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 Another year come and gone. Where does the time go? No, seriously, where did it go? I feel like I just got here. Here being California. I feel like it's 1993 and I am leaving these Bay Area streets for Oklahoma. Now it's the end of 2023, and I am back on the very same streets. It's true you know; you can't go home again. The streets are dirtier, more crowded, and infinitely more dangerous. The roads are literally disintegrating beneath our feet. The beaches I walked down on Thanksgiving are under water. Where I lived twice with my father and sister, Pacifica, well, it hasn't fared any better. 40-foot swells. The ocean is no longer staying put. 

Lost more family this year. Aunt Barb, my mom's sister, died at the end of May.  I lost touch or grew apart from friends I thought I'd have for life. Tammi, Shawn, Angela Majors, (not my bestie Angie), I'm talking to you. As I go about my global adventures, I take each of you with me. I always think about what we would be saying as I walk through. I think about adventures we've been on as Facebook reminds me every day. What great fun we had. I miss you more than words can say. I wish we could talk, hang out, catch up. 

I had a health scare. Post rape I was under extreme stress. My cardiologist said that I was in perfect health except that I had stress related (and completely reversible), sinus tachycardia, and that if I didn't make some changes, I wouldn't be long for this world. The Urgent Care Doc didn't read the test results right initially, and told me I didn't have 3 hours, and that I needed to get to a Trauma Center. Trauma Cardiologist was so mad at her. I was released the same day, no surgery, no death sentence. Just a prescription for peace.

Dealing with my attack alone in Helena, without my best friends Tammi and Shawn, and leaning solely on Angie all the way in South Carolina, and my sister in California, wasn't easy. I had to get to loved ones fast, so here I am. Mr. Darcy and Sookie St. James don't care for the inner city but seem to be content being with me. We've really taken to the full-time rv life. I sit here blogging, listening to my Alexa that Shawn got me all those years ago, and Sookie is sitting next to me in her cat bed. Window is open and my Xterra is a foot away from that, so I can keep an eye on it. It was 70 degrees on Christmas day. It's always pleasant here. I miss Montana, and just want to come home. 

I'm running 406 Back the Blue from here, with the help of my beloved support team. I wish my Xterra could pull my travel trailer, but alas, I accidentally bought one that is too heavy. Otherwise, I would be out at the RV park by Overland Express living my best life.

Hoping the gunfire at midnight is minimal. It would be incredibly dumb to be out in these streets tonight. It's awful on the best days, tonight is going to be something akin to downtown Falluja. My little rv park should be pretty chill, but who knows what it will be like nearby.

The eucalyptus smell that I associate with home, that still lingers in the air. Reminds me of people long gone, and my heart hurts. Have to protect my heart from heartache more now than ever. I eat right, get plenty of exercise, but I can no longer get upset, frustrated, or even aggravated, and I certainly can't cry. Don't want my death certificate to read, "she died of a broken heart", literally.

I'm hopeful. I have faith. I have so many blessings in life. So many friends and some family that I love more than life itself, and my two cats that I hope live forever.

So, here's to another year. May the best of your past, be the worst of your future. I love you, and I miss you, more than yesterday, but less than tomorrow.

Thanksgiving

 

Temporary like me

 “Temporary, Like Me”

They handed her to me wrapped in red tape,

A bundle of trauma with no real escape.

“Love her like yours,” they said with a smile,

“But don’t ask too much—just stay for a while.”

I held her through screaming, through silence, through fear,

Asked questions they didn’t want anyone near.

“What happened before?” “Why won’t she eat?”

“Why does she flinch?” “Why can’t she sleep?”

They tell me to care but not care too loud,

To be there, but quiet, obedient, proud.

I ask for a doctor, a second set of eyes,

They meet me with silence or sugar-wrapped lies.

I’m told I’m too much when I won’t play along,

That fighting for answers is somehow just wrong.

I speak up for her, but I’m labeled a threat,

A problem, a burden, too easy to forget.

“You’re just a bed,” they say without saying,

“Just keep her safe, keep feeding, keep praying.

But don’t get involved, don’t cross that line—

She’s not really yours, and she’s not really mine.”

And maybe they’re right—maybe I’m too raw,

Too hopeful for justice, too struck by the flaw.

Because love in this system is measured in weeks,

And those who fight hardest are silenced as freaks.

So after this child, when she finds her way,

I’ll fold up the crib and walk away.

Not because I stopped loving or care too small—

But because I was never meant to care at all.

I was meant to be silent, to play the good part,

But I showed up with questions—and too much heart.

The rains never cease

 OK>MT>CA

May 27th 2022, I moved to Chowchilla, CA. bought my 24 x 8 foot travel trailer, moved to Santa Nella, CA, and commuted to Sunnyvale which was 182 miles per day over a mountain, not sustainable in the, "unprecedented" storms we started to have.  I moved to Gilroy, CA, commute was down to 82 miles a day, more storms and substantial flooding, see YouTube Gilroy floods.  I moved to Lupin Lodge in the Santa Cruz mountains in Los Gatos commutes is now 42 miles a day.  Here's the challenge:  In the last 21 days since I moved my travel trailer here, the three roads I had off this mountain are now down to two thanks to complete road failures on Old Santa Cruz Highways and Aldercroft Heights Road, and the road we are left with, Alma Bridge Road is down to one lane in one section due to a partial failure.  Good times.  See my YouTube for video.  More storms on tap for the next two days, so here's hoping no more roads fail.