Label Maker: Real


I can’t be anything other than what I am. I don’t wear “fake.” I’m not the type of girl that will smile and pretend to be your BFF and then tell everyone what a terrible person you are. It’s just not in me.

There’s several levels to this personality trait. I’m not a social person, but I don’t view being sociable as counter-intuitive. It’s good etiquette. Therefore, I normally behave as one ought. I’m helpful and courteous by default, even if I don’t like you. Because, ultimately, you’re a human and you deserve that kindness.

Where this largely comes into play is after a relationship, a bond, or even trust is broken. The husband tells me that I hold grudges, but honestly I simply agree with Mr. Darcy, “My good opinion once lost is lost for ever.”
Life is too short, and my energy is too precious, to spend it on people that have shown their true personalities. It’s not that I’m unforgiving; I’ve just become wary of insincerity and weary of the drama.

Another way this manifests is through my interactions with others. I have what I call a Reflective Personality, meaning you get what you give. This is a latent personality quirk. Without trying, I treat you exactly as you treat me. I can’t fake it. It just is.

The final way, and likely most relevant to you, readers, is through my creativity. Ultimately, if I’m not feeling it, you’re not getting it. Which is why I will sometimes go dark on this blog. I may disappear. I may not post for weeks. Ii just can’t share something that is forced or feels less than genuine.

So, I’m real. As Popeye would put it, “I yam what I yam.” What makes you real?

Personal Archive: Allan and Anna


I wrote this after being inspired by one of my favorite poems. It’s basically a re-imagination of the original work. Warning: it’s pretty dark… Let’s see if you can guess the source material:

Allan and Anna

The waves swept over the sandy towers. Allan watched as the salty foam melted the temporary architecture. Suddenly a giggle broke out in the silence, melodious and eerie. Allan smiled as he gazed at the source of the sound, Anna danced merrily as the kingdom retired into the sea. He loved this girl. There was no reason or thought behind it. It simply was. Love.
The words spoken to him came back to Allan in this moment. “Allan, you don’t understand… Anna is… different. She is not like other girls.”

“I know! That’s what I love about her. She’s so special.”

“Allan, I’m not even sure she knows what ‘love’ is.”
“You just don’t understand. Our love is beyond what other people perceive as love!”
“Allan, I just don’t want to see you hurt! Listen–”
“No! I’m done listening! Anna is mine, and I am hers! There is nothing else!”
Anna’s giggling brought Allan back to the present. The delicate fabric of her dress floated around her as she spun humming “Pop Goes the Weasel.” When she began singing, however, Allan realized she had rewritten the words:
All around the kingdom,
The waves slowly creeped
The people in the castle cried
“Save us from the deep!”
The unearthly song mesmerized Allan. He continued to watch the waves’ methodical destruction of the sand castle while Anna sang and danced. As the last rise of sand was razed, she came over and kissed him. He pulled her to the ground and held her fiercely, unable to feel close enough to her. She bit his lip suddenly, hard, the coppery taste of his blood mingled in the kiss.
Hours later, as dawn creased the sky, Anna broke the embrace and looked into Allan’s eyes. They were heavy with passion, and he was blinded to her unhallowed soul. Anna had never felt compassion or conscience in her actions. She kept Allan because she felt adored, and that amused her. She loved watching him watch her.
“Allan… would you do anything for me?”
“Anything you wish, my darling.”
“Would you die for me?”
“I would die without you.”
Anna reached into the bag she had brought with them to the beach. She pulled out a large knife and watched the growing sun gleam on the blade.
“Allan, you have a choice.”
“My darling, what are you doing?”
“You must choose to either die or watch me kill myself.”
“Anna… stop.”

“Choose, or I will kill myself.”
“Too late.”
Anna sunk the blade into her abdomen, musing that it did not hurt as much as she thought. As she lay there, watching the shock and fear play on Allan’s face, she smiled. Her last vision was of him removing the knife from her and choosing to join her in the abyss. The morning tide enveloped them and carried them off to rest together, in the deep.

Label Maker: Wonder


BBEricaWonderThe more I explore these labels, the more I find different facets of my personality. This one has the balance of kind of always being there, yet I’ve never really thought much about it. The word, “wonder,” has such an exquisite meaning. It feels full and beautiful, and altogether inspiring. None of that ever really felt like me, but it is exactly me.

Continue reading

Crossing the Line


I know I’ve been away, dear readers. Life hit hard, but I am back! And this story has truly insipired me.
I first read about this the other morning. I tend to bury my head in the sand when it comes to celeb news. Unless it crosses my twitter feed or my news ticker at work, I usually miss things entirely. I’m so glad I read about this. Continue reading

The Art of Cultural Interpretation: Mlle. Irène Cahen d’Anvers, Pierre-Auguste Renoir


Pierre-Auguste-Renoir-Irene-Cahen-d-AnversA few years ago my husband’s grandfather died. He had collected quite a bit in his lifetime, and the family decided to auction it all off in an attempt to clear out the house. I had never really been to an auction before, and I was quite convinced I’d find nothing to interest me. That was until we came to the master bedroom. It was one of the last rooms with items for auction, and the moment I walked in I saw the painting and knew I’d fight to own it. Continue reading

A wonderful little poem.


Something my daughter wrote…

American Revenant

In an effort to keep things fresh and interesting I’m going to start posting some of my old poetry.  I haven’t actually written a poem in years, so most of it will be from my juvenile years, but I’m not going to change them at all.  I will post them in their youthfully exuberance, and possibly terribly written, entirety.  As part of this I hope to engage others in conversation regarding writing as well as expression in any form.  So talk to me, leave comments, I want to hear from you.

For this first poem I actually want to post something my 10 year old daughter wrote for a class project on weather. (She is also writing a book with a friend, I’ll talk about that another time.) It may be just because I’m a Dad, but I was so impressed with it.

Lightning crashes

Swirling columns of air


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