you<br />
and I never stop thinking of them. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLh2dhycq9l5PwueSR_L7bmAnanlzRx87_ltqJs628FG7Kiz69TUv7_xnB0TjJtHplTZehpXtXcq2ayRkfhUUP0lurkCf9SEPOyIYyTjg58DQ-JL2VSga-AMO_LvpAtyqFFrzFB4DbjoJl/s1600/DSC03549.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLh2dhycq9l5PwueSR_L7bmAnanlzRx87_ltqJs628FG7Kiz69TUv7_xnB0TjJtHplTZehpXtXcq2ayRkfhUUP0lurkCf9SEPOyIYyTjg58DQ-JL2VSga-AMO_LvpAtyqFFrzFB4DbjoJl/s200/DSC03549.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Doug Crandall and Me. He's the only<br />
person that got me to spit BBQ sauce<br />
up my nose during an interview. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<b><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"></span></i></b></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjbhuEoZAkYjmS2862lj3JkPey_izlyuavo3KCEK44jsA0Rv4LWl7I77uP0Wrr1AU9UlAXi-qSjf4lN8nQSxJkMKz-qkbtsJcPexLnxEe4Rv8zW92jE9khngy9tXZoMW9M9PxuuV0l_Kdp/s1600/385686_3664375967984_165003433_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjbhuEoZAkYjmS2862lj3JkPey_izlyuavo3KCEK44jsA0Rv4LWl7I77uP0Wrr1AU9UlAXi-qSjf4lN8nQSxJkMKz-qkbtsJcPexLnxEe4Rv8zW92jE9khngy9tXZoMW9M9PxuuV0l_Kdp/s200/385686_3664375967984_165003433_n.jpg" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Best two girls in the world, Ella and Margo.<br />
My 10 yr old twins...</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiiXKDsPglCVOVMgRYKGEtRpqlwQxRcgrDTlYramoc_bTYE0NZ8uht5So2eiqSEHH_Xl3RcdTFVquTtmd7h5N3dHSNnpypBE1jKLmbu44aaZ0ovavL-L0s6NYIG59BlciqW8fzkH1ttd4B/s1600/227114_10150606996295437_1135628_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiiXKDsPglCVOVMgRYKGEtRpqlwQxRcgrDTlYramoc_bTYE0NZ8uht5So2eiqSEHH_Xl3RcdTFVquTtmd7h5N3dHSNnpypBE1jKLmbu44aaZ0ovavL-L0s6NYIG59BlciqW8fzkH1ttd4B/s200/227114_10150606996295437_1135628_n.jpg" width="163" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Jake or the other Jake and my nephew, Cole</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkaXEZ4JOPSE9GwB_BoSSB5h7YzNMrvNVFzTzgamns1IFxChiRR5YwINIXR_4HMaEMDyy15neIU_j_zG23Wrf6gJdOJST83i0AxltxkEBp-MNaD_jkgiRK9fmEFNFeVrz_o8m-RObtBC4B/s1600/0906121619.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkaXEZ4JOPSE9GwB_BoSSB5h7YzNMrvNVFzTzgamns1IFxChiRR5YwINIXR_4HMaEMDyy15neIU_j_zG23Wrf6gJdOJST83i0AxltxkEBp-MNaD_jkgiRK9fmEFNFeVrz_o8m-RObtBC4B/s200/0906121619.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Another sister from another mister. Sarah Crisman.<br />
She's been there for me through the good, bad, ugly<br />
and through each Snickers and Vodka binge.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRjTMmqzAf42D-WvMYpK52hPInmgyqoFho0bZ8cyPcLg-IVp6GHY354Q_nHdcUqTmLDwj_ntDK3s45jmGJ5DAwuLXK5DuBlBR2N2UgN7FJ0RycFEsmxdqz4uRzEDdK2se-EEudbQPcIFN3/s1600/100_1199.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="173" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRjTMmqzAf42D-WvMYpK52hPInmgyqoFho0bZ8cyPcLg-IVp6GHY354Q_nHdcUqTmLDwj_ntDK3s45jmGJ5DAwuLXK5DuBlBR2N2UgN7FJ0RycFEsmxdqz4uRzEDdK2se-EEudbQPcIFN3/s200/100_1199.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My first big band director and life coach: Wayne Goins.<br />
This was taken in my kitchen after our interview. MISS YOU WAYNE!<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvt-psNZkyWJUbDBHh0dBj4xE7MS7v7HisYca3azKAZNnC5yrLC7iPXmcFODnjmgCXEAMOs_6Mjca39DAskETGszLHqXeog31eLxwQ2IfAFJW3mRySFPbbxQtCjwbBjujTByaY0DS0xInJ/s1600/388477_2445912318389_1974283318_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvt-psNZkyWJUbDBHh0dBj4xE7MS7v7HisYca3azKAZNnC5yrLC7iPXmcFODnjmgCXEAMOs_6Mjca39DAskETGszLHqXeog31eLxwQ2IfAFJW3mRySFPbbxQtCjwbBjujTByaY0DS0xInJ/s200/388477_2445912318389_1974283318_n.jpg" width="131" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: center;">
Kathy Barker and Wes Barker. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Kathy started out as a "friend" of my folks and became </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
a mom to me. </div>
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg36W7AZwIWoM106GQeOT__nYvH7H5oFqLj_-_CgpYE1Bw4xZ9Rgv0TA7dMbBGd9J4AZYwigjqsRmk3N4MrWZNLnIJQ7KSyl9bkeiUf865M9RgWEh_p3U1imdO1YyEHS_VSHdrAJwPPigJU/s1600/100_0039.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg36W7AZwIWoM106GQeOT__nYvH7H5oFqLj_-_CgpYE1Bw4xZ9Rgv0TA7dMbBGd9J4AZYwigjqsRmk3N4MrWZNLnIJQ7KSyl9bkeiUf865M9RgWEh_p3U1imdO1YyEHS_VSHdrAJwPPigJU/s200/100_0039.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Brandee Younger. Long distance dear, dear<br />
bestie friend & harpist.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjni1eJdbuEBMm16Ng-8YDTHkcpxjlqAChmsheroH2Fp2-GY0Eig1cafJyTzRJxiHvEb1sYzrQyUSl8aJlQnQa-IUQtiEKLxmu7avlnapYYmxGQSwu2JrwREyHmZmfZgfs1ye4hxSOQdX1d/s1600/268467_241675662526287_5964330_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjni1eJdbuEBMm16Ng-8YDTHkcpxjlqAChmsheroH2Fp2-GY0Eig1cafJyTzRJxiHvEb1sYzrQyUSl8aJlQnQa-IUQtiEKLxmu7avlnapYYmxGQSwu2JrwREyHmZmfZgfs1ye4hxSOQdX1d/s200/268467_241675662526287_5964330_n.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ted, Suellen, Jamie and Ned.<br />
They're nuts. All of them. But they're the best kinds of nuts<br />
you'll ever meet.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyw6E9zOPLkUS8eCxGbdmvsozy8BdWu8bk3_8rwoMTiMmVGPham1NJUYfUuskU6Nw4utXtB0Vne-oM2hqH6wr360pIiS9l5p3fWcmFN_8_6fPGS8Y5mn0wc2WFg0Uk6DXg4dHic2PO5dw6/s1600/208255_2003395291608_5627357_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="132" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyw6E9zOPLkUS8eCxGbdmvsozy8BdWu8bk3_8rwoMTiMmVGPham1NJUYfUuskU6Nw4utXtB0Vne-oM2hqH6wr360pIiS9l5p3fWcmFN_8_6fPGS8Y5mn0wc2WFg0Uk6DXg4dHic2PO5dw6/s200/208255_2003395291608_5627357_n.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Can anyone say, Anne Rasmussen and Cicily<br />
haven't missed a beat in each other's <br />
lives for over ten years now...</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1_GYCPFrYhNBzB0lOQ_9fsH3BojxPQIUvKeXCMWQZvRCOp1YbSe-PpJL3MH3bVZEF80rnJ7kOZhCSj6JFsiTObekZqNP7tY7jxHfYGyr6hyXzn4qYhtz520uja5rj922bb5jATnI13Jfd/s1600/m_061a78473bce6a4f8f09fb0cc96d0698.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="149" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1_GYCPFrYhNBzB0lOQ_9fsH3BojxPQIUvKeXCMWQZvRCOp1YbSe-PpJL3MH3bVZEF80rnJ7kOZhCSj6JFsiTObekZqNP7tY7jxHfYGyr6hyXzn4qYhtz520uja5rj922bb5jATnI13Jfd/s200/m_061a78473bce6a4f8f09fb0cc96d0698.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Travis and Me at a writing conference.<br />
He's the hairiest man I've met to date...but by far, <br />
he is also one of the most dedicated <br />
friends I have. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUKUdXJit-8VuNWoLQ7YBbLNPJPTfKZYVMQc-83CcyTobR1BRn1l0iqXNZ0OUUob967NaZR23MbKdq0IT_IH192oCYaCnJhpjnj9nm33VMtXD88dE77YekOoRKAhrT_-imK5AEsnZ-nJtn/s1600/22060_104107859616402_1278986_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="132" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUKUdXJit-8VuNWoLQ7YBbLNPJPTfKZYVMQc-83CcyTobR1BRn1l0iqXNZ0OUUob967NaZR23MbKdq0IT_IH192oCYaCnJhpjnj9nm33VMtXD88dE77YekOoRKAhrT_-imK5AEsnZ-nJtn/s200/22060_104107859616402_1278986_n.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sometimes family come in funny<br />
shapes, colors and sizes, like Tim Lefevbre.<br />
He's one of the best souls alive.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjD9C5TkXAyFeW0f_VoooFw0riCmNopZzGAL_m6a9178GAtB4QCI2_slY_II1LwwAaiNytbl1DQatGbQoyE0nzQ-YrcpK0YdpBortkySxAmlPBOKN4UtSQ3oKUqweLI0CdBy-L028M1uIHK/s1600/23601_432977997906_7125507_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="133" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjD9C5TkXAyFeW0f_VoooFw0riCmNopZzGAL_m6a9178GAtB4QCI2_slY_II1LwwAaiNytbl1DQatGbQoyE0nzQ-YrcpK0YdpBortkySxAmlPBOKN4UtSQ3oKUqweLI0CdBy-L028M1uIHK/s200/23601_432977997906_7125507_n.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">And you thought I was crazy.<br />
Heather, Shanti and Daniel and<br />
I can talk about ducks, sex and ape babies<br />
and still keep up and understand eachother.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEju30d2YGK2arAR4ab8_uMGdR0Bz06PJqLXTO-hdKYOhNgtYL6HllmyQGAgXXtle4MXQlv_Xw9jc4KHuxmMJsFHUpd-1NklydGvUx4hHFFYC0nvo5y21zn4I07f8YXGIiHufhgUDRKS5wWn/s1600/8322_1249633889154_1478684158_30689702_872854_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="135" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEju30d2YGK2arAR4ab8_uMGdR0Bz06PJqLXTO-hdKYOhNgtYL6HllmyQGAgXXtle4MXQlv_Xw9jc4KHuxmMJsFHUpd-1NklydGvUx4hHFFYC0nvo5y21zn4I07f8YXGIiHufhgUDRKS5wWn/s200/8322_1249633889154_1478684158_30689702_872854_n.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sorche, Justin, Alex, Jason<br />
and Robin. Retreat offenders, restless writers and<br />
rocky mountain climbers.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0z05VSTvGGnPPdohjBttX97Estz-oiPCN0t8p5_sijfTGRUqyvGYAdM-x8dvXnpiFCIfDDaHe8REDJpsdk61ys0qCzl_28pdUusrXc44U1W6jAnuBxdrPk3XeMafrUkvnyeCQL6FvFuL2/s1600/133343_4717736018617_1594419426_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="133" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0z05VSTvGGnPPdohjBttX97Estz-oiPCN0t8p5_sijfTGRUqyvGYAdM-x8dvXnpiFCIfDDaHe8REDJpsdk61ys0qCzl_28pdUusrXc44U1W6jAnuBxdrPk3XeMafrUkvnyeCQL6FvFuL2/s200/133343_4717736018617_1594419426_o.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Rob and Kaylee.<br />
Does anyone else see the family resemblance?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-LTCxqOAGb_7blIL3e33u94cIlBAHAWSgITBalfVp6_K6M52i_8xO9axirbGgZIsehl_aVnfGpYnxg2FTSjGrLip6NRSdfRVceivSM_YARQHWjHXmhzAAoFu2eZe2uXF6hEVbkZbTjvfd/s1600/270346_241819415845245_5154954_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-LTCxqOAGb_7blIL3e33u94cIlBAHAWSgITBalfVp6_K6M52i_8xO9axirbGgZIsehl_aVnfGpYnxg2FTSjGrLip6NRSdfRVceivSM_YARQHWjHXmhzAAoFu2eZe2uXF6hEVbkZbTjvfd/s200/270346_241819415845245_5154954_n.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ned. Enough Sed.<br />
Without him, The New Face of Jazz<br />
Would just be the New Jazz...lousy title,<br />
lousy author, and especially I would lack my appreciation<br />
for nice clothes and good makeup. ;) </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUsmgD3cn_9XNvwWqT-Y_ido-5q2VTvbAJ0Raux4he0UcBaeaCnzXMFF42aQl6Zc7cblRI7sbwg8nUSwO9uSyQZWtmJ53c6vl8ntl8mJRG6riHFXuaMBe5k9KgWHM-Y6_-xbzshnetE0Bc/s1600/281740_264361826924337_912736_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUsmgD3cn_9XNvwWqT-Y_ido-5q2VTvbAJ0Raux4he0UcBaeaCnzXMFF42aQl6Zc7cblRI7sbwg8nUSwO9uSyQZWtmJ53c6vl8ntl8mJRG6riHFXuaMBe5k9KgWHM-Y6_-xbzshnetE0Bc/s200/281740_264361826924337_912736_n.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Marcus. He is just an awesome soul that I love.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBh_7DHOScwGdWG1WaNESAFT7icFjmnR3lh3i2XK5Q_MMIFi6PA7yNHTLKb6tc4jHccL7aMRiP7Tu-Du3cfrQRnOW-kjJD2lxdwK3BqLEXyheJMXOSRUTvUny_3PQ_DJgopRwegiIi4wB0/s1600/253477_10151127793633930_1442650315_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="149" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBh_7DHOScwGdWG1WaNESAFT7icFjmnR3lh3i2XK5Q_MMIFi6PA7yNHTLKb6tc4jHccL7aMRiP7Tu-Du3cfrQRnOW-kjJD2lxdwK3BqLEXyheJMXOSRUTvUny_3PQ_DJgopRwegiIi4wB0/s200/253477_10151127793633930_1442650315_n.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My berry cool friends that have become family. <br />
This is for Elizabeth Kinsey, Nick Belardes,<br />
Becki Davis, Karen DeGroot Carter and Paotie Dawson <br />
(who slept through the whole thing) </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKcqDa6DZQkRw_ymKqY0LjD9SU67DH4_zrrN5ubP-puqjsGDgVwNFJzYoTtmRAapx0_QZ2Dmhj0z0YLo2nM_wc287tmyTiUWDi5sfzztrsUJOp_1B9JTgXJSOCN71fMNsEXgAQspgWWTTc/s1600/75603_10151078184456053_1885844665_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="142" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKcqDa6DZQkRw_ymKqY0LjD9SU67DH4_zrrN5ubP-puqjsGDgVwNFJzYoTtmRAapx0_QZ2Dmhj0z0YLo2nM_wc287tmyTiUWDi5sfzztrsUJOp_1B9JTgXJSOCN71fMNsEXgAQspgWWTTc/s200/75603_10151078184456053_1885844665_n.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Jaijai Jackson. Bibi introduced us two years ago. Her and I are kindred spirits.<br />
This picture makes my heart smile. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJHi4laal71C97cHFm2p3YZZvNUhnvKeqfZy4d8cjEKJZwNAJ7xJ1uBN7d9DshgwYAQ7MkFHFVGJmx6CljoP4deWRk45ogr50khK_6xz2XK1wdGTtN_BZnBR8pUghpLdcLFUdeEpRk-ESR/s1600/20110809215149.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJHi4laal71C97cHFm2p3YZZvNUhnvKeqfZy4d8cjEKJZwNAJ7xJ1uBN7d9DshgwYAQ7MkFHFVGJmx6CljoP4deWRk45ogr50khK_6xz2XK1wdGTtN_BZnBR8pUghpLdcLFUdeEpRk-ESR/s200/20110809215149.jpg" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bibi Green and I, August 2011. Without her<br />
Her words of encouragement & her dedication<br />
to our friendship, I think I would have imploded by now.<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5axosCgDUEFyBQDdU7wijHefQYeKjOIClMNMyhzBqOV7WqBKDDctuFBmXbLxTfw2EuFh1p4nLA6j0ZxNYQhq7-4ON7lcsCwpqtIJl-SUUo69IOK8dFww2lgZGSEYcMuGccrST3MhJoUSB/s1600/Garcia+and+Cicily.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="145" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5axosCgDUEFyBQDdU7wijHefQYeKjOIClMNMyhzBqOV7WqBKDDctuFBmXbLxTfw2EuFh1p4nLA6j0ZxNYQhq7-4ON7lcsCwpqtIJl-SUUo69IOK8dFww2lgZGSEYcMuGccrST3MhJoUSB/s200/Garcia+and+Cicily.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Michal Garcia a.k.a. biting boy<br />
and I on our usual Skype calls. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_xd-Om_Ti2xua_3PqUpRvzVMV734IMxmNrOyOn12Y8twe3sPA-E7yGq1gvx7uuo8BwcFBnHcjmUlTdWiJ0YzCmszQ0cUYq-nt0X74J7ROzkdKBMdoALXYq6MxQfn7y5yVy03GK9qJriYt/s1600/29220_118201081538575_4508341_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="140" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_xd-Om_Ti2xua_3PqUpRvzVMV734IMxmNrOyOn12Y8twe3sPA-E7yGq1gvx7uuo8BwcFBnHcjmUlTdWiJ0YzCmszQ0cUYq-nt0X74J7ROzkdKBMdoALXYq6MxQfn7y5yVy03GK9qJriYt/s200/29220_118201081538575_4508341_n.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Who are these people? Oh wait.<br />
They're AWESOME! LeeAnn, Lisa, Sue, Russ...<br />
the original retreat brat pack.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9d11sNaQJ3TDmEjpOC977eptqxZwNeYSM1hTG3aRZnFjTjWz39t64aYm1urAQlpNEogsPGjA37QmKerWn0GKmju-5ts0RY8B6PliAjC01qEjQHKWyRbeQIrRsu-0uS0J1xJwZ6hPCYmRl/s1600/3283_74213363929_6884905_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9d11sNaQJ3TDmEjpOC977eptqxZwNeYSM1hTG3aRZnFjTjWz39t64aYm1urAQlpNEogsPGjA37QmKerWn0GKmju-5ts0RY8B6PliAjC01qEjQHKWyRbeQIrRsu-0uS0J1xJwZ6hPCYmRl/s200/3283_74213363929_6884905_n.jpg" width="147" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This is an old pic, but so glad I found it. My sister from another mister and<br />
caregiver with the biggest heart in the world, Karen DeGroot Carter and her lovely daughters<br />
Lauren and Sarah. These women astound me.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpkxBl9uB62xvOXK_ccoJi1lBPdRJ1x6YOW9miXpjUwwglv8PAoJ447gexpftd4-fFmrT6xXgYtDpH4iWPSONP5vSC4uUCrLjCnvsRKYw0EFQbQT-2nrSwAF_GnCbnJeuZtcl0Eu2S2WyB/s1600/395283_532822840078233_1206957770_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpkxBl9uB62xvOXK_ccoJi1lBPdRJ1x6YOW9miXpjUwwglv8PAoJ447gexpftd4-fFmrT6xXgYtDpH4iWPSONP5vSC4uUCrLjCnvsRKYw0EFQbQT-2nrSwAF_GnCbnJeuZtcl0Eu2S2WyB/s200/395283_532822840078233_1206957770_n.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Margo and Ella front and center,<br />
Brent, Heather, Alexa and all the other<br />
usual suspects in my building. <br />
Love these folks<br />
to pieces.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIGH5PbgzOeKC93CnmIjo5AXgUVrPjjT7T6pC6sJGgJq7DPlMOAH2y4fCsRCP-vqI5h3TFebLxwAcWcN5wHWZXv2ylQipr3lvuIxEseD8LS46AMd_kZxC2R8ppQqr1WuHa-67B3TbJP8jf/s1600/399318_10102031929463881_1325238582_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="133" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIGH5PbgzOeKC93CnmIjo5AXgUVrPjjT7T6pC6sJGgJq7DPlMOAH2y4fCsRCP-vqI5h3TFebLxwAcWcN5wHWZXv2ylQipr3lvuIxEseD8LS46AMd_kZxC2R8ppQqr1WuHa-67B3TbJP8jf/s200/399318_10102031929463881_1325238582_n.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Typical family photo. And extended family...<br />
well, can't speak for their involvement. Pete probably<br />
started it.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTtEBnay_b_NpieicNrVFblkQk3uXvLz0Uj0cKm3nYA4vE1BYMxUxYhRhD_ypdjAJ4x5DAG0O3-INMsns2rsu-4a9x4Rh7GGhJWR_RDSOswnvynLP4ZBF3Bd7tNaHrS5E3eYgvsQj8qouL/s1600/400466_334011673277764_554988051_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="133" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTtEBnay_b_NpieicNrVFblkQk3uXvLz0Uj0cKm3nYA4vE1BYMxUxYhRhD_ypdjAJ4x5DAG0O3-INMsns2rsu-4a9x4Rh7GGhJWR_RDSOswnvynLP4ZBF3Bd7tNaHrS5E3eYgvsQj8qouL/s200/400466_334011673277764_554988051_n.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Noodle and her hubby, Jim along with their son, Cole.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwWbYNCQCGfnl_5Sv9ckG1A4DcH8I-ZQPf4hLzt1fc0HO_8YVmgtJZsP74zw1suRjIlPfZXKM-s1XM6jox_wFzSiDVw7tzZtDfO22TW8x3FT3VdUY6NRqmsSJZlnoJnxo1G1mwKxWXC1Oq/s1600/400514_10102662118210581_1688688799_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwWbYNCQCGfnl_5Sv9ckG1A4DcH8I-ZQPf4hLzt1fc0HO_8YVmgtJZsP74zw1suRjIlPfZXKM-s1XM6jox_wFzSiDVw7tzZtDfO22TW8x3FT3VdUY6NRqmsSJZlnoJnxo1G1mwKxWXC1Oq/s200/400514_10102662118210581_1688688799_n.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Carly is such a beautiful soul. And a saint<br />
for taking the Joey on. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlNLVy29YxSgXYqF4cupEAgezlNiRY5wvmHGnJNfEsa6wf2m3eA_V0BElaPoJQBCi164wpbgaHscBgxG_MJbZXkxRXFLAiJ1ihkVu_Acqm5U0nX701dlzc38syu1ywBEMj4She2FmwQVhz/s1600/483509_571050026255514_1916650152_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlNLVy29YxSgXYqF4cupEAgezlNiRY5wvmHGnJNfEsa6wf2m3eA_V0BElaPoJQBCi164wpbgaHscBgxG_MJbZXkxRXFLAiJ1ihkVu_Acqm5U0nX701dlzc38syu1ywBEMj4She2FmwQVhz/s200/483509_571050026255514_1916650152_n.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Me, Margo, Ella and Nat-nat at the girls winter band concert , 2011</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1UYhWyL4knmtD2_MLYXG_i5aHbB2YgSChuVHR9NFOVrJ4zHCPFDmvxIR1yyLTgLbk1nxlujKpo6WqQkz_VN-PxLrpsKyLm0OhOionmopS4K7H4Aq6FrmktW4tTg2azqYSHQA7qAV5gqSD/s1600/550483_3878354714609_1561947231_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="133" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1UYhWyL4knmtD2_MLYXG_i5aHbB2YgSChuVHR9NFOVrJ4zHCPFDmvxIR1yyLTgLbk1nxlujKpo6WqQkz_VN-PxLrpsKyLm0OhOionmopS4K7H4Aq6FrmktW4tTg2azqYSHQA7qAV5gqSD/s200/550483_3878354714609_1561947231_n.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The original recipe Jim and the special recipe Jamie.<br />
Two of my most favorite men on the planet.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsp4sMY7ppnS4eJqDS9gQhuyiVmazm5c5OaW44bDkG5_92tQQar9qdzByPrAv6s7imGLe0mIjA-iMF84EHJuaaXZmRZYVIU2HfkshJxvGZZMf_gu_stbWumLgG7Loq9TFuwEcnhIl8sXCU/s1600/shanna,+Sue+and+C.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsp4sMY7ppnS4eJqDS9gQhuyiVmazm5c5OaW44bDkG5_92tQQar9qdzByPrAv6s7imGLe0mIjA-iMF84EHJuaaXZmRZYVIU2HfkshJxvGZZMf_gu_stbWumLgG7Loq9TFuwEcnhIl8sXCU/s200/shanna,+Sue+and+C.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Shanna (my gorgeous stylist and BFF) and Sue helping me before<br />
a 2011 retreat. These women are amazing.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjlQHx2VsZFbZDl8VyYfCb9VQdl0r5Gie4IcPHaomgPe0i_Wl0ul3WZLbfF4iAqeRl8h_-JzQConWTofK09WNsMtE1NrEJniLxjkeADbHfuT-W4GiG126ulxE-G8KH2BNPd5QGGpjXoUlc/s1600/DSC03205.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjlQHx2VsZFbZDl8VyYfCb9VQdl0r5Gie4IcPHaomgPe0i_Wl0ul3WZLbfF4iAqeRl8h_-JzQConWTofK09WNsMtE1NrEJniLxjkeADbHfuT-W4GiG126ulxE-G8KH2BNPd5QGGpjXoUlc/s200/DSC03205.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Scott Faithful and I in NYC. His poetry and friendship<br />
have carried me through a lot. this is right before seeing Chicago on Broadway.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmdKCMYbdLlbTKCmGoaL3hXCc0lP290EgATPe4FGTG_GxIwMyj67hMN6nIFe5pavK7oLZ8iW1Bq43pdvp7W0M5_7pH0W2ejhgAJ9U-TuNWSWeHHhTMOSBqe_xvnvax5l_n6D_ybkwNa675/s1600/555647_4319816070867_208248019_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmdKCMYbdLlbTKCmGoaL3hXCc0lP290EgATPe4FGTG_GxIwMyj67hMN6nIFe5pavK7oLZ8iW1Bq43pdvp7W0M5_7pH0W2ejhgAJ9U-TuNWSWeHHhTMOSBqe_xvnvax5l_n6D_ybkwNa675/s200/555647_4319816070867_208248019_n.jpg" width="46" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Heather and Kaylee. This roll<br />
of pics is soooo like them.<br />
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<b><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #d9ead3;">Here's my Christmas Wish for you: Although I can not be there in person with any of you, I hope you will feel not only my spirit but the love I have for everyone on the blog, off the blog and in my circle of friends no matter how far or wide, black or white, silly or sane you are at this point in the journey of your life. </span></i></b></div>
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<b><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #d9ead3;">Each and every one of you has touched me in such a way that I couldn't find the words that mean much more than love. And if love is life, then I've got centuries to go on. I love you for who you are and don't ever let anyone change you. You're you for a reason. And the real you is what makes me beam whenever you're around me. </span></i></b></div>
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<b><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #d9ead3;">So, today, I leave you with a few words from the late but great George Bernard Shaw: "If you can not get rid of the family skeleton, you might as well make it dance." </span></i></b></div>
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<b><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #d9ead3;">Yours in Merry Christmas', Making the Most out of My Tears and Moving on to the Next Big Year, </span></i></b></div>
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<b><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #d9ead3;">Cicily </span></i></b></div>
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Cicily Janushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16841849529479076806noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1536639124087019847.post-41811831232609259212012-12-16T08:50:00.001-07:002012-12-16T08:59:17.295-07:00The Gift<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><i>Quote of the Day: </i></b></div>
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<i>The greatest gift is a </i></div>
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<i>portion of thyself.</i></div>
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<i>~Emerson~</i></div>
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Nothing outside but a feverish need for a better reality</div>
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that has reached levels high enough to </div>
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turn the mind into a furnace.</div>
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<b><i>Currently on my iTunes: </i></b></div>
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<i>Little of Your Time</i></div>
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Maroon 5</div>
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<b><i>Currently Reading: </i></b></div>
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"The Glass Castle"</div>
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Jeannette Walls</div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">***This blog is dedicated to Karen, Tina, Josh, Mark, Sara, Jeff, Ted, Jaijai, Bibi and Heather. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Thank you all for the gift of your time and love.***</span></div>
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Dear Friends, Family and My Family of Friends, </div>
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I hope this finds you all well. I'm still recovering physically and mentally from all that's gone on over the last few months. But the recovery has reached well beyond the physical realm of being. I've realized that I need to recover emotionally, too. And just like any other type of recovery, this is going to take more time than "I" think it should and more time than any professional tells me it will. Technically, I should be just peachy keen right about now. However, I'm not. There are days in which my depression takes over and there are days where I feel high as a kite just because I woke up without pain. Is what it is. And I've said this before, I'm taking the advice of my best buddy in the whole world, the woman that's the sister I never had but always wanted, <a href="http://www.karendegrootcarter.com/" target="_blank">Karen Degroot-Carter</a>...I'm treating myself like the mental patient I am and letting things go. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkQ_d0UZK-UiElV_WSaBi467WgB_WKnsralMCSGvmwygDCzOpwhbnFPdwVcS1JzLId1vcFiRvP-wDccfcMDRCeRtvZe-UfdpYeZknes40KlAVi40uCp8Rw8j1c9uvVc7GHuMKuaYwQNynW/s1600/angell_1-071411_jpg_230x497_q85.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkQ_d0UZK-UiElV_WSaBi467WgB_WKnsralMCSGvmwygDCzOpwhbnFPdwVcS1JzLId1vcFiRvP-wDccfcMDRCeRtvZe-UfdpYeZknes40KlAVi40uCp8Rw8j1c9uvVc7GHuMKuaYwQNynW/s1600/angell_1-071411_jpg_230x497_q85.jpg" /></a></div>
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So what do mental patients do? Honestly, I don't have a clue other than what I've seen in the movies. And if I had to be stuck in a movie with other mental patients, I'd pick being roomies with Jack Nicholson in "<i>One Flew Over the Cuckoos Nest." GREAT MOVIE. </i>But I do know that they're not rushed to "get better." They don't push themselves too far by trying to do the Laundry and the dishes in one day. They also treat each day as if it matters by taking time out for things that are important like crafts, catching up with family and friends and writing down their feelings and thoughts. </div>
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It's no wonder that we're all going crazy in this country. With how busy everyone is these days, it makes me wonder if any of anything really matters. People are busy, I think, just for the sake of being busy. Multitasking is the way of the future. If you can not multitask with some kind of professionalism or with gusto and accuracy, you're not a candidate for most jobs. What this convalescence period has afforded me is the gift of NOT having to multitask. The gift of slowing down and the gift of having time to ask questions of myself, therefore getting to know myself better. </div>
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I ask these questions daily. Have been doing so for months...years...Does each word I write, matter? Does each person in my life, whether they're near or far, know how much they matter to me? Are my words chosen wisely enough so that I can convey my love to them? When you spend weeks and months of your life alone in a hospital room, you can't help but start to think. You wonder if the reason you're sitting alone is because of the words you said or didn't say...you wonder if the reason you're alone is because people are genuinely busy or that they're freaked out by blood and needle containers and the thought of a sterile environment. </div>
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This brings me to my point. It <i>IS</i> that time of year. The one retailers tell us that we can only show people that we love, that we love them with a gift from their particular store. But in my state of affairs, money is short and time is of the essence. The question I have to answer now, is this: what <i>IS</i> a gift? Do Macy's and Kmart and similar multibillion dollar conglomerates have any and everything I need to show love? </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0JeTBxiAzk65fq0n5nhIO7c8xLIsqsGXRbRyAlfUCD9uhoBJmKW3p0Rb77SrVMjQ78Q6fvqxAgQ3y-cnyR_ZhchjceFVctRPLtdBAyiVvo8JL8_hrK-QFWUq6rmRUvaSCDkcqvOvgkgp9/s1600/kung_fu_panda_in_macys_thanksgiving_day_parade-kent_miller.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0JeTBxiAzk65fq0n5nhIO7c8xLIsqsGXRbRyAlfUCD9uhoBJmKW3p0Rb77SrVMjQ78Q6fvqxAgQ3y-cnyR_ZhchjceFVctRPLtdBAyiVvo8JL8_hrK-QFWUq6rmRUvaSCDkcqvOvgkgp9/s320/kung_fu_panda_in_macys_thanksgiving_day_parade-kent_miller.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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My guess, and this is just a hunch, is NO. They don't have ANYTHING I need. What I truly need isn't available anywhere, in retail outlets or online. And unlike the Kmart Ad, it's not available today only. Although I've heard the general public say it's unavailable to them, it really is, they just can't seem to find it where they thought they left it. What I need, and everyone else I know, needs, is TIME. Time with you. Time with the person next to you, too. Time to do everything I can to give of myself to you in ways that fulfill your needs and mine, too. </div>
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But the other gift I need is YOU. All of you. I don't need a new watch or even a new car. I did need a new vacuum, but Natalie was kind enough to make sure her father bought me one before the holiday arrived. :) </div>
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As Emerson said in today's quote, the best gift is giving a portion of yourself. Why live or pursue life instead of death if you're not going to have this, this gift of yourself, as your greatest work and asset? If you're going to treat yourself as important as your biggest errand of whatever day you're running errands, then why bother? Are you an errand runner or a human being? Life is a gift. Trite and cliche', I know...but these gifts of time and life and love have to be your swan song. And as someone who has faced the light more than not and more than most people my age, I've began to reevaluate my purpose and understand, rather try to understand, that the needs of others are often greater than what they say they are. </div>
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And although I need things like money and a dose of health, both physical and mental, stability (don't we all) I only truly need you and a little of your time. I called someone the other day that I hadn't spoken to in a very very very long time. We're talking, the last time I heard her voice was some time right after my high school graduation. In 1995. But I happen to see on Facebook that she was attending a concert with some girlfriends, and I happen to know the musicians playing in that concert. So it gave me a great excuse to call her or have her call me and "catch" up and hear her voice. I adored her in high school and always regretted not having more time with her and her brother. Of course, we're all grown now and have kids and lives that are thousands of miles away from each other, but even that little smidgeon of time with her on the phone and via text made my day. And what I've tried to do since becoming deathly ill, is find someone, somewhere, that could use a <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Gvf7Ank8U24" target="_blank">little of my time</a> and make it happen. And although this is almost always a long distance affair, it is never a regret or wasteful. Even though I don't have many working portions of my body in this moment, giving of myself has been the greatest gift I've ever given to myself. </div>
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I hope that you'll see the importance from my perspective and adopt it as your own. When time is running out, when time is the ONLY thing you have sitting beside you on the couch and embracing you like a lover, then time is the only thing you should be paying attention to and making sure that you're understanding what it really is when you decide whether to use it wisely or throw it away. </div>
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Yours in Time, Teaching Myself Lessons Forgotten and Telling You I Love You, </div>
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Cicily</div>
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Cicily Janushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16841849529479076806noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1536639124087019847.post-75633087137192945022012-11-18T19:06:00.003-07:002012-11-18T19:06:33.942-07:00Lackluster<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><i>Quote of the Day: </i></b></div>
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<i>My 'fear' is my substance, </i></div>
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<i>and probably </i><i>the best part of me.</i></div>
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<i>~Kafka~</i></div>
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<b><i>Current Local Weather:</i></b></div>
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Compliant cloudless complacent complaints.</div>
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<b><i>Currently on my iTunes:</i></b></div>
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"Mad World"</div>
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Michael Andrews</div>
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<b><i>Currently Reading: </i></b></div>
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<i>This is How You Lose Her</i></div>
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Junot Diaz</div>
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Dear Family, Friends and my Family of Friends, </div>
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Sorry it's been since August since my last blog. Everything between then and now has sucked. Ok, moving on. </div>
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There are always going to be things in this world that you, or YOU, can't control. Wars, accidents, baby booms, hurricanes etc. However, I'm starting to believe this: For everything you can't control, there's something you can. You may not see or know what it is right away, but eventually it will surface. When it does, you need to hold onto it in the best way possible. LOVE IT. Don't loathe it or treat it like the black sheep of the family. Hold it, love it, squeeze it and then fix it to your best ability and set it free. </div>
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However, you should know that just because you feel like you're completely out of control, you're never lacking in substance. LACK: Love, Apathy, Compassion & Knowledge. Those are words that should be part of your universal definition. Always. You begin to lack these things and you'll perish. FAST. Life is not a game and it's not something that you can win or lose. Period. You treat it as such and I guarantee that you'll lose at whatever game you're in the middle of. </div>
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So, this blog originated fifteen days ago. I had originally decided the acronym would be the "F" word. But the last fifteen days have changed me significantly. I mean, not in theory, in the flesh and bone kinda way. The kind only doctors, nurses and those that have watched me go through it and that have been through it themselves will and would only understand. It's not something I can describe, but just know that even while you were sleeping, I was changing not just in size, but in mentality and emotionally, too. Fifteen days ago, I was able to "eat" food if I wanted. I was able to sit down with a friend and have an icy cold beer and know that it wouldn't take much to get me drunk. I had scars that were settled and complacent in their vast void of my abdomen. Now, not so much. </div>
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But fifteen days ago I was admitted to the hospital. This was my third gigantic admission since September 26th. This marked my month and a half mark of hospital days. This also marked the first time that a doctor decided to listen to me and what was on my flippin, frackin', mind. And he didn't dismiss me as a hypochondriac, he said, I know. You're more sick than most people your age. As a matter of fact, if I don't help you, you'll die. Soon. You're physically starving. You're already in menopause. Your stomach isn't working. Another ten days and you'll be six feet under. So, what are you doing tonight? Busy? Plans? How bout an anesthetic cocktail and a trip down to the OR? </div>
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Apparently I agreed to this zany adventure. Docs, crazy folk etc. All the same to me. I'm thankful for the ones that take care of you and the ones that try to hurt you. They're all the same, they're human. </div>
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And, you guessed it. I'm writing this blog to you from my captive bed at Skyridge Medical Center in Parker/South Denver, Colorado. I've stayed in four different rooms at this hospital, this time, since the hospital was kinda overbooked for the week before the holiday, I'm in the pediatric ward. Kinda cool and if you hit the right button on the TV menu you can watch funny animal videos from you tube right on your screen! How cool is that? I digress. </div>
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This admission was only four days in length. I'm getting easier to "treat" as far as my symptoms, making my visits to this pie in the sky hotel, shorter. Thank the good Lord. However, my diagnosis keeps getting worse. </div>
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The night before I drove up to this hospital on my third admission, I knew I was going downhill, and in a very major way. I could feel it in my gut. Literally. If I sit around and think about what this all means in the candy dish we call life, I get angry. Depressed. Emotional. Scared....and if I dig even deeper in this bowl, I start finding those parts of me that are complacent, thankful and dare I say it, free. In the fabulous tune by Coin Hay, "Invisible," he sings, <i>I'm invisible...now I can be free. </i>And most of my days are spent feeling invisible. Free. Lackluster, but still me. I'm no longer hungry. I'm not feeling sorry. I'm trying to forget about the fact that I'll probably never be sexually active again or go on a date to the melting pot for a bottle of wine and kissing afterwards...so, I believe most folks call this PROGRESS. </div>
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But when I tell people about my 50+lb weight loss in two months, I get a sigh, sometimes a look of disbelief and then inevitably they pat their belly and say, "Dude, can I have what you have?" And then I ask, really? Would you REALLY want to take this away from me just so you can lose the weight the doc tells you that you need to lose. Because I don't think you would. I'm a woman that loves to cook and cook for others. I have an entire catalog of my own damn soup recipes and I'm the woman down the all-American street in any town, U.S.A. that can't eat her own food. I'm suddenly lacking a big, metaphorically and literally, fat, appetite. A stomach. A life that goes beyond my computer screen. </div>
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Everything that I thought was making up my core body. I'm lacking in style for goodness sakes! I wear PJs more than not and ya know what, they're never in style. Trust me. Go to the people of Walmart site and you'll see what I'm talking about. And what has replaced all this goodness? Suffering. Pain and more days of Crazy than I'd like to publicly admit. </div>
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But what I do know is that beneath all this crazy is still a beating heart, half polished toe-nails (Someone please come to my house STAT to do a mani/pedi on me!) and a great soundtrack playing through my muddled thoughts. So yes, my battle wounds have proved fatal for my looks and love life, but my scars are healing and proving to be regenerating and recharging for the soul inside. And although I'm lacking in places, I'm never lackluster in my thoughts. I'm butchered but not dead...yet. </div>
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<i>Yours in letting go, lackluster lives and lovely souls, </i></div>
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<i>Cicily</i></div>
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Cicily Janushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16841849529479076806noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1536639124087019847.post-75823719181096453972012-08-29T07:25:00.002-06:002012-08-29T07:27:33.702-06:00Extensions and Excuses<div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>Quote of the Day:</i></b> </div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>A crust eaten in peace is better than a banquet taken in anxiety.</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>~Aesop~</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><br />
</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><b>Current Local Weather: </b></i></div><div style="text-align: center;">100% chance that hot weather will linger</div><div style="text-align: center;">until all humans in the Springs-area melt away.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>Currently on my iTunes: </i></b></div><div style="text-align: center;">"Just Another Parade"</div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Belly of the Sun</i></div><div style="text-align: center;">Cassandra Wilson</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>Currently Reading: </i></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><a href="http://knopfdoubleday.com/strayed/" target="_blank">Tiny Beautiful Things</a> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;">Cheryl Strayed</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>Dear Friends, Family and my Family of Friends, </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><br />
</i></div><div style="text-align: left;">How are you? Yeah? Me, too. As a matter of fact, stressed isn't the word for it. Stress has become more of an anomaly to me than not as of late. But it is what it is. I've been involved in so many things that it is taking its toll. Big time. And this time, thank the heavens, it's not taking a toll on my physical health, just my mental health. As you all know, my physical health has never been great but just for updating for update's sake, it's doing much better. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">This blog has nothing to do with my physical health. **you can breathe your collective sigh of relief.**</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">Lately, I've been sorting out my priorities. Last time I was this over-extended, I posted <a href="http://writingaboutyou.blogspot.com/2010/04/serenity-now-and-other-priorities-in.html" target="_blank">THIS </a>blog on serenity. I've been trying, desperately so, to find time within my schedule to find me. To be me. And to figure out, yet again, what that means in the ever-changing landscape of my little earth. One thing you'll notice that's different about this blog is that I'm posting what I'm reading in addition to my listening list. I'm doing this for those that don't have a clue when it comes to picking books up off of the shelf. I hope you'll read some of my suggestions....</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">A good friend and colleague of mine, Kevin Doughten recently pointed me in the direction of a book titled, <i>Tiny Beautiful Things</i>. This is the book that resulted from the infamous advice column, <i><a href="http://www.therumpus.net/" target="_blank">Dear Sugar</a></i>. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
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</div><div style="text-align: left;">It is filled to the brim with beautiful tales, stories and sarcastic, dry-humored advice. Her words flew off the page and into my ears. I needed to hear her words peppered with "radical empathy." </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">Personally, I think ANYONE that needs "advice" on love, regardless of the facet of love that's plaguing you, should get this book. Put it on your nightstand, on your table next to your toilet, on the coffee table and even in your car in case you're ever in enough of a traffic jam that you can take time out of your schedule and read. **pure bliss**</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
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</div><div style="text-align: left;">Onwards. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">What I've been trying to figure out, among this creative chaos in my life, is this: If there isn't one person that's made for us in this world (at least I'm starting to believe this is true), then how can we possibly be one person to everyone in our world? Wait, before you start scoffing, let me elaborate. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">When I originally wrote this blog, I was hiking. I wrote most of it in my head on the way up the trail, found a good resting place...stopped, sat down, pulled out my paper and pen and, yep, you guessed it, wrote it all down. I work better that way. TO give you a better picture of what I look like and what I observe when I'm in the woods, I wrote this: </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">I'm sitting amongst the wooded shelter and on top of cool rocks on the side of a steep hill that, at first glance, looks dangerous, obtuse and too high to climb in my average sneakers. But if you look close enough you'll see that the rocks begin to marry one another as they get higher up on the slope. They create a series of sturdy steps and eventually those steps mold into chairs and desks and resting places for those that dared climb them. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">Below me is dirt. Cracked and dry and muddled with shades of black, yellow and rusty umber. Miniature trees are blowing around, talking to one another with their leaves. It's as if those trees are a bunch of giddy women in a dressing room, trying on new, hopeful pieces of a wardrobe for the change in season. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">To the side of the mini-tree sorority, a flower is growing out of the side of a rock. It doesn't appear to have any origin other than the granite. It is strong with tiny yellow buds. Berries are on the bush next to the rock above the flower. They're tempting and succulent. Too red for their own good. There's just enough sunlight over my left shoulder so that I have to squint to write and just enough for me to worry about the fact that I did NOT bring sunblock. It is obviously going to be hot later in the day. To the west and right of me there are clouds that offer a slight promise of rain despite the dapper dryness of the moment. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">My notebook is in my lap, home-brewed green tea is sitting on my rock desk in a Nalgene bottle and there is already ink on my fingers from an earlier mishap with the pen in my hand. I've forgiven the pen. Maybe it was just excited to see me. The paper is breathing patiently as Ben Williams plays quietly in my ear buds. I feel like I know Ben even though I haven't met him. His music is very tangible in an intangible way. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">The trail I took to get here looks easy from where I sit although I know it wasn't. My heart is still pounding in my chest because of it. Water is running somewhere in the distance and I think...it is early...Mother Nature must be bathing her children before they leave the shelter of her home. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">I close my eyes and breathe and then write. To you. For you. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">Without each component the well-orchestrated scene above wouldn't be what it was for me yesterday. If it had been more hot, it would have been uncomfortable. Had it been too steep and no rocks offered their extended hands to help me up, I would have stayed on the trail and blogged from the comfort of my home. Some of the parts of the scene above work by themselves but there isn't really a single description or word that can serve purpose in this picture if used without an accompanying word. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">So why should we come to expect that one person can complete the bigger picture in our own life? And I'm not talking about just romantic big pictures with Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan and successful little book shops that turn into multi-million dollar corporate conglomerates. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
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</div><div style="text-align: left;">I'm speaking on behalf of your whole circle of friends and family. All of your friends online, off-line, off-the-grid, those who have your back and take you back. And for the hell of it, let's say we're talking about your animal friends, too. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">The driving force in my life, why I do anything I do, is my family and friends. I've had the privilege to gain, lose and become friends with a number of great lovers. I want to give more and receive less so that my friends and family can in-turn give more, too. I wish I could buy everyone more of the intangibles in life. Love is love is love regardless of how it begins or ends and it always feels great when you're in the thick of it. Yet tethering this vast and great responsibility to a single soul or object in your life will eventually weigh you and the ball at the end of the tether rope, down. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">It's time to let loose and shred the clothes that dress your mentality of your past notions of what love, serious and not so serious love, look, act, feel and smell like. Let a whole host of people in your life lift you up when you're down. Gather with others to lift those you love, up. Don't pin the responsibility, just as you wouldn't do it to another person, only on yourself. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">Too many men and women, especially in this generation of post-divorce livelihoods, look for love with an eye kept out for someone that meets all possibilities of "perfection" in the next best coulda-shoulda-woulda that comes along. Instead I am challenging myself to forge through without that expectation and instead forgive myself and the mistakes I've made thus far in my own search for friends, lovers, and more. I worry that if I don't do this, I will always be searching for something that is gone, absent and disappointing before it even begins. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">I love the song,<i> One </i>by: Harry Nilsson. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><br />
</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>One is the loneliest number that you'll ever do... </i><br />
<i>Two can be as bad as one, as its the loneliest number since the number one...</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
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It's true though. So how 'bout it? Instead of searching for one, we search for many. We find time to extend our love and get rid of the excuses for the person in our life that isn't living up to "being the one." Let's find space carved into the sides of mountains, desks made out of rocks and orchestrations and symphonies out of the streams and solace in walking with a friend or comfort on the ledge more than behind the ledge.<br />
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As my favorite onesie that Natalie Poo wears, says, "Choose Happy," on the front and "I am 100% Compatible with My Mommy," on the back. Be compatible with who you have around you and make the most of it. Allow air to be your security; a bed, roof and full belly to redeem each night from the hard day you had.<br />
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I know for a fact that it doesn't matter how much that lonely number re-enters your life, if you over-extend your true worth, that ONE thing that makes you, you and worth the world, you will find a result that creates unhappiness, possibly bad breath and wart-laden hands. And all the kind debt you rack up by being everything to everyone will ruin your credit and become too much to pay for the income you bring in.<br />
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Allow yourself to be a part of the company of greatness without losing the greatness that is you.<br />
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Yours in Trees, Trespassing on trails and Truly Trying to Take Time For Those That Matter,<br />
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Cicily<br />
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Cicily Janushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16841849529479076806noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1536639124087019847.post-72252972946129601332012-08-11T22:04:00.000-06:002012-08-11T22:04:26.704-06:00Announcement & Change in October 2012 Retreat<div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>Quote of the Day:</i></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Happy are the painters, for they shall not be lonely. </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Light and colour, peace and hope, will keep them company to the end of the day.</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"> ~Winston Churchill~</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>Current Local Weather: </i></b></div><div style="text-align: center;">Massive mountain-shaped clouds</div><div style="text-align: center;">patiently waiting for the words and water to arrive. </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>Currently on my iPod: </i></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Teeth in the Grass</i></div><div style="text-align: center;">Iron and Wine</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
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</div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><i>Dear Friends, Family and my Family of Friends, </i></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><i><br />
</i></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i style="font-weight: bold;"> </i>Is anyone else out there tired of this hot weather? For Colorado, it's very unusual to have this much heat in a single season. I'm thankful for the rain and cooler nights, but the days have been difficult to handle. I think it's turned everything that's lovable about this state into an unrecognizable beast at times. Personally, I don't react well to heat. At all. Ask anyone who lives with me or near me or knows me well, heat is my enemy. I thrive in the cooler temps, mild temps with a cool breeze and I think I'm in heaven. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">This summer, I believe, everyone in Colorado would agree, has been particularly difficult to handle. As an artist, I find it almost impossible to create or bring to life any ideas when under intangible stress. Whether it be the weather, events beyond my control or general dark clouds of unhappiness above me, my ability to function is not just below capacity, it's absent. I know I'm not the only artist in the world that deals with this issue. In light of the darkness that's overcome a lot of Colorado in the past two months, I have made an executive decision in regards to the October Writing Away Retreat in Breckenridge. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">I have decided to change it into an artist's getaway. All of the proceeds from this retreat will go to directly to the Red Cross to benefit the families affected by the Aurora Shootings and the Waldo Canyon Fire</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Here are the details: </span></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><blockquote><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 20px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Due to economic decline & Mother Nature's recent rampages throughout Colorado, Writing Away Retreats is taking a break from its usual routine to offer five days of R&R & time to work on individual projects to literary artists (both nonfiction and fiction), poets, musicians and visual artists. The retreat will take place from October 4th-8th at the Little Mountain Lodge in Breckenridge, CO. For the first time in its six-year history, Writing Away Retreats will be a traditional retreat...For one price, this all-inclusive retreat is complete with 3 gourmet comfort foodie meals/day, snacks galore, open beer, wine, coffee and tea bars, amazing scenery and more. There will also be plenty of time to focus on your work-in-progress, escape to the beautiful outdoors, enjoy the company of other creative types, & simply relax.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 20px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 20px;">If you’re interested contact Cicily Janus right away. Space is very limited.</span></span></blockquote><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRX9nDotYMqr4ICLhRCs2QTRIM0bVIJYb-yEDKpEmOywX4F9Ux02A4qMK2VYQ2zDxJAqGL6eOsc-Bium2sSwZ5ttifiSqvXsrDOoqmKn9vmK8c4zH0ovd3s0CBv9lttzimnfHlBRX5grUV/s1600/lodge-before-snow-e1319067639655.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRX9nDotYMqr4ICLhRCs2QTRIM0bVIJYb-yEDKpEmOywX4F9Ux02A4qMK2VYQ2zDxJAqGL6eOsc-Bium2sSwZ5ttifiSqvXsrDOoqmKn9vmK8c4zH0ovd3s0CBv9lttzimnfHlBRX5grUV/s1600/lodge-before-snow-e1319067639655.jpg" /></a></div><br />
<blockquote><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 20px;"><b>Prices are as follows:</b></span> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 20px;">•<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Private Room: 675.00 single occupancy, 775.00 double occupancy </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 20px;">•<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Shared Room: 450.00</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 20px;">•<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Bunk Room: 350.00 </span></span></blockquote><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgn-xo0aEe0NhNaG8VaLS5bPITEC-wCqzuM3MEdn3egO6SVEzhAw2RdXRdI3zSXbgTWbvj1xRG4Sgz9362ZyEvjoV9SrYkII_BejnsPK7c4QiD80AIuBwv9ZMeRWSpYQR8NLnh73mqpRG6E/s1600/lml-webpreshrunk18.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="131" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgn-xo0aEe0NhNaG8VaLS5bPITEC-wCqzuM3MEdn3egO6SVEzhAw2RdXRdI3zSXbgTWbvj1xRG4Sgz9362ZyEvjoV9SrYkII_BejnsPK7c4QiD80AIuBwv9ZMeRWSpYQR8NLnh73mqpRG6E/s200/lml-webpreshrunk18.jpeg" width="200" /></a></div><br />
<blockquote><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 20px;">You can sign up and see pictures of the lodge on www.writingawayretreats.info. Go to registration and register but ignore the request for a sample of your work and instead just write the type of artist you are in the sample box and then ignore the payment prompt or check any box. Please specify what type of room you would prefer to stay in. </span></span></blockquote><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBg52SxPfyBa_8xYdigwQWCw3sM2trfoA6ZV98SG0XE_AQ_-e93kBUUbx8X2-mDzUsB16buvmg5BsaRNP8wX03QclN_xCID5DeHizeNjB-gzL7iZt-Mo_1KXn7Y7DtnnzZeA9X-D-84epY/s1600/8426_1263891040860_1337275336_30761592_5803615_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBg52SxPfyBa_8xYdigwQWCw3sM2trfoA6ZV98SG0XE_AQ_-e93kBUUbx8X2-mDzUsB16buvmg5BsaRNP8wX03QclN_xCID5DeHizeNjB-gzL7iZt-Mo_1KXn7Y7DtnnzZeA9X-D-84epY/s200/8426_1263891040860_1337275336_30761592_5803615_n.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><br />
<blockquote><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 20px;">You will be invoiced the above amounts for the specified room upon acceptance into the retreat. If you need art supplies at the house, please let me know and we can order them ahead of time so you don't have to travel with them. I can easily add your supply bill to your invoice and you can pay it all at once. If you have any questions, please don’t hesitate to contact Cicily Janus at writingawayretreats@gmail.com or call her cell at 719.323.3469. Also, if you register to attend Author Fest of the Rockies at www.authorfest2012.org you will automatically receive 15% off of your tuition to attend this retreat. Mention your registration for Author Fest on your registration form and your invoice will reflect the discount. I also offer military, education and hardship discounts. Please don't hesitate to inquire about them.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 20px;"><br />
</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 20px;">DON'T LET FINANCIAL ISSUES DISCOURAGE YOU! </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 20px;">Let's work it out so you can attend and get away this fall.</span></span></blockquote><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicKxzV2vBnfht99bbXKfUei74yPu3QdYez3AhDjJX_bYU1PcGcrCYycP-M1IKN6RT4uPfjhgaREB0M8ci18JD66ammPVQqcVOEFwvvPkT705hWQPnwt14Q-o8_KWnFB-zRTt8B5MjBZB0B/s1600/310305_299309903429529_1519008173_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicKxzV2vBnfht99bbXKfUei74yPu3QdYez3AhDjJX_bYU1PcGcrCYycP-M1IKN6RT4uPfjhgaREB0M8ci18JD66ammPVQqcVOEFwvvPkT705hWQPnwt14Q-o8_KWnFB-zRTt8B5MjBZB0B/s200/310305_299309903429529_1519008173_n.jpg" width="150" /></a></div><br />
<blockquote><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 20px;"><br />
</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 20px;"><b><i>Payment plans can be arranged.</i></b></span></span></blockquote><br />
Please pass the word along about the retreats to any artist you know. If you would like to send somebody or sponsor someone's tuition so they may attend, please contact me and let's make it happen. I fully believe in the power of being able to get away, relax and refresh your soul and how it can affect your life for the better.<br />
<br />
Let me help add fuel to the creative fire within you. Trust me, you won't regret this, at all. And if you bring a group with you or if you want to get away with a writing group or reading group etc...or visual arts co-op or class etc., I will surely give a group discount.<br />
Help me, help you.<br />
<br />
Yours in Retreats, Rethinking the Reasons and Restarting the Fire,<br />
<br />
Cicily<br />
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PS: I'm partial to the retreats because they're my brainchild. Of course I think they work wonders! They always do for me...but don't take my word for it, instead, take these folks and their words:<br />
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"Words Fail...there aren't many venues out there that provide such a safe and comforting environment for creativity..." ~J. Gilstrap, 2012<br />
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"I can't tell you how much this experience has encouraged me and changed my perspective. I feel like I lost a part of who I was and here I found myself again. This is truly priceless to me." ~J. McQuade, 2009<br />
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"I have just spent the last week living (and working) in a Muir landscape. It has been fantastic, and one of the few experiences of adult life that lived up to the fairy-tale expectations of youth. Thank you!" ~E. Schneider, 2008<br />
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"Before the retreat, I had been through some challenges...please know that my experience at the retreat, at a deep level, helped me overcome these challenges and emerge ever more dedicated to writing." A. ~2009<br />
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"For the first time in a long time I have a dream for the future that's now mine for the taking!" ~B. Pedas, 2009<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 20px;"><b><i><br />
</i></b></span></span> <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 20px;"><b><i><br />
</i></b></span></span> <div><br />
</div>Cicily Janushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16841849529479076806noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1536639124087019847.post-24628756959324023652012-07-04T11:05:00.001-06:002012-07-04T11:50:06.135-06:00Roots that Refuse to Burn<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><br />
Quote of the Day:<o:p></o:p></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">A house is not a home unless it contains<o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> food & fire for the mind </i>as well as the body. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">~Ben Franklin~<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Current Local Weather:<o:p></o:p></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">Blissfully breathing in the almost clear air<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">Sharp winds present, reminding us daily of the <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">smoky dragon carcass sitting in the canyon. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Currently on iTunes:<o:p></o:p></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">“We Found Love” <br />
Rhianna<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Dear Friends, Family and my Family of Friends, <o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Don’t know if you heard about this, as it wasn’t in the news nearly as much as it should have been, but the whole F’ing town was on fire. The pic below is where it all started. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjISiYKZ1SwK6t5XJpAe008OQOIeq7QLxUuyObUdLs-qqz5aaoafPrXWF7JfjnfoTO3xNlz3pmFudTuwDqvNpffOBk3R9Y0aBTeSy92XBLkn-kuNvz-6CqH3ckosZlALDgok0eWZEm-8WqO/s1600/556900_475582022468982_700840393_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjISiYKZ1SwK6t5XJpAe008OQOIeq7QLxUuyObUdLs-qqz5aaoafPrXWF7JfjnfoTO3xNlz3pmFudTuwDqvNpffOBk3R9Y0aBTeSy92XBLkn-kuNvz-6CqH3ckosZlALDgok0eWZEm-8WqO/s320/556900_475582022468982_700840393_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal">Two weeks prior to this fire, Ella, Margo and I went hiking up the once beautiful Waldo Canyon (a.k.a. The Dragon). Right away, Ella had an issue with the 14% grade as we began to go up. She kept looking over the side and saying, “Mom, if I start rolling down that side, I’m going to fall right on down to the city! Don’t you know how high up we are?” She was panicking…<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">big-time</i>. As if on cue, two strapping young lads walked up near where we were and I asked them to talk to Ella.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><b><i><u>Goal</u>: To get her to calm down so we can get to the end before we get permanent burns from the sun. <o:p></o:p></i></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3QXDejDaRCl1oLLIPiW2v3IjZqGl4DUjc4pRlTy4E992FQJuQuUTcdWYkvDCumce2Qo2EwnsqtFbXVhqUI_OpLgAht9uV8JQKgYogKJXs8NqIEVnPzfmIvFZgXLMRQXB9PUgKsDHOTLb0/s1600/533111_475572929136558_2055959998_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3QXDejDaRCl1oLLIPiW2v3IjZqGl4DUjc4pRlTy4E992FQJuQuUTcdWYkvDCumce2Qo2EwnsqtFbXVhqUI_OpLgAht9uV8JQKgYogKJXs8NqIEVnPzfmIvFZgXLMRQXB9PUgKsDHOTLb0/s320/533111_475572929136558_2055959998_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">They told her (and they were sooo cute and placating, makes me wish I was 19 again), “don’t worry; nothing really rolls down this mountain. Idiots like us wouldn’t be hiking here if that were possible.” <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Hindsight being sharper than 20/20 or any other Bahbah Wa-Wa show, we now know that what they said is absolutely not true. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Personally, I’m just thrilled we got to hike it and see the beauty that is available within a 10 sq mile radius of our home.</i> <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEih0ZOpjbIsj2t-3vaEX3b6omPJ92R08SXYbMAnxYBbb5A6Jzskclkw5DrK1URjrjdALCGS6JCYyceJ_ft1ob3rKOTwwpVoG9DOVHjm0zgzsHadVdRBUvc69sy_KeCs4m9tGAz2Fp5lhA-1/s1600/522229_475573962469788_1436511034_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEih0ZOpjbIsj2t-3vaEX3b6omPJ92R08SXYbMAnxYBbb5A6Jzskclkw5DrK1URjrjdALCGS6JCYyceJ_ft1ob3rKOTwwpVoG9DOVHjm0zgzsHadVdRBUvc69sy_KeCs4m9tGAz2Fp5lhA-1/s320/522229_475573962469788_1436511034_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal">But, we did it. And I tell ya, we were proud. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Ok. Enough of that. Moving on to other matters and bothers of the day. Look at the picture below. Here’s where this blog becomes a horror story. This was taken earlier this week. This is what that beautiful canyon has done to our town. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUrHcBPoc4HTIGAt6FmG8zcAew8hwydLvDpGLWwl3sWDVtEANT0TWicKsuQPcDawT1XQzligEYpqq-OR_7HbDyjFk9p-iJEnkRsoMdgECWD6y2xhw_sisg4FNipaqfv4hVm4_2bYmnrtwz/s1600/p.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="187" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUrHcBPoc4HTIGAt6FmG8zcAew8hwydLvDpGLWwl3sWDVtEANT0TWicKsuQPcDawT1XQzligEYpqq-OR_7HbDyjFk9p-iJEnkRsoMdgECWD6y2xhw_sisg4FNipaqfv4hVm4_2bYmnrtwz/s320/p.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">It’s as sobering as it gets. It is the reality of my <a href="http://www.coloradosprings.gov/">hometown</a>. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Next morning, this is what we saw: <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjK15NOfALDs0L7my-uuBJ4zzTvxHz5Scm3eC0IFEDLbzLtZ_VUhl5Gjhglbb7-gL8Y-0jRVu6YkYzIs6K_SJpFfRNBwBiqYqETqo9k0gtAnqNV1J3gC6am-QqgDj1bQ2YnRCY_t6fSTZev/s1600/376401_4167559318285_504006704_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjK15NOfALDs0L7my-uuBJ4zzTvxHz5Scm3eC0IFEDLbzLtZ_VUhl5Gjhglbb7-gL8Y-0jRVu6YkYzIs6K_SJpFfRNBwBiqYqETqo9k0gtAnqNV1J3gC6am-QqgDj1bQ2YnRCY_t6fSTZev/s320/376401_4167559318285_504006704_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">What struck me as odd about this pic is not the fact that it looks like a war zone, or that the cars are just as crispy and crunchy as the Colonel’s Original Recipe, is that the houses are gone but the trees are still standing.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Trees should have been the first things to go, adding fuel to the fire to burn the structures around them. However, as proven by this pic and others of the Waldo Canyon Fire Disaster, a.k.a. “Hell on Earth, 2012,”(thanks for the quote Mr. President) this is not the case. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Fires, regardless of the destruction they cause, do serve a purpose. It’s like nature's way of going to the IT department and saying…<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">something’s not running right.</i> And the IT department saying…<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">did you turn it off and then back on? </i>And like any obedient child of Mother Nature, they turn on the flame and start the world over. <o:p></o:p><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjN2Dv1fPVUZm7aLRTCPEZEb8jaTALicwJCTnIfu2jI-VSShCn5sdjJvvCeHlHEV0HAGLjXZpRIw0D1gQ3qGDCP2mxRWDoGkm3PTKRVdI34Bz1aw3y5GjN5fgWU_-RmvFB70F9omLOEOLpu/s1600/The+IT-Crowd-Seasons1-4_ad3.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjN2Dv1fPVUZm7aLRTCPEZEb8jaTALicwJCTnIfu2jI-VSShCn5sdjJvvCeHlHEV0HAGLjXZpRIw0D1gQ3qGDCP2mxRWDoGkm3PTKRVdI34Bz1aw3y5GjN5fgWU_-RmvFB70F9omLOEOLpu/s320/The+IT-Crowd-Seasons1-4_ad3.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Even though this fire took away 2 lives (God, thank you. It could have been so so so so many more), a HUGE amount of homes and a city’s general feel-good mojo, it didn’t tear down the family that <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">is and always will be,</i></b> <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Colorado Springs</i>. What I love about this town is that it’s not hard to know everyone that’s on your block. It’s not hard to find your way around and if you get lost, there are people always willing to help you. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">We’ve got a <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">STRONG</b> military presence. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">We’ve got a <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">STRONG</b> economy. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">We’ve got the <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">STRONGEST</b> sense of community of any place I’ve lived.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">We’ve got, mostly, <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">STRONG</b> people and leaders. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">We’ve got a <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">STRONG</b> sense of each other. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">We have a <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">STRONG</b> presence in the world. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">We’ve <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">DESTROYED</b> what tried to <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">DESTROY </b>us. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">We are <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">STRONGER</b> for it.<o:p></o:p><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijfg86D0_P5fL7Wr_foV9FM-XUzSGbh7mnyFicQx-8HnjQYuAzv_YGk0VSgRWFtFyJ8NtvxPSQazZoWl48xhEa3OOA3QHOpgeNfr-9r3fZPI65NrHP0aGjHP8BVzv39dHs4JyiwLMXWP8u/s1600/tumblr_lusafrzlDj1r40o4ho1_500_large.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="258" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijfg86D0_P5fL7Wr_foV9FM-XUzSGbh7mnyFicQx-8HnjQYuAzv_YGk0VSgRWFtFyJ8NtvxPSQazZoWl48xhEa3OOA3QHOpgeNfr-9r3fZPI65NrHP0aGjHP8BVzv39dHs4JyiwLMXWP8u/s320/tumblr_lusafrzlDj1r40o4ho1_500_large.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
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</div></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div style="text-align: center;">That’s right: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">We found love in a hopeless place.</i> <o:p></o:p></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
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</i></div></div><div class="MsoNormal">When the shit hit the fan, there wasn’t mass chaos. It was an eerie calm. People were going about their business until someone got on the television and said, hey folks, mass vacation. Everyone get the hell out. Well, they said something like that. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">There were news crews, cameras, twittering journalists, facebooking realists and random people, LOTS of them, asking how they could help. And not in the way of, how can we help from afar, it was more of the, our hands are already dirty in this town, so let’s go ahead and get filthy in the name of saving our city. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Hickenlooper and all of his pals remained calm. Thank the Lord. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Police, Firefighters, and all emergency personnel rallied. It was like this was a real life Cowboys-vs.-Aliens and we beat the ever living shit out of the Mothership.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">So take that, Ms. Mother Nature. Ha. You can burn our house, but you can’t destroy our family tree. F#*@^ you. <o:p></o:p><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgy2YSFjnNjoh1Fe_aPyIByGKABrQmS1GpSex4vn1Uma34ICOwOnM3nC1J14wODRJBYUY4f_uumVjt2kSa5eJP7bWpoYMfloA2He5HFLL67QnAKdoY1uZW8y_cN_aFIiyTidiB2ZbZNWAhv/s1600/images.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgy2YSFjnNjoh1Fe_aPyIByGKABrQmS1GpSex4vn1Uma34ICOwOnM3nC1J14wODRJBYUY4f_uumVjt2kSa5eJP7bWpoYMfloA2He5HFLL67QnAKdoY1uZW8y_cN_aFIiyTidiB2ZbZNWAhv/s320/images.jpeg" width="150" /></a></div><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">We’re still here. In solidarity. Stronger than before. So here’s the first-draft of our community-warning letter: <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><i>Dear Mother Nature, </i><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">We hope this letter finds you well. We understand its raining on your plans to destroy us. Sorry about that. But you have to understand something…although we love what you’ve provided for us thus far and your beauty is always, whether destructive or not, awe-inspiring, please take note that we are <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">NOT</i></b> dead. We are still standing. We are <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">STRONGER</b> than your mountains. We are <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">STRONGER</b> than your wind, your embers or any other ball of fire you tried to send our way. We are taking our city back and you’re not in charge. Sorry. There’s a new order here. Don’t fuck with us again. Our family tree is stronger than you. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Love, <br />
<i> Colorado Springs </i><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">a.k.a. your favorite Kick-Ass At-Altitude Community <o:p></o:p><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYFXLjpz3l9aFOLDMnSlCOMgbWcb-SdZteWKJb6U3a3u7zju15UYeW7bDSYSmJ4YDCg1qhZRnVf9MFvURWRMp2w_lo4RFWXlMgc6F1VN_DM9xT4vHp4VzBGPwsbrRRcO4Uex27gwa9dksQ/s1600/familytree.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="248" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYFXLjpz3l9aFOLDMnSlCOMgbWcb-SdZteWKJb6U3a3u7zju15UYeW7bDSYSmJ4YDCg1qhZRnVf9MFvURWRMp2w_lo4RFWXlMgc6F1VN_DM9xT4vHp4VzBGPwsbrRRcO4Uex27gwa9dksQ/s320/familytree.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal">Ok, Colorado Springs…got thoughts on the draft of my letter to Mother Nature? Send em. Send me stories of community via the comments for the blog. Let’s start a trend. A positive trend. A #WeWillNotBeDestroyedByFlames Tweeting Trend…Our hopeless place now has more love than ever before. Bring it. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFWSz1y7DeZU8qN2_jblHKbbiapw-xbvEsFA3KgSw0p8hWfYTP7Jwj5J3i9-CRELP5QifbDqGiiGYMpEzBE_-2qwte7N-5FgUa7K7FC5JYSd56y-hfjL3GgkmoIyVfGxrruowtX35Qeq9R/s1600/KRT-US-NEWS-COLORADO-FIRE-1.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="201" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFWSz1y7DeZU8qN2_jblHKbbiapw-xbvEsFA3KgSw0p8hWfYTP7Jwj5J3i9-CRELP5QifbDqGiiGYMpEzBE_-2qwte7N-5FgUa7K7FC5JYSd56y-hfjL3GgkmoIyVfGxrruowtX35Qeq9R/s320/KRT-US-NEWS-COLORADO-FIRE-1.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal">Thank you to all who helped save us. We love you…and not the middle school kind of crush like love, we love you as if our lives depended on this love. Trust me on this. <o:p></o:p><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-Dgfl3Yi25zA-0xQp2COM_-SAlgr6yw8HLAcmH1iRBoYwUADLSTBZxtykzMZs2f-lrp6_hHWo3s_1GCkBECSWcwxD8oj9NKFJBSbHBDiUYjRSAYn9B0bjsBIAuokvQ4hSlJwPoo7raBrW/s1600/heart-on-fire.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-Dgfl3Yi25zA-0xQp2COM_-SAlgr6yw8HLAcmH1iRBoYwUADLSTBZxtykzMZs2f-lrp6_hHWo3s_1GCkBECSWcwxD8oj9NKFJBSbHBDiUYjRSAYn9B0bjsBIAuokvQ4hSlJwPoo7raBrW/s640/heart-on-fire.jpeg" width="480" /></a></div><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal"><i>Yours in Rage, Relief and Realizing the True Meaning of Community, <b><o:p></o:p></b></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Cicily <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</div>Cicily Janushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16841849529479076806noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1536639124087019847.post-38448401466347996352012-05-25T17:17:00.000-06:002012-05-25T17:17:45.469-06:00Expectations of the Unexpected<div style="text-align: center;"><b>Quote of the Day: </b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Know that everything is in perfect order</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>whether you understand it or not.</i></div><div style="text-align: center;">~Valery Satterwhite~</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Current Local Weather: </b></div><div style="text-align: center;">Snowing through the sunlight with </div><div style="text-align: center;">anticipation of another great night.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Currently on my iTunes: </b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Livin on a Prayer</i></div><div style="text-align: center;">"This Left Feels Right"</div><div style="text-align: center;">Bon Jovi</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
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</div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><i>Dear Family, Friends and my Family of Friends, </i></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><i><br />
</i></b></div><div style="text-align: left;">I'm writing to you today from the living room of the retreat house in Breckenridge, Colorado. If you don't know what I'm referring to, go <a href="http://www.writingawayretreats.info/" target="_blank">HERE</a>. This has, by far, been one of the smallest retreats yet the very best of them. One of the reasons, actually, the number one reason I do these, is to connect fellow artists back with their muse, their passion, the very purpose that made them pick up a pen in the first place. As busy as this world expects us to be, being extremely busy at doing nothing...I shouldn't say nothing...being busy at getting back to who you once were and improving that self with your new, past and present experiences is a business all of us tend to neglect. And of course, that includes myself. Each retreat has had its own magic. Connections are made, AHA! moments are around every corner, a renewal of spirit and soul to be had by everyone involved. But I'm getting ahead of myself. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">So far...and we're two days into the main part of the retreat, the following has happened among the attendees and staff: </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"><a href="http://www.crismanshow.com/" target="_blank">Sarah Crisman</a> and Becki Davis were paired, solely on the fact that they're both female, in the same room. After much gabbing and late night conversations, they found out that they are related...</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"><a href="http://www.americansongspace.com/31858b2e80488279c1506caa194f0b2a9eb8129d" target="_blank">Charisse</a>, Weamn, Phyllis and Karen are all one of eleven kids in their family. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">Lisa Scontras and Becki Davis are both dealing with Alzheimer's disease in their elderly parents. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"><a href="http://www.johngilstrap.com/" target="_blank">John Gilstrap</a> and I were both involved in the direct care of trauma patients. He was an EMT, me, a nurse. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"><a href="http://www.karendegrootcarter.com/" target="_blank">Karen DeGroot Carter</a> and <a href="http://kokobstudio.com/" target="_blank">Sara Brentano</a> used to have children in the same daycare. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"><a href="http://www.texaslegacy.org/bb/narrators/glazerphyllis.html" target="_blank">Phyllis Glazer</a> has been an inspiration to all of the women in the house in regards to keeping ourselves in love with ourselves...despite those obstacles that seemingly define who the world thinks we should be. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"><a href="http://www.travelresearchonline.com/blog/" target="_blank">Richard Earls</a> came down with one of the worst colds of his life and called me around the time he was supposed to show up at the house saying he was going to stay in a hotel instead...I hesitated to push him out of his comfort zone but ended up calling him back and basically saying, look, we're all adults here, this is not a house of just work and writing, this is a house of healing. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">Etc. Etc. Etc. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">The level of connectedness in this house, at this moment is uncanny, unexpected, and very much welcome. There isn't a clear "reason" why we are all together right now. But sometimes, we are brought to new people in our lives through an unseen vehicle. We are found by someone else's energy, through their third person dreams or by physical happenstance. I think the key to not screwing these connections up is to realize that we are not their answer but their motivation or drive to find the path their supposed to be on or at the very least, the outline of the map their supposed to follow. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">The amazing <a href="http://www.signepike.com/" target="_blank">Signe Pike</a>, who is here on staff, seems to have a very wise mother. She said that her mom used to say to her, <i>why do we, especially as women, feel that we have to find someone in our lives that is supposed to be EVERYTHING we need</i>? </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">She's right, rather her mother is right. Damn right. Sometimes what we need is someone other than the outer shell of our over-the-top expectations of the people in our lives. Not everyone can be everything, but everyone can give of themselves in such a way that they're assisting someone, with love, to find a way to their bigger picture. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">You wouldn't go to Google Maps and expect them to give you driving directions to a ranch in the Alps from a small town in Texas....right? No, it would take a team of travel experts, a variety of vehicles and more importantly, the will and want to get there. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">Today, I hope you find yourself in the same position I'm in...sitting amongst great company, listening to the wind come off the mountains and hoping that the place I'm going is closer to where I'm at now than it's ever been because of those that have not only loved me, but those that have shown me that love is not a color, it is not a thought, that love is an expected binding of the souls you surround yourself with. And without love, you are nothing. Without love, you can be nothing to no one. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">Yours in Going the Extra Mile, Getting Where You Need to Be and Growing Within, </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">Cicily</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
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</div>Cicily Janushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16841849529479076806noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1536639124087019847.post-6090568498136386462012-04-10T06:46:00.001-06:002012-04-10T06:49:59.554-06:00Come On Baby, Light My Fire<div style="text-align: center;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Quote of the Day: </span></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Knowledge of "what is," does not open</span></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">the door directly to "what should be." </span></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">~Albert Einstein~</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Current Local Weather: </span></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Gusts of wind causing extreme </span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">fire dangers within my soul. </span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Currently on my iPod: </span></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">"You Don't Know Me" </span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">That's What I Say</span></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">John Scofield & Aaron Neville</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Dear Family, Friends and My Family of Friends,</span></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b></b></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Lately, I've been thinking a lot about choices. If you haven't realized this, then go <a href="http://writingaboutyou.blogspot.com/2012/03/heel-to-toe-heel-to-toe.html" target="_blank">here</a> to read about my thoughts on choices…As I was finishing up all 3 seasons of the United States of Tara, there was a line in one of the last episodes that went something like this: <i>Don't worry about knocking mom, this is your house. Doors are merely a suggestion. (Why they cancelled this show, beats me. I am thoroughly disappointed in not knowing what was going to happen after Tara gave in and decided to go back to the looney bin...Tara, Buck...Alice...don't worry, once I win the lottery, I will gladly put your show back on air)</i></span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><b><i><br />
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<div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></b></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">As you may have guessed by the title, this post is about Doors. No, not those folks. </span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><b><br />
</b></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQeEu4Lf6IbFCRsFz8-sMeOu7IQERPKs9Fs1xaGrgI3bpLRpXLEMy-hSngSXEWKT5PYRyNcZfhZelPsMrcKk27cjlQ7Pdm6-WacjF2iY-VW5XaAo5EiwHgK8WUTzOWIPc1tskj1gsTl5Nx/s1600/250px-Doors_electra_publicity_photo.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQeEu4Lf6IbFCRsFz8-sMeOu7IQERPKs9Fs1xaGrgI3bpLRpXLEMy-hSngSXEWKT5PYRyNcZfhZelPsMrcKk27cjlQ7Pdm6-WacjF2iY-VW5XaAo5EiwHgK8WUTzOWIPc1tskj1gsTl5Nx/s1600/250px-Doors_electra_publicity_photo.JPG" /></a></b></div><div style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><b><br />
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</b></div><div style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Actual doors. Those plywood/hardwood/fiberglass fixtures sitting between you and the world...yep, these Doors. </span></div><div style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><b><br />
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</b></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8s0N-mti9Fl6iMu8K9tjKvM_EfDHFIHRMzCGRLW7QKaEXSkd9V4vB8EZduPFouVWOAY9PJEMzBlDnFouDqAhuapmv_gBluzX0E47DzaJUpv6_G2hcL4x7t5Os1EeRlnAC9ybKyokzd9dw/s1600/rome-doors-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8s0N-mti9Fl6iMu8K9tjKvM_EfDHFIHRMzCGRLW7QKaEXSkd9V4vB8EZduPFouVWOAY9PJEMzBlDnFouDqAhuapmv_gBluzX0E47DzaJUpv6_G2hcL4x7t5Os1EeRlnAC9ybKyokzd9dw/s320/rome-doors-2.jpg" width="213" /></a></b></div><div style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">These doors...we all have them in our lives. Sometimes they take the form of people...unexpected humans that tear down our walls without knocking or the care of wanting us to know that they're about to enter our personal space. And are the doors that lead into our rooms, our personal spaces, just suggestions or are they coping mechanisms, shadows of real security, for what we don't want to face? </span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">We can open, close, leave ajar and hide behind them. But there's always our inner selves that know that closing, slamming or bolting them shut in the face of our future, present and past, is going to sting when heard and felt on the other side. As the quote says: They're just merely suggestions. Doors can keep us locked up in a place that no one can enter and no one can escape from. It's up to us as to whether or not to take the suggestion of openness. </span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">This is how we lose ourselves. Myself included. </span></div><div style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><b><br />
</b></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEio5pSyGj_sD0E5M9O78bk73C5JUSH3S5E4JJNbkzXWQHiWth_RV5Rh0E-J73IFSZ_snOdfYQFinM12iTSsaDjcOWtJifxqCjV0mkmHIrns_oa1Rlne1pGq543EbnUO2KHDiLmRhh6Exk6D/s1600/losingYourself.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="207" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEio5pSyGj_sD0E5M9O78bk73C5JUSH3S5E4JJNbkzXWQHiWth_RV5Rh0E-J73IFSZ_snOdfYQFinM12iTSsaDjcOWtJifxqCjV0mkmHIrns_oa1Rlne1pGq543EbnUO2KHDiLmRhh6Exk6D/s320/losingYourself.jpg" width="320" /></a></b></div><div style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><b><br />
</b></div><br />
<div style="display: inline !important; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">For those of you that don't know me, let me qualify the above statement by saying that I'm completely and utterly indecisive. Take me out to dinner, and it will take me at least 4 impatient waitress rounds to decide on food or even what kind of wine or soda. My ability to make decisions is usually a group effort, just like in Tara's mind. No, I don't have Dissociative Identity Disorder, but I do have parts of myself that are locked behind well closed/slammed shut and bolted doors in my mind. And just when I think I've lost my mind, the team of decision makers that live above my sinus cavities, comes out to help me. These decision execs consist of my past, my present and my future mistakes, victories, decisions, and loves. The doors that keep these traits or aspects of myself, are just merely suggestions. They can make or break you. But only if you let them. Can one decision really define who you are? can one missed opportunity bring you down into the ruins? At times, it sure as hell feels like it can. </span></div><br />
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</span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigl-hNH6E8zd1XHvNMwZb7Ro0AxZwpxe8QmdVU7XNAvk9_-xTV8vPFBJkbyMc5Qjo8g1BbQUa8SXXW4c2r6Blf4I3Nar6hi7ZOzXLob3tTQ9xud8ZtGvjDmtvb5GxE-QQ-80VcWn-7fKBy/s1600/neo_ruins_3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="291" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigl-hNH6E8zd1XHvNMwZb7Ro0AxZwpxe8QmdVU7XNAvk9_-xTV8vPFBJkbyMc5Qjo8g1BbQUa8SXXW4c2r6Blf4I3Nar6hi7ZOzXLob3tTQ9xud8ZtGvjDmtvb5GxE-QQ-80VcWn-7fKBy/s320/neo_ruins_3.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 12px;"><br />
</span></span><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"></span></b></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br />
</span></b></div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"> </span></b><b></b><br />
<div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Some people, when faced with decisions, kick the door open as hard as they can. They kick it in until the door is off its hinges and laying at the feet of the life on the other side. For most though, it is a mere turn of the wrist that's good enough when it comes to opening a door. These folks know that a slight flick can bring us back to who we were and/or always should have been. It is truly our choice as to how we handle our personal situations, our lives. It always has been. Sometimes losing the ability to violently handle the opportunities that lie across our life paths, isn't a bad thing. These types of choices often involve teams of people, places, things, experiences…whatnot…etc. And even if we don't trust these pasts of ours, they have to be relied upon. This is the only world we truly know when it comes to knowing how we got into the messy business of being ourselves. </span></div><div style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><b><br />
</b></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheZ9FrzTEtUeHgADSb9I88JulEpeIkCm-OUwQhYzEgCJg8-XwEw_VHgGs4bZ2uZ6e4VwIqICNYoo6CkYpSb-bxFXDwiCpSso_c97VA9hhSIYq78VKtgQEEYTEulMo-njCk962VpcAxROsl/s1600/messy+baby.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheZ9FrzTEtUeHgADSb9I88JulEpeIkCm-OUwQhYzEgCJg8-XwEw_VHgGs4bZ2uZ6e4VwIqICNYoo6CkYpSb-bxFXDwiCpSso_c97VA9hhSIYq78VKtgQEEYTEulMo-njCk962VpcAxROsl/s320/messy+baby.jpg" width="320" /></a></b></div><div style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><b><br />
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</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">These are people who could care less if anyone ever comes as they've been there, done that. They need no excuse to open their doors. They leave their doors, windows and hearts open to suggestion and opportunity, regardless of the implied danger. The wayfaring strangeness of it all is a rush, a thrill, a misguided adrenaline junky's nightmare. But it's ok. For all of these friends of mine are always home, always ok and always willing to let their journey be clouded with darkness, redemption and inventive forsaken yesterdays. I just hope that what we've all built as a team is strong enough to stand up against the reality we have to face. </span><br />
<div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 12px;"><br />
</span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><b></b></span><br />
<div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Even though we may be cut, scraped, bruised with our flesh lying around like discarded splinters of wood on a shop floor, we have to have faith that the indecisiveness of our personal process' lies in our ability to heal the damage from within and behind those doors. We have to cut into the healthy flesh in order to expose the unhealthy. And then we sit and wait. We wait and wait and wait and hope that the bloody mess left on our soles and the infarction upon our soul that was caused by kicking the door in, heals and that we have in fact, not made everything worse….but better. </span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpwkIIUb03jOujh9ccP7DixZa93biQw30OHMeYP02Sbf3lHt_yOS50iUVDI5DWTsQBJNVjWKEkSTgzEAn66gHfhpPYWvCbyuTsfQS3zTsMA7K92FpFb4RfZ5LIlIee8Yg24ZYWPub1LCxh/s1600/heartopen.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="193" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpwkIIUb03jOujh9ccP7DixZa93biQw30OHMeYP02Sbf3lHt_yOS50iUVDI5DWTsQBJNVjWKEkSTgzEAn66gHfhpPYWvCbyuTsfQS3zTsMA7K92FpFb4RfZ5LIlIee8Yg24ZYWPub1LCxh/s200/heartopen.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"></span></b></div><div style="display: inline !important; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br />
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<div style="text-align: left;"><b></b></div><div style="display: inline !important; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 12px;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div style="font-weight: bold; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">It is our choice to make. It was always our choice. Still is and when we're ready, still will be. </span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; min-height: 14px;"></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;"><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-weight: bold; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlSDSToAjMj1DdICF0kejwUpHxBkPUtdKqBjOuWqm6o8-Gp1OxvhZ0gXb6mShMJfCJsxQ0D_IJQEKFRP0m8CWtATXOjajajNRlrLu7Qr1hFKeQ8jXtgim9EOTRvmbM5I5mQqA8kyc5VI8K/s1600/choices.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="197" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlSDSToAjMj1DdICF0kejwUpHxBkPUtdKqBjOuWqm6o8-Gp1OxvhZ0gXb6mShMJfCJsxQ0D_IJQEKFRP0m8CWtATXOjajajNRlrLu7Qr1hFKeQ8jXtgim9EOTRvmbM5I5mQqA8kyc5VI8K/s320/choices.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-weight: bold; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-weight: bold; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><br />
</div><div style="font-weight: bold; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">I've made my choices and have regrets to some extent, but I never tread without the conscious footsteps of my past following me, instep,<a href="http://writingaboutyou.blogspot.com/2012/03/heel-to-toe-heel-to-toe.html" target="_blank"> heel-to-toe</a>, behind me. I hope you're in the same place I am. Looking toward the future, opening the door for a life anew to come in, isn't a bad place to be. </span></div><div style="font-weight: bold; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-weight: bold; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Yours in Plywood, Pasts and Pushing the Doors Open, </span></div><div style="font-weight: bold; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-weight: bold; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Cicily</span></div>Cicily Janushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16841849529479076806noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1536639124087019847.post-44440321462174375312012-03-30T04:47:00.000-06:002012-03-30T04:47:48.475-06:00Heel to Toe, Heel to Toe<div style="font: 16.0px Times; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: center;"><b>Quote of the Day</b>: </div><div style="font: 16.0px Times; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: center;"><i>Anxiety does not empty tomorrow of it's sorrows, </i></div><div style="font: 16.0px Times; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: center;"><i>it only empties today of it's strength.</i></div><div style="font: 16.0px Times; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: center;">~Charles Spurgeon~</div><div style="font: 16.0px Times; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 19.0px; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 16.0px Times; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: center;"><b>Current Local Weather: </b></div><div style="font: 16.0px Times; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: center;">60 MPH winds followed by</div><div style="font: 16.0px Times; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: center;">120 BPM pulse ripping my veins apart.</div><div style="font: 16.0px Times; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 19.0px; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 16.0px Times; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: center;"><b>Currently on my iPod: </b></div><div style="font: 16.0px Times; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: center;">"Human Nature"</div><div style="font: 16.0px Times; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: center;"><i>Solo</i></div><div style="font: 16.0px Times; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: center;">Vijay Iyer</div><div style="font: 16.0px Times; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 19.0px; text-align: center;"><br />
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</div><div style="font: 16.0px Times; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Dear Friends, Family and my Family of Friends, </div><div style="font: 16.0px Times; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 19.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 16.0px Times; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">If you had a choice in the life you were granted, do you think you would have chosen the one you're currently living? What if there had been someone standing over you, like a detective or IRS agent, waiting for a flinch or extra out-of-character blink as you stood over bodies, surveying them for potential good or bad traits...would you have wanted them for who they look like instead of who they were or are or will be? Would you still have thought to pick yourself? </div><div style="font: 16.0px Times; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkuYq3d98lqnuNsKufihh_xKO7TonzL9U7E5k9zTapOWar4f0B-A-Ijg1nKfhzNzSsdZ3LeGXnDKqSyHcDVKUlGn3e84Zvlqp8NrMRyRG0RRBOK91aH5sGxdyk577MHVKs3vN-Pz2vQ9_u/s1600/Bodies20_resize.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkuYq3d98lqnuNsKufihh_xKO7TonzL9U7E5k9zTapOWar4f0B-A-Ijg1nKfhzNzSsdZ3LeGXnDKqSyHcDVKUlGn3e84Zvlqp8NrMRyRG0RRBOK91aH5sGxdyk577MHVKs3vN-Pz2vQ9_u/s320/Bodies20_resize.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="font: 16.0px Times; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><br />
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</div><div style="font: 16.0px Times; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">hmmm..</div><div style="font: 16.0px Times; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 19.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 16.0px Times; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Do you even know yourself well enough to know which body would have best represented you? Would your instincts, as a human, have kicked in? </div><div style="font: 16.0px Times; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 19.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 16.0px Times; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">I don't think they would have. I don't even know if the saying, Trust Your Instincts, is enough to go off of in any situation. Sure, sure, I understand the fight or flight syndrome thingamajig, but it doesn't mean it's always right unless Steve Carell is coming after you with a trident in a backlot of a news station...</div><div style="font: 16.0px Times; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtOWgrL1uJeDcrxdPzcn3Po6RoL6yJ2u-vOVNkAuafVsyNjH7l_QLvQHBuEE6Jy5cwOksRxrAROWd50DGChRKJiIucKhNqUE9XjiTm4tUFGr9epb35V8eDsMegTq_eWgZ5hSWPLx9qrjhx/s1600/Steve-Carell-Trident.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="184" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtOWgrL1uJeDcrxdPzcn3Po6RoL6yJ2u-vOVNkAuafVsyNjH7l_QLvQHBuEE6Jy5cwOksRxrAROWd50DGChRKJiIucKhNqUE9XjiTm4tUFGr9epb35V8eDsMegTq_eWgZ5hSWPLx9qrjhx/s320/Steve-Carell-Trident.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="font: 16.0px Times; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><br />
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</div><div style="font: 16.0px Times; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Seriously though, do you think you would have really wanted to be anyone other than yourself? I hear all the time...<i>if only I were this person</i>...<i>or that person</i>…honestly, I hear it all the time from my own mouth, subconscious and whatnot. Especially when I've been very sick, I think…if only I could be someone…anyone other than me, stuck in my body, dying on the inside to have someone on the outside listen. </div><div style="font: 16.0px Times; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 19.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 16.0px Times; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Inevitably, after I say it, I regret it. </div><div style="font: 16.0px Times; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 19.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 16.0px Times; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">It's at this stage, that I feel we're all going wrong. There's this want of something that isn't real or true or even anywhere near half-true and I feel, more now than ever, that this is devouring our drive to be better people. If we're always focused on being someone we're not, we'll never be who the world needs us to be. </div><div style="font: 16.0px Times; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 16.0px Times; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Besides, there's no way to know what it's like to be anyone else. Walking a mile in someone else' shoes is quite literally, impossible. </div><div style="font: 16.0px Times; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEwuJSfQ214ZsRoXpG6pa2rHJolv6J0-x7OEl1qR1vyFIcrr6KsY42EK0ZmcHBCWTjYBItiuQVu5C4gflpRSc7d-WNe_wJQkyQwOOoZQcx0TVxM5ihxdNFIxo-Xfz8bONg22xDZY5zUd5F/s1600/big_shoes.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEwuJSfQ214ZsRoXpG6pa2rHJolv6J0-x7OEl1qR1vyFIcrr6KsY42EK0ZmcHBCWTjYBItiuQVu5C4gflpRSc7d-WNe_wJQkyQwOOoZQcx0TVxM5ihxdNFIxo-Xfz8bONg22xDZY5zUd5F/s320/big_shoes.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><div style="font: 16.0px Times; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><br />
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</div><div style="font: 16.0px Times; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">We all know how to walk. We all know what walking looks and feels like. Heel toe, heel, toe. We all know that there are some people who can't walk but know how to get around. But this doesn't mean that we all walk the same. This only means that we have a common denominator. It's like we're all versions of the same equation that eventually come to the same conclusion. Yet there's no easy way to figure out what that conclusion is or will be. It's just best if we keep our own shoes on and respect the fact that not everyone wears Nikes or Clarks or Jimmy Choo. Some of us are barefoot. Some of us don't mind the calluses and think they add character. Some of us wear the same shoes year after year regardless of what's in or out of style. </div><div style="font: 16.0px Times; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 19.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 16.0px Times; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">So who is it that chooses dystopia when we're all taught that utopia is just a first kiss/new car and/or undergrad degree away…? Evil Dictators? Hardly. I think they start out the same way we all do. Wishing for a better world…however warped their world is, a better world, nonetheless. </div><div style="font: 16.0px Times; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 19.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 16.0px Times; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Dystopia isn't an advantage unless you look at it as something that can afford you considerable perspective. Same can be said for Utopia. If you were that other person living a life unlike the only one you know, what would be the thing that makes you happy? Would the life you live now seem despotic? Or would it be great? </div><div style="font: 16.0px Times; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 19.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 16.0px Times; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Would the happiness that stems off of your new life cause bloating of the ego? Would it simplify your life? Choices wouldn't have to be made. It would be so perfect that no other life would ever be good enough. However, when pressure begins within, the repercussions are often deadly. Egos get bruised, expectations are lost and the drive to be anyone at all, has landed you in a foreign land without a map, a friend or even vegetation to feed off of. </div><div style="font: 16.0px Times; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKZy2f912Jdp7HPSmjblWFOoL7mzmFN_kIaoJVCto0AyBtIlphBuprfZXlcFcyb49_OjVA81i3ulg7iZeuIjipDC8exOhKk0fRH-5TxFNEUwEYzGSylFMVJQIp-X_GPRAzlFimDV82VLjY/s1600/ego.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKZy2f912Jdp7HPSmjblWFOoL7mzmFN_kIaoJVCto0AyBtIlphBuprfZXlcFcyb49_OjVA81i3ulg7iZeuIjipDC8exOhKk0fRH-5TxFNEUwEYzGSylFMVJQIp-X_GPRAzlFimDV82VLjY/s1600/ego.jpg" /></a></div><div style="font: 16.0px Times; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 16.0px Times; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">I wish I had a different kind of different life. One in which the poor in spirit are treated just as well as those that are poor in the wallet. There's charities for those that are homeless. There's government institutions that will pay for you to get a better life if this is the situation you're in. But if all you want is to be someone you're not, you've got to find your own way either forward or back to where you started. </div><div style="font: 16.0px Times; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 19.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 16.0px Times; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Anne Lamott, during a reading in Denver at the LoDo Tattered Cover store this past week, said that the biggest fight she's ever been through was that of learning how to fall in love with herself. How everything she had done before this love affair had been accomplished through the pain of being everything but true to her soul. How hard is it to see the lesson in this? </div><div style="font: 16.0px Times; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 19.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 16.0px Times; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Learning these lessons aren't easy. I can't even say that I'm 100% there but I do know, in my heart, that I'm working on it day and night. It won't be long until this project is due and the next one begins. Being good to yourself is of the essence. Letting anyone down for any reason, just isn't ok by social standards. So why does letting yourself down seem like an acceptable practice of the human race. </div><div style="font: 16.0px Times; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 19.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 16.0px Times; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">I hope you'll all fall back in love with your lives. Moving on and up and lending a hand to those that have yet to learn to walk, run or jump over to their purpose... </div><div style="font: 16.0px Times; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 19.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 16.0px Times; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Yours in Love, Lessons yet to be Learned and Listening to Reason, </div><div style="font: 16.0px Times; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 19.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 16.0px Times; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Cicily </div>Cicily Janushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16841849529479076806noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1536639124087019847.post-41222721405925955622012-02-17T04:05:00.000-07:002012-02-17T04:05:57.383-07:00I Should Have Waxed My Brows & Other Thoughts On Re-Entering the AsylumI should have waxed my brows<br />
And paid more attention to my lips<br />
as there is nothing more of me, but a pair of sagging hips.<br />
<br />
I should have said hello<br />
to those I didn't know<br />
<br />
Or said goodbye to those that<br />
didn't take the chance to say, Hi. <br />
<br />
I should have known that God would smile<br />
knowing that this took a while<br />
and would say, you have no worries, my child. <br />
<br />
I should have known to finish my work<br />
before I opened my mouth<br />
and looked like a jerk.<br />
<br />
I should have wished more love to my world<br />
but it doesn't matter to them, the things I cared for,<br />
like, if my hair was straight, gone or curled.<br />
<br />
I should have taken the trash out<br />
before the diapers soured<br />
and the oranges began to pout.<br />
<br />
I should have known that the first<br />
would hurt the most<br />
the last, wouldn't kill me,<br />
or be the worst.<br />
<br />
For I should have listened<br />
to those that said, I love you<br />
and you're my friend.<br />
<br />
I should have done more for those I know,<br />
I should have done...more to say<br />
I love you...you're my life, my love, my end. <br />
<br />
<br />
Okay, enough is enough. Hope you get the message...loud and clear. As they say, whoever THEY are, see ya on the flipside.<br />
<br />
Yours in Cutting, Curing and Courting Loves Lost and Found,<br />
<br />
CicilyCicily Janushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16841849529479076806noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1536639124087019847.post-37186161238655929932012-02-06T04:15:00.000-07:002012-02-06T04:15:12.003-07:00Chasing Pavements<div style="text-align: center;"><i><b>Quote of the Day: </b></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>The woods are lovely, dark and deep. </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>But I have promises to keep and miles to go before I sleep.</i></div><div style="text-align: center;">~Robert Frost~</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="body"><b><i>Current Local Weather: </i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="body">Cold. Dark. Loud</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="body"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="body"><i><b>Currently on my iTunes: </b></i></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="body">"Cryin'"</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="body"><i>Big Ones</i> </span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="body">~Aerosmith~</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="body"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="body">Dear Friends, Family and My Family of Friends, </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="body"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="body">This morning finds me awake. VERY awake. Trouble is that it's only 330am MST. I wish it wasn't. There isn't anything more in this world that I want more than a night of sleep that lasts ALL NIGHT LONG. This whole affair my biological clock is having with the digital clock of the world that happens at 230-730am every single day is getting old. I have to ask my body, why in the hell do you think this is ok? When did I ever give you permission to cheat on me with this early morning mistress of insomnia characterized by bladder fullness, fits of discombobulated creativity and worry for the better half of mankind...</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="body"> </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="body">Blech. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="body"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="body">Double Blech. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="body"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="body">I am more tired than I have been in eons. This is rivaling the absurdity of the culture of nonsleeping infants...This cavity of sleep deprivation is about to cause death to my roots. I'm about to need a root canal of my mind. And I know it's going to hurt and I hope my subconscious numbs me up for it before hand. I'm reminded of the great Aerosmith tune, <i>Love in an Elevator...living it up while I'm going down. </i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMFLUpZJrBgCSjEk9Y47P0Cg3xOcTZxkVgKF955_hzdCf97uMuSqub91yAk_Ak6rQC9AjlNMCB86DztPLLUK4UYz5_8lG8g6hxJ_so9gC_eVq34ATop9ihKvuhu7194nPxrruh2aZI5-Nr/s1600/Love-in-an-Elevator-82487.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMFLUpZJrBgCSjEk9Y47P0Cg3xOcTZxkVgKF955_hzdCf97uMuSqub91yAk_Ak6rQC9AjlNMCB86DztPLLUK4UYz5_8lG8g6hxJ_so9gC_eVq34ATop9ihKvuhu7194nPxrruh2aZI5-Nr/s320/Love-in-an-Elevator-82487.jpg" width="212" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="body"><i> </i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="body">I'm pretty sure that what I'm doing wasn't the point of Tyler's magical lyrics. I've had people say...well, at least you're getting work done...That's NOT my idea of living it up. So what am I doing? </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="body"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="body">What I'm doing is trying to make the best of this situation. There's lots of situations in my life at this moment that need a positive spin. Sometimes, when life throws a mass amount of smashed lemons right at your retinas, it's hard to see that there is ever going to be a positive spin on anything you do, ever again! But lemon juice, especially rotten lemon juice with shards of your past, will only cause temporary blindness. Painful temporary blindness, but temporary nonetheless. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="body">Unless you add rock salt to the lemons. Then it can necessitate some doc or other digging out your eyeballs of the poison that pains you. Surgery is never the best option. Unless it's your appendix. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="body"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjT99fJUbR_OCwhY_4wgDPgZBsScflRIvrDebEO2ABaWFNAlEWeC7shcKfinGNIpEs1x8BtxJYYjLOcE1P7vmXF5-_ENl8qIm0HXGCei_4TZ2Y4Ok2zDHyhuN5wY7yzRBvOhAEuATGc8EHw/s1600/PreservedLemons04.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="216" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjT99fJUbR_OCwhY_4wgDPgZBsScflRIvrDebEO2ABaWFNAlEWeC7shcKfinGNIpEs1x8BtxJYYjLOcE1P7vmXF5-_ENl8qIm0HXGCei_4TZ2Y4Ok2zDHyhuN5wY7yzRBvOhAEuATGc8EHw/s320/PreservedLemons04.jpg" width="320" /></a><span class="body">But thinking that just the elimination of something that is less than ideal, like this insomnia, isn't going to cure the root cause. Eliminating this time of the morning for me, as in sleeping through it, would mean that most of the latest blogs would be silent and some of the better book ideas I've had would be amiss in the universe. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="body"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="body">So, there's the bright side. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="body"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="body">Uh. huh. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="body"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="body">Sure. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="body"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="body">The downside is that I'm beginning to look like this chic: </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="body"><br />
</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIRNZrylcibX4rWRSTG7xKr3XWeKoW40y1WrnQwgXjtN_MdSVIIx2L5ftUsvFG3RA8V-O1j1Mw3spS8OI9Ky1tJI2mpptAHdJd7HCRrP9ULiVWU7M26UnenDikax4mpJeTVgiUcpjtfW4m/s1600/Insomnia-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIRNZrylcibX4rWRSTG7xKr3XWeKoW40y1WrnQwgXjtN_MdSVIIx2L5ftUsvFG3RA8V-O1j1Mw3spS8OI9Ky1tJI2mpptAHdJd7HCRrP9ULiVWU7M26UnenDikax4mpJeTVgiUcpjtfW4m/s1600/Insomnia-1.jpg" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="body"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="body">I'm sure she's very pretty when she gets a full night sleep. Inside and out. But living a dream or living through a dream isn't always the best option nor is it a given that your conscious thoughts will allow you to recall whatever dreams you've previously laid out for yourself. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="body"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="body">Some small talk with your inner being while you're suffering through anything can also help cure your issues. The best way to get someone to open up to you is to make them feel comfortable within a few seconds, yes, not minutes, SECONDS, of meeting you or speaking with you. I learned this the hard way during the interview process for <a href="http://www.amazon.com/New-Face-Jazz-Intimate-Tomorrow/dp/0823000656/ref=cm_cr_pr_product_top" target="_blank">The New Face of Jazz</a>. I tried to get it right, especially at first when I was literally winging it, but then I realized that I had to forget the notion of greatness right out of the gate and listen to what the subject was telling me and saying without words. Body language. Radio silence on the other end of the phone...could I engage a complete stranger in a conversation that would eventually translate to mean something on the page? Can I now do this with myself? Despite my excuses of insomnia, circumstantial depression or situational weirdness? I don't know. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="body"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgk8NlQU4qJvQj_zdVMv3Bk_jEB3BdVmG5YyuRfOk9D7FV7ZYOCyBte8dhrfcdKsKd3ZcbWU4-sGDADQjVCieVkRP_i52qnYw89PxNnDll43ExZZ_UHv7Zywyz3gPIRjRieuvxUw2ajlhna/s1600/national-geographic-logo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="166" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgk8NlQU4qJvQj_zdVMv3Bk_jEB3BdVmG5YyuRfOk9D7FV7ZYOCyBte8dhrfcdKsKd3ZcbWU4-sGDADQjVCieVkRP_i52qnYw89PxNnDll43ExZZ_UHv7Zywyz3gPIRjRieuvxUw2ajlhna/s200/national-geographic-logo.jpg" width="200" /></a><span class="body">But I have to, and I know this to be true of everyone I know that has gone through this or something similar, pick up my arse and get my head out of the crack running down the middle of it. No excuses. I'm not the only one with more issues than National Geographic. (Thanks Suellen!)</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
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</div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="body">I know it's true. Sometimes words and walls are there just to be run into at the least opportune moment. Such as this one...at 3am. Oh well. Chasing pavements won't afford you opportunity, it will, instead, give you skinned knee and eat your elbows.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="body"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="body">I hope all of you reading this, right at this moment, went to bed earlier than I did. Or passed out from too much beer at a Super Bowl Party. Seize the opportunity to make the most of your day, regardless of the weight sitting on your shoulders. It can ALWAYS be worse. Mostly. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="body"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="body">Yours in Skinned Knees, Skirting through the Middle of the Night and Sailing through Today to Get to Tomorrow, </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="body"><br />
Cicily </span></div>Cicily Janushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16841849529479076806noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1536639124087019847.post-64047510728457952732012-02-02T12:17:00.001-07:002012-02-02T12:21:57.020-07:00Third Person Dreams<div style="text-align: center;"><i><b>Quote of the Day: </b></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span class="body">You have to believe that love will be there when you need it. </span></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span class="body">~Claire Danes~ </span></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i><span class="body">Current Local Weather: </span></i></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i><span class="body"> </span></i><span class="body"></span></b><span class="body">Snow. Slate-Cleansing snow. </span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="body"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><b><span class="body">Currently on my iPod: </span></b></i></div><div style="text-align: center;">"What Might Have Been"<br />
Little Texas</div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="body"> </span><b><i><span class="body"></span></i></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i><span class="body"><br />
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</span></i></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="body">Dear Friends, Family and My Family of Friends...</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="body">I love the anticipation of a good snow storm. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="body"><br />
</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-8Yp2Sq-k3LI5lXBCsZvL59KgqcOT3xzT0hilv6FAnEr_5Mmlae5G9KPp984jAoEU8tAhvo00y2nx3a791ZhcEeENLHj2TKh9hAdkN4u0oaCmVld-WCkhNH4kwHfpk0qxneFe6xb8ZNQr/s1600/snow-storm.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-8Yp2Sq-k3LI5lXBCsZvL59KgqcOT3xzT0hilv6FAnEr_5Mmlae5G9KPp984jAoEU8tAhvo00y2nx3a791ZhcEeENLHj2TKh9hAdkN4u0oaCmVld-WCkhNH4kwHfpk0qxneFe6xb8ZNQr/s320/snow-storm.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="body"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div>Growing up in<span class="body"> GA meant I had an unusual sense of the awesomeness known as snow. </span><span class="body">While growing up it didn't take much. The mere thought of snow meant we (my generation and younger) began, almost immediately, to hold out for our biggest hope of all hopes that school would cease to exist. It's not that we didn't care about learning or bettering ourselves, it was because flaky white goodness was the end all be all of seasonal rewards. We could stay up late and watch HBO, we didn't have to study! We could sleep in! Or better yet we could go into the ice, dressed in our once a year winter jacket and learn the ups and downs of frostbite. </span><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFDv5di0XnE4fUDGfFdV_ngdrDoSTokzh2PlFWL0fAO3yXGIM1VcLmm1YhwOfYc7MGY4w-fycTuUlneZJTcs-gmvFKDu-7z0DBKmNW_RpQLLtZe9Lvrqyz8ANpH73mMHbqxIuO8WNnea9g/s1600/ChristmasStorySnowsuit1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="256" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFDv5di0XnE4fUDGfFdV_ngdrDoSTokzh2PlFWL0fAO3yXGIM1VcLmm1YhwOfYc7MGY4w-fycTuUlneZJTcs-gmvFKDu-7z0DBKmNW_RpQLLtZe9Lvrqyz8ANpH73mMHbqxIuO8WNnea9g/s320/ChristmasStorySnowsuit1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
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<span class="body">Snow days ranked up there with waiting for Jesus/Guffman or the next Zombie Apocalypse. It just HAS to happen, right? </span><br />
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<span class="body"></span><span class="body">Snow is <i>THE</i> Jabberwocky of all things weather related in the South. It HAS to be real, right? </span><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0QjkxfYUYnP2S88GgXjZ1aeVWzTAm8yIiK2-siiDnD0bmd6IXueE5j73iTFXORtIDr0rBhGs_fsk0WWy0Q7imJCeeYkcJQL7HRySprur-rGWAIDZTkQf-O1D6kECKlDVhajAehAJfqVqK/s1600/flat,550x550,075,f.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0QjkxfYUYnP2S88GgXjZ1aeVWzTAm8yIiK2-siiDnD0bmd6IXueE5j73iTFXORtIDr0rBhGs_fsk0WWy0Q7imJCeeYkcJQL7HRySprur-rGWAIDZTkQf-O1D6kECKlDVhajAehAJfqVqK/s320/flat,550x550,075,f.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<span class="body">Just because we lived in the South didn't mean we didn't deserve days off of school for snow! But they were rare, hardly seen, hardly felt, feared by the adults and loved by kids. Snow...ah, the snow. The silent beauty.</span><br />
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</div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="body">Ah...memories...I'm reminded, while keeping one eye anxiously on the window, two ears plugged into Fleetwood Mac and my fingers moving to spin a yarn for you all, of those days and those third person dreams. Dreams of this type tend to appear as crazy or unfounded by those that believe dreaming is frivolous and hard work is the only bedfellow a person should have. I suppose those of us that do dream need to hold tight to our third person dreams for those that don't. It's our duty. There are those of us that weren't born to dream, we were born dreaming. Of course we lose our way and forget how we got where we are. Reminders of this life are sometimes blind, blunt and bewildering. This is when we must allow our peers to hold their third person dreams out there for us to borrow, enhance and send back for the next. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="body"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="body">This isn't always easy. As I get older and the snow storms become more of an expected nuisance, dreaming of a clean white slate of a day seems frivolous and boring, a waste of space in my mind. But it isn't. If we're not careful, as adults, we will soon be left with only a reflection of ourselves in those snow covered hills. By the time this happens we honestly risk our lives staring at that snow-covered hill. We will have forgotten to play in the snow and become a paranoid of avalanches, dreamless person. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="body">I love the Fleetwood Mac song, </span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="body"><a href="http://youtu.be/WM7-PYtXtJM" target="_blank">Landslide</a>. <span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="body"><span style="font-size: x-small;">***And the link is to the best version out there.***</span> </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="body"> </span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span class="body">And I saw my reflection in the snow covered hills </span></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span class="body">until the landslide brought me down...</span></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span class="body">oh mirror in the sky, what is love..</span></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span class="body">can the child within my heart, rise above.</span></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span class="body">Can I sail through the changing ocean tide, </span></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span class="body">can I handle the seasons of my life...</span></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span class="body"><br />
Well, I've been afraid of changing, cause I built my life around you.</span></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span class="body">But time makes you bolder, even children get older, and I'm getting older too. </span></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span class="body"><br />
</span></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span class="body">Oh I'm getting older too...so... </span></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span class="body">Take this love, take it down. </span></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span class="body">If you climb a mountain and you turn around. </span></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span class="body">and if you see my reflection in the snow covered hills</span></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span class="body">well the landslide will bring you down...down...</span></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span class="body">and if you see my reflection in the snow covered hills....</span></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span class="body">well maybe, the landslide will bring you down...</span></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="body"><i>well, well, the landslide will bring you down.</i></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="body">Nothing like a good Stevie Nicks set of lyrics to bring the tears on...and you back to your dreaming self. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOM2hf1j7S9HJShGgg0oRHgRpFMUKhxi7zgzMiEurptOXAn5SpiqbHgxuB5dQ4qohY4ufi3zv4h1p1_FGUw2IgU4y-RYM-xpIRsURzDlCR_jK-5IpTbd4E5sYT8Li1zu2XeimliE4N7EDv/s1600/Stevie_Nicks_25.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOM2hf1j7S9HJShGgg0oRHgRpFMUKhxi7zgzMiEurptOXAn5SpiqbHgxuB5dQ4qohY4ufi3zv4h1p1_FGUw2IgU4y-RYM-xpIRsURzDlCR_jK-5IpTbd4E5sYT8Li1zu2XeimliE4N7EDv/s320/Stevie_Nicks_25.jpg" width="264" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
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</div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="body">So, what's the point? I have to confess. I'm amidst something I think could be great, honestly so. And no, it's not my medical crap. I've recently experienced something I'd rather keep to myself for now. It started as a hope/fear of the unknown and became this unexpected, wonderful and worrisome thing all at once. Turns out, I'm smack dab in the middle of a third person dream. Someone from an unknown constellation is lending this to me and they knew right when I needed it. This isn't my dream. It's, at least not from where I stand, always a good thing but looks like it might get there. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="body">It's a landslide. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="body"> </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="body">It's ok. I'll either die trying to find a safe place for myself in it or I will live to see what the land beneath it looks like. Either way, I can't complain. I don't know what I haven't seen. I don't understand what I can't hear or feel and like most, I fear all of it. The good and bad, the known and unknown. We're bred to live in a life where we address those that are part of our current known dream in the second person and find it ridiculous to live in the third and observe our lives from the outside in. Even if only for a moment. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="body"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="body">My third person life kinda goes like this: Cicily likes to dream in color. She finds the best people she possibly can and attaches herself to them like one of those sticky octopuses that walk on walls that she used to collect from Happy meals...She thinks Salt-Water Taffy was invented by dentists, slips in & out of conscious thought all day long and truly believes that snow is the best of all known distractions. Cicily is currently dreaming. Please don't disturb her. Just trust it will get better, just like she does.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="body"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="body">Yours in Dreams, Drifts and Delivering a Delirious Draft,</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="body"><br />
Cicily </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="body"><br />
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</div>Cicily Janushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16841849529479076806noreply@blogger.com0