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

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.

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.

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.

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.

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?)

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.

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.

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.

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.

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!"

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.

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.

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.