fromthemouthofmoi

  Everyone should know someone like Bob. When you think about all he did in his life, and the vastly varied types of people he knew you begin to really see how special he was. He was loyal, he was funny, he showed disapproval on his face that was kind of comical but you got the point, he helped kids with their homework, he was fatherly, caring, incredibly sensitive, — I once made him cry because I was being a bitch and had become infuriated with hm for being late to something insignificant and now forgotten, but mostly I will say he was steadfast and loyal.  I had just turned twenty-one and was living in Portland, Oregon and decided that I was now of legal age and therefore eligible for a ‘grown-up’ job. I applied to work at his establishment, Bogart’s Joint. Bogart’s was in the middle of nowhere at that time in the sense that it was surrounded by factories. The lunchtime crowd were all blue collar workers who were in and out. Once the lunch time crowd was over we then got the evening

1/9/1998 Last night Max woke me up with his barking. I was spending a long overdue week out on the sound and was dead tired. My eyes opened to the sight of what seemed an unfamiliar ceiling. For a moment I had forgotten where I was. As I adjusted my eyes I could hear Max running back and forth across the deck at the side of the house. I knew that whatever he was excited about must be in the direction of the dock. The only way on or off my little hide-a-way was by boat and I wasn't expecting anyone, or for that matter, wanting to see anyone. I didn't feel like getting out of bed --that's for sure-- but I also knew that I wouldn't be able to get back to sleep until Max saw to it that I had sufficiently checked things out to his satisfaction. Max was the type of dog that thought he was my peer. Not just any peer mind you but the type of person who imagined himself more efficient than you. At this hour I felt like a worn out dog heeding my master's plea. I put on my paj

Moira. There are only a few given names that one can use playing Words With Friends -- Moira is one such name. Moira means fate, destiny. Moirai, The Fates: Clotho, the Spinner, Lachesis, the Allotter and Atropos, the Unturnable. In Greek mythology they were above all other Gods. Clotho holds a distaff in her hand, Lachesis, a spindle, and dear Atropos wields a scissor. From inception Clotho spins your upcoming life, Lachesis weaves the life you are to lead, and Atropos ends your life. Neither sister can interfere with the work of the others. They are the women that decide your destiny. Your fate. The Fates have been good to me. They gave me friends, and enough to eat, after much time they gave me a house to call my own. I've had endless laughter, and the tears and agony they gave me always had an exit I could find. Those three sisters gave me a rollercoaster of a ride!  When I arrived in Mexico it was the very first time anyone could ever, upon seeing my name written, pronounce my

Decades ago I had my uterus out. It was riddled with huge fibroids and I bled constantly. My uterus had been a nightmare for me. I have no regrets that it is no longer providing me with pain. Before surgery I asked my doctor if I could have it once it was removed. She game me an emphatic, No. I then asked her if she would at least take a picture of it and to this she agreed. I never thought about why I wanted it so persistently until the other day, when speaking with Sue, she asked me what it meant to me to have a picture. I was quick to answer: Because it was a part of me and I wanted my parts with me. I wanted to see what had buggered me for so many years. It was mine and not the property of a hospital.  I demand to be whole. I want to be whole. I want to leave this world whole. I want my bits with me when I go. I've heard from enough professionals that any treatment I might engage in will not leave me with any quality time worth the effort. I have no intentions of having my guts

Nil has encouraged me to come back here. I haven't felt like writing here for ages. In some ways, I guess, I know that some of what I might write will be some of the last things I write and that sort of tangles me up a bit because it creates a type of writers stage fright. I think these remaining posts will just be less focused.  There are things I want to write to my brothers, final things, that I'm not looking for a response to. It's just what I wish for them. I feel like I'm leaving them in a mess, not my mess mind you, but a mess created by our mother, that once learned as children, they can't seem to unlearn the dynamic. My family behaves like that television series Succession. A quagmire of competition, resentment and secrets. My eldest brother once filmed our mother, and asked her why she had so many kids. On film her reply was that she wanted us to have someone to talk to. Her example given, if I remember correctly, was something along the lines of: You know