We humans get impulsive and short tempered when we get hot, literally and figuratively.
Science says when the body overheats, it needs to spend energy to cool itself down, that response can come from the prefrontal cortex, the part of the brain that helps people self-regulate.
That explains why people are more impulsive and less likely to think before acting.
I’m not sure if that’s what happened to Savannah Dawn and her mom, but something made them snap.
“Mama had worked up such a sweat the glue melted leaving her eyelashes dangling at an odd angle to her lids. She tried to dislodge them but after a few failed puffs, she snatched them from her face without blinking. They landed like two dead caterpillars at my feet. I quietly picked them up and stowed them in my pocket.”
Those of you in the Southern Hemisphere are (hopefully) enjoying summer while us folks in the Northern Hemisphere are entering winter and the longest night of the year.
Though it is the Northern influence that spawned The Long Long Night, I wish you all a happy December solstice and warm poetic evening.
so without further adieu I give to you …
The Long Long Night
He would sculpt and I would write to get us through this thing called life – what seemed to be an aimless plight
The long, long night
I used pen and he used clay to cope with all the pain filled days which lived within our slow decay of
The long, long night
But in between the words and mud we found the art of making love and pacified the angst and blood of
The long, long night
Forsaken pages ripped and torn, spattered earth across the floor, graphite tales of love and war and
The long, long night
Come into my bed sweet angry lover, your tender calloused hands beneath the cover.
Find the place where none has been, beneath the ink and turning pin, get us through yet once again
Smoke Free is a weird little story conceived in the smoke of a brush fire. I was out in the woods snapping pictures, the images combined with a twisted imagination and tada! The rest is history.
The photos below show the cover; from the first photograph to the finished cover.
Smoke Free is probably the only book cover we have not changed at least a dozen times. The truth is I have never wanted to change it. I love this cover and the image of that little pumpkin smoking a cigar never fails to amuse me. (I have the husband to thank for that.)
I had never heard of Irwin Smutter before that day and he (like the cigar smoking pumpkin) still amuses me with his absolute weirdness; him and the bizarre world he resides in.
And here’s a bite sized sample of the lunch break tale …
The room appeared empty other than an oversized sofa. Irwin reposed himself against the frigid vinyl, crossed his feet and sighed. A lively timbered scene covered the wall opposite the door, designed in such a way it almost looked like a window. Beyond the dull sheen of the pretend window was a forest where rays of sunshine cut through a smoky haze. The remaining walls were un-textured, pale and bare. The room smelled of sandalwood and acetone, a bizarre sweetness that sickened and comforted him at the same time. Irwin shifted nervously on the stiff upholstery in search of a warm spot. There was none.
The faux leather, the lifeless walls, the fake window – it was all too unsettling. Nothing is real, he thought, stretching his arms until his hands met above his head. Fads! The world has been reduced to kooks, phonies, and fads. Reassured by his own summation, Irwin interlaced his fingers and stretched further. When the joints in his entwined hands refused to pop, he rested them at the base of his neck.
Smoking cessation.Yeah, right. It was not Irwin’s idea. Irwin enjoyed smoking. The pungent smell of a fresh-lit cigarette made bitter coffee sweet. Smoking was one of the few things he looked forward to each day. A good smoke, a little booze, a lot of caffeine and Evie.
I have been doing a lot of reflecting these past couple of weeks. Convalescents affords me that luxury; and let me tell you all of life feels like a luxury- a new lease on life.
If you follow me on TikTok you know I survived being electrocuted late last month. The after effects are a pain and still manifesting. Still, I am sooo grateful to be on the topside of the soil.
Anywho, I thought I would share some of my reflecting with this poem from Getting Me Back.
A little aside: My last visit to the old place was about twenty years ago. It was one of those random stops; my youngest son was in high school and we were on our way home from a dental appointment.
I said, “Hey you wanna see where I lived once as a child?”
Being the adventurous soul that he is he said, “sure!”
So, without further adieu, here you go.
For illustration to feed your imagination only XoXo
🖤~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~🖤
Life behind the railroad tracks
We called home a wooden shack
Lulled to sleep by passing trains
A tattered roof deterred the rains
Chilling winds crept through the walls
Carrying echoes of coyote calls
Two to three in every bed
With coats and quilts to cover our heads
Winter’s cruelty calmed us none
We unfurled early to meet the sun
Neither ice nor snow could hold us back
In hopeless times we crossed that track
Coon hunts and rat kills, boy we had fun
Don’t think it strange, it’s just what we done
June bugs and fireflies, the games that they sparked
Well we are in the final hours of Women’s History Month or Herstory as it’s been announced daily for the last 31 days.
Every year, March is designated Women’s History Month by presidential proclamation. The month is set aside to honor women’s contributions in American history.
I guess that’s a good thing. Either way, here’s my annual contribution in all her glory.
The poem below was inspired by the sage advice I received years ago from an elderly lady who truly fought to make a difference in the role (and treatment) of women in society. I feel she made a historical impact by influencing the small groups around her. She certainly left an impression with me.
I won’t name her because her M.O was to act subtly and not bring attention to herself. Surprisingly she got a lot accomplished with her (ur-um) antics. RIP A
Women’s Liberation
We did not burn our bras but wore them proudly; Holding–supporting–glorifying the mammary glands that would feed the next generation;
For the hand that rocks the cradle rules the world.
We did not give animated voices to our vaginas for the world to hear but let them speak in secret whispers that moved mountains.
We did not make a spectacle in the streets to prove our equality For we knew in our hearts [already] that we were superior.
An old man once told me, “Saint Patrick ran the snakes out of Ireland and now they rule the world.”
I thought I would share that belief along with a little history. Oh, and a little poem.
St. Patrick’s Day, feast day (March 17) of St. Patrick, patron saint of Ireland. Born in Roman Britain in the late 4th century, he was kidnapped at the age of 16 and taken to Ireland as a slave. He escaped but returned about 432 CE to convert the Irish to Christianity. By the time of his death on March 17, 461, he had established monasteries, churches, and schools. Many legends grew up around him—for example, that he drove the snakes out of Ireland and used the shamrock to explain the Trinity.
Sometimes it’s so snarled and twisted it leaves nothing but ashes in its wake. Take it from Ishmael.
HaPpY ValenTines DaY
Love IS grand – until it ain’t. If you have a real love and a healthy relationship you should celebrate that every day. Don’t be the characters I write.
The Real Janna Hill in 