(grabbed from MMUN twitter)
(or listen here)

It’s that therapy/anger management/co-parenting divorce seminar acronym making the meme rounds again.

is it Thoughtful?
is it Honest?
is it Intelligent?
is it Necessary?
is it Kind?

I am a learning active anti-racist and address that we have a lethal epidemic of racism in this country.

Thoughtful? I will actively promote love and acceptance of all humans regardless of race, especially concentrating on those groups who are being oppressed.

Honest? I actively participate in institutionalized and systemic racism every single day and I will do better to call this out and change my behavior, especially by no longer tolerating family members’ racism.

Intelligent? Humans should be treated humanely. FULL STOP NO NEGOTIATIONS

Necessary? YES because we are killing and incarcerating humans targeted because of our systemic racism. These are our neighbors, classmates, soccer buddies, dads, moms, aunties, uncles, friends and fellow humans.

Kind? It is most definitely a kindness to stop hate speech and actions, racist speech and actions. Being kind to racism is never ever necessary. They have no seat at the table – ever. Humane treatment? yes. Kindness? no.

We are killing people – especially people of color – for existing. Until we face the truth of who we are as a culture, we cannot move forward. We cannot sugar-coat the truth of who we are and how we came to be. If this sounds like a “telling you” rather than a “sharing with you,” (and you are white) then stop and THINK yourself for a minute about where you stand in your truth of being an active anti-racist.

The story of Maya Angelou asking someone to leave her home and never return because they made a racist side comment, stuck my heart in such a way that my voice within my own home has become much more firm over the years. This is not an easy road, especially when you are surrounded with abuse, deep denial, and wilful ignorance. However, this is a necessary road for me.

Do you know what 7th grade boys do? They start puberty. They play with LEGO. They think Black Panther and Falcon are the coolest dudes ever. They want extra whipped cream on their ice cream if they can con you into it with their little boy/new teen big eyes. They belly laugh at Chris Pratt slapstick and love the kindness of the dad in Four Kids and It (wish monsters help!). They are learning algebra. They are writing a “dear diary” entry as if they were a witness to the Crusades as a Muslim and another as a Christian. They are coding virtual fantasy amusement park rides. They are practicing real life portrait sketches with shading techniques. They are learning to cut their own toenails. They are writing journalist interviews for characters from Zach’s Lie. They are hugging dogs and kitties. They are still needing comfort when spooky things scare them in the dark. They are dreaming of being powerful compassionate men doing important things one day, and working on practicing those things.

While they still have adults to help take responsibility for them, they are making bigger mistakes to push boundaries in order to figure out how to be.

Justifying or pointing out the humanity of a 7th grade boy should be unnecessary. But, in our culture, it is. A shitty unbelievably popular journaltainment person referred to a 7th grade boy as a “13 year old man,” because the boy was not white and was lethally shot by a police officer in the chest while he stopped running from them and turned around with his hands raised as the police demanded.

Who are we?

Justifying the targeted murders of non-white people. Meanwhile, insisting on spreading a lethal virus in the name of freedom.

My soulgutbrain hurts today.

SonHerisme, 7th grade, will turn 13 this upcoming summer. He is 6ft tall and filling out his shoulders and chest in man ways. His voice has deepened. He is well spoken. With his COVID respectful mask on, he is frequently mistaken for a High School Junior or Senior. He has Hispanic heritage. He still plays manhunt in the dark with his buddies.

I just

I just cannot

Love, ALL OF US xoxo

please, I beg you, give my baby and his peers grace, space, accountability and boundaries for the mistakes they will naturally make, and please DO NOT SHOOT THEM

another thinking thought: When we normalize removing children from their primary caregiver at 6 weeks old and force them to “behave” and “follow school rules” starting at 6 weeks old, when do they have the space and grace to make mistakes and learn from them? When does their learning happen? Where is the appropriate space and grace for them to temper tantrum, break down, make mistakes and safely recover, express their natural raging emotions?!!? Ah, yes, this is another post. ciao

Jab(berwocky) #1

(pic mine, wise woman words)
(or listen here)

COVID vaccine #1 jab received!

Locally, we have established a very efficient system of Sneetches into the community college gymnasium. Apply star (jab). Sneetches wait 15 minutes. Sneetches out. I got a star upon thars! Well, 1/2 of my star. Because of my history with cancer (tips hat to malignant melanoma to keep favor with 5 years NED!!!), I am receiving two doses of Moderna.

I was so adrenalined up excited to get started with my vaccine, I thought that I might be spared any aftereffects BWAHHAHAHAHA. Although, mine are not anything compared to others I am hearing about. After a few hours I felt, well, sort of foggy as if I’d slightly overindulged in alcohol consumption. I couldn’t concentrate and everything around me seemed sort of otherworldly. Overnight, my tummy reminded me how unhappy it is when disruptive things enter my body, and I awakened in the night with a heavy headache.

Today, I am a bit tired (or is it the rain and let down of the vaccinetapation?), my arm is for sure sore sore sore, but am otherwise just fine and going about the business of being me. Yeah, don’t be jealous because that business already involved two vomit clean-ups and one massive temper tantrum needing addressed (generous eye roll). Then again, there was a hot spinach lunch…so… do you, boo.

Good luck with your vaccine jab, if you are getting it, whatever your timeline is! Let us slay that Jabberwocky like nobody’s business!

O frabjous day!

Love, Ms. Herisme xoxo

Vaccine fight free zone here. Be a reformed Sneetch please and thank you. I know that so many people are worried about the jib jab contents and I am sorry that we have that anxiety to deal with on top of everything else. Sending {{{hugs}}} and wishes for health all around.

And I am going to add a 1/2 star to my belly and Sneetch this Beetch up!

You are all invited to my marshmallow toast party! Stars, 1/2 stars, or no stars upon thars. xo

Blah Blah Hands

(my pic, classical quote- also yes, my thumb is oddly long, and yes my nails are not well attended to bc I am a mommy, also yes, my office area is full of the things – no judgementors here!)
(or listen here)

A dear FriendHerisme has two lovely children. Her son is SonHerisme’s best friend, the other is a first-grade daughter. FriendHerisme and her husband are professional musicians – they are a super fun family and good friends to us.

Let’s call first grade daughter FriendEHerisme! FriendEHerisme sat with me at the boys’ soccer game, asking if she could draw Blah Blah’s on my hands.

The Blah Blah’s come alive when you make your hand into a fist with a straight thumb, wiggling your thumb up and down to make the Blah Blahs talk. We like to draw side knuckle eyes, nose, and a great gloppy tongue hanging out of their mouth. Occasionally the tongue gets so big that all they can say is, “blah, blah, blah.” Hence the name, the Blah Blahs. FriendEHerisme has been talking to, playing with, and feeding the Blah Blah’s (they eat the pens that drew them! How nervy!) since she was a teeny tiny human (as has SonHerisme, NiecesHerisme… and others).

At the soccer game, FriendEHerisme wanted both of my hands to bring the Blah Blahs alive and she wanted to draw them, so I allowed it. This is the way. FriendEHerisme has spoken.

My right hand was the boy Blah Blah, the left hand the girl Blah Blah (you could tell the differences because of the hairbow, says FriendEHerisme). Naturally, as soon as they were alive, they greeted each other, blah blahed at each other, and then they spent a lot of time kissing. Her parents are happily married as you can infer from the role play.

FriendEHerisme then decided the Blah Blahs needed something else (aka she was bored with the usual blah blahnesses). She drew a sunshine on the back of each of my hands, coloring them in with squashed up dandelions. Followed up with polka-dotted moons on my palms.

“Now what happens?” FriendEHerisme asked. I shined girl Blah’s sun down onto boy Blah and sang, “Mr Sun, sun, Mr golden sun, please shine down on me…” She opened up boy Blah’s hand and asked the moon to sing to girl Blah. So I sang, “The man in the moon is smiling ’cause he’s in love…” Then both suns staring at each other, “I’m burnin’ I’m burnin’ I’m burnin’ for you…” Then both moons staring at each other, “Moon, moon, moon shining bright…” And that was enough for FriendEHerisme to declare that the Blah Blah’s were done. She had them kiss once more, and that was that.

The Blah Blahs have seen SonHerisme through lengthy travels, emergency room broken bones, surgeries, general doctor visits, waiting for adult things everywhere to be over so that children things can rule activity levels again. Thank you sweet Blah Blahs.

Everyone is growing up.

The Blah Blahs are almost all gone.

*sigh* Bittersweet times.

I’m scheduled for my COVID vaccine. The world seems to be turning again. Today is SisterHerisme’s birthday (celebrated virtually, again).

Still feeling as though I am suspended in time over here, floating in some clear gel filled bottle- stopped, but not stopped, in time, watching everything out there moving onward and wondering how to be. Like time saved in a bottle. That’s an old timey Jim Croce song! If I could save time in a bottle the first thing that I’d like to do is to save every day ’til eternity passes away just to spend them with you (or something like that). Which I think is a love song (? bwahahahaha yeah blah blah blah). For me, I’d grab it for the sweet Blah Blah moments with SonHerisme, FriendEHerisme, NiecesHerisme and all of the sweet babes.

Love, Ms. Herisme xoxo

ps. I know Time in a Bottle is a love song and I know it isn’t for me, but also the phrase on its own seems like suspended time in loneliness or grief, which IS what I mean

Currently lost the bandwidth to find a therapist/counselor. It seems very daunting and expensive. Carrying on with the things…

blah blah ciao

extreme side note: I really really REALLY wanted to title this, “blah blah hand job,” but just could not do it because of the childrens. If you find it as HILFREAKINGlarious as I do, feel free to mentally adjust the title to suit your humors. (ridiculous plurals on purposes) loves to yous

Bee Charmer

(my pic, Elizabethan era quote)
(or listen here)

Today I saved a lost and worried buzzing bee who arrived without warning into my home because the sun was shining brightly and we had been carrying on a conversation outside while I was eating my lunch (spinach natch) and the bee wanted to continue our quiet lunch tête-à-tête but I had inside work to do. RUN ONs RULE The tiny bee quickly became disoriented and so frantic that it couldn’t listen to reason anymore.

I grabbed a lovely empty glass jar (I am a recovering jar addict) and an old Christmas card I recently found tucked away inside of a puzzle gift, and followed the bee, guiding it towards a sunny window. I do this with errant wasps too. The lure of potential outsidenesses seems to give them pause enough that I can catch them. And that is what happened today. I caught the window screen settled bee underneath the glass jar, gently sliding the Christmas card underneath the opening. The bee jumped when it felt the card slide underneath its tiny bee toes, and it jumped up into the jar. I held the card on top of the jar mouth and turned the jar over to hold the bee inside and walk it back into the garden.

The bee did not appreciate my efforts at first. It was buzzing the mighty anger buzzes. You know what’s funny? If you leave the jar upright after removing the card, it takes the bee a long time to figure out it can fly up and out of the jar. Same with wasps. However, if you lay the jar down on its side, the bee (or wasp) will fly right out the opening then fly away searching for its new adventure. Or perhaps they are playing a trick on me so that I’ll feel clever knowing something about them when I really know nothing (Jon Snow).

Some days I pretend I am a bee charmer. Not nearly Idgie Threadgood level bee charmer, but I try here and there. buzz buzz buzz

Today we also had a local tragedy wherein gunshots, chases, and breaking a military base barrier resulted in hospitalizations and death. Nobody is charmed.

SonHerisme was blissfully attempting to coax a former champion jumper to cantor with ease up and down a grassy hill while I watched from my perch on a giant fallen oak trunk when my phone buzzed with the alert that his school was on lockdown. Note: we were not skipping school as he has remained virtual and his first googlemeet started after his early morning ride…so… step aside judgementors. Expecto Patronum and all that.

I was sitting with another parent I have known for over 6 years who also has two children attending the same school as SonHerisme. Also, she is a police officer.

As we scrolled through various e-media to figure out what was happening in our little community, she shared with me how police morale is extremely low at the moment. They are all frustrated by what they see as the public’s lack of understanding for the situations their positions put them in, as well as their dedication to their communities. There are bad seeds in every culture. It’s not just that statistically and historically, people of color are approached differently by law enforcement, it is that there are huge holes for checks and balances at levels and institutions outside of the officers directly facing the public. There are courts stacked against people of color. Prison officials (for profit and government run) failing up with white supremacy. There are teachers discriminating against children of color, setting them up for failure. It is an entire system stacked against people of color leading to a terrible white person becoming a police officer killing a black man on camera. This is hard stuff.

MrexH is Hispanic, as I have mentioned before. Before he became very ill, he was a little over 6ft tall, weighed about 270lbs, appeared quite intimidating and was frequently profiled for extra security checks when traveling. The police were involved multiple times in our domestic violence situations. Yet, all of us survived. He resisted arrest and exhibited dangerous erratic psychotic behavior while in custody. Yet, all of us survived. He violated a protective order after threatening to murder us. Yet, all of us survived. He threatened family members, friends, some involving police presence, yet, all of us survived. How is this with the same police culture in our community? We have a well known open presence of the KKK locally (hello ignorance maximus). We have a police chief under constant scrutiny for racial and misogynistic words and actions. Yet, we all survived.

It has to be something about the local leadership not only inside of our local police department, but also rigorous support by other local institutions (courts, schools, detention facilities etc), which keep the nasty lethal systemic institutionalized racism in check.

I don’t know enough about it obviously and am approaching from a white lady perspective of course.

I do wish that instead of blanket shame and blame, we would take a closer look at places where things are working better – not the fool’s errand of perfection – but, better. I wish that I could take an honest look at my participation in promoting systemic institutionalized racism and then have the courage to change. Expecto Patronum to get rid of the gaslighting racist demented dementors from public works and policies.

I doubt the answer is just more training and cameras for police. Although the cameras are a truth telling tool for sure.

Oh yes, and I like bees. Bees. We aren’t like bees at all and it would be great to admit that first. We are not all born to mindlessly work at the rule of some central ingrained instinctive dogma until we die. We have choice and information to make choices. I admire bees for what they bring to the table. I hope that we can bring so much more. Good luck us!

Love, Ms. Herisme xoxo

ps. I also anthropomorphize like nobody’s business and the horses know this and believe they are in charge, making it difficult for me to decide to ride because I do not want to hurt their deep feelings of majesty, so there’s that

pps. Self truthing is hard

Grape Expectations

(pic mine words *sigh*able)

SonHerisme wanted to plant a grape vine starter because he believes he wants to be a part-time sommelier when he grows up. There is an aroma box on his Amazon wish list. A few years ago I took SonHerisme to see one of his older cousins perform in a teen production of The Tempest. He was captivated by the silly behavior of the drunk characters and wanted to know why “drunk” meant silly.

Diving into the explanation of “drunk,” led to explaining why mommy takes an occasional glass of wine, led to him googling on his own “what happens when you get drunk.” btw – Even with heavy duty parent filters, and sweet young bears following google search instructions learned at their sweet Montessori “explore information with your tools and resources to find your answers,” thumbnails of very sketchy things pop up on green squishy handled industrial kid cased iPads. Thank you stupid Internet for introducing my child into the world of boobs, butts, and pelvic regions being used in drunk situations on random Spring break beaches. Internet searches at school are so locked down, because they only allow access to sites that the school system tech wizards have curated, rather than how our parental controls work, which filter out access by algorithms.

It never occurred to me that thumbnails would still pop up.

It never occurred to me that my sweet baby would innocently research being drunk.

Ugh. He got scared when he saw the thumbnails and came to tell me because he couldn’t get the thumbnails to stop popping up. I did the best I could to leave shame somewhere else since I do not want him to feel like he has to hide his curiosities from me or give him the impression that drinking, bodies, etc are shameful.

I have always had the rule that I check SonHerisme’s devices and am in charge of them. As he gets older, I know he is programmed to keep things from me (and in a lot of ways – thank G-d), but it seems like, so far, he is comfortable sharing and knows that I am checking his devices. Secrets belong in a journal marked in a way that I know I am not to read them. Secrets do not belong on electronics until you are over 21. That’s this mommy’s rule at least.

Since he was very young and we started talking about consent etc, I have inserted into the conversations about how as your body changes, so does your brain. Your brain remains mushy until your body is all finished growing and changing. Girl brains tend to start solidifying around age 21 and boys about 24. There will be growing times when you will feel like your brain is solid and absolutely knows everything. This is a lie your brain is telling you because it doesn’t want you to know that you still need support and have growing to do. Yeah, SonHerisme will need therapy. I am a solo single parent. Please have mercy on your judgement of me.

SonHerisme’s fascination with wine has been burbling since The Tempest, is my point. Sometime during these COVID homeschool times, he watched part of a program about wine with me after asking me more questions about wine, winemaking, etc. I am somewhat less than a novice about wine so I turned to the program to give him a glimpse of what some winemakers do. This particular show had the headlamp wearing grape pickers gently picking grapes in the cold pre-dawn. Like magical fairy lights dancing through the dense black vineyard just before the fog began to lift as the sun peeked over the horizon. SonHerisme declared he was going to start his own vineyard on the side of our rocky east-facing hill. Y’all, he checked how many hours the sun hits that side of the hill on a summer day so that he could get ready for planting. For $7.99 he bought himself a little grapevine starter. It’s so sweet. He has grape expectations for that little thing. I hope it works out for him.

Grow little tiny thing, grow!

We also have grape expectations about our new project: building an outdoor sofa for the deck. As we were driving home with our lumber and supplies, SonHerisme was shocked when I answered one of his questions about the process by suggesting we consult the building plans. I almost burst into tears because that sweet sweet bear thought that I was making my own plans – to build an outdoor sofa – to measure the things and cut the things – having never ever done a project on this scale before. In his brain as my giant tweenager almost teenager, it truly never crossed his mind that I might need something like plans to pull together a 6ft solid deck sofa.

It was one of those sweet moments when the weight of his belief in who I am, really hit me. For him, it was a defining moment of reality that mommy is at least a bit of just a human person and not all magic – a part of growing up. A chink in the innocence of being a tiny bear, making room for the most amazing big bear. I wish for it to be as painless as possible while still providing enough challenge for healthy growth. May the force be with you, and also with you. This is the way. I have spoken.

I suppose that is what Springtime brings – grape expectations.

Love, Ms. Herisme xoxo

And now

(my pic and a creative person’s lyrics)
(or listen here)

Today is one of those days.

MotherHerisme awakened vociferously anger sobbing at us for about an hour because she was too cold.

I did the doing of the things.

SonHerisme is full of the puberties.

An email arrived from the parenting coordinator‘s office. It is lengthy with many questions and tasks for me to follow-up on … again.

This kind of thing sucks the life out of me. I mean, all of it except for SonHerisme, which is to be expected.

MotherHerisme is a bottomless pit of needs without regard for anything outside of those needs.

MrexH is a bottomless pit of needs without regard for anything outside of those needs.

Today is a day of beauty and sunshine and more seed starting.

Today is also a day of shit that I do not want.

Today is a day that I wish I had something a little extra supportive to help me through this hard stuff, but I do not.

I know that all of this is temporary and will pass and my ego attachment to whatever, is feeding the pain I feel. But, y’all, I am tired.

I am tired of the managing.

I am tired of the figuring outing.

I am tired of the fight every single damn day.

I am tired of efforting.

This is an uncomfortable reckoning with my reality which is what it is.

5 hours until I can reasonably go to bed. 5 more hours. I’ll get to doing the things again for 5 more hours.

Was it Susan Sontag who said, “seduce myself with hope” ? That’s what I do when I sleep, I suppose then it comes back to kick my ass in the day. I want to stop this.

I hope that you are having a better day than this. If you are not, I hope that you have some extra support to tap into. If not, then I hope that you have 5 hours or less until you can reasonably go to bed too. If not, then know I am here sending you a zillion hugs of solidarity because this crap sucks all the stupid dumb dumb head stupid.

Even my heart sounds like it is s-l-o-w-l-y thump kathump kathumping through resistant sludge against its own will.

Love, Ms Herisme xoxo

ps do not ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever fuck or get pregnant by a gaslighting asshole EVER EVER EVER or, make sure you have a shit ton of healthy support you can draw upon if you do.

also, do everything you can to push yourself and figure out who you are before 25/30ish no matter how ridiculous, terrifying or embarrassing, just do it all. Don’t be a me. It is very hard and I one million out of 10 do NOT recommend it. Do not correct my maths please and thank you. Waffles

One more thing – I am so whatever I am that instead of chai, I have been drinking lavender chamomile tea all afternoon. Tea fail too *sigh*

Listen here on Anchor by Spotify

UR for Me

my pic, clever person’s words
(or listen here)

It is time. It is time for me to have the uncomfortable reckoning with myself.

Which makes me think it is beyond the time for our uncomfortable reckoning with ourselves and the tempering of the expectation that we are better than we actually are. Not that we believe we are necessarily better, but the expectation that we are (should be) better than.

I think we (I) got culturally stuck on the philosophy that only by recognizing the light, the ideal, will we achieve greatness and enlightenment – not unlike a religious cult. Then we (I) defined light/enlightenment/achievement in ways that (I) very few of us could even grab a sliver of, and attached that achievement, or lack of, to morality. I think we forgot that humans gotta human. The dark is there no matter what. Refusing to recognize it and call it what it is, does not make it disappear to be replaced by frolicking unicorn kitties in a midtown 3 bedroom/3 bath parkview apartment with weekend beach getaway cottage because we believed hard enough in the powers of sunshine gratitude and manifested the syrupy goodness with the correct yoga instructor at the best studio with the correct color scheme.

The culture of happy is killing us.

The culture of racism is killing us.

The culture of this iteration of capitalism is killing us.

The culture of nationalism is killing us.

The culture of not allowing the darkness to be conscious is killing us.

My level of overtly cultivated happiness is used as a barometer for my worthiness to hope.

My level of tolerance for racism is used to justify others’ systemic unworthiness.

My level of mindless participation in this iteration of capitalism is used as endorsement of others’ exclusivity to basic human needs.

My level of blind acceptance of nationalism is used as a weapon against humanity.

Some things are just crap. They happen(ed) or exist(ed) and they are are awful and dark because that is what they are. By not fully recognizing that they too are a part of who we are as individuals and collectively, I think I (we) have been exacerbating and feeding the dark to my (our) own detriment as if it is a mirror of morality and worthiness.

Maybe instead of therapy or a grief doula, I am looking for an accountability reckoning guide. Also, it is a million times easier to talk about theories of “we” rather than “I.” Uncomfortable reckoning indeed. Or just further ptsd wanting to find any way to take responsibility for unpleasantness so that I can give myself the illusion of being able to control it.

Fuck it – who knows? Anywho… turn off the gaslight and light up that dark shit ’cause I gots to gets my truths on, son! Waffles!

Love, Ms. Herisme xoxo

ps – I’m popping these over to Spotify if you want to look for me there too

Butter Battle

(image origin credited once identified)
(or listen here)

This scares me. I have spoken about fear many times, of course. Now most days I feel in a catch-22, or perhaps better described as a butter battle with myself. Desperately running on a no-escape-unwanted-paint-peeling-creaky-squeaky hamster wheel with the only foreseeable ending being total collapse as the issues ramp up on top of each other, threatening overthrow in turn.

I know I have said it before, but y’all I probably need a good therapist or perhaps a specialized tool for the harnessing of some as-yet untapped reserve to push myself through this stuff and stop this madness before I allow it to continue any further than it already has into the next generation with sweet SonHerisme.

A kind friend sent some suggestions to me yesterday from her pool of therapist peers. Now to take the leap, commit the $$$ and do it.

None of my “tripple-sling jiggers,” are working properly anymore and were never healthy to be using anyway. When I try to one up them with utterly sputters or boomeroo bombs, I can feel myself deteriorating instead of winning the internal battles. I am the Zooks and the Yooks. I am the one running “into the wall like a nice little (wo)man.” I am tired. I am worried about passing this shit on as it has been clumpedy dumped onto me.

Oh no! But Dr Seuss has been banned by the crazy liberal elites who are stealing my childhood classics away along with opening borders allowing unfettered amounts of criminal immigrants into my plastic suburban neighborhood in Ohio as they steal all of my tax dollars to take free food and traffic drugs and our white babes into slavery while they take away my guns and make my chest inflate with glorious indignant anger over my bizarre-o proud shame for my traitor symbol confederate flag on my truck/lawn/underpants/cap and you won’t even let me drop my kids off at free public school 5-days-a-week without following fake COVID protocols so that I can get my “me-time,” which I deserve, back!


As you can see, I have some of the angers overflowing with the sarcasms.

Stupid Butter Battles everywhere.

The only thing I can do is address my own butter battles and maybe deliver a meal to a new momma or drop off chocolate powers for our local school staff. And vote. And if you are unfamiliar with the Butter Battle Book, I have introduced it to you and you can request a copy from your local library(if you are in a privileged circumstance to do so).

If I can ever safely get off of the hamster wheel, I think I’ll head to Roxaboxen (they have TWO ice cream shops there!). Or if Sarah Stewart’s The Library is next to an ocean, I guess I’ll head there (maybe Roxaboxen is next door with neighbors Miss Rumphius and Mr. Fox procuring sustenance, and an open air community theater/pavilion hosting concerts/plays? Meet me on the bench at the end of my boardwalk path on the beach. I’ll bring the tea and you bring the TEA. 4pmish).

Love, Ms. Herisme xoxo

ps my scary thing from yesterday – I finally began sending out “thank-you’s” to people I admire or would like to thank. Mostly anonymously, but still full of the vulnerables and the scary.

pps still writing and counting the gratitudes to help as well

ppss Starfire!

a poem

Pete and Repeat

Pete and Repeat were in a domestic violence relationship. Pete was murdered. Who was left?

UPDATE: I was thankfully wrong. They WERE found and are SAFE!!! This is truly a miracle.

A mother and her sweet toddler boy are missing in our community. There’s no word just yet on what’s happened, but I think we all know what we fervently pray is not true, is most likely true. A year to the date of another mother and toddler boy in our community who unfortunately suffered the ultimate fate of being in a domestic violence relationship. They were murdered.

Psychotically entitled men feeling desperate = murder of sweet mommies and babes.

I just do not know what else to say.

Mask up. Check on your family. Check on your neighbors.

Domestic Violence Hotline 1.800.799.SAFE (7233)

Mental Health Hotline 1.800.622.HELP (4357)

Love, Ms. Herisme xoxo

we are lucky

my heart soul stomach hurts and I pray from the depths of the universe that I am too sensitive and wrong about this situation

Check Marked

(unknown origin, will credit once identified)

You guys – I watched a movie.

non-Marvel? CHECK

non-Star Wars? CHECK

non-kiddo friendly? CHECK

fiction? CHECK MATE

As you know, this is huge for me. Then, as I was brag-texting about my accomplishment to an Inveterate Optimist, I got sick to my stomach – twice. So, maybe not that huge of an accomplishment. F it – yeah it is. #checkyourselfbeforeyouwreckyourself

I tried to watch this same movie at some point last Spring and made it about 2 minutes in before I recognized one of the actors who does not sit well with me, although admittedly I am not very familiar with his work. I am sure he is lovely and fine and his family and friends love him very much. I knew of him from a documentary kind of show I watched a few episodes of at the beginning of COVID quarantine. I had to stop watching that because I would just absolutely break down and cry – sob ugly cry. At the time I figured it was because they were having so much fun in the show going around to the places, learning the things, drinking the things and maybe I was jealous or grief feeling how much I have missed enjoying things in my life. They were having fun (yes, I KNOW it is produced, directed, contrived etc even in a “real life experience” kind of show), and I… I was… I am not.

Anywho, I decided to open the rusty ol’ Netflix app on my phone when I couldn’t sleep (something was growling outside – it’s a thing as I live in the woods which are occasionally spooky), and the movie was still sitting there asking to be resumed. I restarted it and I watched it. It was short, maybe 90 minutes or so, very quirky, no emphasis on falling in love, and it has Toni Collette (I do know of her)! Even though I did cry at points, ultimately I felt such a sense of relief that I made it through the movie.

Then the afterwards arrived and, well, I need to find therapy y’all.

The innate worthiness factor and my parenting with SonHerisme are super concerning for me. He’s still in virtual school until next school year when it looks like most of us will have had vaccines. Ill MotherHerisme and I are all he has to engage with most days. Oh, and MotherHerisme’s two un-socialized little minature schnauzer dogs. SonHerisme is lonely and he deserves so much more. He is such a great kid.

Post spinach lunch (again, I know – its like a drug), seed sewing (not a euphemism – actual plant seeds needing tended), a bit of laundry and driveway power walk, I am going to at least look up some therapist contacts. I don’t think I’ll return to the woman I was seeing pre-COVID. She’s too lovely, compassionate and kind. I think I need someone a bit more detached, or rather someone I feel more detached from.

Sort of like watching any show. If I feel any kind of anything other than it’s silly and entertaining, I just cannot watch the program. At all. My brain and body just do not handle any feeling above numb very well, unless I feel some control over the situation or it is so very deep into the sillyzone. I would like to not be like this anymore. Disassociation is my superpower which is super exhausting me and super impacting my ability to help SonHerisme grow (and not in a positive way).

However, I would really like to go down to the NGA DC because it is a great comfort to be surrounded by impactful artwork which I can internally interpret and walk away from at any time without feeling any obligation or need for explanation. I don’t think the buildings are open atm – maybe by reservation (?).

*dream break* I like to walk around the sculptures first – Romulus and Remus, African Allegory, the lady with the veil, the little politicians’ busts, Paul Revere, Little Dancer – you know, the usual. Then say my, “how-de-do’s!” to George on my way upstairs to see sweet Ginerva, count the Ruben’s lions, Napoleon, the boating party, the ice skater guy and girl in the white dress (whom I believe come to life for a secret after-hours affair then spend all day staring at each other across the galleries – it could be true). The Civil War memorial, which is noble and sad at the same time. The central fountain with its seasonal arrangements… The steps up from the mall where you can pretend to be Kung Fu Panda pulling your dim-sum cart up the mountain for the festival (sweet SonHerisme memories). Then back down to the basement for coffee and a lot of “no, we are not buying that”‘s at the gift shop, before heading over to the East building to see Bellow’s boxers, Calder, Rothko, Mondrian, Pollock and the sitting Buddha outside with the fantastic giant blue rooster. Return to the basement for a treat and then a short walk through the sculpture garden, avoiding the Natural History Museum because by then it is too crowded, before heading home.

I hardly ever go through the first floor gift shop, only the basement one and I don’t know why. The lady’s room is much nicer on the first floor. Hmmm… maybe a pivot for next visit. That’s sad, dreaming about clean lady’s rooms in museums. That’s where we are on the COVID mental health scale atm, I suppose.

Onwards to check mark off the things needing the doing.

Love, Ms. Herisme xoxo

ps meet me post-COVID at the NGA DC for a cuppa and we can walk, walk, walk, not talk, together. Not too long on the verso of Ginerva because I will cry because da Vinci is almost too much. Also, there’s a sparkly walking sidewalk in the basement! sys

pps Birthmarked is the movie and now that I’ve thought about the experience for a day or so, I think I am okay with it – yay!