I’ve always thought some of my better works were on the backs of cocktail napkins. When would one be privy to cocktail napkin poems? Clearly either drinking or bartending, and both usually involved the same thing.

Tonight, a last hurrah in white wine dreams before Don runs off to be a professional again–wow on our luck, wow on beautiful things for us from here on out.

Last night and this morning I was thinking of yesterday’s post and realizing I do tend to spend inordinate amounts of time wondering and worrying about people and things I no longer control, relationships torched and people who spent half or less the time I did wondering and worrying and trying to actively assist in the forward movement of–I don’t want to be petty anymore and truly fucking walk away from some of my old 26 year old musings of what and who wronged me how and why. I want to forgive my mother, sure, who the fuck wants to hate someone they were born from? The hate not totally reconciled with the relation–I guess with that the hurt is clear, and right now things have gone progressively better worrying about us over her interests–I suppose I took her on as a sort of project–somehow thinking if I helped her fix her situation she might think of me better, maybe? As it is, I admittedly set myself up with that one and that is fine–clearly my interests were in seeing my core, who and what I came from–but my roots have always been there, and there is no influence developmentally I have had with respect to those families rather than sometimes an intrinsic obvious and subconscious judgment and disassociation which is what usually happens with strangers. I understand their motivation might not have been that, but I am a different kind of woman, honestly–the lives and people and conversations I have had with people in the world are not few or far between except in recent years I suppose. The point is, my mind is bigger than the smaller spaces I am forced to endure here in this country—life can be a different thing and it is in enough places in this world I cannot endure this permanence.

As I said to Don tonight–if we buy here, we die here. At my age, swiss cheese for brains and heart for the history books, an aorta wrapped in plastic, and a heart wanting to keep beating only limited by my genes, which are not long for this world–we are in our last few decades, tops, so it’s time to plan to leave or leave a plan to stay in place–the latter option nothing I am comfortable with, exactly. I need more out of everything around me than I feel America is prepared to give–and that is okay, and I need to go.

That is a perfect summary from aortic dissection heart surgery girl—I mean some of you must know this blog has been around–or rather my blogs have been around for almost two decades-I suppose there might be a contingent waiting to see news of my death, some of you might be purely accidental, some of you might have just been searching.

I have been here longer than you have been looking for me, for certain.

I was up at 3 am, par usual for my kidneys on certain nights, and I watched a movie which had some mountain climbers and one fell off the mountain and I wanted to grab Don and hold him realizing I will never likely be in a position voluntarily climbing to any mountain summit, running any marathon, trying to top any race because of something I realized only after.

My body has already proven to me it can beat me–why on earth would I tempt that, knowing full well I am as permanent as tissue paper and blood and nothing like concrete?