2020-07-31 Adios July.. Don’t Let the Door Git Ya!

Remember all that I was saying yesterday about riding out the hormonal storm until the crashing waves calm down? Yeah, just effff that. It really is easy to talk logic than to put it into practice sometimes.

Listen. Yesterday was a bitch. Work sucked. And at the end of the day I was on the couch, half laying into a stack of pillows watching some YouTube video Jim was playing for me. It’s a guy playing like a really old guitar. We’re talking made in the 1600’s old. And I just started to cry.

Was it that a guitar that old could still exist? That it could still be played, strummed by human hands and make such beautiful music? The mystical mastery of fingers picking the strings. That ‘we’ are capable of crafting an instrument out of wood and strings. And compose music. It was beautiful.

I told Jim it made me cry. He said it makes him want to take guitar lessons. I told him it makes me feel like I’m wasting my life. He just laughed.

He reminded me I’m working hard on my art, and that’s a good thing. He’s right, damnit, but ugh… the stress of trying to do too much is, well, too much.

Today is Friday and the last day of July. It is the last day that’s the window for submissions for the first issue of the good life review will be open. And midnight tonight the window will be closed. At midnight tonight the clock is going to start ticking down for reading, copy editing, author agreements, and all things required to publish that first issue. It’s going to be a lot of work. I need to quit my job.

I have been working hard on my art. The new lit mag is just one of the balls I have thrown into the air and I am trying to figure out how to catch without it falling on my head and cracking my skull open.

I’ve been revising poems and attempting to attend workshops to learn some new things. I haven’t really written a ton of new stuff, but the few things that I have written in 2020 seem like good candidate to continue working on in the future. You know sometimes you get a vibe about a piece of writing. Sometimes there is something in the core of it that remains so strong that you know that even if it looks like garbage on the surface, there could still be a diamond hidden underneath.

Either that or I’m just too emotionally attached to these precious few new poems in my virtual poetry pile. Someone told me once to set aside a new poem for at least six months. Let the emotional attachment fade. Then when you revisit, you can see with a fresh perspective if there’s something worth working on.

I mean I don’t know if I necessarily agree with that, but it does help me justify procrastinating revising new material. 😜

One final thought before I adjourn this session. On this day in history (not sure what year) my parents were married. When I think about that.. I can’t help but realize that if they never met or got married, I would not exist. Or if I did exist I would be a different person completely. Wild!!

Anyhow. That’s it.
Cheers to Friday,
~Miss SugarCookie

2020-07-15 The End is the Beginning

Spoiler alert. The world ends with a whimper and not a bang.

I traveled into the future yesterday and found that all endings are an open door to the beginning and all beginnings are glasses full of possibility. Drink it down people. Get drunk on it and savor every drop. Realize that when it’s half gone, it’s still half full.

Yesterday was a long string of zoom meetings. Strange how one could be so sick of inviting other human beings into their home yet still crave being with them and hearing what they have to say. Still wanting to be a part of the chaos. It’s the reason I’m back at it today. To try again.

Yesterday when it was all over I met my love in the backyard. We slid into the hot tub together letting that warm water smooth our aching minds. He asked me how my day was and I proceeded to lament. That lasted about 60 seconds at which point he asked, “is the glass really that half empty?”

Then silence fell between us as I thought about his question. I look around. It’s the height of summer. All the flowers I’ve planted in pots around The backyard are in bloom and the ivy is taking over the bricks. I’ve positioned the Mandevilla just so, the tendrils reach up and grab a strand of the ivy. The vines have become intertwined and one uses the other to grow in its preferred direction. One climbs up and the other down. I engineered that on purpose.

The sky grows thick with dense grey clouds and I can feel that relief is imminent. It will rain. My eyes weary and in need of the rain. I think about how fortunate I have been to have met Jim. To be sitting here, at the precipice of a summer storm, contemplating life and our future together. I say “of course it’s not half empty. It’s over half full.”

Later, we are in the theatre room getting ready to watch the series finale of “Dark.” He doesn’t push play right away. Instead he goes into a bit of a monologue about meeting me and how things are how they should be and how he could not imagine a life without me. He believes in fate. His statements are less about the overarching story of our lives and more about how it is to take every day as another chance to make the most of what we’ve been given.

We’ve had choices, but could we look back and say we would have chosen differently? I don’t think so.

We both spend most of our days tending to responsibilities we’ve committed to that don’t have anything to do with each other. Some days we only see each other and really get to talk for an hour or so. But we get to look forward to that time every day. I sometimes forget that.

His words were both poignant and heart felt. I agreed with what he said by squeezing his hand and looking in his eyes. And with a simple ‘thank you’.

Then he pushed play and we watched the show. Together.

The end of the day is just an open door to tomorrow.

The day ends as I slip my weary soul between cool sheets and rest my head on a pillow that quickly forms a nook the shape of my neck. I close my eyes and tell the universe I need rain. The rain has been so elusive lately.


Today I wake to dark skies and rain. I say “thank you.” My glass is full again.

I get up and shuffle to the kitchen. I make Jim breakfast and we sit at the table together talking about the plans we have for this day. A full day of work at the office for him and a full day of zooms for me.

Did I kiss him goodbye as he left? I can’t quite recall.

Peace and Love,
~Miss SugarCookie

2020-07-04 Cheers to New Poetry and Spending Quality Time this 4th of July 🌟

I’m leading with the poem I wrote yesterday instead of including it as an afterthought at the end. The tag line? “Look Ma, it’s a Love Poem!!”

Driving Toward Sunset on July 2nd

Yesterday was a pretty good day. I had two good virtual catch up sessions with friends, I attended a poetry workshop where I learned something and wrote a poem, and also managed to not do a lot of work and focus on doing things that made me feel satisfied.

And I took a shower.. super bonus plan!!

Of the aforementioned things I would say that the most noteworthy was the poem. I can count on one hand the number of poems I’ve written since February. It was so satisfying to not only write it, but immediately apply what I learned in the workshop to find the right form.

The workshop was with Paul Tram and it was one of the more educational workshops I’ve attended. Many have great topics and prompts, but we actually evaluated a poem and he revealed all it had to offer. We then took that formula and wrote our own.

Even more noteworthy than that was the fact that I wrote a love poem!! I mean I’ve written hundreds of poems but love poems are rare among them. For whatever reason, being in love or loving someone does not inspire words within me typically. I’m more inclined to write about life when my heart is breaking, when I’m down and struggling (except in a pandemic when I apparently can’t put more than two stanzas together).

I’m extremely grateful for the workshop and the day off and.. not to be dismissed.. my love who has been on my mind quite a bit tough he’s only been “out of town” for about 36 hours. We’re planning to go on a bike ride today.

Now I’ve got quite a backstory about my history with 4th of July—too much to go into detail here, But I will say I’ve had my share of ups and downs and steps backwards and forwards in the last 10 to 12 years. I’m really looking forward to establishing new traditions and re-shaping old ones.

The poem probably says it best, though.

I’m going to close with that today. I was up early and am feeling hungry and ready to dive into my chores so the house is in good order for Jim’s return and for the activities we have planned for the day.

Wishing all a safe and satisfying day.
Thanks for reading,
~Miss SugarCookie

2020-06-10 Three Types of Death

All those days I wasted lamenting
All the sunsets I missed with my eyes fixed on a screen.
All those neurons bounced around aimed at connection in pursuit of answers.
The real opportunities missed as the clock ticks down to zero. Or near zero.

Did you know that when you are pronounced dead, there’s a timer somewhere in the world that starts ticking down. 48 hours.

In the biz, we call it the death date time out clock. The Organizations that are interested in the eyes of the deceased don’t necessarily agree with those who are interested in your skin, or heart valves, or bones. Or your organs. There are markets for all these things. They are just material. All the parts of you might be valuable. Depending on what kind of life you’ve lived.

At the end of life. Your body is physical potential that exists beyond whatever happens to your essence. From now on, I’m going to try and use the word essence instead of soul. The soul is so overused. Abused. It’s cliche. The universe forbid clicheI

Anyway, back to the death date time out clock.

Saying “Death date” simplifies things a little bit too much though. In the biz, it’s actually CTOD. Or certified time of death. (Because people just love acronyms).

Maybe nobody was in the room when you died. Then we don’t really know the actual Date and time of death. In that case, it’s LTKA or Last Time Known Alive. That’s kind of sad. Someone so alone that they just died and there was no other human being there to witness it hold their hand or think a thought that might allow their essence to surf away to a better place.

That’s something, you know. What if human thoughts created wavelengths that allowed the essence of the dead to ride up and away instead of float down and settle into the carpet, and floorboards and earth below. I wonder if dying alone is some eternal tragedy. That the point we miss in life is human connection. that in death, those connections are a bridge. Doesn’t that make you want to be with people?

It does for me. I hate this pandemic. I miss people.

Asystole is another type of death date. Maybe you’re heart is hooked up to a machine that measures the beats. I suppose there are thousands of people in hospital beds and in hospice and nursing homes that have some sort of heart monitoring going on. Asystole is an event. The moment that the beat turns into a flatline.

Like LTKA, asystole can happen when nobody is around. But it is less likely. If you’re hooked up to a monitor, probably you are already under some sort of medical care that’s being managed by other people. They are watching and are hopefully nearby to assist if you go into cardiac arrest.

Sometimes, though, nothing can be done. And it’s just the end. And the date and time are recorded and the timer starts.

48 hours. How quickly can people work to follow all the right protocols in order to give you one last opportunity to give to your fellow human beings. Isn’t that something? That you can still give more to life even after you are gone. One last gift from the dearly departed.

If there is a tally somewhere keeping track of your good deeds. If there’s a supreme being with a clipboard and pen, checking off boxes and writing names on a special guest list, would that final gift be enough to get an invite to some eternal happy place?

What if you were a rapist or murderer. If, as your dying wish, you donated your eyes to some blind child or heart and kidneys to a dying person, would that be enough to turn the tide in your favor?

Isn’t it absurd to think about. The idea of heaven or hell or the idea of an omnipresent being lurking around and keeping score. I find it so absurd.

But if it keeps the believers in line, so much the better. Some people aren’t born with a moral compass and for them, I believe organized religion is a good thing.

For the rest of us, probably it’s enough to come to an understanding that the more sunsets we can see and the more people we can connect with, the better our life will be. And it’s not really worth wasting neurons on the questions of what and why and how and when. The questions are not the point. Time well spent is what matters.

I’ve got more to say about this, but ain’t nobody got time for that (including me).

Peace and Love,
~Miss SugarCookie

2020-05-28 Hide and Seek

I start walking. I start writing. That’s my way. Lately I’ve felt like it’s all just the same shit on a different day. I’m inches away from getting my MFA in Poetry and I haven’t written anything worthy of a poem in months.

A few times when I took a class with the “Todfather”, I tried fashioning a poem from one of my blog posts and he called me on it. Just that it was all wordy. All I did was take the best parts of the post and put a bunch of line breaks in which is incredibly lazy.

A few other times I’ve done that and it takes a lot of revisions (and a healthy dose of mystical hand waving and reciting incantations to invoke the Poem spirit) to get something that resembles a poem.

But what is a poem? Can’t it just be what it is and not try to be something more or something better? Or something that meets someone else’s definition of a poem.

I can write iambic pentameter like a boss. My end rhyme skills are strong. But that’s no value in this century. I’m not saying I’m Robert Frost, but i believe I could emulate his style a lot easier than I could, say, Natalie Diaz or Ilya Kaminsky. As a poet, I feel like I was maybe born in the wrong century.

Then again, I’m a woman so I would have been screwed either way.

Some accomplished writers will advise you to write every day to keep your creative brain strong and fresh and active. I would say you should include doing revision in that. Some accomplished writers will tell you they don’t do either. They write when the writing comes to them and asks them to write. So there’s no right answer.

My point is. I want to write and haven’t been able to do that. Today I’m going to give myself an hour in isolation with a book of poetry my friend Michelle loaned me. I’m going to see if that stirs something inside me. I need it to.


In other news, my current work team is unraveling like a cheap sweater. Three developers have been kicked off the project (two were fired and one was moved to a different project). Another one quit with no notice and another is threatening to quit.

We’re replacing these people like changing a pair of underwear. But these people are not pieces of clothing, they are people.

And I don’t drink cool-aid anymore so I’m trying not to fit this fucking puzzle piece into something that can work. I’m trying to keep my distance, keep my head down, not insert my opinion or care, but the Universe help me, it’s quite impossible

One of these people, the dev that was moved to a different project, is a friend of mine. It makes my heart hurt. Now the PM is a long time friend of mine who I hold dear and she’s starting to crack. She’s a strong woman and listening to her for an hour last night was so tough. It’s been a long time since I’ve heard this woman break down in tears. I’m fact, I may never have heard her cry before. It fucking sucks.

Part of my job has been to introduce new people to the project and onboard them. She introduces me to them by saying some great things about me and with two new people this week she said I was “the glue that holds the team together”.

No pressure there though right?!

The whole thing is so fucked up.

I was brought on to help out. To bridge the PM gap until she started. To offer documentation support behind the scenes. To take notes and do data entry and do other admin things like coordinate meetings. 10-15 hours a week. Now I’m working more that twice that and last week, with so much personal shit going on, I started to become unraveled too.

I’m nearing the end of my hour in this treadmill and really need to wrap anyway so I can dive into that mess.

By the way, there’s no poetry in all this mess. I mean, there is, but not 21st century poetry that utilizes images and juxtaposition to convey a feeling AND meets the current acceptable standard for what a poem is. Or is there? 🤔

Fuck it!
~Miss SugarCookie

2020-05-13 No Rest For the Wicked Part 336

Why 336? Because it feels like It might just go on and on and on and one can’t escape being wicked if it’s a part of their nature.

Riddle me this? Why do I have to spend 40 grand on a masters in fine arts which includes thousands (not exaggerating) of dollars for fees for things I don’t even utilize or know what they are AND then have to pay to print my own copies the thesis document that will be bound and forever kept somewhere. The UNO library I think. It was 60 bucks to print that and after the fact (of course) I notice that for poems that extend past one page, the continuation does not start low enough on the page. So there’s an inconsistent look on those pages. The perfectionist in me hates this. The frugal girl wags her finger and says don’t you dare fix that and pay for a reprint. These two people inside me will continue to argue until the damn document is out of my hands.

Mostly I’m lazy and don’t want to open Word and look at it again. Which is one reason I haven’t sent it to my mom, who asked to read it.

The other reason i have resisted sending it to mom is the poems themselves. One or two in particular that don’t paint her in a very favorable light. Well just one really. Jim said to just take that one out and send it. I have two minds in disagreement about this too.

On one hand all those things are a part of who I am. I want to model my behavior after the lovely Amy Plettner who Published her first book and just gave a copy to her mom, unedited (kind of hard to edit a published book like that). She told me that when she saw the book on her moms bookshelf it was markedly thinner. Her mom actually ripped out the pages with poems she didn’t like, ones about her presumably but also any poem having to do with sex or the word fuck (which is a lot of them).

My stuff is much tamer than that. I think the word fuck only shows up in one poem. And I haven’t included any poems that have anything directly to do with sex. But I did compare my mom to a fax machine / clean freak ….

My mom is sensitive like me (or I’m sensitive like her) and that would hurt her and I don’t want to hurt her. If I was Rachael Mckibbins and my mom was truly a bad person, I might feel differently. But my mom is a good person.

Incidentally, Amy also told me that later, after the page tearing out was long past, her mom asked for another copy. Probably she came to terms of what the book really represents. A piece of Amy’s whole heart and that life is rough, you know. Just gotta be more understanding with people and humanity and all its complications.

Wow. That was quite a tangent.

I suppose I don’t really have to cross any bridges that have to do with really publishing a book because that feels so distant or impossible at this point. The first step I suppose is submitting more. I’ve fallen off that wagon and truly the few things I’ve sent out into the universe have either been rejected or not returned.

Starting from zero is not easy. I mean, I’m not exactly at zero, but I’m at like 0.34. Ha! A few more tick marks in the “win” column and I’ll bump myself to a solid 1!!

I spent my day off yesterday working on the parenting thing and the lit mag thing, until I had another breakdown about being a failure. Jim has been very supportive and a huge shoulder to cry on and a good listener. Thank the universe for him. He literally has a hellish schedule at work this week and here I am crying on my day off. Ugh! 🙄

In the end, I was able to let my Failures go. And then it was pretty much time to go to bed. Go figure. 🤷‍♀️

But I’m up and at it again today and getting ready to make coffee and get to work. Round and round I go.

Cheers to Another Opportunity to Try,
~Miss SugarCookie

2020-05-05 What a Girl Really Wants 🍷

Yesterday was a long day. Just a blur. And I’m tired. I had that thing happen again, where I was inspired to write something but I was in the middle of something else and couldn’t just drop everything to get that down.

I thought, foolishly, for the hundredth time that it would linger around long enough for me to remember later when I had a break. But I never got that break and it slipped away you know. Out the back door like a clandestine lover. Now she’s gone and didn’t leave her number. No way for me to find her again.

Not that what I had to eat yesterday is interesting to anyone, but it’s revealing:

  • 8 oz cup of coffee with an excess of vanilla creamer
  • 2 pieces of peanut butter toast
  • 1 small apple
  • 1 pre-packaged rice crispy bar
  • 2 Pagoda Egg Rolls (frozen snacks heated in the toaster oven)
  • 4 Pagoda Crab Rangoon with sauce
  • 1.5 glasses of red wine (actual amount is subjective 😜)

Sadly, those last 3 things were at like 8:30 pm and I was so out of focus by then I couldn’t think straight or enjoy it (or remember any conversation I had with Jim).

I probably vented about my irritations from the day or lamented about how every month my period is so unpredictable and how annoying that is or how I need to figure out how to consistently refer to a person as “they” when I’ve never had to do that. I’m trying, you know. I’m trying with regard to everything but at the end of the day I’m pouring that glass of red wine and throwing my hands in the air like I just don’t care.

And that red wine goes down sooooo easy.

Funny tangent.. I have my favorite brand of red wine. People who know me – who REALLY know me, know this about me. I found it years ago. It’s called Jam Jar and it’s a sweet Shiraz. It’s not a wine
connoisseurs wine. It’s more like a wine-cooler connoisseurs wine. It’s sweet and best served cold yet it has the same %alcohol content by volume as a regular bottle of red wine. It’s my Jam. And as an added bonus, it has a screw off top. Yeah, super classy.

They stock this at two places in town I’ve found. Whole Foods and cost plus world market. It’s cheaper at cost plus, when you buy like 4 or 6 at a time (which I refused to be shamed for doing). I’m not going to cost plus cuz of the pandemic right now but can get away with a random trip to Whole Foods because Of other grocery needs.

It’s still a crap shoot though. Sometimes they have it and sometimes they don’t. Two trips ago they were out (and my supply is desperately low), and I’m so loyal I just didn’t buy any wine. Whatever.

Last time I went was last week and they had 4 bottles left. But.. to get the 10% discount there, you gotta buy six bottles. So I picked up 2 other random bottles. I suppose it’s good to try new things because you never know when you’ll find a new favorite thing!

So the new selection was chilling in the fridge when I poured the last ounce of my original stash of Jam Jar last night and I was like… now seems like a good time to try the new thing. But I was so tired.

I pull the bottle out and what does it say about me that my heart sank in disappointment at realizing it was a corked bottle. Oh my goodness. So much extra work.

This, people, is how you know that the pandemic has not affected my life at all. That my emotions are being dictated by woe at having to find a corkscrew and exasperation at not getting dinner until 8:30 pm and with irritation about my period being unpredictable.

Such hard problems. 🙄

And how about the fact that what I end up writing about for an hour, when I have it, is my favorite red wine, instead of something way more interesting like that sweet secret that slipped into and out of my mind yesterday, never to be seem again. That’s the real tragedy.

I suppose that’s enough nonsense for one day. I guess, anyone who reads this will really, REALLY know me. More than other people who should but don’t. But that’s life I guess.

Cheers to Tuesday, 🍷
~Miss SugarCookie

2020-05-04 A Zone 7 Beauty Thriving in Zone 5

(Happy Star Wars Day Friends.. May the Force be with you today and always!) 😘

It’s a rainy Monday in Nebraska and my list of tasks never seems to lighten up. Instead of going there, though, and dwelling on the endless caravan of sideshow attractions, I’m gonna sit in the dirt and marvel at the earthworms that find their way to the surface.

In the last week, I’ve dug into the dirt with my favorite shovel. I twisted the big, unearthed clumps with my garden claw, and then raked it all smooth again.

Yesterday Jim and I grabbed our masks and jumped in the Jeep. We went to a local hardware store store and went our separate ways there. A half an hour later we came back together with our respective carts full of garden goodness. His was all landscape project odds and ends. Heavy stuff like bags of rocks and some pretty solar lights, cuz he’s Jim and lights are his thing. And that’s just one of the things I love about him.

My cart? Porting soil to mix in with the dirt from last years pots to prep them for annual color all season. But that was not my primary objective. Nope. This trip was all about bed #1 of 3. The one that’s dedicated to tomato’s and peppers and marigolds.

Last year was a good test of my new space. I had too many tomato’s and peppers so this year I have Dialed it back to 3 regular tomato plants- better boy, big beef, and celebrity. Two different variety of bell peppers, and one Anaheim (I’ll have to find the Anaheim somewhere else cuz they didn’t have those. The marigolds are to ring the border of that garden and that’s my tradition.

Yesterday I only got as far as planting the veg I bought. The flowers will have to wait till one day this week. And it won’t be today because lots of rain and lots of work to do.

I’m definitely in my happy place In the garden. It’s sometimes painful work, turning dirt and bending over and being on my knees, making things just so. But it’s so satisfying. And I think being alone for a little bit is great for my mental health. Somehow I’m able to shut off all the voices in my head that are urging me to do this or that.

I’m able to forget about the website work that needs to be done or the issues with the new design or the dirty dishes or the un-vacuumed floor or some seeder data that’s going to need to be loaded into the dev database for testing. It all melts into some place in the corners of my mind and I am able to focus on how I’m shaping the mounds of dirt around me new little babies.

This one likes “wet” feet and that one likes well drained soil. They have different needs just like people and as long as you know how to treat them, they will thrive and be happy. Some plants are “hardy”. This means they can tolerate too wet, hot, dry, or cold conditions (to a certain point). They don’t need as much tending cuz they will be all right.

If I were to tag myself with some characteristics, I would say that I’m hardy but prefer Zone 7. I mean, my life was just meant to be in Zone 5, and now I’m putting down even more roots. I can tolerate a lot. I’m low maintenance and mostly just want a good balance of being left alone and having great conversations with people I love. Like a Stella Daylily. Coming back time and time again regardless of the care or feeding I’ve had. Always reaching for the sun.

Yellow has never been my color though, so perhaps some orange variety or the tiger lily, spots of freckles in view when I’m happily in bloom. And so it goes.

The best thing about the hard work I put in to my garden is the times I can just walk back there and look at it and know that I did that with my two hands. I tend the plants and I they do the only thing they know how to do, which is live and grow. And then.. on one magical day in July or August, I’ll be able to pluck some tomato or cucumber or cauliflower or pinch off a head of dill or some cilantro before it flowers and Make something delicious to eat. Or, in the case of my cherry tomatoes, pop them right into my mouth right there in the garden. Glorious.

All right. That’s enough garden talk for now. Ive got to get down to other business. All those melted away things are starting to creep back from the corners and taking shape again behind my eyes. Mondays. 🤷‍♀️

No rest for the wicked,
~Miss SugarCookie

2020-04-29 Mathematics and Other Tragedies

I could draw myself into a spiral. I could pretend to be a straight line or paint my life as an isosceles triangle in perpetual motion. The faster it spins, the more the points blur into circles that create borders that can’t be penetrated.

If I was reborn as a star, would I have five points or six? Or Seven!?? Would I be a better poet if I was a broken heart, or the zig-zag white space between the two separate halves.

Hearts don’t ever break in half. It’s never an equitable split. Most are fragments shattered like that round dish that was dropped on accident or because it was too hot to touch. And there are never any answers for that. Just possible explanations and plausible deniability and revisionist history. What geometric shapes are those? It must be a chapter I haven’t gotten to yet.

I’ve spent so much time with my face on the the floor because of gravity.

I’ve spent so much time enduring air travel trying to escape gravety.

I’ve spent so much time trying to learn how to finish this geometry so I can finally move on to algebra 2.

I fear there’s a long way to go before gravity will start making sense.

So many apples. So little time.


You’re welcome for that nonsense. You know a lot of the poetry I write is sort of nonsense. Or based on little connections in my brain and sparks of thought where one thing just leads to another. I think the closer I get to finishing this mfa program, the more my brain will feel the freedom of writing what I want to write again for me, and my sanity.

I’ve spent so long studying craft that it’s altered my perception of reality. It’s hijacked my creative instincts in some way. Or perhaps it’s that my life is just good now so I have less to muse about.

Here’s a secret (spoiler alert, some “poor me” might slip in here). Once upon a time I was in love with a guy. And having been previously conditioned to have a fear of commitment, I was unable to go all-in. Right up to the day that I realized that’s all that was left for us. So I tried it.

I convinced myself with this little nugget of logic .. if my heart gets broken, then I’ll just have so much good poetry. Yes, I actually told myself that. That was me bargaining with myself to tip the scales in the favor of the “all-in” option. It worked.

Then, wouldn’t you know it all fell apart after that and my heart got crushed. And then you know what happened? There was no fucking poetry. I just cried all the time and couldn’t write a single line of a single poem. I wrote a lot of journal entries (mostly because I didn’t have close friends to talk to), but the empty space where those poems were supposed to be crushed me even more.

I had trusted myself, and was betrayed. So I said “I’ll never do that again”.

Yeah, so that’s that melodramatic charm of mine coming through again.

Fast forward 4 years and I’ve finally found a few lines and arranged them into a poem and it was such a clinical process that I actually learned something about myself and also about the art of making poetry. That was the point I guess. It passed the JP test and made it into my thesis manuscript.

I’m attached to the idea of it more than the poem itself.

After my heart was broken in 2016 I turned to a guy friend for comfort. I thought I loved him too. Which is a blurry line.

I loved the idea of being in love with him.

I loved the way he spent so much time with me and listened to me and held me when I cried.

He was always clear with me “we” could never be, so it was safe. I didn’t have to worry about the unknown quantity in the air after I said “I love you”. I knew the response and that was in some fucked up way, really comforting.

If you tell someone you love them, the Tough part is in having their response be unexpected.

What have I learned? That I really loved Matt, and that I really loved Josh but for different reasons, and Vis, and of course Brian. Stitch all that together and the picture becomes more complete. It’s a complicated shape. Still a bit above my current geometrical comprehension, but I’m nothing if not a diligent student.

What other option do I have anyway? That’s life.

Thanks for hanging in with what was not intended to be a rehash of my broken heart again. But, I will take all I can get.

XOXOXO 😘
~Miss SugarCookie

2020-04-28 Hidden Tracks, Nostalgia, and Serious Feels

I’m listening to a new playlist I created last week. It’s pretty much the bomb and full of songs I’ve forgotten I loved so much and some new ones I didn’t even know I owned.

Each new selection leads down another road of thought, which is pretty incredible, but it makes me feel sort of ADHD. I can’t focus.

One minute I’m sad because I’m reminded of Matt and how our relationship ended (“Poetry by Dead Men” by Sara Bareilles) and the next one leaves me dancing where I stand (“In Your Room” by the Bangles) or laughing out loud (Sweet As Whole by Sara Bareilles). Then there’s “You Oughta Know” by Alanis Morissette.

That came on just as I was finishing up on the treadmill and though I like that song, it doesn’t really do anything for me. I listen all the way through though, because I know what comes after… a song that was “hidden” on the CD on the same track as “You Oughta Know”, but you have to wait through a minute or so of silence to hear it.

That’s right. Some of my music comes from CDs I ripped and imported into my music library years ago and the “Jagged Little Pill” CD was one of those I’ve had since I was 20. My first thought when I knew what was coming was how kids today will never understand hidden tracks or secret songs. They get their music streaming from some service and so those golden nuggets died off with the CD.

I wonder if CDs nowadays still have those things? Hmmmm.

My second thought? Well… I gotta listen to the song but it always makes me cry. She sings about going to her lovers house and enjoying spending time there alone, thinking of him and musing about their love. Then she finds a letter on his desk from another woman and it takes a turn. She’s instantly heartbroken and leaving salt in the bed. It’s an incredibly moving song for me and, well, the tears always come.

But then the song ends, you know, and then it’s Lily Allen singing “The Fear” in my ear and it just makes me bouncy again. That song s from a very different era of my life and hearing it takes me back.

35 years old and getting a divorce and as challenging as that was, my nostalgia about it is the color of freedom. I finally felt like I was in charge of my own life for the first time of my life. I was 35 and had never lived alone. Never picked out my own dishes or paint colors without someone else’s ok. Just listen to the song “I Could Say” by Lily and that’s the essence of my life back then.

I mean, I’ve tried to capture this in a poem, but it’s one of those elusive things. And frankly, since that was years ago, I’m not inclined to try anymore. I’ve got plenty of content from the present. I thought the other day that I could write a bunch of poems about that time in my life, but I ask myself “do you want to spend your precious time in the past, or do you wanna focus on now?”

The answer (right now) is now.

And right now, I’m just enjoying these tunes and the feels and whatever will be will be. Poetry or no poetry.

That’s all I’ve got time for on this taco Tuesday.

Peace and Love and Music, 🎶
~Miss SugarCookie