The End

I am jealous of dead people in 2011. It is absurd and wrong, but I envy them for being through with this pain. I hurt and I can't get it to stop. Too many of my milestones are heartache and misery. I don't like my life. I don't value my life. I am sorry, sorry, sorry I feel this way.
For 2012, I need change. Things have got to change. I can't live like this with a broken heart and a mind of misery, battling the need for money to eke out a stupid, worthless existence.
This site has helped me, given me someone to talk to, let me get out the thoughts swirling in my head, but I'm done with this too. I'm slamming the book shut on 2011 and all related subjects.
I want my life back.
I want myself back--the one excited about life and thinking she could make the world a better place, the one who was guided by love and believed happiness was achievable.
I am left with this shell and misery.
I have to believe 2012 will be better.
I am the control. I am the variable. We are both disappointed with our results.

Resolution Mantra

One, two
The big fat shoes I filled once upon a time.
Three, four
Shut the door. Crawl up the chimney
Five Six
Pick up sticks and all the other bits you've collected
Seven Eight
Lay them straight and quit whining
Nine Ten
Start over again

Captain of the Ship Needed. Inquire Within.

Silly Wabbit. Our race is an illusion. We've been running in place this whole time.
Then Humpty Dumpty had a great fall, and the dish ran away with the spoon.
You and your silly tightropes, thinking you're above it all, preening in imagined spotlights, your spirals are knots you've tied yourself, your wire, mere thread.
Is it time to take out your wholecloth and fashion anew?
Or do I piece her back together and pray the music will come?
Katherine wants to be a nice quiet librarian and share our passion for books and intellectual freedom.
KD exceeded our expectations, filled the boots we once thought were so daring, but for all her bravado, she's been wounded in battle and is MIA. Her guitar has turned to lead and it made her cry.
Kathy? Forget it. She's always crying.
She can not take over anything except children, dogs, and pretty things like flowers which is her department anyway.
Mom appears when summoned.
Angel, Delilah and Gypsy Nurse took off.
Somebody's going to have to rise to the occasion and deal with this world and get us some place. I need to be able to pay my basic living expenses .
This can't be impossible.
It just can't. I have too much done that I believe in.
I  am stalled.
I need to put energy into finding an agent.
Consistent energy.
I try here and there, here and there, and get rejected and go back to the part I love instead of pushing to find someone who can help me get from here to there. 
So there you have it: my first wish: Let me find an agent who believes in me as a writer.

Deflated

I try, and try, yet I am not solid.
I know because three times I have been deflated.
I imagined the return of the prodigal daughter after a 5 year absence from family functions, and instead received a letter saying come alone or don't come. Deflated.
I tried to be a do-gooder donating to a Breast Cancer Research Charity when I sold items on ebay. When they collected, I bounced a check. When I didn't cancel my "free" trial membership to a vanity music site, I bounced three checks. Deflated and in the hole at Christmas time.
I decided to use my time to write, vigorously attacking writing projects, believing I merit making my living as a writer or musician or something I do naturally. Instead of getting a job while I am in grad school to be a librarian, I gave myself permission to live frugally and write instead, trying to get the creations in my head on paper.
It crossed my mind as I was writing my screenplay, how doubtful it was that I could even get it read, much less having it produced. I smelled whiffs of futility, but decided to jump in instead just because. Just because the story has been dancing in my head and I just decided 5 pages a day and push, push, push, and I would have a screen play in no time.
Final Draft is my enemy.
I hate, hate, hate it.
I had 43 pages of a screenplay I was in love with--the one I have thought of for 5 years, and it crashed. I continually saved it, but it crashed and my precious creation disappeared except for a 30 page PDF version. It is only 13 pages in length, but I really lost 43 pages because the 30 page version is nothing like what it became.
I am not sure I have the heart to write it again!
I am deflated.
I feel like giving up.
Who cares anyway.
I cared a great deal and now I am deflated.
I feel like I can't win for losing.
What if I am a nothing girl after all?

The Tortoise and Ricochet Rabbit

I am the control and I am the variable, in this, my life.
The control is the tortoise that plods ever onward.
The variable is ricochet rabbit: Bing, bing, bing!
Racing hither and to, crissy-cross on my tightropes, laughing, crying and changing, the variable has lived many lives in one, from nothing to something and in between.
The control is unimpressed.
The variable cannot be repressed.
For all my experiments, I still hold only pieces and bits.
In the canyon below my high wire are broken dishes and my shiny assumptions that counted as truth yesteryear.
Once upon a time I saw truth as something to be sought.
The bloody shards below mock this idea of truth.
We have no truth, only moments of letting go of our precious baubles and learning to celebrate their smashing. Spirals, angles,  trajectories, and time, affect our truth.
Our peeping eyes disagree on what we see.
Truth lies somewhere in your buoyant step, after, after, and after the baubles smash in little tiny bits.

My Baby, My Teacher, the Rocket Scientist

My dog is small, a perpetual puppy, and he doesn't mind all the gobbledigook babytalk that comes out of my mouth. Small creatures tend to bring that out in me.

My eldest son, the Doctor of Nuclear Engineering, accepted this for a short while. I remember the time. I remember the exact spot I was standing when this changed. As I was gazing adoringly at my 3 month old baby boy, we locked eyes. He distinctly told me that he loved me but that he needed the facts (not my baby talk please.)

I changed and had a blast introducing him to the world of wondrous things with no baby talk allowed. I still sang to him, of course, which he always loved.

This whimsical black sheep, educated career waitress, broke singer/songwriter, Peter Pan, Captain of the Ship, Pied Piper mother,  is no rocket scientist, but I raised one. I surely did.

My Brown Wolf

I care not whether I am believed, but once upon a time, before I had a name for my foe Depression, I had given up, and my room melted away and I was in a bright white shiny beautiful still expansive everything place being stared down by a brown wolf.
She sent me back to my children.
She sent me to the doctor.
The mother wolf sent me and the doctor gave me meds and I returned. Spiral. Spiral. Back up.
Every time I have a relapse, I remember her kind, stern, everything eyes, and I go back to the doctor.

Swift Kicks in the Pants. and Bites in the Butt

I might as well have had a target on my posterior, bent over ready for the boot.
4 Big Kicks in the Butt I Got for my Vanity and my Spirit of Giving Back in the Name of my friend, the late Sam Moss. 
Vanity: Reverb Nation had a special free trial offer and I thought why not and thought it was fun to watch my name climb the site billboards. It made me wonder how it worked and because I realized it was a closed system at best, climbing their charts meant you paid for premium services. I like to see features and whether they are necessary and decided this site is a good way to share music if you have a large following or if you stick to all the free features it is a good place to post songs for others to hear. Meanwhile no notice was given to me that my free trial was expiring and I had kept no reminder to self, so I bounced 3 checks.
Vanity Hurts.
My other painful kick was a 4th bounced check. After my hitherto free services bounced my 3 checks, ebay collected on my donation to breast cancer research., and bounced a 4th check. I decided to donate 25% in honor of Sam-his wife Dido died of breast cancer. Charity hurts. Vanity and Charity bit me in the butt.
All the bounced checks have made me in the negative, negating all the work I did the month of October selling and shipping on ebay. Plus I still owe my son his half ---eaten up by my bounce.
Ouch. Ouch. Ouch and Ouch again. 4 swift kicks when I could have learned with a simple warning letter.
Oh, my aching arse.
But I have to just forget it, sitting on pillows until the bruises heal.
My aching bum is nothing in the scheme of things. 

LIke Water

I channel my efforts with my tightropes, and then follow the path of least resistance, just like water.
.

Little Tiny Bits

My urge lately has been to organize, to use what I have, use up my bits.

Jesus and the Red Words

Jesus was a man. Jesus lived. We love Jesus because we were taught as children how kind and nice and powerful and miraculous he was. While I sang in the Episcopal choir, I was still confirmed and had the good fortune to be given a bible with a new testament with an apocrypha where all that Jesus was reported to have said is written in red.

When I write songs about the words in red, I always mean the apocrypha, for it was an experience to read those red words. To me it said Jesus was all those things I had been told and that he was to be considered a teacher/mentor. He gives us the beautiful and succinct golden rule to live by: "Do unto others as you would have them do unto you."  A quick check with the golden rule, and you can make up your mind about how to behave in any given situation. It teaches us compassion and thoughtful living and gives us a check and balance to live by. I love the golden rule.

But I also distinctly heard him say he is our brother and that we could emulate him but that we should not exalt him but our mutual Father. He tells us there is life after death. He is powerful. He is a social nobody. He is growing in strength, not by military strength, but through love and miraculous works. He has lost years. He befriends the outcasts. Jesus is a rebel. Jesus had a temper.

Still I cannot swallow the idea of drinking Jesus' blood and eating his body because he died to save our sins. How does that work exactly? I don't see how it computes.
I think it was a political murder and people added some zing to control the potential uprising of the masses.

If I am wrong, I am down the chute to hell and I bet my 3 children's immortal souls in the bargain.

The only way I can recognize the Jesus I met through those red words is to proceed with love and compassion, guided by the golden rule. It is a beautifully organized chaos in this world from the spiders web to the cosmos. How could our existence have a trick ending? For surely it is a trick if only the people who parrot the right words are destined for heaven like the Christians say.

Even in the Episcopal church where hell is not often mentioned, I was afraid for my Jewish friends, until I kicked the religion habit and branched out to my own personal Church of KD where all beautiful souls go to heaven because that only makes sense.

I feel brave for shutting my ears to bible-thumping-men-in-white-shoes. I only did it because I vowed to never tell my children anything but verifiable truth. If I didn't know so, we'd look it up (a librarian-ish tendency I've had all my life)
Having very intelligent, genius children, I decided to approach religion like some people think this and some people think that, introducing them to a range of religious ideas instead of indoctrinating them with the faith I grew up with.

This surprised me, although I remember thinking maybe my children would give me insight to my questions someday if I just gave them the facts. We did have a church for awhile, because I thought they would like the social aspects (but they didn't) So we quit and took nature walks instead.

Big Red Bow

I spend time organizing, with a need to get things "where they go." I want my organizable life to be neat and orderly, tied up with a big red bow.

My Empty Nest is Not Empty

I have an empty nest, true, but I am realizing motherhood is forever, and I have many gifts left to share with my grown children and their families.
1) I need to thrive so they have no worries about me. They can think about me and smile.
2) I need to be healthy and clearheaded until the end of my life. I do not want to be a burden.
3) I want to be there for my children and my future grandchildren. I want to live long.
4) I want to be healthy of mind and spirit, as well as body, so my children will want my grandchildren to be around me. I want to love and share and show my grandchildren the world through my whimsical eyes. I want my children to see the magic they have forgotten, our magic, the magic we made with love, learning, laughter, and song.
5) No matter how old my children are, I want to hug them, hug them tight. If they need me, I will be there.
6) I want no news to always mean good news. I will communicate but if I don't, my children will always know I'm doing great, and vice versa.
7) I must be financially secure: No rescues from my children. I need to be smart and plan this well at this juncture. As this is my weak spot, it will take some concentration and effort to achieve financial security. This should be my focus now until it is achieved. It is still uncertain how: I want to be compensated for being writer of story and song and feel this is entirely achievable and doable and righteous. I can also be a librarian who writes or a touring singer/songwriter. I feel as if I can still follow my passions and make a living, but it can't be a squeaking by existence as it's been or I'll be a beggar at my life's end.

Shake it UP

I am surprised in the mirror.
I am so still.
Inwardly there is the noise and activity of a convention, and still I am still except for my twitching eye.

I Have Other Shares To Fry

I found my replacement to clean house for the rich, old Stockbridges, years ago. Although the work was easy and the pay was good, slow paced, chatty Lindy was a much better match for lonely Mrs. S, than I was. I am a busy worker bee with no time for chit chat.

Mrs. S. says I have trouble "sharing," by which she means gossiping.

I would share my last sandwich, and I intend to share my songs with whomever cares, but I make a concerted effort not to gossip. I am the one who supplies fodder to gossip about---the gossippee perhaps. But back to songs.....

I don't know how or why I hear songs in my head, but because songs come to me, I feel an inherent obligation to share them, and as I've mentioned before, it feels as though a song is a captured bird unless you let it fly free into the world.

Whether people except my (re)gifts is entirely not my business, but for my part I must share.

Bearded Baby Cockroach in a Skirt To Land on Moon

I wish we were the ant, but we are the cockroach, scurrying, and furtive, resilient, and adapting, watching out for the shoe of fate that threatens to squash us out of existence.
We are bearded baby cockroaches in skirts who get kicked in the pants to build our characters.
We take a licking and keep on ticking until our final shoe-down.
Unfortunately kicks in the pants often leave splinters, impossible to reach being in one's own derriere.
Then you must ask for help and it is a bit embarrassing. Or you don't have your splinters doctored and they fester and block you from your goals.
I believe that through the kindness of friends, family and strangers, I have been relieved of all my bloody splinters from the past, and now I can move along.
I predict there will be great changes in my life in the coming year, good things, exciting things, fun things. I see it coming like the rumble of thunder.

Pacing &Tightropes

Off my tightrope I fall, unable to balance too much and too little.
I am too much and too little,  alternating between bombarding and hiding from the Others.
I am the participant and observer, sometimes cheering for, sometimes jeering at my graceless efforts at balance.
I pace in circles and wander in loops, easily distracted; Not the thing for high wire acts.
Not the stuff, pacing in circles on tightropes:
You fall every time.

Ode to the Moon

We are the Moon with our reflected glory, and our two faces.
We see the same and different moon from our corners of the Earth.
The moon is nice, the way it makes you feel special because it follows you, even in speeding cars.
When the moon is full, we feel its pull.
It can make us bleed and fight.
Moon. Oh, Moon.

What to Say to a Jumping House

The road I'm on is familiar. I've driven it many times before, but I have never seen this old house or that one. It makes me curious. Because it is old, I know it has been there longer than I have traveled past. How could I miss it? I either looked at it or didn't, both without seeing. Because I am the control and I am the variable, these anomalies do make me curious. I take from it that it is all the same difference. The end result is the same whether I saw it without seeing or didn't see it. Either way, a house just jumped out at me and I said "Well, Hello! Fancy Meeting You Here!"

Thank You FUnny People & Creatures & Things

Oh those bones, OH Those Bones, Those Funny, funny bones.
Important to tickle.
It is easy to take life too seriously and I forget this all the time until I laugh.
Laughter is good.
Laughter feels like warm liquid sunshine thawing the tin man.
Laughter can be a kick in the pants that you get a kick out of too.
I love people who make us "ALWAYS LOOK ON THE BRIGHT SIDE OF LIFE."
                                                           -from The LIfe of Brian-(sp?)

Word Rebels: A Short Short Story by KD Rouse

“Words are all we have.” - Samuel Beckett-

Oscar managed to push the dictionary under his bed before his mother came in.

 “Acks?”  she asked,  “Test 2moro.”

“I hate Acronyms!” said Oscar. “Why can’t we use whole words?”

“2 Slo” said his mother. “Law sa acks betr.”

“They aren’t even real acronyms,” said Oscar with disgust. “Do you know if a word disappears, we lose the only way to describe something. Like an animal going extinct.”

“U hav 2 try,” said his mother. “Law.”

“I think people should be able to talk the way they want.”

“U betr Behav. Arest’d” she said with some concern. Acks as the Universal Language was adopted in 2057 and was taken very seriously. Anyone who could not master Acks, or even worse, refused, well…They were cracking down.  

Words are beautiful, delectable, delicious, said Oscar dreamily.

“Shhhh!” said his mother sharply. “No! Law!”

“No law, “ repeated Oscar. “I like that. No law! Up with the word!”  He knew he had found his calling, but said goodnight in ACKs to please his Ma-ma!

Silicone & Ashes: Some Falls Hurt Worse Than Others

Despite being plagued with bouts of depression, I believe in the power of the mind.
You are what you think, what you take in physically or spiritually, what you feed your mind and soul.

The tightropes say its all in the balance.
If you detach from your body, you float away. That doesn't help.
If you detach from your spirit, you just rot. There won't be anything left to keep except silicone and ashes when it's time for you to Blast Off on Your Date with Death. .
Watch sprite-ly dancers on high wires and aspire to dance across.
 But for now: Danger Will Robinson!
Straddle this wire if you must, and scootch across if you have to.
Don't look down.
Just get across, across, across and do not fall from this one.
It's a loo-loo.

Company Loves Misery

Misery can sometimes appear to be your friend.
If that is what you know and it's kept you company when you think there is no one else who could understand, much less deliver you, you can inadvertently prolong your friendship with Misery, clutching it shamelessly when it threatens to leave.
What makes you remember to let go are smiles and laughs that angels deliver to you with love through love.

You reached out to me, a stranger, gave counsel,  made me laugh.
You never even know how it thawed my mind's frozen darkness, giving oil to the Tin man with your kindness.
Misery slinks away defeated when you laugh. Laugh. Smile and Laugh, Bearded Baby Sourpuss. (& Take Your Meds.)

Purpose and Chaos

"Man is but a reed.... but he is a thinking reed."
                                      -Blaise Pascal-

"I think therefore I am."
                                 -René Descartes-



I feel therefore I am.

I get pissed off therefore I am.

My heart aches. My mind is sore,  then I am reborn, therefore I am.

When an em-path, and a chameleon, these tests of being are crucial in checks and rechecks.

I exist. Now, what to do with it?

Why am I?
Do I make up my reason to be?
Or does my purpose exist and its up to me to travel my hills and dales to find it?
Do I know my purpose, secretly, and am afraid of what lies ahead?
Is my purpose in me or in the world or both?
Could it be anything or is my purpose specifically tailored for me?
Do we make up our purpose, us busy, buzzing bees?
Back to the question: Does everything happen for a reason?
Looking back I see purpose and chaos dancing.
I see they could never change unless one had the other. We could never change. Demolition, decay, heartache must tear down for the Spring of Purpose to come to town. We enjoy the fruits of our labor at harvest and hunker down for the chaos and death of Winter, only to begin again.

Me and St Pete

I have imagined God as a game show host where we all go down the chute to hell (Father, Son, and Game Show Host by KD Rouse)
I had a day dream about playing "Defend Your Life" with St. Peter at the Gate too.
"Well, " he booms like thunder. "What do you have to say for yourself?"
All I can think of is "Plop, plop. Fizz, fizz. Oh what a relief it is."
 I see him scowl and all I can think of to say is "I''d rather fight than switch."
"Excuse me?" he roars.
"This tastes like butter!" I exclaim.
St Peter reddens so I keep trying.
"You're in good hands with Allstate." I chirp.
"Enough!" he yells.

I warble "Have it your way!"
"Do you not understand the gravity of this occasion?" splutters St. Pete. "Your immortal soul is at stake."
"SOOOOUUUUULLLLLLLL TRAIN, " I sing. " Save 15% on sole while quantities last, " I say.  "We cook your steak to perfection."
"Lord, Lord," says St. Peter, with his face in his hands. "Why hast thou forsaken me? I get all the crazies."
"Fear not, " I say, "For the angel of the Lord is upon you."
St Peter snorts. "You don't mean you do you? It's up to me if you get your wings and so far I haven't understood a wor..."
"Fly with me!" I sing. "Come fly with me!"
"That does it!" yells St Peter. "Century after century I've done this. GO on, Go on in. Let HIM deal with you. I quit!"

Tees, Ringtones, & Songs

If you want a KD Rouse thing or another, here is my little store: 

KD Rouse: Reverb Nation Store

Socks on Hardwood Floors

Even if you are a terrible dancer, like maybe I am, it is very fun to dance on hardwood floors in socks.

My Sister's New Children's Book

Picky Little Witch by Elizabeth Brokamp

Picky Little Witch at Amazon

I Know What I Want At This Juncture

I know what I want for this next era of my life.
I continue to need freedom to write, therefore, I need $.
I realize I"ve had it with worrying about how to pay my basic bills.
I've decided I do not want to perform out as a singer/songwriter at this time.
I want to place songs with successful singers and unknown stars.
I do not want to be a librarian although I almost have my Master's in Library and Information Science from UNC-G. The time is not wasted however. I am using this new information to organize my thoughts, prioritize, understand my values, and learned more about communication. Besides school, I write.
I considered going to Grad School for writing but I didn't want to be told what to write or how to write. I just want to write what I want. Plus at the end of library school, I can be a librarian with a job if my writing endeavors never translate to money. I am prepared to be a cheerful librarian. I love the library, but I don't think I will have to work there. I think I will have experienced some success by then.

Entirely Different.

Walk with me, before you help me back on my rocker.
I am a new sack of sugar. Entirely Different.
I am an inch shorter, scarred and yesterday I was still beaten down and battle worn.
Today  I am Entirely Different.

Hip and Broke A Songwriter's Journey by KD Rouse

Blue & Red, Red & Blue

Wordless instructions for air conditioning and heat are depicted by red and blue, or is it blue and red? Like right and left, I can never remember.
Your hands are red and raw, and your lips are blue, if you are cold.
Water can be blue and many other colors and if you are eaten by a shark, the water runs red.
Fire has red and blue flame.
You might feel blue if you are hot,  your face flushed and red.
Our blood is secret until it spills red.
We are called Blood-bloods and red-blooded.
Hot, cold, red, blue. Which is which?
Only your thermostat knows for sure.

Seasons, Cycles, and Circles

Some of us, especially women, have difficulty distinguishing right from left. We live in seasons, cycles, and imperfect circles. What is right and left to spinning women?

Untangled Strings

A tangled mare's nest of thoughts is not a good environment for much of anything. If you write out a thought one by one pretty soon they are appeased and can leave.
Writing brings untangled strings.

Fountains, Trees, Stars

The  fountain's flow is illustration of balance without nets or tightropes.
Trees give and give and cheerfully use our left-overs.
Stars cheer us on.
They shimmer and twinkle, tempting us to dream.beyond our tiny skulls and bones.

My new facebook page

http://www.facebook.com/platform

How Long?

I am eight and my stomach hurts, hurts, hurts. I am getting fevers. I remember 105 like a crazy dream. Dr. Shaver is mean and asks me questions. My sisters are at home and I don't know the right answers. He's getting angry. "When was your last bowel movement?" he snaps. I am bewildered. I don't know what this is. I wish my big sister was here. "Bowel movement," he repeats. I am clearly bewildered. "BM!" he yells. "CaCa, Poo-poo, Doo-Doo! Poop! How long?"
Now I understand what we are talking about but I still don't have an answer. I didn't know you were supposed to measure it or even notice it.

Dr. Shaver is angrier. "How long?" he demands. "Once a day, a week, a month! How long?" I don't know so I guess the right answer. "One month," I say, hoping I chose the right answer so he will stop being mad.  He is more mad and leaves the room.
They corrected my crooked urethra at Children's Hospital. The hospital doctor is nicer but he still asks questions: "Why didn't you tell us it hurt when you peed?" he asks. I don't know. I don't know. Maybe no one ever asked.

Eating Waffles on the Fence

Do things happen for a reason?
Many people think so.
I like my past ever so much better if its true.
Still I waffle on the fence. Do they or don't they?
I think we have to graduate from this life before I know for absolutely sure.
It could be a mix of intention and chaos is what I say still, if I were pressed on the issue.
I never intended to be a waffler of fence sitter, but there you have it.

The Gamut of a Gamut

If you were to walk the gamut of a gamut, and examine both ends, you would find yourself back where you started. I walk my tightropes point to point through spiraling ellipses.

What SIde to Fall

Walking on my tightropes, I wobble, and sometimes fall. There is no net. The trick is to wobble and fall on the "better side."
Our children do better if we fall on the side of (slight) neglect rather than excess.
Small children want your love and attention more than they "want" a new car or a fancy house. Older children care but don't get it twisted. A baby, a child, doesn't know the difference between owning and renting a house.

Fall on the side of compassion over "justice," I say. Justice is subject to human judgment, and people in the justice system have agendas, and care more about power, prestige, and money than human well-fare. Can you imagine fining a homeless woman for being in an abandoned building? Fines and court costs to the hapless bum who is caught drinking a malt beverage in public? Oh please. Doesn't it seem strange that everyone caught in the "Justice" system here is poor, and black or toothless white people? Does it not seem strange, day after day, the courtrooms are filled with the same people. No suits. No ties. Plenty of smack down.
Seasoned jail house lawyers abound, knowing as much about law as any attorney, but they are caught on the wrong side. Hide from "Justice" children.  Run! Hide! Once you enter the circle of misery, you'll never get out.

Teeter totter as you will, but don't fall in "Justice!"

Bing! BIng! BIng! Ricochet Rabbit!

When you have lazy synapses or some such, and the joy juice just does not flow, you try a new med.
The cartoon cat eats the mouse, and his body bulges in mouse shapes every which where.
First you are the tin man, warm oil trickling and tickling your head, taking a new med that seems to be working.
Such a relief. A blessed relief.
But it also takes time and then you are a cartoon cat, bulging in the most unexpected places. The cat has gone and swallowed Bing! BIng! BIng! Ricochet Rabbit! Stick to mice, you silly cat, but in the meantime, the blobs must settle before you join the Others.

Why Doesn't Sharon Share?

"This has apparently become kd rouse's personal therapy page, not fans of Sam Moss. I cannot listen to it any more. I'm out."----Sharon


I think about my indescribable friend, the late Sam Moss, and what he would say about my experience with his fans. If it were just me, the Sharons of the world, would beat me down. I would be so upset that I don't think I could share my personal tributes, my stories of  Sam, that I started well before he died, although it is done.

I would be astonished that the Sharons of the world are very nice people with lovely quotes on their web sites and many friends, but these Sharons would rather have a pure nothing stagnant tribute to Sam than have it sullied with my stories and emotional outbursts.

I have been scolded and slapped down basically for sharing.
Sharing sounds so much like Sharon.
Why doesn't Sharon share?
Let her put her precious things on display, and let me be the Sharon for a change, and snipe and scold and slap down.
Let me break her good intentions to bits for a change.
Let her spend hours and hours of her life writing, and let me be the Sharon who needs only seconds to roll my eyes in disgust, disregarding, disapproving, judging.
Let me be the one to reach into her world and tell her what a stupid selfish girl she is.

I could never be a Sharon though and the Sharons can't be me.

The Sharons write a poem or two that is too precious to share.
Sharon can't risk sharing because she knows there are other Sharons that lie in wait to jeer and spit.
I ask Sam about this Sharon, wanting to know where she had fit in his kaleidoscope world.
Sharon who? asks Sam. Remember, don't let the shitters get you down.
Don't let the shitters get you down.
Don't let the shitters get you down.
Don't let the shitters get you down.
I repeat it like a mantra and hope my sharing bone hasn't done been eaten by the Sharons, the Sharons, the many, many Sharons.

The Samurai & the Zen Master

"A Samurai once asked Zen Master Hakuin where he would go after he died.
Hakuin answered 'How am I supposed to know?'
'How do you not know? You're a Zen master!' exclaimed the samurai.
'Yes, but not a dead one,' Hakuin answered."
                                               --a Buddhist proverb--

Carbon Bags and the Trick of Three Clicks

Aliens call us "carbon bags of mostly water."
How can we argue that?
But we are two-sided creatures, our real selves hidden in flesh, peeping out behind our eyes.
Our houses of flesh are just houses after all, and will succumb to the ravages of time just as any house of sticks or bricks.
We don't realize our two sides are divisible by 3, Father, Son and Holy Ghost, for we are taught to leap into the arms of a mixture of truth and lies, and we forget to run from men in white shoes who have all the answers. White shoes are not the answer.
Oh Dorothy! You've had the Ruby Shoes All Along!
You coulda, woulda, shoulda known, silly girl...

How could she know though?
How could she have known that with just 3 clicks, she could have been home like she wanted.
But how lost the rest of us would be, us Tin men, Totos, Scarecrows, and Cowardly Lions, if Dorothy had not taken the long way around, living, sharing, learning, while she kept on.
In the flesh, the long way around is the only way possible, and shoes are only shoes.
It's the person wearing the shoes with the power, but wearing shoes, even ruby ones, is not enough.
The person in the shoes has to know what they want even if they somehow know of the trick of the 3 clicks.
The person in the shoes has to be absolutely clear of their destination, meaning they must blunder and fall, fail and crawl, bail and bawl many miles, learning what to keep and what to throw away, before a clear destination is visible.
We are born explorers, we "carbon bags of mostly water."
When we stop, we decay and die.
Clicks make a better story, but the power is within.
Choose, at least, to die first and then decay.
Live it up while there's time, for we are only 3 little piggies after all, in our little houses, in our flimsy, little houses.
Dance, dance little piggies! Dance over-time! Someday, later or sooner, the wolf will be at each our door. Our jig will be up.
The Piper Must Be Paid!

Nothing Girl and the Tallest Poppies

"All the world is a stage, " and the stage is an odd place.
First, you have to think you are good enough to be on a stage. You have to publicly admit you think you are good enough by even stepping on a stage.
You don't know if other people think so too, so you have to bare your soul without knowing how you will be received.
Everyone is kind and gushing at open mikes when you are paying your dues and suck.
The slicers and dicers come later when you are a taller Poppy.
All the world is a critic who can slap you down but good.
They get to autopsy your soul, critique, jeer and be uplifted without breaking a sweat.
The critics never have to step on wooden stages and bare their souls.
They can help you or help you crumble.
If the taller Poppy survives, then you win a double-edged sword.
You win money so you can do what you do without worrying about dinner, sure, but you also gain something worse than the slicers and dicers of yesterday.
You suddenly have an entourage of smiling, ingratiating stealers of souls and you will never again know who is truly your friend. They love you so much, they stalk and hound you, and sometimes kill you.
They love you so much they wouldn't change a hair on your head.
They'd rather stuff you and put you on display than for you to change a single hair on your own head. 
I've not been there of course, but if I proceed this could be me.
The critics scoff: "Oh, yeah. Right. As if."
But your heroes are flesh and blood. They squat and smell if they are unwashed. No one thought they were anything until you caught the bandwagon and thought they were everything to shake and shiver to.
I don't seek fame, but it might find me yet.
I just want my dinner, and I am very, very curious about how far a Nothing Girl can go.

Missing the Church Boat & An Unexpected Friend

It takes a moment to remember where I am. Awake or dreaming? Day or Night? What day? What year? What time? 
 It comes back to me as I lay in my bed soaked with sweat.
I am awake now.
It was a dream of buildings and oceans, true, but this dream is different than the ones before.
I am not lost.
I am late and miss the boat, but I am not lost.
Eyes are rolled and I cause a commotion in the Church Boat without ever stepping foot in it. A church lady says I stole a cartridge of red ink and apparently I give them much to talk about in their boat, even though I never stole red ink and tell her so on our boat to boat call. She calls me a bloody thief and slams down the phone.
Still, even in my dream, I think it is funny, because if I were to steal anything from the Church,  it would be red ink.
In some bibles, Jesus talks in red, and despite how I hate the Church, I cannot hate Jesus!
I love his red words, so I laugh.
This dream is different.
I am not lost. I climb walls of my Building to get in, and once I even use the door, but mostly I am swimming, swimming, swimming in a big beautiful lake that leads to the Ocean.
Usually, I am alone in my dreams except for bumping into my big sister who always listens and helps me.
All my sisters are there but we are all busy. Even when I see my big sister, I am too busy to talk. I am swimming and swimming, loving to swim and I make a friend.
My friend is Danielle. She lives in Virginia near my grandmother. She is a single mother, and has three babies too. She likes emphasis on the first syllable of her name, something I have to practice to get right.
My babies are grown. Hers are really babies, and I make them laugh.
We both miss the Church boat and on a whim, we get our own boat and follow the Church Boat from a safe distance.
I have never traveled with a friend before and it is fun.
When I learn the babies names, I see she has 3 plus 1 children, not 3. The littlest one is my stepson from long, long ago. He should be grown but she adopted him and I work extra hard to make him smile.
When we tire of boating, we swim with Danielle's 4 babies back where we started in the big beautiful lake behind my grandmother's house.
I stand on top of the dam and am a laughing, roaring king singing a roaring, laughing  king song to amuse the children. I end my song with a cannonball and they clap with joy when I emerge.
They thought the waters much too shallow to jump.
I tell them the secret.
Never jump feet first into shallow waters, I say. Curl up and hit sideways.

Corsets and Cockroaches

Law is a too tight corset, oozing with our muffin tops.
Try to throw it away, and you are clothed with chains.
Wear it, pretending ti fits and you are a sheep among crowing, cowed sheep in lumpy, bumpy clothes, adoring and praising the emperor for his inspired lumpy, bumpy attire.
Cinched tight, the corset pleases, giving us sleek, hourglass curves, hiding our greed and excess, our open sores, our wastelands, our gasping breath..
Cinched tightly in corsets we dance until dawn, such pretty pretty dancing. The children have all gone to bed.
Many were the ones to help you into your finery, your too tight corset.
When the music stops , you are alone,  afraid .
The corset has grown into your flesh.
A cockroach crawls out of your bosom and laughs.
You pray for angels with scissors... or not.
Just as often we give our cockroaches pretty corsets and pretty names and keep them as pretty pets. We whirl dreamily, reliving our dances 'til dawn, wearing our festering corsets like skin, dreaming of our next designer gown. 

Mental Patient on Board (with Miles To Go...)

My doctor has seen me through every hill, dale, and dusty trail of bi-polar-ism for the past 20 years, the dale side mostly, although you can smash your life to bits in just one manic night,  which isn't swell either.
I apologize to him for coming in last week on his day off but I was dying. I say I don't think his Doctor partner liked me too much. He came in looking like a kindly grandfather and went out like Walter Math-ow in Grumpy Old Men, muttering and wringing his hands.

My doctor is still poring over the notes from my visit with his partner. "Yeah," he says while he reads. "He doesn't do too well with mental patients."
It had never occurred to me that I am a mental patient, although sure as sure I sure am.

I, who have spouted so much about the power of the mind...the power of positive thinking, smiling to jog real smiles, I have had to accept that depression is not a beast I can tame alone. I can't have it counseled or coaxed out. My synapses are lazy or some such,  and therefore not enough joy juice gets through.

I have had to accept that some people need meds to live and I am one of them, despite my former suspicions that meds were cheating or a crutch or a quick fix. I 've had to raise my little white flag again and again and surrender to being ...a mental patient.

"Your case is very complex, " says my doctor. I see the sheaf of papers nearly the size of an unabridged dictionary that charts the course of my previous states of mental health over 20 or so years. Yeah, I say. It's been a ride. We both snort compassionately. "Ain't life grand?" I say like a song.

I tell him I didn't realize how spoiled I am to have him for a doctor. He never gets exasperated and scowls at Bing, Bing, Bing, Ricochet Rabbit! He says hello and other kind things even if I appear as the spluttering, soggy rock  Delila and Gypsy Nurse don't phase him in the least. He hugs me when I tell him my tether to the Mother Ship has been severed and I am lost in space.
"Mom," my grown daughter says, "Will you try not to make all your health symptoms sound like science fiction when you are talking to the doctor?."
"Science Fiction?" I repeat with surprise. 
Meds sound magic and easy, but oh no. You have to be a guinea pig and try different combinations before you get it right. Then out of the blue, everything that has been working doesn't work any more. You notice you're crying again and not stopping like usual, or you want to knock someone's head off when a no thanks would suffice .You don't want to see anybody or be seen. You hide and hide even though no one knows you are missing.

Of course, I have no idea how my story ends, but I know more things than I did yesterday and I am pleased. I am okay with a life with meds. All attempts to go it alone are disastrous.
Still, looney tunes or not, like Frost said, "I have miles to go before I sleep."
I will sing again, my wings only slightly scorched as I climb my way to new ashes.

The Faces of Dreams

Many things are dreams.

Dreams are gibberish, sorting through all our bits and pieces as we sleep, presenting us with a crazy quilt of things that don't usually go together.

Some dreams are not gibberish. They tell you stories and when you think about the story, you can see what you are in the game of life. The dreams that hold endless stairs to climb, relentless shooting elevators that stop at the wrong floors, and being locked out, going the long, long way around to get back to a place that moves and changes, these dreams are a mirror. While unsettling, these dreams reveal your state of being. These dreams do not stop. However, they will change as you do. Running in place like a cartoon character will cease when you take action in your waking life. Would that it would be rosy and posy dreams ever after, but no.

These dreams see you the naked of nakedest and see before you do, the state of your being. These dreams change but go on. Being chased, chased, chased, and lost, forever lost, and climbing stairs going up, up, up; Each phase of dreaming is relentless until you change in real life. Elevators that zoom up and down at alarming speeds, being late and lost, forever lost, looking wistfully at the rooms of students and walking by, and forever by, knowing this is not my place as I search and search; These dreams are relentless, changing as I change in real life.Real live waking life.

Yesterday, the Church chased me as I slept. I searched my building, my big, big building, for something important but I still don't know what. The building changes and grows as I search and I am chased by the Church.
No. The church did not chase me.
It was worse.
It anticipated me and had services in huge rooms next to wherever I went. I liked the singing. I am a sucker for the singing, but I still say No thank you, firmly, every time until I get fed up! Get thee behind me Satan!,  I scream at the sweet, grandfatherly Church Usher who has been nothing but sweet, sweet, sweet, but when Mr. Sweet shows up in the Green Room before my show, I go ballistic, and kick him and his sweet posse out. 
Tonight my dreams hold buildings that grow, grow, grow. Everything is tilted on its ear, the streets changing locations and melting into the sea as I search on, forever lost, without quite knowing what I seek. My building is big. Huge. I can always find my way back. Buildings to Oceans. Building to Oceans. Both are my home.

Dreams we make up are our highest fairy tale aspirations. This kind of dream fuels our journeys. Sometimes when you get close to this kind of dream, you realize that your dream is better than the reality. Your version of your dream is sugar plums and cotton candy, with no mention of sharks and hungry tigers. Up close, close to living your dream, you can see the sharks and tigers swarm.



Some dreams are Holy and entirely different from the dreams that are gibberish and the dreams that are not gibberish.


These dreams are a gift from...
These dreams are a gift from?
These dreams are a gift.

In one such dream I  was drowning, trying to swim through rocks and seaweed and a Voice said  "You do not have to go that way." I changed course and swam through clear waters, bursting through the surface, gasping but alive. I see myself walk down a sunlit beach. To this day, I can hear this Voice saying "You do not have to go that way," if I find myself drowning in any which way. I can turn. I can go another way if I've ventured into treacherous waters.

There are dreams. There are dreams, and there are dreams.

Delusions of a New Hypochondriac

Being bi-polar is tricky. Lord, Have Mercy.
It's sneaky.
You can't hide from it.
You can't outrun it.
You can't out think it.
You don't always know how bad its gotten until you are deep in the throes of an episode.
All the doctors say I am delusional.
I think something is inside me, eating me alive.
If I am manic, I think it is perfectly fine to operate on myself to get this thing out.
I almost bleed to death, fainting on the hospital sidewalk.
I am checked out spread eagle, every which way and again and again they find nothing physical except an ulcer and stress from another depressive low-low. Now I have to think Okay. What if they are right? (Something I have never considered until now.)
Now that I know I am not dying, I tell my aching delusional body that we are going to boot camp. I am the Coach and I do not stand for whining, wallowing, hypochondriac slackers! Uh-uh. No Sir, Missy.  No way. No how. I'm going to work you so hard, you'll hurt for real! You are getting in fighting shape! Do you understand? What? I can't hear you! Louder!!

I shed my skin to begin yet again
I am going to pretend the Doctors are right until I think so too.
Baby is going to the gym where she learns the difference between real and phantom pain, and gets in fighting shape to boot. 
Baby with wrinkles and whiskers, you are far from done.
Now: Engage, Mr. Spock. Engage!

A Fairy Tale, More or Less....

More and Less,
Some people want More and More.
Some people say Less is More.
We say More or Less if we are in the ballpark.
This is a funny world.
I didn't know we are a fairy tale where anything is anything, and so many things are Everything, more or less.
I didn't know that behind each pair of eyes lies a different version of reality. We think we all live in the same world but we are only approximately together on the same planet, our perceptions of reality as unique as our DNA. Even just two witnesses of the same event can't agree. Our stories change as we tell them. Our history, told by victors.
A strange place this is where less is more and more is more, and enough is not enough. .

Secret Exhibitionist Chases Moonbeams

It's just like me to keep a web blog and then keep it a secret. I can say anything if there are no faces I know attached.  I am probably isolated in cyber-space again and it pleases rather than distresses. I am a Secret Exhibitionist leaving a digital trail of the many faces of Katherine Dashiell Rouse, aka KD. Whether anyone ever cares isn't an issue for me because Martha Graham said so, and I believe her.

Expectations must weigh heavily on one's shoulders if one becomes popular. If you "make it," where is "it" exactly?" I know the Music Industry and Fans of the Famous have trouble accepting changes in their idols,  who are denied personal musical evolution, phases and stages, exploration, and changes. They better love, love, love whatever album breaks because you will be playing it over and over,  matter how their music may have or could have changed over time.  Neil Young was sued by his own record company for "not sounding like himself," Prince was locked in a cage (that he beat) and Dylan was booed off the stage when he played an electric set of his songs and the crowd expected his acoustic self. Fame can limit your freedom to play music. I have some pretty impressive recordings but nothing is yet good enough to release to what I hear in my head. Given all my studio attempts were free or meagerly funded slap dash attempts, I think I've done well. Recording is difficult for me-separating my guitar part from vocals as they are linked in my mind and fingers, but recording is what I want to do above all tasks. I want my album to be the quality of what  I hear in my head, things above my ability on guitar. The wholeness, the richness, the creaminess and dreaminess of the album in my head will be the album I realize. I hope I am not just chasing moonbeams.

If They Could All Be Aunt Lizzies...

Psychiatry and psychology are "soft" sciences. There is no accurate way to measure conditions or keep controls. Actually, I think that every case of mental illness might be as unique as the people who have challenges with mental health (shall we say.)

The Professionals in the Mental Health Business don't know much because much is unknown about the brain. Adventurers and Discoverers of New Lands! Despair Not! There is still the depths of the Ocean, the heights of Outer Space and Beyond,  and our very own Brains to explore.  

There are good counselors and good psychiatrists, but not everyone is what we call an Aunt Lizzie, someone who is like my clinical psychologist sister Elizabeth up in Northern Virginia
.
I found help at my family doctor more than with anyone else, except for support of the Aunt Lizzie's' Aunt Anne's and Aunt Mary's', the many Bill's', the Sam's', the Miss Doris's', Kind Strangers, and now the mysterious BHU  who have all given wise counsel, information towards cure, and ways to think of things differently than the reality I have accepted.
I see how important it is to connect with people because our problems are often the same as with Others, and Others can offer the very wisdom you need to proceed forth . 

Cinderella Mouse Plays The Game of Life

Chronologically, I am 53 years. Inwardly, I can't guess my age. I feel like a baby.
I hate the game Chutes and Ladders. It is my least favorite game in the world but I still keep falling down chutes and starting over again. Falling and starting over, over and over again.
Every time I think "I know the truth," my life is torn apart. Broken dishes, broken dishes. Everything smashed to bits as I look the same but am rising from flames having to be reborn, reborn, reborn.
I remember her, some 30 years ago. We are standing on the driveway in the warm sunshine, my baby son and me. I adore him, and I finally have a purpose in life. I am beaming at him toddle, and I sigh with satisfaction. I got it all figured out. I know what deep pure happiness is. I am a 21 year old mother, a cookie-baking, in the church choir, singing Episcopalian with a baby, and I get to stay home with him! I get to have more children! I am happy to the point of being smug as I watch my child, my son, my reason for being.
That devoted young mother, me, could not imagine in her wildest dreams what the future would hold.
I am not sure the young me would recognize me at 53. It's been a crazy, bumpy ride and never, ever, would I have imagined it. Never ever did I expect  who I have become.
I got thrown out of my cookie baking, super mommy world when violence in the home drove me to an escape plan. I was forced to be a leader for the first time in my life, very strange for an invisible nothing girl, very difficult. I hatched a plan of escape and stuck to it, skimming money from my own tips and depositing them in my secret bank account before I got home. I was the Captain, the Keeper of the Flames, the Sheepdog that gave unconditional love, and a safe perimeter in which my children could be free, free from fear, and learn to make choices.  We sang, we danced, we had adventures inside circles as large as I could make them.
Always with me, there was One Chance to Learn On. There has to be a chance for a child to learn not to do something or learn to do something before they get whipped. They should never be whipped in fact, but if there has been a rule clearly explained to them and they break that rule, there must be a consequence. Hurting a child, terrifying a child, that sick thud of nausea and fear when you hear your sisters or brothers being whipped with a belt, sometimes knowing your next. Be quiet. Be very quiet, quieter than a mouse, and be helpful, helpful as a busy, invisible bee and watch your big sisters to know what to say and do so nobody gets whipped. Little mouse, hiding in the closet, would not recognize herself in me, would never imagine the fire and fight, the fortitude and doggedness that would be required of us in her future. Cinderella mouse never imagined the spotlight.

Love and Everything Else

Many things are called love that are not love. Love is pure, a burning white light amidst darkness. It commands kindness and compassion and requires respect, acceptance, and dedication to uphold even a fraction of the love that exists. If we sort our soiled linens as we go, to piles of love and piles of things that are not love, Love becomes more clear. Love, Godly Love, True and Pure Love, is a tiny pile that requires no washing. It is durable, and everlasting; Your star to watch as you navigate tricky waters.
All that is not love is a horrible mess. Clean it all you want but all that is not love leaves stains. Jealousy, anger, abuse, neglect, cruelty, we call these things love. The things that are not love are durable and they are our shields and cloaks of darkness. We do horrible things with all that is not love if we are hidden and think we won't get caught.
Luckily, we have Love.
 Shiny and bright.
Warm and beautiful.
Pure Love.
We have only Love as our star.

Enough & Picking Posies

How much is Enough?
Answers vary:

• Enough is Enough!
• Enough is Too Much.
• Enough is Not Enough.

Why are we here?

Run from the Smug. They don't have the answers.

The Shaman-Trues give no answers.

They bid you stare into watery depths at your own reflection, and reflect.

They see child where you see man.

"Dear Child!" say they, smiling gently, as we clumsy-toddle round and round the room with our clumsy questions.

We are Babies with Beards, yet "Dear Child" they say with delight when we all pick the posies.

Swishy Switches

Mother Earth will not indulge us forever.
She is a wild mare who can flick us off
With a swish of her tail
If we keep on
Stinging and biting
Flinging and striking 
Grabbing and fighting.
Heaven is soup when you are hungry.
Water is Heaven and Earth.
The stars, our jewels.
One swishy switch and it's gone.

Everywhere and Everything

Music is everywhere.
The songwriter catches it in bits and strands, bringing it together in one place.
Many things are everything.
Location, location, location is everything.
Timing is everything.
Our children are everything.
 Health, Time, Love: Everything.
Tippy Toe here.
Toe the tightrope.
If any one thing that is Everything is deprived, we all go down and we have nothing.
We are very horrid creatures to allow poverty, and hunger, and suffering when it could stop.
Money is everything to some, but it only means close to Everything if it is a tool to use, a sword to swing, not a plush bed.
So vain. So attached to these mortal coils. Chasing beauty with knives. Save babies with your knives, silly clucks. Beauty is fleeting, a game you will never win.
Imagine a time where you are naked with no body to hide inside. What is left?
If it is pink fluff in the wind, dig deeper.
If it is bitter wormwood and regret, forgive and choose wisely.
If it is fear, chase it, challenge it; then win the fight.

Dear Universe,

Dear Universe,
S.O.S. from Planet Earth

We have taken measures to bring the world together, but its possible we'll never get along.
Will you help us feed the hungry?
Deliver all our children?
Turn our promises to action?
Intervene when we go wrong?

The Elusive Here to There

Where ere you stand is Here.
Where you want to be is There.
It looks easy, getting There.
We walk tightropes to get There, only to find it gone.
It is Here, not There, as expected.
In between our knees are skinned, our shins are kicked, our feet are blistered.
We lie. We squat. We smell.
We fall, and fall, and fall, from our tightropes strung between too much or too little.

Too much is a soft bed where tightropes are forgotten--hard to resist.
Too little is pain and suffering--hard to escape.
There is Nowhere but Here.