Her Style Was Dense

Her breathing labored as she grew frustrated wondering when she was finally going to be able to draw a full breath. Was this what the beginning of death felt like she quietly wondered. It didn’t feel real, or something didn’t. Her mind creeping into a strange narrative of its own with every movement, and every thought, then another and another.

(Why the fuck were writers skirting on the edges of insane? Was she going insane?)

And then another alien feeling thought.

This feeling felt powerful and compelling. Had another person moved in and took up shop in her head. The sensation overcame her more to the point of taking full control and she lived for control. This feeling like the observer to her own mind was enough to go Boom. As indiscriminately as she felt earlier in the day she knew she didn’t have a goddamn answer.

Now the writing calmed her and the dripping jaws of insanity slowly leaked its way away. That didn’t make the fear feel any less real, let alone the anxiety.

Maybe I took a bad acid trip–is that what this was? Soon her thoughts poked at her and poked at her as if demanding answers she didn’t have. Am I dead, she thought. Maybe I didn’t wake up from that hangover and maybe I’m not even a writer. And now more confusing the full breaths were back with her barely even noticing.

Slowly reality began to set in again like blood rushing back into her brain. Hello Moto. Hello Friend. (How had these flowers begun to feed).

What the f@#k was that!

(She told herself to stop with the acid trip already–there was no acid trip. What sad thought anyway, how the fuck does anybody forget a fucking acid trip).

The power of indiscriminate thought clearly wasn’t helping here. The heat of the sun warmed her right arm as if intentionally to distract her. Perhaps that was the tap of God, she thought. In lieu of everything else, and forcing herself to focus she quickly hopped up and told herself too much had to be done, time did not allow this shit–it never did.



Every time she’d get away, another intervening occurrence would happen. Like the dream with the talking doll recently, told her she should stop smoking. Right before it’s face was swung at by some unidentifiable person. It’s animated little body receded to nothing more than empty plaster, half it’s face gone just like that.

What did you do!!” She remembered herself begging when it happened.

Even upon waking she remembered feeling upset for this cartoon like doll and being amazed by how alive it felt having it talk to her. She waited all day to run it over with him–he was always psychoanalyzing her dreams and he was good at it. Sometimes so good it made no sense (if there was any explaining that).

“That doll is your angel speaking to you,” he said without a hint of doubt or absurdity. She chose not to say anything too uncomfortable to acknowledge that is exactly how she felt. There was a deeper silence now.

Again, Time doesn’t allow a lot of thought.

As he liked to say, “The Nephilim Are Fallen.”


Baby, this is what you came for
Lightning strikes every time she moves..”

“And. Everybody’s watching her.”

The Long end of December 

The windowpane devulges one long strenuous drip

One becomes two

Two… Then three

And I imagine that’s the way of life itself

A long continuation

A gentle crack that sounds through the ceiling

As if even the ceiling listens

The suddle drip, drip, dripping

The way I know its home

It continues its crackling beyond a ferocious chill

End of December

An tommorrow its my hope that it does it again

Just Another Average Day in Politics

​[Notes; edit]

In an aired visit to Moscow Carter Page  a former Donald Trump campaign advisor and founder and managing partner of Global Energy Capital with direct ties to Russia, said that although his post election influence is definitely more limited he acknowledged think tanks were a good channel to continue ‘pushing this agenda’. Carter alluded to a more grassroots approach but only mentioned the bare minimums of what this might look like. 

While Page spent seven years as an investment banker at Merrill Lynch in London, Moscow and New York and more recently serving as Chief Operating Officer of the Energy and Power Group, he said “The cost of fake news is hard to overstate.”

But this has been my goal my whole life,” he said, then laying down how important it was not to be ‘heavy-handed’ and obstructed by the previous policies of  National Security with Russia and instead turn to the business advantages that lie in wait and work on removing the barriers between the U.S. and privatization with Russia. Page opted not to discuss current policies and a nuclear_ code which has only been adjusted more recently, and instead attributed a wider portion of his message to discussing the impact of fake news.

  • Note: Russia, the U.S. and Space Privatization 
  • Note: Have we finally gotten something that could very soon lead to a reset, unlike even the Obama Administration has seen? 

Page noted The Wise Men by Isaacson &_______, when asked by an audience member 23:00 [“Well do you have any channels? ] –a book written a decades ago but influencing his decision why he decided to get involved in foreign policy.

He licked his lips a lot, laughing off Wikipedia as a fake news outlet (what percentage of Americans actually use this as their go to..), and stating that he was actually not a Marine Foreign Intelligence officer, but ‘in the Navy’. (Note: Joe Biden’s son; relationship with the Ukraine and expulsion from the Navy right around 2014 Ukraine ‘crisis,’ i.e. Madan Square).

  ■ Note1: Discuss Natural Gas revolution

  ■ Note2: President  Jimmy Carter tenure in Navy 

But still many progressives who might have thought they already had it in the bag, are not happy. No not happy at all. Lockheed Martin lost 4bil from a Trump tweet last week angering many establishment politicians, not least of all Hillary Clinton. 

  • Note: Jill Stein; What does this mean for the Green Party?  Probably nothing as usual. 

Hillary warned, at what seemed an even  more ironic retiring ceremony for Sen. Harry Reid that,

 “The epidemic of malicious fake news and false propaganda that flooded social media over the past year — it’s now clear the so-called fake news can have real-world consequences.” □

                                                      ♤ RNotVanel

1. http://usaweek.org/index.php/news/2-uncategorised/117-mr-carter-page

2. http://www.globalenergycap.com/management/

These are a few of my favorite things..🎁

It’s that time a year again, and just like the past few of them it kind of snuck up on me. If your anything like me, you like to have your cake and eat it, too. I’m right there with you.

Right before December I like to take on a second job, nothing too back-breaking– you know a seasonal job. In the past when homemaking was my only job this was my saving grace just to get me out of the house and feeling like more than just a, Idk, mom? Lol.

Hey, theres definetely not anything wrong with being a full time mother, I did it for five years–It was probably the most rewarding, satifying five years of my life. Not just because I got to be there front-and-center walking my kids to school, being there right when they walk in the door or even visiting them for school lunch–the sentimental things, all the memories they come back and remind you of when their ten years old and your shocked that they still remember those tiny things. Makes you feel like the most special person in the world.


But getting back to the cake and eat it too part, lol.

I am definitely not one of those moms who feels embarassed of splurging on myself during the holidays. Every year I will take on a second job JUST for that purpose! Nothing like Christmas Shopping for the babies, and running into that I Gotta Have  It  item, and actually being able to splurge in that moment–on you!!

My daughters love it (they also love shopping), seeing their mommy get just as excited as them. Nothing more miserable than having Christmas feel like a chore, believe me: I’ve  been there.

So I specifically made this post for that purpose. Hence, why I titled this post

These are a few of my favorite things…

(Lastkissinc.com, Great blog by the way)

                           In Progress


Life’s Bucket List

Revellanotvanella, and what she said

Why does dating have to feel so futile ?

It almost feels like an oxymoron. If you dated and found Mr. Right the first time around (love at first sight anybody), then why, do we call it dating with an -ing?

Like how often does Disney and the tricle down Cinderella Stories have to guide my dating life. I shouldn’t hold myself to such standards but I pretty much do. Alot going on in that equation.

Maybe at the conclusion of one dating story their wouldn’t be so much guilt and feelings of failure if I just said fuck it. You and I know that its candy coated, and what about Hollywood anyway– how come they get so off the hook?

Wouldn’t there be much less drama, hurt feelings or resentments, if people started proclaiming this dating thing as what it is, a journey? Or is the watered down ‘journey’…

View original post 209 more words

Never going back 

“It wasnt until I lost everything that I started questioning my existence. Like the soldier that comes home to calm and peace, there was really nothing more to recognize. I guess it was finally settling in that I was experiencing my own personal version of PTSD. I hated every moment of it.”

“I never even believed they would let me go easy. After the day I received my entry certificate, and recanted. Still, they hushed me up well. Not much as a peep after I told them I couldnt do it. That this went against everything I believed in.”
“I even believed eventually they would come back for me. Never did I consider they would come back for my kids…”

“Today I was moving full speed ahead not caring what demolishment I left. I was a bully, I was a boss, looking to get whatever I could get. Because time was moving fast, faster than 35 years should ever take. My head was enormous as it could be to soften the blow of my empty cast shadow. (Still chasing away the memories this life didnt ever really exist).”
“Maybe I was sent in here to fuck up. Just so I could report back, yet there are these emotions so deeply attached…”

(A moment where I’m alone)

“I’m being taught how to parachute, and right before they push: “Ohh, you know there waass this other part, but your really not going to need that now..”
“My ex really did know my powers well..warned me to stay…”

(Dripping faucet)

The Perpetrators knocked the strangers head against a device that acted as a sift, shifting all the new memories and images from their places

[Scene:] Running across a major highway

“I just want things back to the way they used to be!”

Tears ran down her little girls face, she consoled her with kisses to the forehead and hug after hug after hug to the point they felt meaningless– that scared her but she knew there was no going back…

..for any of them.

I know this much is true

I knew only vaguely that if I was going to reach the level of continuing my education, that I had to show some ability. Figuring out what that was another problem entirely.

I had no formal education except high school, I graduated later than my class and only had a little bit of college training. Though I did score enough later in life on my ASVAB to get me a place as Intelligence Analyst; even that I fled from.

When I sought out a college that would accept my Native American status and offer me federal funding, I found myself at a brick wall because I was adopted. This was at a time Ancestry.com was only just coming on the stage and I no had idea how to research my family roots. The Indian Interior Office in Alaska couldnt find any information on me even after I got my birth certificate (which took months after the laws in Denver finally opened).

By this time I had a five thousand dollar loan that was only accumulating more and more interest. And not even a degree. It felt like my life was spiraling to nowhere. I was only getting older and that horrified me. I DID HAVE ASPIRATIONS! I DID HAVE DREAMS! I wanted to yell at the old man in the sky.

I wanted badly to do something in art but the message was always Get a job not a passion.

In high school I sustained an avid love of art, but once reaching high school even then that hope had seemed to be dwindling. My favorite hideaway was always in Art class. Even though I didn’t fit in much with the others there that class was a godsend to me– in the midst of a whirlwind of competitiveness, hormones and teenage angst.

I secretly admired my classmates more than they ever could of imagined but they never would have known because I often stuck to myself. They were Skilled Artists, hell their careers had already been lined up for them and they were just waiting to graduate. The feeling that I wasnt in the same caliber left me with the greatest feelings of confusion and shame that I wasnt doing these things. I felt like a castaway in more ways than one. Eventually I did take initiative to finally see what this whole college thing was about. I found out about the Art Institute and immediately became enamored with their campus in California.

Nobody spoke to me about college. I didnt understand it. My art teacher was in some sense a mentor to me offering me encouragement whenever I actually did open up to her. I believe she knew I had talent that I could see, but felt alot of pity too.

I definitely didnt have college lined up like all the others, the whole college thing was completely a blur to me. I dont think she knew how to help me or if she even had the tools to help, but I admired her and appreciated her giving me a place to be myself even if for a couple hours a week.

Later on she allowed me to wander into her class on my lunch breaks whenever I wanted. By that time I had been to over five high schools and high school had become utter chaos to me. I spent more time at the bagel shop reading than actually in the classroom. When I did I lived for coming into her classroom and reading my Vogue magazines. I ate it up. She would give me manuals she had in the classroom about creating fashion, but I struggled to really do anywhere with it.

My thinking was way off center because in my head I thought the drawing needed to be perfection just as the pictures presented. At home I would comb through my Vogue magazines for hours. Since I couldnt come up with the sketches instead my own collages. I made collages cutting out swatches of different patterns and constructing them into outfits.

Looking back it was kind of funny because my father would be there watching TV, and here I was making an absolute mess of the living room floor with all my cuttings. Still the lingering feeling of why my father wasn’t talking about college bothered me more and more. It felt as if the topic was off limits somehow and I was too afraid to ask why.

By my senior year the pressure was on but I held onto to these feelings of anxiety and dread and instead internalized them. Surely my father would come to me and have this conversation ‘When the time was right,’ I thought. But the time never materialized and once I hit eighteen, this built up a deep rooted anger in me. Didn’t he feel like I was good enough? I couldn’t help asking myself.

My fathers side of the family had doctors, lawyers, nurses and financiers. My uncle was my favorite. He woke up every morning at the crack of dawn, ate his breakfast, went off to work to his PRAXAIR job, and did it again the next day.

He always went to work with a smile on his face. Often a suddle joke with his little fireside chats with the cat who always greeted him at the end of the couch before he descended down the stairs to the basement off into the garage. He could go from a 1-10 in a split second (these days some would call it bipolar), but always without fail he resorted back to humor, so good it often didnt matter because he could have a whole table laughing, that was just Uncle Roger.

My Aunt Joyce was a saint and also a saving grace for me. She too always had a smile and an air of calm and gratitude I relished in. My father was newly divorced and she more or less played the role of mother for me. Both my aunt and uncle lovef eachother very much and I loved them for that. They were the shelter within the storm.

By middle of senior year the pressure was on. You could feel the pressure and cut it with a knife. It was unsettling for me that the people I worked with and clowned around with my junior year and had limitless amounts of fun with (never a dull moment) now were going head to head for the highest grade. I was completely lost.

I mean obviously I knew grades were important but bragging about your grades, what the hell were these people on??

People in my past high schools didn’t brag about their grades but here this was some of the most popular people in my class. Eventually it went onto which universities they were going to get into.

Can I say it (without putting it lightly) that all my ignorance about college flew right out the window that day. Describing it as crashing full speed ahead into a brick wall would be a more accurate way of putting it. I knew I was no part of that equation. The year had nearly ended.

The irony in that was that I was the one in the back of the classroom reading Steven Pinker’s How the Mind Works, Wally Lambs bestseller I Know This Much Is True, and John Adams (long before it became a hit HBO series).

How could I have gone so unnoticed, I wondered.

Letter to Mary

Dear Mary,

Your story is a very beautiful one to me. I too am Athabascan but unregistered to my tribe; I’m adopted. I was born in Denver, CO to a Caucasian family, and later relocated to the state of Delaware when my adoptive father retired from the Airforce. I know nothing about my real family but I know my ancestors’ spirit still lives within me today.

Just recently, by a fIuke really I learned the laws in Colorado had changed for adoptees and were no longer ‘Closed’. My daughters were going to Turkey with their father (his native country) and needed passports.

It took us 5 years to realize my original name was on my youngest daughters birth certificate. Without proving this was me my daughter would not get her passport and miss an opportunity of a lifetime. Not only that, but get left behind by her older sister. I had no clue what to do, I hadn’t had that kind of documentation for years and years.

After going to the local courthouse, local hospital, and Vital Statistics office to no avail, then I called Denver. I left a message explaining my situation at the Vital Statistics office, and just wished for the best. The pressure was on me and each day that went by my childrens father pushing me to see what was the situation.

A few days later I got a call from a very nice young man who told me, after finding out I was adopted, I could now apply for my original birth certificate. The laws had been”closed” for decades. Meaning an adoptee could be denied crucial information about themselves entirely.

Ten years ago I tried investigating my adoption, but I was told I had to pay five hundred dollars for a court liason to even look at my file. It was the bigget slap in the face and made me feel like I was not even a person for years! And here I could simply go apply?? It felt ridiculous and unreal. The joke was on me. The topic was exhausting.

Over the years I had moved quite a bit. A few months earlier my Blood Quantum Certificate had come up missing after shorting through old paperwork. A document that I had held onto for a greater part of eleven years. My heart felt like it was slowly falling out of my chest. This piece of paper, I held onto for so long was now finally playing front and center and I didn’t even have it. How could this have gone unnoticed, I thought. It left me crushed after asking my adoptive parents over and over for another only beating around the bush with no real urgency and to no avail. Who were these people, I wondered angrily. Four months went by and only then did I finally reach down deep and scrummage through piles and piles of papers I had laying around.

I thought to myself and reasoned it was worth it to fight the good fight telling myself it was probably just misplaced. But in the back of my mind, I knew I had probably thrown it away with the other stacks of paperwork after tax season.

In reality this was just destiny at work, and it would show up when it would show up, I thought. In the past this had happened multiple times before in my life and I had learned to just stop fighting it and take the consequences.

Then, there it was. Nothing more than a Google: Colorado Vital Statistics Office: “as of Jan 1, 2016…” all I had to do was mail in my application . I couldn’t believe it. This just wasn’t real. I had been stressing out beating myself up for ever throwing out such an important paper.

Now only fear stood in my way..

I set the money aside to pay the fee ($60), and it just sat on my desk in an envelope. The fear of more disappointment was almost crippling. Over catastrophizing was a fault of mine. In July 2016 I faxed the paperwork and waited. I waited a half hour outside the UPS store in my car to let it sink in. _____________________________

Thank you for your story.
Revella L
Originally, Courtney Ann Jones

AMERICAN INDIAN ADOPTEES: “Athabascan Adoptee Welcomed Home”