Going to Denver Because You're Dead (1)

Readers of this blog and those who know me personally are aware that recent events are not only pivotal in my life, but a necessary means of maintaining (or perhaps retrieving) my sanity.

I knew that moving would be stressful--I added it up, and I've done it exactly 42 times. That makes me somewhat of an expert. Yet, expertise did not make a single one of these moves "pleasant." It's just not the nature of the beast.

The only difference this time was that I wanted it more than any other move, planned for it longer, and sacrificed more to make it happen...oh, and I actually paid other people (for the first time ever) to do the loading and unloading. That still didn't seem to prevent the pain and suffering physically, I assume because I had just gotten over my ruptured disc, and there was inevitably a thousand things to do and no one but me to get them done. For these reasons, I imagined that the drive would be the easy part. Boy was I wrong. Below are excerpts from my Facebook mobile posts, as well as some commentary before, during and after.


Jae Baeli: I got a dash/window mount cradle for my iPhone so I can be both hands free and also take "road pictures"...I will be posting photo diary along the way just for fun July 30 at 3:42pm ·

Tanya Gotcher: This ought to be interesting!!!!

Wendy Masker: I'm jealous! I love Colorado!!

Jae Baeli: well i welcome all visitors. unless you're certifiably insane, a drug user, or a drunk. so i think you're good to go

July 30
Ok. Be glad when Justi gets here to take me to lunch . these stale tortillas topped with gummi bears just aren't making me happy.


Tammy Johnson: High blood sugar always helps and it's good to see that you two recognized this and had fried ice cream.......ancient Chinese secret.....Looking forward to your road adventures my friend.....Love you!

Before leaving town, my best friend, Justi, took me to lunch at La Fajitas. She gave me this beautiful White Gold and Aquamarine ring. Now every time i look at it, I'll be reminded that i have the best best friend in the world.


After our meal, Justi flagged down the waiter and asked, "What do you have for dessert?"

The waiter said, "Flan."

"Do you have anything else?"

"No."

"Well you don't have fried ice cream?"

"Yes."

And he was off to fetch the ice cream he didn't have .

Then she said, "Um, didn't he say he didn't have anything else? "

"Mmm-hm."

In a tone laced with that sarcasm i love so much, she said under her breath, "How about some fried ice cream-flavored flan?"

And I laughed. I love her.

Jae Baeli: I could not handle a maudlin goodbye with Justi. So we said "see you later, be careful. I love you." and then just left it before the waterworks started. July 30 at 4:28pm ·


The U-Haul

Got to the U-haul place and was informed that my trailer was not there. Somehow the information had not been transferred. This, after I stopped by twice to make sure all was okay. She supposedly had put in the request, but it had not been handled. She tried to make it sound like it was the other person's fault. But when you know someone had an appointment to come in at a certain time to pick up a trailer, don't you notice that the trailer isn't there? I swear.

So, it gets worse. She tells me i have to go pick up the trailer in Oklahoma--about a 60 mile drive, one-way. Without another option, i drive there, and have hell finding the place, as the directions are really bad and there seem to be two addresses the same and only one is the one i need.

Finally i find it and then discover they don't have a dolly for me there. I'll have to get that at some other U-Haul back my direction. And then there's no one to lift that trailer onto my hitch. So i have to do it with her and her 10 year old son. I'm sure my newly healed herniated disc appreciated that.

All this put me 8 hours behind schedule because i had to reschedule the loaders for later in the afternoon. Wed at 7:08pm

Tanya Gotcher: U just started, don't cry yet!!!!!

Jae Baeli: I know. I got a grip. I refuse to let that one thing screw up my happy happy joy joy.

Okay, so then the movers arrive later in the day, and it becomes abundantly clear that neither of them knew thing-one about moving. I had to give strict instructions on how to stack the tubs, with the heaviest in the front of the trailer and on the bottom.

Then when they got to my TV--that massive, leaden box i wish i could exchange for a massive flat screen--this was a whole new exercise in futility. I had to explain to put it heavy-side against the dolly, with it PADDED SO THE SCREEN WOULD NOT BE DAMAGED. That it had to be on its side to fit through the door, etc. Then he backed through the front door and pulled the Dolly with the TV on it toward the step and lets it just drop down. BAM! I stopped him immediately and explained that he had to push it TOWARD the drop, and control the descent, and let it slide along the runners against the step. Ease it down gently.

Dumbass.

I was afraid the TV might have been damaged beyond repair but couldn't deal with it then. They were very slow, and when they got all the heavy stuff in, and hauled some stuff to the dumpster, i just told them i could do the rest. I didn't want to pay them for that extra time to destroy something else.

They had agreed to $20 a piece, but i gave them $60. Not sure why i gave them more. I guess, because i felt guilty being so intolerant and judgmental. It was a pay off to my conscience.

After that, i spent the entire night not sleeping--no--but cleaning and loading the rest of the stuff. Amazing how much is left to do after a three-story house is empty. I flirted with re-injury of my disc as well as doing that to a few more. I was exhausted, but had no choice. Again, it's always just me. And it always has to get done. By me.

Jae Baeli: Had nap now back to work. have to fix the vacuum. belt came off. I'm near final stages of pack n clean. I want to be done! My cats are starting to freak out because the tallest, softest object in the room is ME.

Tammy Johnson: A woman with tools.....sigh......:-}

I'm like that Dyson guy when he says in that British accent: "I just think things ought to work properly." WHy is it that a vacuum belt breaks and/or stops working because it gets clogged with things it was designed to handle? And why can't it refrain from this clogging while i am working my ass off to get things done and don't need another problem to deal with?

I take a time-out and Monkey is immediately on my chest, as she still believes she weighs 10 ounces. She likes to put her head on my lips so i will kiss her. Love that cat.


Jae Baeli: I am lying on the airbed moaning...And not in a good way.

I had to help with the stuff on the dolly bc mover-guy didn't quite understand how to do it. Hope my tv works when I get to co. If it doesn't, I guess I'll just make Erin entertain me ...


Tammy Johnson: The single woman's lament........ Fri at 8:23am

Erin Black: Entertain? I can!! I will!!! heehee!!! Sat at 3:23am

Thought i had lost Monkey when the landlord came to inspect. Freaked me out. I was sick. Then i realized she had been in the room the whole time, just doing something she never does--hide.

See her by the wall beneath the covers?

Jae Baeli: This feels like every other move, now. Pain. Exhaustion. Frustration. But this place is almost done. If my landlord doesn't give me my deposit back I'll have to kill him.

Tammy Johnson: Remember, friends help you hide the body! Good morning sunshine!! Today's the day! Woohoo you!!

Jae Baeli: Yes I'm trying to focus on leaving and how good that feels. I am dog tired tho. Landlord will be back with final papers and dep refund chk in a minute.

Then I'm taking a nap. And more ibuprofen.

c'mon baby, let's get out of this town. I got a full tank of gas and the moonroof down... Baby you can text while I drive...

(continued in next post...)

Going to Denver Because You're Dead (1)

Bettered by a Dead Crustacean

A new Chinese restaurant opened up on Holiday Island, and they served all you can eat crab legs. So my best friend, Justi, thought of me (bless her). I went down to have the last of two visits with her before i move. I love crab legs, but rarely find it all-you-can-eat for around $12.

So I was all about it.

Problem is, I usually get hurt.

Is it just me, or do you really feel like you've earned it when you get that delicious meat out of the shell? I am usually bleeding before I'm done. I know the picture doesn't look all that bad, but that was 5 days after the injury. A crab-cut hurts like hell when it's in the fold of your finger. Got one on my thumb too. It did cause me some consternation that I was bettered by a dead crustacean, but I guess I'll get over it.

But the process hearkens back to the old days when people had to get their food from the source. It's the closest I'll come to hunting, i suppose. You'll notice in the photo that it takes two big strong, color-coordinated men to hold this crab. I don't feel so fragile, now. (And I bet they were embarrassed when they showed up for work wearing the same outfit).

Crabs are arthropods, which means they have segmented appendages. I guess I'm an arthropod,
too, then. I got the cut in one of the creases of my appendage.

Crabs are also decapods, meaning that have ten legs. I am not a decopod, though that might be fun....(now I'll probably have a nightmare tonight. Me, with ten legs, running down the street screaming that my appendages are bleeding...) Anyway...

Crabs are also crustaceans, and I am not a crustacean, either....I can't imagine having an exoskeleton. How would you like to have your skeleton on the outside instead of the inside? I suppose it would be easier to spot a broken bone. But...really quite strange when you think about it.

Worldwide, humans eat over one and a half million tons of crab. Two or three ounces of crab meat will supply a whole days' worth of vitamin B-12



I wonder who was the first person to look at the bony, spidery, horror-movie-type creature and think,

"Man I bet that tastes good" ?

I mean really.

Even crazier, is the fact that I have a healthy repulsion and fear of spiders.

And crab--they look like spiders.

And YET...

I EAT THEIR LEGS
and go nom nom nom.

How sick is that?

Bettered by a Dead Crustacean

Turn, Turn Turn: UnAbridged But Edited

Okay, so i made a change to the signature portion of the document in question.

As i said on Facebook, perhaps this will allay the fears of the Ex and her minions.

Turn, Turn Turn: UnAbridged But Edited

Turn Turn, Turn: the Phantom Ex

Okay, again, my heart is pounding, and again, I am off balance, trying to sooth my trembling hands...

I'm not one to go around asking for advice. I'm usually only giving it, but i just might need some insight from my Facebook friends. I just found a message on my phone from.....GUESS WHO?

The Ex. The one who wrote that inscription to me, and the the one that I suppose is at the root of all this crap with Becky Haynes. It's surprisingly nerve-wracking to hear the voice of a person you were in love with over a decade ago. Surreal. (And after that long, still having any reaction at ALL--what's that about?).

She was perfectly civil. This is what she said:

"Hey Kelli this is Tammy. I understand you posted some personal letter or card or something from me on your Facebook page. I would appreciate it if you would remove that, it was never intended for the whole world to see, and I don't really appreciate that, and i wish you would remove that, and anything else like that. Thanks."

Okay, first, obviously, she hasn't seen it. Because she didn't seem to know just what was posted.

Second, she obliviously doesn't know much about Facebook, or she'd know that it was not "For the whole world to see"--it was only seen by those on my Friend's List, of which Becky was a part, and this is the only reason it got back to her.

Third, what the hell about it is so personal? --That it reveals that someone named Tammy had a relationship with me 12 years ago, and at least one time, she wrote something cute and affectionate in side the cover of a book she gave me?

Oh HORRORS. What will all those BILLIONS of people think of her?

Seriously, why would she care? I asked myself that question yesterday. If the shoe were on the other foot, would i care that she posted an inscription JUST LIKE THAT, from me, on her Facebook? Um, NO. Why would I?

Even if I acknowledged that people have differing views of what is "private", especially in today's wide-open technology environment, respecting some dubious infringement on that privacy seems to be predicated on whether i should care, in relation to this person.

This is the person who managed to push me out of BOTH of my bands, and summarily took away my biggest dreams. Now, understand, i was the principal songwriter, lead singer, booking agent, publicist, bought the equipment on MY CREDIT, carried it all in MY van, which got trashed, and never got any compensation for any of it. Not even GAS MONEY.

This is the person who abandoned our first band and bandmates, without giving them an explanation, though I begged her to--and in so doing, also crushed THEIR dreams.

In fairness, she had just lost her younger brother and was grieving. So I was afraid to do anything BUT be supportive. Ultimately, though, I was too in love with her to stand up and say, "If you don't explain it to them, I will." So i went along with it, because i was supporting my partner in her needs.

Then she wanted to start a new project, and I didn't understand, because i thought she wanted to be away from the music for a while. Again, another misjudgment I made by going along with that. But after we broke up partway into that second project, I had to keep playing music with her while she was being cruel and hateful to me. She would place the other member between me and her on stage, (there were only three of us, it was an acoustic trio), and they would start songs without telling me what they were, and do songs i didn't even know, and I was the Lead Singer.

How many times have you seen the lead singer off to one side, while the backup singer and guitarists were clumped together on the other? There's a reason why the stage configuration is the way it is....So then that meant the other singer could sing all these songs SHE knew and I was left over on one side, trying to figure out what was going on. It felt awful.

I had to watch them leave shows, and go off together to talk about the experience, while I went home alone WITH THE EQUIPMENT, which i usually had to unload myself.

Finally, with visions of throwing myself in front of a train, I had to walk away from that dream, too. I contacted both of my previous bandmates and I offered an apology for what happened before with the first band; I told them both i had been a spineless ninny, and that they didn't deserve that. I asked for their forgiveness and they both gave it and said they understood.

Since then, my Ex has apparently amassed some kind of musical posse from that past to collectively ignore and hate me. Everyone in that circle of people has discarded me like so much dryer lint. There are all kinds of examples, but I'd rather not resurrect any more of that crap from the past, than i have already done here, by way of explanation.

The point is, this person (The Ex) has never given me any reason to respect ANYTHING she might want. She never showed any respect to me at all. And I'm aware of, and am now recalling, how many times I took the high road with all that, and how many times, i erred on the side of "being nice" and "doing the right thing." Being honorable only got be a boot in the teeth. And it got me ostracized from my own life. I became the Historical Pariah of that Clique of people. That Clique that is now all intertwined again in more musical projects together.

So now, I'm supposed to take down that little inscription photo, as if I had been reprimanded like a child, take it on the chin, and grin and shuffle and say "Yes massah"?

I don't fucking think so.

It makes me want to have it printed in the newspaper in a full page ad.

If someone asks me to protect their privacy, I would normally do that--I don't infringe on that unless a person has betrayed me, and then I just don't care. It becomes material for my own evolution, community property for others to mull over and perhaps learn from, and fodder for my writing.

And yes, sometimes it becomes my own paltry revenge, the only way I know how. Someone screws me over, and they usually end up being an exceedingly unlikeable character in one of my books. This, in lieu of tire slashing or keying their car. I am patently nonviolent. My wars are usually intellectual ones.

So, to a Jury of my Peers....what say you?

Turn Turn, Turn: the Phantom Ex

Turn, Turn, Turn

{reposted from Facebook}

I just had a really unsettling experience. I'm trying right now to just calm my thumping heart, and take a breath.

One thing that is no secret about me, is that I don't have many secrets. I am pretty open. I have to be, because I am a creative person who produces creative material. But I don't pretend that I'm so special that i don't have a day to day life with day to day struggles and victories that i wish to share with those in my life. Nor do I pretend that human nature is always simple. There's something else I make no secret of about myself. I will be the best friend in the world to someone, if they treat me right. But the second they turn on me, all bets are off. A longtime friend with whom I haven't had much regular contact in recent years, just got really hateful & posted a couple of confrontational and venomous statements to me. I tried to click her on my friends list to write to her and find out what the hell was going on, but discovered she had removed herself from my friends list, so I couldn't.

BACKSTORY: Earlier today, a friend called and asked my permission to give this person i mentioned above, my new phone number. I told her of course, but was confused because she was on my friend's list and could have just asked me. A bit later, i wrote to this longtime friend and asked her why she didn't just ask me for a phone number instead of asking another friend of mine. She was on my friends list. I would have been happy to provide it. But since we hadn't been in touch a lot lately, I didn't think to give it to her. I wasn't hateful, i just wondered why she went through the other friend, instead of simply asking when she was on Facebook posting about her shows. Her response?

"No, I have better things to do than sit on Facebook for hours looking up information. I went straight to a source so that would have it."

Better things to do than be on Facebook--I guess like THE REST OF US LOSERS. She effectively managed to trivialize the relationships we build by keeping in touch with each other each day. And some of us do want to be able to network according to other things we wish to share, like our music, our writing, our art....She had better things to do...Yet, has no problem using that friends list to announce her performances. I guess it's just business, then, and not that she really cares about all those people.

It seems the big transgression was that i posted an inscription in a book given to me from an ex gf from TWELVE YEARS ago. I did it because it was a blast from the past & gave me a chuckle. This angry person made that hateful comment, and then I discovered she made another, under the inscription picture i posted. See, she's still friends with that ex of mine, so that's the connection. beneath all the other posts on that page, she said:

"Facebook is a wonderful tool for staying in touch with friends but digging up personal business and making it public is crossing the line. It absolutely serves no purpose."

Um---digging up PERSONAL BUSINESS? An ex who wrote that she thought i was an alien sometimes but she loved me? TWELVE FREAKING YEARS AGO?? how personal can that really be? And it only had her first name on it...WTF?


I will say this. I am aware that there's a group of people from that period in my life who insist on judging me by who I was then, during some pretty tough times for me. I moved on, i tried to evolve, and I even tried to remain friends with them. But no. I was evil. That's just really sad.

But here's the part that hurts. I never did anything to this angry longtime friend. We had kept in touch on and off over the years. So why now, is her allegiance to my ex so profoundly strong that she felt the need to attack me for posting an innocuous inscription from ancient history???

Is there something I'm missing here? What is my crime, again?

I have written this because I want it all out there. All honest and no pretense. I always try to take the high road. I always try to do the right thing. Sometimes I screw up, but I always admit to it and try to figure it out and do better. I want to be clear where i stand on this.

So, to Becky Haynes, my longtime friend who decided to attack me unprovoked, i say this with the utmost sincerity:


Fuck off.

Turn, Turn, Turn

Leaving no Pebble Unturned

So one day after this long dry desert of sexual activity, i finally had sex again. And as a joke, i put a glass pebble in this tall tubular jar. Then another one, each time I had sex again. And another. I was dating a very enthusiastic young woman. So after there were about 40 pebbles in the jar, i was feeling rather studly and my self-esteem got a much needed boost. So i kept putting pebbles in the jar each time. By the time I had booted the sex-hungry young woman for her pathological lying, i had about 84 pebbles in the jar. (And no, I'm not pathologically lying. I swear. 80-something. Those who have read my book, Plethora, will recognize her in the chapter, "A Wish Called Wanda.").

So this trend continued throughout my series of dating excursions, until the jar was getting pretty damn full, since i was inevitably, and with a degree of mystery, intent on filling that jar with pebbles. Each girl was represented by a different color pebble, so that the jar became this montage of carnal delights every time i looked at it. (My best friend once asked--"What's that one black pebble for?" I told her never mind, i wanted to forget that one).

Eventually, i hit the intimacy desert again, and the jar came to a screeching halt at a certain level. It gathered dust. And mostly, it mocked me. Where's all that irresistible charm and sexual prowess, now, Baeli? it accused. I told it to shut up, but somehow couldn't put that jar away because it meant something. It meant that for one prolonged period of my single life, I was in demand. I had had my way with a string of women and had ultimately done everything i could possibly think of to satiate my desires. I had sex. Lots and lots of sex.

Now, I am starting a new chapter in my life, moving to Colorado, and hoping to again end this desert of celibacy I've found myself in for the last two and a half years. But, perhaps bravely, I put that jar and its intact pebbles in the Moving Sale.

And let me tell you, there's nothing like selling my sex jar to a little old lady who dangled her fingers in it, swirled the pebbles around and said, "Ooo, these feel good."

And I stifled a rude cackle. "Why yes," I said. "They certainly do. But I have to let them go."

Leaving no Pebble Unturned

Stick Buggin' in the Grocery Store

It's no secret that I am a student of human nature. I enjoy watching people and trying to understand them. Sometimes this understanding is predicated on experiments. I call that Stick-buggin'. It's like when a child pokes at an insect with a stick, to see what it will do...

Once, in a grocery store, I was ruminating to some friends about how people have certain boundaries, and that I like to cross them to see what they'll do. They wanted an example.

So I took a lady's basket. She turned and said "Hey! That's my basket!" I stopped and said, "No, it belongs to the store." "I mean the stuff in in it," she said. "That belongs to the store too." I countered. "You haven't paid for it. And I like what's in here, so I'm taking it. "

And I shot around to the other aisle, and me and my friends were cracking up. I went back after a few seconds and she was still standing there, dumbfounded, with a can of peas in her hand. I laughed and told her it was a dare, and I was just kidding. Fortunately, she had a sense of humor and didn't bean me with the beans.

Stick Buggin' in the Grocery Store

What Money Can Buy

I was at the store, returning some merchandise and then grabbing a few things while I was there. When i checked out, I used two gift cards, expecting to still pay a remainder in cash, since I had bought three shirts. I was pleased to see that the bill was not as high as I expected, and then started for the door. halfway there, I noticed the shirts were still draped over the basket, but they had been right there in plain site of the cashier. As I neared the security device, I thought Well, if these were not paid for, that thing will go off...it didn't, so I continued on, my mind full of the next hundred things I needed to do. When I got out to the Cherryot, (the name I gave my new-to-me red Blazer) I dug the receipt out and looked it over. All the stuff in bags was listed, but the shirts weren't on the receipt. I checked the other two gift card receipts. Not there either.

This is the part where you have to make those crucial decisions about your own ethics.

Everything had been going so well for me lately. My luck had finally shifted. All that past bitterness about always being the best person I could be, even when there was no reward and seemingly many punishments for it, had dissipated. Maybe three free shirts is my karmic reward for all the crap I went thorough, and all the times I did the right thing, even if everyone else did otherwise. Even if it cost me dearly. Even if it hurt like hell. And I thought maybe this was my little treat from the Universe.

I started to sense that gnawing little guilt-beaver in my gut...

Bullshit, came the other, more discerning voice in my head. Go pay for the shirts.

I knew that I would not have made it out of the parking lot with those shirts, anyway. I would have been watching for cops, getting paranoid...Just because I didn't get caught, didn't make it okay. The fact that I had a tiny moment wherein I tried to justify an unethical decision, made me feel even worse about it. That's when I knew I musn't ever let some misplaced bitterness alter what I believe myself to be, at my core. And someone who takes advantage of an oversight like that, is simply not who I wish to be.

I went back inside and explained it to the clerk. She touched me on the arm and said, "Thank you. Most people would have kept going."

"You're welcome." I told her.

She was effusive in her gratitude, saying that it would have come out of her check. No telling what that could have meant for her. It wasn't much, but it still mattered.

Still, I know I didn't do it for that reason--I hadn't even thought of that. I did it because it was who I wanted to be. I gave her the cash to settle up, and on my way out of the store, I felt lighter, and smiled. Guilt gone. Proud to be me.

Sometimes money really can buy peace of mind.

What Money Can Buy

Comment on "Blogs aren't legit Writing" article

In my periodic Google search on my name, i found this comment which i forgot about:


Allena's Freelance Writing Blog
http://freelancewrite.about.com/b/2008/03/23/blogs-arent-legit-writing.htm
By Allena Tapia, About.com Guide to Freelance Writing

"Blogs Aren't Legit Writing"
Sunday March 23, 2008

I recently had a couple readers forward me a small rant from someone stating that blogs aren't legitimate writing. This person indicated that blogs were basically a way for people to see their name in print, and nothing else. I think this was the attitude of "if anyone can do it, than it's not legit."

The thing is, everyone can blog. But, everyone cannot blog well.

What makes a form of writing legit? I've heard people say that if you're paid for it, you're therefore a professional. I've been paid for blogging in my writing career- some very lucrative, TYVM. And, despite the informality of a blog, I've written some decent pieces in blog form.

Do you view blogging as legitimate writing? Why or why not?



12) Jae Baeli says:

First, always consider the source. For someone to make this comment, I would first ask, “Who says so?”

Second, it is never about the form the writing takes, but the quality of the writing in that form. Yes, anyone can write, but not everyone can write well.

I have 12 books in print and I blog just about every day. It’s a way to keep the juices flowing, but it’s also a legitimate form in and of itself. Anyone who thinks otherwise is, of course, entitled to their opinion, but I think he or she will find that serious writers object fiercely to this absolute. Almost nothing is absolute. Certainly not brains, as the critic you mentioned so brilliantly illustrates.

Jae Baeli

Comment on "Blogs aren't legit Writing" article

Independence Night for Phylum Annelida Luminaria

Very few people are privy to all the mysteries that surround us. I was not only witness to one tonight, but managed to capture photos of it.

In my usual evening walk around the golf, course, I heard the familiar crack of fireworks, now familiar since hearing them from inside the house all evening. It made me feel like a reporter in Baghdad. Now, i turned to see the display, and immediate caught site of swiftly moving objects from the trees and the ground beneath the Independence Day light show. These "glow worms" began to appear closer to me, increasing in number each time the pop and bang of fireworks filled the sky. They were obviously being frightened by the noise.

Lightworms feed on grass and leaves, but their favorite delicacy is the occasional crunchy golf tee they find in the swards of green. They are night creatures, who need no flashlights, for they are their own illumination, much like the nearby fireflies. Most people don't know that fireflies receive the substance that makes them glow from eating Lightworms.

A relative of the Glow worm, Lampyris noctiluca, found in the United Kingdom, the American species is called Phylum Annelida Luminaria. In the daytime, they appear as normal earthworms, but at night, their skins illuminate by a chemical reaction that activates photosynthesis cells which have stored up light energy in the form of photons during the day. They are indeed ecologically friendly, as they use solar energy to sustain themselves.

Once this bioluminescence is activated, they begin to jettison themselves from holes in the ground, usually with no more height than a grasshopper. But when frightened, adrenaline forces them out with three times the speed, and four times the trajectory height and distance.

There have been people injured by flying Lightworms, but most assume it was a June bug, and this is usually only reported on the 4th of July.

I feel privileged to have captured such a rare moment, and know that paranormal researchers everywhere will be seeking me out. But i will not tell them where the Lightworms live, as i feel it is their right to be left in peace. Once a year, they are scattered in fear, while Americans celebrate their independence day. I can only return the favor by allowing their freedom to exist in peace the other days of the year.

Be well, little LightWorms.

Independence Night for Phylum Annelida Luminaria

Enough about you

I've been in a really positive place lately because everything is going so well, and I am on schedule for my move to Colorado. It's 33 more days!! Yea! Things are going my way, and if you are a regular reader, you know that it's cause for celebration. Anyway, just because I'm in a good space, doesn't mean i don't still notice some of those little niggling things that operate like a tack in my shoe.

Here's a niggling niggler: when you are on the phone with someone, many times over a series of days or weeks, and they never think to ask anything about you; what's going on in YOUR life, how YOU'RE doing...and when you bait them by saying, "Sorry I didn't get your call. I was busy on this new project--"

They don't say, "Oh, what was that?" they say, "Anyway, I was calling because blah blah effing blah." Me me me. You realize you are merely a sounding board for the sweet echo of their own voice. It's a monologue delivered to a live, but silent audience. Conversational masturbation.

Don't get me wrong. I can be a talker, and I pride myself in being able to intelligently discuss a long list of subjects; and I can get on a roll and not only debate, but usurp a conversation if I get all excited about the subject...but I never forget that other people have things to add, and I always give them a chance to do that, especially after I feel compelled to expound on something at length. I apologize for my loquaciousness, and invite them to do the same. And I always ask people about what's going on with them; give them an opportunity to share, and ask questions where clarity is needed, all in an effort to show them that I care about them, and what they have to say.

Thus, when I come across a person who keeps calling and talking about themselves, but never appears to have any interest in me or my life...well, that's just patently self absorbed. And I find that I am not keen on answering the phone.

Grateful, now, for caller ID.

Enough about you

Jae-Walking

My new exercise program consists primarily of walking, (and sometimes Jumping to Conclusions). I prefer walking the golf course for several reasons:

• aesthetics (Not many parks around here--the golf course is the "parkiest" place,
• convenience--it's just down the hill,
• the winding, undulating path gives variety to the muscle-workout, and
• I guess I have a secret desire to be beaned with a golf ball.

There's a little old man on a golf cart who patrols the area; he's more like the Hall Monitor than a Security Guard. My first encounter with him went something like this:

He whirs up next to me and stops, saying, "You shouldn't be walking here."

Obligingly, I play along. "Why not?"

"You could get hit by a golf ball."

"Interesting you should bring that up," I say, proud of my forethought in doing a little Googling, just on the off-chance I might have this exact encounter. "There is a zero point 1 percent chance of that happening. Odds are higher that I'll be struck by lightning. I think I'll take my chances." I have a moment of abject fear when i hear thunder in the distance, but just decided that this irony would be too profound to consider, and was instead the slurry of bad comedies. "I think I'll take my chances," I add, knowing that the odds of getting struck by lighting while golfing were much higher, but i wasn't golfing. I was walking. Jaywalking, apparently. (Jae, walking. snort snort).

He rubs his chin and squints into the sun, mumbling, "Well...still...we wouldn't want to be responsible if it did happen, you know..."

"I'd be happy to sign a waiver," I say, smiling.

He moves something around inside his mouth and offers, "Well, okay... but keep your eyes peeled." And he whirs away on the little cart. Peeling eyes. Eye peeling. Colloquialisms from hell.

The next day, we cross paths again and he smiles and greets me like we're friends. I pause and say, "Aren't you going to offer me a ride?"

His caterpillar eyebrows squirmed high on his forehead. "I thought you were walking for exercise."

"Still, it's only proper to offer. It's really hot today."

"Would you like a ride?" he asked agreeably.

"No thanks. I'm trying to get my exercise." I walked away, smiling, and heard him chuckle behind me. I don't know why I feel the need to fuck with people so much.

After a midnight run through Wal-Mart, I decided that my earlier walk and the shopping still was not enough to make up for the cheese sticks I indulged in for lunch, so I decided to go one more round on the golf course. It was one in the morning....No golf ball hazards, I told myself. No whirring, Golfing Police with caterpillar eyebrows and a concern for my well-being and the liability of the country club. And perhaps more important for my winter-loving ass, no blazing noonday sunshine.

So, I'm walking around the dark course, realizing that although I had the presence of mind to bring a flashlight, it's still spooky in the pitch dark outside with all that greenspace. Night time critters, doncha know. Or the errant serial killer. I stopped after getting about 100 yards into it...had one of those moments. Should I go back? Did i think this through properly?

Luckily, any continued distress was alleviated by the fact that I had a pistol in my kangaroo pouch (no, i don't have a flap of skin on my belly...on second thought, maybe I do..I have lost some weight. Anyway...) I pulled the diminutive .25 out of the pouch and held it, redirected the flashlight and started walking again. What event, I mused, would justify me firing this gun? I had a quick image of a rabid raccoon hugging my legs and gnawing a hole in my kneecap. Not likely, but dramatic enough to entertain me. Then I had an image of a buck deer, trying to impale me with his antlers. Why would he do that? I was in his territory and he mistook me for another buck deer? Ridiculous, even though I do have quite a rack.

The only wildlife I did see was either a raccoon or a possum, and all I could really make out was two glowing eyes as he begrudgingly moved toward the taller grass. I finally made my way around the other side, realizing I could put my pistol back in the pouch, as it was unlikely I'd need to use it, and if I did, it would not be a quick draw.

Feeling like those cheese sticks had magically increased my Body Mass Index to 62%, I headed for the footbridge, vowing to eat only fruit and drink only water tomorrow. Then I saw the headlights. Headlights pointed toward the golf course. Toward ME. I thought, ah, there's that serial killer, now, my hand moving to the opening of the pouch, locating the handle of the .25. Admittedly, it was the type of firearm that would only piss off any attacker, and distract him long enough for me to escape, but it was better than just a flashlight and a kangaroo pouch. I continued moving toward my Blazer and he got out and said, "Hello!" Maybe it's the Caterpillar Eyebrows dude. When the beam of a Maglite caught me in the face, I realized who it was. A cop. Now, I had a quick hope for something like this::


But what I got was this:

I could now see the white car, with the stripe on the side and those precious twirling blue lights on the top, thankfully not in use at the moment. I understood that he was checking out who the oddball was walking on the golf course in the pitch dark with a flashlight. "Everything okay?" he asked.

That's when it occurred to me that having a gun in your kangaroo pouch with an inquisitive cop a few yards away, was not one of my better situations. I knew I could not give him any reason to be suspicious. My creative, novel-writing mind kicked in. So I lied. I told him I had dropped my cell phone earlier and had to come back and look for it.

He immediately accepted that, and I thanked him for asking, and said it was good to know that the Bella Vista Police Department was out and about, keeping everyone safe. Considering the zero crime rate in this little retirement village, that was such an overstatement, it bordered on sarcasm, so I decided to zip it. He wished me a good evening and pulled away to investigate some other menace. Like a buck deer goring a raccoon on another golf course.

Jae-Walking

Somewhere Else (excerpt)

1

The Color of Confusion

Cornelius paused with vermilion up on his brush, about to make a bold swath across the canvas, when he noticed Daelah. Placing the loaded brush in his teeth, he reached down and readjusted the position of his wheelchair so he could see her better.

At the end of the long corridor leading to the kitchen, she stood at the foot of the stairs, looking up at the ceiling, and down at her hands, and touching her own face.

Cornelius frowned, a drop of vermilion free falling from the end of his brush onto a dried spot of cobalt blue on his sweats. A tapping grew louder and he twisted toward the back hallway leading out of the living room as Jubal made his way toward Cornelius, seated at his easel. Jubal moved the white-tipped cane back and forth in front of him. Tap. Tap. Tap, Tap.

Cornelius took the brush from his mouth and caught his attention. "Psst!"

Jubal paused, one hand on the saxophone dangling from a cord around his pale neck, the other on the cane. His lifting of eyebrows at the sound made his wraparound sunglasses bob upward on his nose. "What?" he whispered back.

Keeping his voice in a whisper, still, Cornelius said, "Have you noticed anything strange about Daelah today?"

"How would I notice anything about Daelah?" The blind man smirked.

He swiped a hand down his face, to smooth his Van Dyke style goatee. "You know what I mean."

"Well, yes. . ." He took a few steps forward, sliding the tip of the cane along the wood floor in front of him. "She smells different."

"Smells different?"

"Yeah."

"New perfume?"

"Nope. Individual, natural scent is different."

"Okay, weirdness." Cornelius turned back to watch Daelah who was now reaching toward the ceiling, stretching like a cat, and moaning with pleasure.

Jubal cocked his head toward her sounds. "What the hell is she doing? Playing with herself?"

"Just stretching. . .but weird, like she's never stretched before. She seems to be enjoying it too much."

Jubal took measured steps forward, made a left face, and then moved quietly down the hall, holding his cane against his chest. He paused not three feet behind her, and put the saxophone to his lips, blowing a rude honk at her.

She jumped, stumbled against the wall and stared at him.

Feigning ignorance, he said, "Oh, is someone there?" He lifted his cane and swept it side to side, comically searching for her.

In the living room threshold, Cornelius let out a humorous huff. His friend Jubal enjoyed playing the blind man all the way to the bone. He had embraced his disability with unusual flair.

Daelah looked at the tall, angular blind man. Almost-flawless skin, paled from a lack of sunshine. She knew better than to say, who are you? She was aware of several things she suspected she shouldn't know at this point, but precisely who this blind man was, she wasn't sure about. "You scared me," she offered instead.

"Oh. Sorry." He lowered the cane.

"How can you sneak up like that when—"

He knew she meant to add, when you're blind. "I have sonar like a dolphin. I can sense the walls and obstacles. . .I can feel the ions in the air, parting for my passage."

"Right," came the snide remark a short distance behind Jubal.

Cornelius rolled down the hall toward them and watched Daelah lean out to see past Jubal toward the approaching wheelchair.

Jubal cocked his head. "Are you okay, Daelah? You smell funny."

"What?"

"Huh?" he responded, just as confused about her misunderstanding as she was about his statement. She knew he had a keen sense of smell. The subject had come up many times before. She knew he noticed the minutiae most people missed.

Daelah frowned again as the man in the wheelchair stopped beside the blind man. Jubal released his hold on the saxophone to sweep his hand at waist level, toward Cornelius, catching him in the face. "Oh, there you are," Jubal said.

"Stop it!" Cornelius reprimanded him, slapping his hand away. His antics could be so aggravating.

Addressing the still-baffled looking woman in front of him, Cornelius said, "You seem weird today, Daelah."

"I do?"

"Yes."

"I. . ." She glanced to her right, up the staircase. "I think I'll go up and lie down for awhile." She turned and climbed the steps, showing interest in the photos on the stairway wall, and glancing back at them as if they were friendly house-spiders, but spiders, just the same.

As she disappeared around the landing, the two men waited in silence for a moment, then Cornelius spun his chair and rolled back down the hallway toward the living room, the vermilion-loaded brush in his teeth again.

Jubal followed him, and took a seat in a chair to play his sax.

#

Upstairs, Daelah sank down on the edge of the bed. She rubbed her eyes and considered her own confusion.

For the last few minutes, she had been trying to assimilate the volumes of information that had seemingly been downloaded into her brain. Everything from how to tie her shoes, to the relative merits of clean underwear.

She was Daelah Murdock. She felt like herself. But something had changed. That much was clear, if only by the reaction of these two housemates. The blind man and the cripple. They seemed familiar, but she didn't know them, as odd as that contradiction was.

Then, she recalled the dream that had played out in her mind just before she emerged from nocturnal bliss that morning.

A glowing white essence, shaped somewhat like an elongated teardrop, had told her, telepathically, "Thank you." Daelah had no way of knowing what she, herself, looked like in the dream, but sensed she was also a glowing essence. She had reached out to grasp the wrist that emerged from the glowing essence—a human wrist, that clenched her own in farewell.

When the Teardrop Essence vanished, her dreamself noticed a tattoo of a strange symbol on her inner forearm. Then she woke, and the tattoo was not on her skin, and she sat up to draw the symbol on the pad of paper on the nightstand. Then she had found the bathroom and hurried to look in the mirror, stunned by the sensation that the face looking back at her in the glass was not her own. Then she had not recognized the room, and had gone downstairs to look around.

Now, frowning down at the paper, she sensed that the symbol was important, but wasn't quite sure why. The shape resembled an ankh, the universal symbol of eternal life, but it was like a blending of two ankhs, one upright, the other upside down, and joined at the stems.

Daelah spent the next few hours roaming around the bedroom, seeking clues to her befuddlement. The bedspread was an aggravating shade of pink, and there was a pink dust ruffle made of lace around the bed. She hated it. Likewise, the matching horridly pink lampshade on the nightstand, had engendered more repulsion. Though the walls were a standard eggshell color, they were festooned with all things pink.

This could not possibly be her own room, though she had awakened there. Peering down at herself, she noticed she was wearing a hideous pink nightgown with lace around the collar. She pulled it off her like it was on fire, and hurried to the closet.

Inside the wardrobe nook, her efforts to find more agreeable attire had met with a nightmarish array of pink, salmon, lavender, and fuchsia. The singular exception was a black T-Shirt, banished to the far end of the clothes rod. She turned it toward her to look at it. A depiction of a bread-like ring bejeweled with fruit and nuts graced the front, and below it in white letters was the word Fruitcake. No doubt this was a gift from someone with a sense of humor who was making a veiled suggestion about the pink-woman's mental status.

The Pink Woman. She had framed it as though the pink woman was not her. But it wasn't her. Yet here she was, being her.

As she pulled the black fruitcake T-Shirt over her head, snatched a pair of jeans and pulled them on, and added some atrocious pink sneakers to her–no surprise—pink socks, she felt a little more like herself. Whoever that was.

Emerging from the closet, she stood in the middle of the room and thought about it all. She wasn't herself. Couldn't be. What did that mean?

Her trip downstairs a few minutes ago, did not garner her much information. The house was like a familiar place from long ago, yet almost erased from her memory. When the blind man and the cripple appeared, things became even more confusing.

Sitting back down on the bed, she listened for a moment to the blind man playing saxophone downstairs. She recognized the tune as Patsy Cline's "Crazy." It was a little crazy that she recognized the song, but not the guy who played it—a guy who obviously lived in her house. . .or she in his.

She picked up the wretched pink purse, and pulled out the aggravating pink wallet. The driver's license read,

Daelah Murdock
72 North Tapioca
Cedar City, Utah.

Tapioca? Who the hell would live on a street called Tapioca? Was Pudding Circle all full-up?

Daelah perused the license again. She was apparently female, and 36 years old.

#

Downstairs, Jubal stopped playing the sax and tilted his head toward Cornelius' painting sounds. "Maybe we should encourage her to go back to the doctor."

"That's what I'm thinking."

"They told her she would be fine, but a knock on the head like that can sometimes do some damage that doesn't show up until later."

"Yeah, just like it did with you," Cornelius quipped.

"I only lost my sight, I didn't lose my mind."

"Jury's still out on that one," he said, wiping his brush on a paint smattered towel.

Jubal tossed his cane in the painter's direction, and it hit the arm of the wheelchair and clattered to the floor.

Cornelius looked down at it, lying next to the left wheel.

Jubal said, "I dropped my cane, could you hand it back to me?"

Cornelius rolled his eyes and leaned to pick it up, poking the blind man in the leg with it. Jubal grabbed it and placed it over his lap again.

#

Daelah dug through the pukey pink purse and in a side pocket, found a folded bulletin from the Church of Latter Day Saints. What was that, Saints that weren't quite here, but would be, tomorrow? The newsletter had a mailing label addressed to her, which meant she might actually be a card-carrying member of the Polygamy Pack.

Suddenly, she wondered if the two men downstairs were her husbands. Although why she would have chosen a blind man and a cripple for her spouses, was unclear. No. wait. . .it didn't work that way. . .it was the men who got to have numerous wives. . .that's certainly not fair. Unless this was another planet or an alternate reality where there was a matriarchy in place. That would be cool.

Glancing around at her obvious pink fetish, the answer to that was a little easier to guess. She had a screw loose, and they were the only two Mormon men left who would have her stupid pink ass.

Also in the handbag was a tube of lipstick the color of—again, no surprise—Passion Pink.

She thought she would hurl if she had to look at all this pink much longer. Her gut was queasy.

Moving into the bathroom, she fully expected to see the medicine cabinet lined with bottles of Pepto Bismol, if only by the fetish of its color. When she opened it, there was only one bottle of it, yet she was not encouraged by that paltry representation. She grabbed it, screwed off the lid and took a slug of it.

When she put it back, she saw a prescription. Alprazolam. A generic form of Xanax. This told her she had some sort of anxiety disorder, though the only anxiety she felt now stemmed from her confused, Swiss-cheese memory and the proliferation of pink in her bedroom. A plastic bottle of Tums resided next to the Pepto, its contents graced by periodic pink tablets as well. What was up with this woman? Why was she so obsessed with pink? This woman. Me. Not me. Hell's bells.

Closing the cabinet, she caught sight of her hair in the mirror. She looked like the Flying Freaking Nun, her crowning glory more a hat than a head of hair, if the amount of hairspray was any indication. She opened several drawers until she found a hairbrush, and stroked it through the glue-like texture on each side, yelping when the bristles hit a sore spot. Reaching up, she felt a huge lump at the back of her skull. Ahhh. . .that explains it. She'd bumped her head.

Swiftly, she felt a sense of panic. What if the Teardrop Essence dream and the downloaded brain matter was the result of a head injury? What if she had forgotten everything about herself and it never reappeared in her brain? Maybe not such a bad thing, she reassured herself, considering what she had discovered so far.

She looked back at her reflection and in lieu of an answer to the head injury question, resolved to let her hair grow out, and get some real body in it, to avoid the churchy look.

She reentered the bedroom and began searching through it for more clues.

In the nightstand, she found the obligatory pink diary. This time, she could ignore the color she had only today come to loathe, because the contents of the diary might provide all the answers she sought. There was no guilt in the action, as she reminded herself that she couldn't be blamed for invading her own privacy.

Somewhere Else (excerpt)