My first album.......

Classical music is the kind we keep thinking will turn into a tune.
Kin Hubbard
Read more at http://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/topics/topic_music.html#ddF1M3ELAUfIugo1.99

Musical taste is always a topic for me. I talk about music quite a bit. I used to have very distinct taste in music and for someone that RARELY listens to the radio anymore, I more or less immerse myself in what I know and what I love. That is not to say that I cannot learn to appreciate something not already on my play list. I can and I do.

I have mentioned several times that when I was growing up, that my folks couldn't afford some of the hobbies or dabblings I would have enjoyed. I know it is never too late to start but now I would much rather help promote those that have spent a life doing those very things and root for them on the sidelines in true qausi-hippie cheerleader style. You know in Birkenstocks and a tye dye t-shirt.

I was a child of the 60's. My first album. Joan Baez "Blessed Are...." A Christmas gift from my parents. I did own a stack of 45's that were more like those that a 10 year old would probably be listening to. The door closed, singing into a hair brush in front of the mirror. Pages ripped from Tiger Beat or some other teen magazine with this week's heart throb taped to the wall. I did that too. I just feel as if my first album was so much more profound than a 45. I have never asked my Mom why that particular album. I don't think I will. I doubt she remembers and it will probably be an answer that is way less romantic than I have imagined for the last 40 years.

At some point later in my life when my children were trying to find themselves musically I was introduced to a myriad of other musical styling's.  I did know they existed previously, I had just never really listened. I started listening. I listened for them. I tried to find a common ground. A topic that we could discuss and may give me glimpse into their psyche. I have to say I have a complete love of percussion and all things of as a result. Yes, I had three children in band at one point and they all played percussion. My sons continuing through high school and my oldest veering his interests in that direction in college until the subjectiveness of it all became too much. I learned to listen. I can hear a marimba or xylophone and it has taken on a much larger meaning for me. It is not easily mastered and for those of you that don't get it, well the picture you have probably conjured up of a Fisher Price rainbow colored toy or the Lawrence Welk show that was probably airing at some point during your youth at your Grandparents home, let me tell you it is not the same.

One of the best memoires I have in my life is the night my oldest drove back home from college to attend a concert given by Leigh Howard Stevens at a local University. I had no idea who this was. He perfected some sort of multi mallet playing technique that I can only image was not an approved skill while he was furthering his musical education. He is an innovator. From what I can gather, his instrument of choice, the marimba. My two youngest were also encouraged to attend this event by their band directors. It was free and promised to be an evening of fun.  My husband was out of town at the time. I am not sure he would have joined us anyhow. So there we went. The four of us bundled up on a very crisp and rainy autumn evening. We enter the campus auditorium with its dim lights and damp smell. Not a lot of students. Lots of older folks out for an enjoyable evening of free music. We walked through the doors and in true Jill fashion I gravitate towards the back of the theater. I sat down and watched my three children walk  right past to the front row.

There we sat for approximately 2 hours listening to this fine musician play the marimba and speak in what struck me as some sort of cryptic language. A language I was never going to learn or understand. In the distance I could see the graduated heights of my children's heads. They were sitting upright and from what I could gather they were mesmerized. They were not whispering to each other or shooting each other looks of disinterest. They were watching and learning. They were soaking it in. Me, well I was in the back row trying hard not to doze off after hour number one and wishing there had maybe been a flutist to liven things up just a bit. I sat in the back by myself, awash with emotion. Pangs of sadness and pride. I had passed on a love of something so profound to them and they get it.

I think back and wonder what the first album / c.d. I bought for each of my children was. The one they really remember. The one that formed their musical taste. Perhaps, Elvis or some off the wall indie group I thought they may enjoy. I just don't remember and again a question I don't want to ask because it may have been Brittney Spears and that will just make me sad and disillusioned.

So there you have it. My music foundation. My first album. I still have all of my albums. I can't stand the thought of giving them to a thrift store and having someone use them in a craft. I no longer have a working turntable and even if I did I have no speakers (don't ask). I think this year I will ask for a new turntable for Christmas. Maybe some new speakers too. I had always intended on replacing them with c.d.'s but there is something comforting about that Joan Baez album. I pull them out and look at them sometimes. I run my fingers across the faded covers. The Joan Baez album takes me back. Not to a summer evening with a boyfriend, however I have some of those albums too, but to a Christmas in Chicago and sound that formed my musical taste.

Welcome to Jillville and what we will listen to / watch today for very different reasons. It is catchy, the girl is cute (it's a secret), I understand the video and yes, Springsteen can take me back to 17. Always has, always will.

Schmutz

Guest Post by my friend Monique.

Smudge

1. (n.) A heap of damp combustibles partially ignited and burning slowly, placed on the windward side of a house, tent, or the like, in order, by the thick smoke, to keep off mosquitoes or other insects.
2. (v. t.) To stifle or smother with smoke; to smoke by means of a smudge.
3. (n.) That which is smeared upon anything; a stain; a blot; a smutch; a smear.
4. (v. t.) To smear; to smutch; to soil; to blacken with smoke.
5. (n.) A suffocating smoke.

Weird things always happen to me.  People don’t believe me when I tell them this.  I tell them, just hang with me for a week and you will see what I mean.  Anything that can go wrong will go wrong.   Killing electronic devices is my specialty.  Items tremble on the shelves when I shop, "Please, please do not pick me!"  This week my new Keurig coffee maker has decided not to make a whole cup of coffee.  My car stopped unlocking the driver’s door with the key fob.  Hell, it stopped unlocking the door with the button.  I am getting the feeling that it is personal and it doesn’t want me driving it.  The key pad for the front door lock will only work every other time.  The lawn mower died.  My cordless mouse ran away.

My cousin said, “Your house needs cleansing, get a sage smudge”.  Okay….. I come from a long line of people that think out of the box.  I have seen my sister waiving this stuff around her house to dispel negativity, I thought she was a nut.  My mother frequently talks about spirits that follow her from place to place.  My mother spent a lot of time learning about mysticism and other stuff.  She used to do readings for my friends whenever she visited.  I did a lot of eye rolling and face making behind her back. I think she is a nut.

Now that I have lived in this house for 5 years, I am ready to try ANYTHING to change the atmosphere of this home.  The children fight constantly.  My husband was diagnosed with cancer last year and although he has a good prognosis, he is not a joy to be around.  This man cannot get a bowl of cereal without drama.  I give in.  I am ready to go to the other side.  I am joining the side that is out of the box.

First step is to find a store that sells white sage smudge sticks.  My Cousin says try the local health food store.  I go to my favorite health food store, Soup to Nuts.  I am greeted by the woman at the counter.
“What can I help you find today? “ 
“ I am looking for sage smudge sticks” I reply  and I follow her to the back of the store. 
Apparently there is a selection according to what you want to accomplish.  My eyes glaze over as I read the descriptions. 
“Does it matter which one I use? “ I ask. 
She says “ If you are trying to do a cleansing I suggest the sage and sweet grass”.  
Yikes…..I am out of my depth  here.  I choose that one and one with lavender that is supposed to promote positive feelings and love.  Who knows, maybe it will spice up my sex life.  We discuss a few more things and she offers to come and do a cleansing if mine doesn’t work.  When I tell her weird things always happen to me she tells me she believes me.  I think she is fast becoming my new best friend.  Armed with my smudge sticks I head home.

Since I have never used smudges I ask my cousin. 
She says ,“ I have no idea I have never done it”. 
Okay I am thinking why am I following her advice anyway?  I am beginning to think that she and another of my cousins are trying to see how many weird things they can get me to do.  I am involved in some sort of cousin initiation conspiracy.

Since I already spent the money, I turn to the Internet.  I love Google.  You can Google anything.  I watched a few videos regarding smudging that strengthened my conviction that these people are nuts.  Then I drank a bottle of wine.  LET THE SMUDGING BEGIN!!! 

I fire that bad boy up and it flares like a giant doobie.  I wander around the house with it trying to think cleansing thoughts and trying not to feel like a total idiot. 
Immediately the kids start waiving their hands in front of their faces, "What is that SMELL?!!" 
“It is a sage smudge”  I reply, trying to look like I know what I am doing and that this is a normal Friday night activity. 
“IT STINKS!”, they yell running to open the windows.  
My husband’s friend is over and submits to a smudge smoke cleansing with good humor. 
My husband even stands up and assumes the position for me as he remarks , “You know I don’t believe in this”. 
I say “Yeah well it cannot hurt” and I spend extra time blowing the smoke towards the most negative space in the house. 
It is his desk where he spends most of his day and I believe most of the negativity is generated.

I smudged the whole downstairs of the house.  Smoke was everywhere.  I cannot believe that the smoke detectors did not go off.  There was so much smoke I had to open the rest of the  doors and windows to let it out.  Now the kids are mad at me because I made the house stinky and cold.  My husband is wandering around sniffling and I am worried that he might be allergic to sage.

                              She is married to a Fireman. All is well. We think.

I however, am feeling positive.  I still have wine left in the bottle.

By Monique Gresser

This is Niqui's site. Take a look. I am proud to know her and she is so talented! Like her on FB!
http://moniquegresser.com/-/moniquegresser/

Welcome to the Hotel Homestead

The best job that was ever offered to me was to become a landlord in a brothel. In my opinion it's the perfect milieu for an artist to work in.
William Faulkner

Somethings from my past are so surreal I sometimes wonder if they are just a figment of my overactive imagination.

Let the phobias begin.

A few weeks ago I was chatting with some friends. I have become a kind of a germaphobe. Not my germs. Not my families germs. It is the fear of the unknown. You know the stuff the blue light picks up in all those CSI episodes. Welcome to Germany and the beginning of the end.

As a child I thought vacation was fun. Staying in a motel and traveling to someplace new. Eating out and those little motel soaps. I love those things. (Which we could not really afford so it was a treat when we did it.) Motels that were meant to be your home away from home.

Welcome to the Hotel Homestead. We spent a month there. Me, my husband and my first born. 1987.

If I had to write a travel brochure for this place this is how it would look.

                              HOTEL HOMESTEAD


The Hotel Homestead. Historic charm at it's best. This 4 story building was built in 1680. It has a slight lean and we have good insurance but careful on the stairs. To the west we have views of a big brick wall and trains coming and going from the Bahnhof. The East side of the building has a view of some of Wuezburgs finest vineyards. We are within walking distance of downtown and if you don't mind the urine soaked walkway of the tunnel you can be at your destination in just minutes. Fantastic views of some of the best graffiti this side of the Atlantic from every room.

Fully renovated in 1960, the new owners have turned this former brothel into a temporary home away from home for Military members and their families. Every floor equipped with a community bathroom including bidet. (Very important in a brothel.) Modest? Just throw a towel over the glass on the bathroom door and no one will be able to watch you shower.

Need some entertainment? Downstairs we have a television with access to AFN and we have a VCR for all the movie buffs. A fully stocked kitchen and refrigerator so you can enjoy healthy home cooked meals. Don't have your German drivers license yet? The Hotel Homestead is close to German markets. Does it really matter if you know what you are buying? (Be sure you sign up for a cooking time.) We offer fresh brotchen and coffee to our guest every morning except Sunday.

Need maid service? We don't have one. All clean linens can be obtained by visiting our front office. As well as German insurance for your vehicle. Come down and chat with the owners. An American couple living the American dream in Germany.

Don't feel like cooking? We can help. German fast food pizzas can be purchased in the bar. Did someone say bar? Yes! World class. Worried about meeting the locals? Here at the Hotel Homestead you will be able to mingle with all sorts of men. Don't be surprised if you see some real railroad workers there at lunch. (Can't get more local than that. Some of them never got the memo we are no longer a brothel. Raise your glass, here's to hoping.)

The Hotel Homestead. Wuerzburg's finest home away from home.

Welcome to Jillville where we spent a month in a former German brothel. Welcome to Jillville where soon after we met our friend Donna and it was all worth it. Welcome to Jillville where we have never had a bidet in our home again and don't want to think about all the germs in that place and will probably drive by it on our trip to Germany sometime in the next two years, for old times sake.

Myrtle Cyclops. The Human Barometer.

                    In the spring,

                                                               

                                    at the end of the day,

                                                     you should smell like dirt.

                                                                                                        MARGARET ATWOOD


In the past, I have mentioned my super power was remembering names by going through the alphabet. I actually have more than one superpower. I have several. All useful, yet when applied, they suck the life out of me. So today I am tired. It was a rough night last night.

This week I am the Human Barometer. This particular fete requires the wearing of my pajama costume and usually the consumption of some form of medication. It stormed here last night. That always guarantees a headache. I knew we were in for bad storms. I felt the atmosphere changing. It gives me a migraine every time. This superpower is tied into my ESP. I have it you know. I can always sense a disturbance in the force. There is one today. I feel it. Not just here, but apparently it has made it's way to the Midwest. Seems as if everyone is grumpy today.

I thought the first day of spring was supposed to bring joy and happiness. A scene from a Disney movie. Animated happy chirping birds landing on the out stretched fingers of some singing princess. Friendly forest animals gather in pairs at her hem to hear her hypnotic voice and share a snuggle. It's spring! Bah humbug!

Spring for me is only a precursor to the dreaded long hot summer that is ahead. Summer is my kryptonite. My ancestry? A land chock full of long cold winters and mild short summers. I was not meant to live in Texas. I am Scandinavian for heavens sake. That and Irish. What I wouldn't give for a life on a rocky cliff in a stone cottage over looking the sea. The smell of salt air and enough chill to be in need of a wool sweater and a log fire everyday of your life. No 100 degree temperatures. Then again I bet they get some hellacious storms and my head might just explode from the pressure. Spontaneous combustion. Another thing I feel I may be capable of. As of yet untried but someplace in the dark recesses of my super heroic brain I suspect it is looming. Something I will only be able to tap into one time. I am saving it for my big finale.


Today is the first day of spring and my Jillbilly senses tell me we are in for a very long hot summer. They also tell me there is evil near by. Something wicked this way comes, no doubt. I think it may be global warming and another headache filled day. (This one caused by lack of sleep from all the thunder last night. At one point I thought our house had been struck by lightening. *chuckle*.)

Everyone has a superpower. If you are thinking you don't maybe you just haven't found yours. I know what my superpowers are. You didn't think the aliens wanted me for my good looks did you?

Day in the life of Myrtle Cyclops? (My Human Barometer Super heroine name.) Myrtle has an inner eye. She is very observant and can sense a storm. She watches. I meander out of bed when I feel like it. Take my medications and vitamins.  Find a large cup of a something caffeinated. Caffeine is a necessary evil for super heroines. Then it is off to the closet. Uniform of the day? Hmmmm, I throw open the closet doors and the angel sing and the heavens open casting a bright almost blinding yellow light on the fabrics.I drag my fingers along the hanging garments sending them swinging back and forth with the synchronicity of a Broadway dance line. What shall it be today? Today is a Myrtle day. Pajamas! I feel I will be most useful today parked in the office chair. We have had some burglaries in our fair city this month. Broad daylight. I am sending a message. My curtains are open and I am watching you. Beware evil doers. I know when someone is casing a street. We live on a dead end. It says it in big letters on a sign. No Outlet!  

Who will I be tomorrow? Don't know. Depends on the weather forcast and the local news. Perhaps, Herb Lady. Looks like I need to finish up my garden. Summer is coming quick and I don't go out in 100 degree heat.

Welcome to Jillville where we have more than one superpower. Welcome to Jillville home of the Human Barometer and approximately 15 other Super Persona's. Welcome to Jillville and a life heavy on the bass and we don't know how to deal with overly happy people. (They scare us.) Welcome to Jillville where we know who our arch nemeses are and we have a closet full of appropriate Super Heroine costumes.

She's a beauty.

“Pretty is something you're born with. But beautiful, that's an equal opportunity adjective.”

Beauty. The topic of more discussions than I care to count and am ashamed to admit that I have taken part in.


Definition from dictionary.com

beau·ty

   /ˈbyuti/ Show Spelled[byoo-tee] 

noun, plural -ties.

1.

the quality present in a thing or person that gives intense pleasure or deep satisfaction to the mind, whether arising from sensory manifestations (as shape, color, sound, etc.), a meaningful design or pattern, or something else (as a personality in which high spiritual qualities are manifest).

2.

a beautiful person, especially a woman.

3.

a beautiful thing, as a work of art or a building.

4.

Often, beauties. something that is beautiful in nature or in some natural or artificial environment.

5.

an individually pleasing or beautiful quality; grace; charm: a vivid blue area that is the one real beauty of the painting.

Physical beauty is wasted on youth. We all recognize it, yet we covet it. In our youth we don't recognized that it is fading every moment. Gravity has been in a constant battle with it and we for all practical purposes are rotting. Like an unpicked flower. Once we bloom we are in a state of slow decay. It makes perfect sense from a biblical point of view. We are put on earth for really one reason only. To ensure the survival of the human race. Beauty helps encourage those actions. I have to shed a Texas light on beauty. There isn't anything biblical about it. More is better, bigger is better and blonder is usually better. Tex-as. Say it loud, say it proud!

There is a valid point in here someplace. Lets take it back to school. High School. Our formative years. Where we are trying to grow up a little and see what the world will have to offer us before we get thrown out into it. Time to get out the Annual. That is what they call it down here. It isn't a yearbook. Well, not in the north Texas town I was stuck in anyhow. Page 86 of the 1979 Annual vol.67 says it all. It embodies everything about Texas that makes me want to slap some people. Pages covered with the one word that does not refer to a persons actions or abilities, it sends the message loud and clear. We only care about what is on the outside, don't be different, try and be pretty because pretty is how we do it here in Texas. Be a Beauty!

Yes folks, pages 86 through 101 are dedicated to nothing but the "Beauties". The pretty popular girls that were supposedly voted on by their fellow classmates. I don't ever remember voting. Then again, I was not aware of this practice until I received my yearbook. Looking back on this, it kind of makes me a bit nauseated. 14 pages of portraits. Really? "Wretched excess is barely enough." I forgot. Sorry about that.


We needed to drive the point home. Make sure that the students and parents understood what this particular public school was about. See what the really important issues were. Beautiful girls. The cream of the crop, the pick of the litter, the top of the heap. What else is school for? Even the football team didn't have this many pages dedicated to it. Football is, well, it is football and Texans love their football but apparently not as much as pretty girls.

One of my sisters tells me tales of the year of the "fluff". In some parts of Texas you have your Senior picture taken with boys in a tux and girls wearing a bare shouldered wrap in the pastel color of your choosing. Gives a good look to the senior layout. Sort of. Everyone dressed the same. Anyhow, at some point after I had left this remarkable educational institution some of the Mom's (from what I have gathered) decided that 14 pages just were not enough for their beautiful daughters. Draped nylon was not befitting a beauty and they felt that a furry feathered boa like wrap would more of a statement. The boa of years passed. Touched up photographs with an ethereal glow. Made their girls look like little angels. I mean how else would one know who the beauties were if they were wearing the same thing as the masses. The regular, ugly girls.

By the time my sister had made it to her senior year of high school, one of her friends decided that everyone was beautiful and  special and since she was on the yearbook staff, all girls would wear the coveted boa. Sounds like a plan to me. I would have liked a boa. Then Murphy stepped in and dicked it all up. Well not Murphy more like that Mothers of these young ladies. (Some I am sure had held the title themselves, back when they were young and seemingly beautiful.) Needless to say, there was an outrage. How dare  there not be some other sort of special treatment for their daughters to wear? How else would they be set apart from the pack. So they got what they wanted. Special wraps were made. Ruffles and pleating. All was right once again with the world.

I have to ask myself if this school still has the contest for beauties going. Tradition trumps the greater good sometimes.  Makes me wonder how it started, but I get it. Something for a young woman to strive for. (I guess homecoming queen was over rated.) I hope some intelligent parent went in and raised some hell over this with the school board. I doubt it.

I know what everyone is probably thinking. Jill, you are just jealous. Nope, I have to say I am not. As I mentioned earlier, I wasn't even aware of any of this until after I got my yearbook. I hadn't spent 4 years listening to people discuss it. I hadn't seen girls crying because the didn't make the cut. I didn't watch parents parade in and discuss some injustice that they may have felt occurred during voting. I had no idea this was going on. I was in the art room the greater part of that year and it sheltered me from all the gossip and positioning that girls do.

I look back and can only hope that these girls amounted to something. Became Dr.'s, Pastors, writers, teachers, aide workers. Something a real woman would pursue and make us all look good not just the pretty ones. 

Welcome to Jillville and the first part of the never ending discussion on beauty. Welcome to Jillville where we hope those girls in vol. 67 along with the girls from those that came before and after do not remember those as the best years of their lives. Welcome to Jillville where we hope the daughters of beauties got the real message.....beauty is in the eye of the beholder and it comes from within.

The unfinished business of life.

Jane Austen : One does not love a place the less for having suffered in it unless it has all been suffering, nothing but suffering.

I have been thinking about the concept of closure lately. It worries me that one can have too much of it. Why? Well, I immediately revert to the old saying that your life flashes before your eyes before you die. Is that it? Is that what is really meant when you hear someone say that? You gain closure by sealing up all those open boxes in your grey matter and the inside of you head looks like a home getting ready for a big move. All the boxes labeled with thick black marker. They contain your life's pivotal moments. There are some that  have been shoved into a dark corner. When you shine the light on them they are covered in cobwebs and dust. The writing is faded. They are surrounded by piles of words and thoughts that have spilled out from being dug through so much over the years.




 I dig through mine occasionally. Some of my boxes are so worn and crushed, that I am probably going to need a lot of tape to keep them closed. In the past I have tired to close some of the boxes in the corner. On my own. The really old ones. The ones that cause pangs of anger and frustration when I look at them.  I can't manage to do it. I get one corner to close and another pops open. They probably won't get closed not without someone or something to help me.




Maybe, it is finally time to try and get organized and seal them up for good. Yet, the more I think about it the more I wonder if it is those unsealed boxes that have somehow made me who I am. 50 years worth of  boxes, that I sometimes dig through, in search of something I may have missed. A look, an action, a word. Anything that may turn  the contents into something less significant and easier to live with.




Is there a box limit? Maybe we are all born with a limited amount of space for the unsealed boxes. Maybe once you reach it something happens. I can see a perfectly healthy and happy person snapping under the pressure of it all. Sometimes the mess is just too much to clean up. Too much dust and too many cobwebs. Things have started to move into those boxes. Mice, rats, racoons. a hive a killer bees. They are shredding the contents and setting up a house of there own. So why can't I just toss it out? I can't because I can't close them.




There are people on this planet that are less romantic about things. Can separate and compartmentalize. I know people like this. No unrequited love, no words left unsaid, not much pain or suffering. When they need closure they actively seek it in the moment. They hold those involved responsible for their own actions. This has to be something they are born with. The world is black and white and there are no loose ends. No threads to pull to make it all unravel.




What about the Jill's of the world? Is this something we too can learn? Better late than not at all, I imagine. Yet, what would happen to me? What if I did learn to close the boxes? Would I be the same person? Will I die? Maybe I would be better for it in the end. Just another block checker walking the earth. The ones that don't dissect every thought and action. The ones that really thrive only because of the lives of those around them. They live vicariously through and revel in the tales and misfortunes of others.




I have unfinished business in my life. Lately, it seems I may get some closure. I may be able to seal up some boxes and move them to permanent storage. I will not be able to close them all. Some are just too old and misshapen and I am hoping I can just throw them out. Some magical and mystical event will occur and they will just disappear. Perhaps I should have a sale. Write it all down and sell it to the highest bidder. It may be of some value to someone else. I don't, however, want to close them all. I am afraid of what I may become as a result. I am afraid of death.




Welcome to Jillville where our world is not black and white and we live in the grey. Welcome to Jillville where our unsealed boxes shape our lives and this song is in our playlist when we spring clean because that is what life in Jillville is, a bittersweet symphony that is heavy on the cello.

The weight of love.

Let us always meet each other with smile, for the smile is the beginning of love.
Mother Teresa


Read more: http://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/topics/topic_love3.html#ixzz1nKnwnrHl

I had a bizarre dream last night. The kind you wake up from for a second, roll over and it picks up where it left off. Impossible, vivid and somehow familiar. A dream you may have had before. The kind that keeps you off balance your entire day.


I had a gap yesterday. One that I will need to learn how to fill. It was a gap I would have usually filled by talking to my friend Bill. It made me anxious and sad. I wanted the time to pass quickly so I could move on to the next thing. This is probably what caused my dream, that and the fact that I was reading a vampire novel last night.


The first question I asked myself this morning was strange and way to introspective for me to really handle. Alas, I will put it to you to ponder with me. (Not ponder, obsess. We have established that is what I really do. Pondering is a quick thought, obsessing can rule my day.) How much are we truly loved?


I say truly because I am not really ever sure we know. We hear it all the time. I say it often but do we really mean it when we say it? It is easy to love someone in a moment, but the love I am talking about is a collection of moments. Is it possible to love someone but not like them? I suppose it is. I think it may only be after we are gone when those secrets are revealed and probably not to us. Is this what death is then? We will never know our true worth? We won't know where we have left an unfillable void or a scar. We don't know who will dream about us. We will never know who loved us. Not really.


Everyone is loved or has been loved on some level, but the depth of love is what I question. I have loved a lot of people. Some I no longer do, but doesn't that count for something? Shouldn't that weigh in? Shouldn't we get to take that with us in the end. All the love.


I suppose I am coming into a new stage of my life. I have reached the age where death will become more common than in my past. The stage in my life where I am wishing for grandchildren and worrying about everyone older than me. The stage where I feel I need to have a few funeral outfits in my closet. There will be more voids to fill and more scars. Lots of them.The last two weeks have put it all into perspective. I know death. I am up close and personal with it. I have been for years. The unfortunate thing about life is the longer we love someone, the harder it will be when they leave you. Not a day goes by that I don't think about my sister. She is in my dreams. After twelve years of dreams and thought of her, I suppose those we love the most may leave scars instead of an empty space. Nothing can replace them. We survive off of the memories.


Last night I had a dream. I dreamt about lots of love from my past. It was a huge compilation of family and friends. They were all intertwined like a tightly knit sweater. A sweater I keep in my closet but no longer fits properly. A sweater that I often look at and think about discarding, but I keep, in hopes it will fit again someday. A sweater I love.


What will today bring after such a dream? More time pondering the unanswerable questions? Do we take true love with us? Can we feel the love in the end? If we don't then what has it all been for?


Welcome to Jillville land of memories, voids, scars and dreams of love.