Glorious Chaos

The dream of being an author has been there since I a teenager. I had to figure out how to write myself out of reality. A reality of chaos, confusion, horrific abuse and beatings at the hands of my third stepfather, a mother who’s fear of him kept her from rescuing me, and three younger siblings who, no doubt, experienced helplessness at witnessing their sister slip that sixties subculture that was, both magic and madness. Fast-forward, fifty years…I finished that book, forty years in the making, and lately, find that I have nothing, and everything to say, but can’t write it out. (Writer’s block or reality block, not sure which) It’s a few days from a macabre massacre where a guy killed and wounded children, women and men who simply went to see a movie. Juxtaposed with such television fare as America’s Got Talent and the Olympics, the nearing football season (yippee for football!) and everything in between, I can’t write it out, can’t write out what my reality is now, at almost sixty years old, and young (young in my fantasy reality). I was able to integrate, cherish, and transform the pain, chaos, and consequence of my younger years into lifework that gave me heartbreak and miracles; both, which healed and gifted to me, such a rare and precious reality. I daresay, no other work or life could have been better. So, I’m semi-retired, with the finest circle of friends one could ask for, a complicated, yet loving, lovable family, and the love of my life, kicking it after almost 25 years of work, and I can’t write out the world in all its glorious chaos, or, perhaps I just did. Have a glorious day!