Today is the day when television broadcast officially becomes digital. And if you are not prepared...well, what I hope for is that people will start reading again. The president has urged these viewers to make the required changes in order to continue to receive "news and emergency information." Really?

Maybe they will get a much-needed break from "Cops," "Who Wants to Marry a Millionaire," "Dancing with the Stars," "American Idol," and other such thought-producing programming. No opinions being fed to them. No constant stream of negativity. No being advertised to. Nothing to sit in front of to stuff your face to. The dormant brain cells will stretch from their decades-long nap to see where they might apply some curiosity, explore the world around them...maybe even meet their neighbors.

Current Mood: mischievous

Due to social networking I have been having the opportunity to view several posts about making the "what I want" lists for relationships. At this stage of my life I am 47, have 2 grown kids, 1 grandchild, 1st husband died, second husband gone, a long-term relationship over, and several dates under my belt.

I am happy. Not because I am by myself, but because I have a pretty fulfilling life. I've already done relationship to establish family thing. I am about enjoying life, enjoying people for who they and myself for who I am. I am not a "friend first," I am a friend. If anything develops then that is icing on the cake. No waiting. No baiting. No emotional spackle. This is freedom.

Current Mood: contemplative

I'm in the habit of noticing, especially as it informs and forms the basis of most of my poetry. So, here are some items that have been flashing on my radar screen:

1. "Better than botox" - The old woman face (which looks highly unnatural) smoothes out to a young woman face (also looks highly unnatural) with the wave of your cursor. I also notice that the young woman is smiling and the old woman is frowning. Where are the guy faces? Why do I have to constantly see this stupid image any time I go on to the Internet?

1a. A subset of the "better than botox" face is the cellulite and stretch mark wand. These will soon become our new standard of metaphor.

2. The dancing chicks (not usually guys) - they usually represent lower mortgage rates, but are now branching out to weight loss. Next, we will find them on congratulatory greeting cards.

3. Greeting cards with sound. I can't wait until you can record your own. In fact, I can see a whole new business model on this one...

4. The ladies room in my office building has a full-length mirror and a scale. That's just cruel, but it might be a great beginning to a suspense film.

5. Seeing as we can't lose weight, the clothing industry has changed the dimensions of each clothing size. Great strategy!

6. Size zero - Wouldn't it mean that you don't even exist? These people screw up the scale for the rest of us. I am aiming for a size 8, which used to be a size 10 in the good old days and is all that someone with a real butt and thighs can hope for without the aid of anorexia.

I have recently watched the film "Infamous" a couple of times and this nagging question has popped into my head...do people just talk like that or do they learn to talk like that? When does it happen? Puberty? University? It is easy, and quite automatic, to ask questions about Truman Capote whose voice is so distinctly original that it is a standard to be copied. Juliet Stevenson plays Diana Vreeland, the chic fashion socialite whose vocal style figure skates each word with dramatic emphasis. Every Vreeland "interview" in the movie is delightfully expressed with meeeaaning dahling. Is this a vocal caricature, a stereotypical way that the rest of us believe the upper social structure to speak? Along with the phrasing, the actual content of any idea expressed in such a way is quite distinct and memorable. It comes equipped with its own PR. You want to quote what was said to others and have it known that you know the quote as reference material or as a topic for conversation...but you will never be able to express it the same way yourself.

I guess there is a sort of passion involved in this kind of speaking and plenty of time - the kind of time to ferment ideas or the kind of idle time spent interacting with other fully developed characters in life. You would never hear that kind of talk in the corporate break room, but you would catch the inflections in the speech of those who may be deemed to be just outside of the norm.

Here is one Vreeland quote about the content of her magazine articles, "I do not believe we should put it [the magazine] so-called society, as it is demode and practically doesn't exist...but ravishing personalities are the most riveting things in the world - conversation, people's interests, the atmosphere that they create round them - these are the things that I feel are worth putting in any issue." The first thing you have to do is to look up the French word demode (pronounced dey-maw-dey, which means no longer in fashion; out of date; outmoded. The expanded vocabulary is always apparent. Then comes the phrasing: "ravishing personalities", the descriptive element reaches for metaphors with unheard of couplings, encourages you to seek out for yourself some other lively aspect of life rather than the safe and predictable. While most of us speak in dress-rehearsal, there are those with voices that live fully enough to rise distinctly and make the rest of us take notice.

Current Mood: curious

"Great men are the true men, the men in whom nature has succeeded. They are not extraordinary-they are in true order. It is the other species of men who are not what they ought to be." - Henri Frederic Amiel

Sparks are flying this weekend as the undefeated Patriots head into another Sunday of football. Excellence is expected, unless it surpasses the masses. What if your best is better than the rest of the pack? You are expected to hold back and not allow the mediocre to feel so bad.

It seems that the path to excellence has a sort of atmospheric barrier similar to that which occurs when traveling from earth to space. Much energy is required to transcend gravity and any other force meant to hold one in any given place. Life on the river bed is much more tranquil to that in the midst of a current carrying one to who knows where, while floating on the surface lends itself to quite another facet of peace. There must come a time of complete transition from one mode to another, where one phase has no bearing on the other, where the pulling down or pulling up cannot reach those safely tucked away in the arms of the extraordinary, where refusing to cling to the safety of the mediocre eventually sets one free.

Go 2007 Patriots, Warren Buffet and the like. Show us all how to fly.

Current Mood: contemplative

The Coen brothers have created another masterpiece. I went to see the movie again with some friends last night. My son and I saw the movie as soon as it came out. We loved it. What I found to be so interesting when I saw it last night was the reaction of the crowd at the end of the movie. Oh, where is the happy ending where the good guys win and the bad guys get caught and receive their just punishment?
Every so often there is a story told in which the reader or the audience gets to experience similar emotions as the main character. "No Country For Old Men." The frustration was "explained" in the beginning narration. Most of the audience got caught up in the actions of the serial killer and kept forgetting the fact that the movie was really about the senselessness of certain events and a guy trying to make sense out of it all with his old, what-he-could-count-on ways of thinking.
The audience wasn't told what to think, there was no real "mood" music to prepare the audience for events. The shock brought the audience even closer to experiencing the point of the story. Even when I saw the movie for a second time, knowing what was going to happen, I still was startled. But the end of the movie...the end of the movie. So many comments from this set of movie-goers because the ending wasn't wrapped up in a tidy bow. The ending forces you to go back to the sheriff's last comments(which really "wrap up" the story) and feel the way he does...confused, a bit frustrated, with no definitive answer because there isn't one. Times change. There are many advances and improvements - in the good as well as the "bad." Innocence gets lost. It is painful and cruel at times, and just plain frustrating at other times. We have no music to set the scene for what is going to happen next and that is very startling.
I wanted to explain to those people who vocally expressed how they were going to steer their friends away from the movie the obvious point that they just missed...but that would just be the point of the story. I'm getting older too. I am part of the lost breed of readers and my time is fading as well.

Poetry magazine published a commentary, in the October 2007 issue, written by George Szirtes. I was intrigued by a particular statement relating to whether or not poets wear their heart on their sleeve so to speak.
"But it is not catharsis that is desired, it is meaning, the
kind of meaning poems offer, which is not the meaning of
what but of how, the music of how things happen as they enter
language. It is music as meaning. That is the reason poets are
afraid of losing their traumas and demons. It is their task,
their habit, their skill to make objects of independent beauty
out of them. That is what song is."
Ok, this is where you would hear the record-scratch of interruption...do poets always have to be characterized as tortured souls? Making objects of "independent beauty" out of "traumas and demons" is only one part of the picture.
If you go by the comic book, superhero motto: "with great knowledge comes great responsibility," you can understand why the ability to "see" and to see the music in things is a heavy gift. This gift does not just apply to traumas and demons, of which it is without much effort that these do exist in vast quantity, but there are songs screaming to be sung that get little airtime - colds, bed frames, courtyards in office buildings, overheard conversations in restaurants, cups of soda, large rocks, dropped slips of information, purses, etc.
Poets "afraid of losing their traumas and demons" should take their fear as a sign that it is time to grow. Traumas and demons will always be around; you can always return to them anytime you wish. The ability to see is the ability to see. To see the music, the "independent beauty" - it exists in all things. Take irony for instance. There is so much natural irony everywhere you look - nature loves irony, people are ironic without even trying. I once saw a motel sign that had "depression" rates. I'm not kidding. There was an arborist that died in her sleep when a tree fell through the roof over her bedroom.

A steady diet of transforming ugliness can become a slow poison for the mind - a fact backed up by suicides and stays at mental institutions, but there are many poets in your midst. They can hold jobs (a great source of observing humans in action) and even write while sober. Poets are free to see and free to compose the song of what they see...and freedom needs to be respected for the awesome power that it is. Freedom can kill if it is not respected, if you are not prepared, if you resist where it leads, and I will sing until I die.

I didn't have to pop out of bed like toast in order to be somewhere on time to perform some duty for someone else...topics flow through my mind, asking for my relationship to them while Miss Kitty seeks my affection.
The root of my musing is this: my experience with being around those who I find to be a little more critical or judgemental for my own taste. I have to ask myself why it bothers me besides the surface-level kill-joy aftertaste. Do I do the same thing? You bet. Automatically this gives me cause to modify my own behavior.

When in transition I might as well be on the floor of the Grand Canyon looking in awe at two very distinct sides. There is the side I have just come down from and the new side I will be climbing up. I've noticed that the critical/judgemental side is based on different motivations - decision making, protection, and a kind of passive-aggressive way of fixing (this was a new revelation), "helping," or controlling. Teachers and healers seem to use this tool as a means of perfecting the people they work with - and in an earth-based way, this method is very effective. It is also soul-killing. And this is the other side of the canyon.

The side I am climbing is filled with loving acceptance (a gut wrenching term for those who like control). I was speaking with someone last night who is in the middle of full accountablity for his actions and seeking to heal them. I could tell that the only earthly thing he needed was to tap into a sense that he was perfectly acceptable in the face of glaring ugliness. The process itself will purge all impurities while wrapping the soul in hope and acceptance. I have to keep remembering this fact. This is the side of the canyon I am climbing. I cannot choose rocks and branches and dirt from the critical realm to stop the flow of judgemental energy...and I have to mean it.

The Crayola box of 64 crayons had two colors that often confused me as a kid: green-yellow and yellow-green. I always wondered why. It was the subtlety that was important enough when coloring your world.

Current Mood: confused

It was the fault of a DVD that looked so much better at the movies than it did while I was viewing it with a friend at home. The big screen is just that - BIG! Everything is big. The news is big. Commercial TV is big. Paint commercials are big. Big is more data to process. Big along with clear (HDTV)creates even more data.

It took 2 days for me to get used to this new TV and it forces me to make important decisions as to what I watch. I struggle with information overload. Nothing is background or easy to ignore...it is almost a life-size experience. This leads me to ponder, does watching this size TV make the experiences more real? Are we substituting virtual reality for life experience? What will we miss as we submit ourselves to virtual reality?

Virtual reality of today is limited in its ability to interact with the viewer. Life experience has multiple possibilities, which, when combined or separated can have a variety of outcomes. An outcome of failure or eventual triumph, building event upon event, shaping or pruning mankind as every moment passes one to another. Who will be more cruel or kind, and in what measure between that of the Universe and that of man as the designer of such realities. Experience leaves her residue and economically shares its design with those in close proximity. Are we ready to experience fully or foolishly? How will we of full-color, big screen, HDTV experience compare to those of 14", grainy, black and white?

Oh sure...it's just a TV...but...I feel myself having to expand in order to take in the depth of what I see. My eyes are being trained to view my surroundings differently. Details no longer hide as they demand to be processed right along with all surface-level content. My brain is not satisfied until I look with 50" plasma eyes.

Current Mood: curious

Scoop de do and Baskin Robbins goes
Beat with one hep cat in beret and
goatee makin' ice cream so cool it's hot
and so hot it's cool, and I see this guy
sneakin' up the side of my two-scoop sundae
reminding me that poetry season is due to
arrive.

Eighteen years ago - ya eighteen,
like one whole teenager ago, the
pen leaked the lid of the one true
creativity after years of almost crafts,
no sequins or silk just the raw and the
raw and the raw of it...it that every day
it, that what is it, that where did it go,
that it I leaked, that it poured into me,
celebrated by shooting stars and friends of
benefits makin' sure to remind me that the
plug can be pulled at any time, at any time,
ya, give me your it, I can take it, I can give
it, why do women want to get into men's heads,
and I say, why do men want to get into women's
bodies...they're going for it like
two-scoop chocolate chip, like strawberries, whip
cream and load them nuts, cause I loooooove
that crunch, I want to know that I ate what I ate,
scoop de do and dip it man, your shades were meant
to cover blood shot eyes which is a drag for
advertising to those below PG-13, scoop it man
dip de do I'm makin pumpkin pie without a crust
on a cool August night as Autumn arrives early
and the neighbor dog barks 1 2 3 with a space in
between, sweet cinnamon and allspice wafts past
these freedom eyes, scoop de do and dip it man,
it's a cool Saturday night and we're all lookin'
for it tonight.

It is an interesting fact that most societies hold a sacred or venerated value on the "art" of writing. Within this art, the soul/spirit of the one who writes deeply affects the style of each word. There is soul, serenity, elegance and reflection in the shape of each letter - a meditation and a Divine conduit in the simple act of the written word.

Written expression is the trunk of a solid tree whose many branches: scribe, calligrapher, poet, novelist, translator, historian, documentor, playwright, student, etc., and the fruit each branch produces is both sour and sweet. How does the heart, mind and body need to be positioned in order for elegance to result? What setings and disciplines must be in place in order for Truth to present itself? What about the flow of ink, ease of keystroke, grain of paper, condition of brush, flatness of surface? Is it love when pen or brush mates with paper transforming each into that which releases and that which receives; producing a third, a child entity of color, design and meaning for others to behold?

I hear the words of those who say "I don't like to write" as if writing would betray that which is locked up within. Writing is truth, even in fiction, for fiction is just a different facet of unfolding the truth of any story. The sacred art of writing focuses all movement and thought to be funneled through fingers and released onto surfaces - scratched lightly, carved deeply, changing the surface from smooth to embossed. Paper sounds different after writing and can never be the same as it was before its altering. Each letter has sound, each word has meaning, each phrase can be interpretted by the mosaic of the reader's mind, especially after time.

Movement and stillness. Design and space. Action and reflection. The difference between soul-less technique and art. Now tell me that you don't like to write.

Current Mood: thoughtful

There are always scientists studying something - usually for profit. There was an Internet news article about soda companies and taste tests. The soda companies are trying to boost sales of diet drinks (to reduce obesity), so they are studying why the sugar sodas are preferred to diet sodas. They found a sub-sense within the mouth that determines texture, consistency, etc.

This fact answers some questions for me. I can't imagine eating an ice-cream sundae from Baskin-Robbins without one of those little pink spoons. I like Diet Coke in a can better than in a plastic bottle. I like ice-cold milk and ice-cold water. The consistency of processed cheese food and/or bologna makes me gag.

I was just thinking about this little fact as I was eating my cereal at work with a plastic spoon wondering about this lack of total satisfaction.

Current Mood: restless

Miss Kitty was rescued from the harsh life as a runt stray, to the weird world of my apartment-home. After weeks of constant coaxing she has allowed herself to be a part of the atmosphere, blending her personality with all that is around her. She has her favorite spots to lay in the sun and watch birds. She loves bags from Baskin Robbins, chasing laser lights, and stalking the dog when it goes into the kitchen for a drink of water. I awaken each day to her rubbing her head on my chin.
These are some of the lessons learned from my cat:
1. Sit and stare.
2. Play with everything.
3. Be curious.
4. Indulge in the comfortable, touch it often.
5. Rub against what you love with affection and even a little drool.
6. Curl up close to those you love.
7. Practice pouncing.
8. Clean yourself often.
9. Purr when content.
10. Be flexible when you fall.

Current Mood: amused

White doesn't get a lot of fair press. Used for weddings or as a symbol for purity, white has not had the chance to shine as the powerful color it is. For example, I have been at an emotional fork in the road lately and I have been experiencing a lot of anger. Normally I would be dressed in darker colors, black if possible, but today I am wearing white and light blue.

The first thing I thought about when I looked in the full-length mirror is that black seems to take the emotions out and spread them over a larger area...less concentration. White, on the other hand, makes you take responsibility. White is too busy with possibilities to be absorbing anyone's negativity. It takes guts to wear white shoes. White is not shy or muted, so when you wear white shoes people always take notice. Think white shoes with a white belt or the crime of wearing white shoes after labor day. White requires effort. You can't wash whites with any other color no matter how light the color is, because white can turn into grey all too easily. Those new white sneakers pick up traces of where they have been, and it is a gross insult to step on them even if it is by accident.

There is white paper and there is bright-white paper. Bright-white is great, because it makes color presentations stand out. I think that I have been that all-purpose white paper, less expensive and able to be used for anything with nothing standing out. The kind that you can buy as easily in the grocery or drug store as you could at an office supply store; the kind you could as easily use for taking down a phone message or giving to the toddler to keep them occupied, with aspirations of being utilized for something greater.

Today I have graduated from the safe cream's and lowfat milk grey-white tones to bright white. We'll see how it goes from here.

There has been some mild flu in the air that decided to take a vacation in my body. Headaches, dizziness, aches and congestion (sounds like a commercial) have reined in my normal energetic activities. I have been reduced to rest. On this 6th day I am starting to see some of the benefits. As I read a city newsletter, my mind entertained the possibility of visiting the local art museum or the newly renovated city library or maybe even attending a local play production. The newsletter spoke of flu pandemics and how to prepare (a little late for me).

The phrase "human doing" emerged from the self-help language of the 1980's. The term refers to the idea that one is "doing" instead of "being." It is the idea of putting a little space between the notes of one's symphony, taking time for regenerating, putting the mind into non-productive mode. People who don't normally slow down can see the benefit, because it is the rest required to make the engine run more efficiently. After all, one is usually measured by their output - good to society, effectiveness at work, keeping parents or teachers off your back, etc.

For the past several days I have not had the energy to do anything or to go anywhere. This apartment home and I have gotten to know one another. The dog and kitty have been teaching me their secrets of contentment. Department stores have held sales without me. News and events take their bows on the world stage whether I participate or not. The weekend actually felt like a weekend. I am savoring this Sunday morning as the threat of Monday nips at my heels.

Current Mood: calm

I am studying the words of one who studies others. There are similar conclusions and epiphanies as each new idea becomes clear. Many think that the modern world, with all of its technologies, would germinate something different, but each must see and see again. Truth may be truth, but only when claimed anew will it pulsate into action. How many time must man understand the cruelties of war or the healing of love? Our most basic truths are recorded and understood, ignored and learned again. The outer life of Amiel did not measure to social standards, while beneath his skin the Heaven's were singing.

Every crowded city street contains men and women never to be known by a multitude of others. If split open, like over ripe fruit, they would spill riches and glory enough to turn every ugliness upon its head. Skin and bones hold it back - keep at bay a healing second only to fire and rain forests.

There is a single moment of perfect bloom and another equally as important yet completely different than that which was lost...and this is only today! Tomorrow contains yet even more! And we mourn one particular passing blossom, which came and went without courage to birth its potential.

Time is our freedom and time is our prison, for when there is schedule the bloom chooses otherwise - on a crowded bus, when feet ache and crowds jostle, the perfect combination of atoms and energy passes unnoticed an unappreciated. God practices and presents to the blind-by-choice and we despair. How can we be appreciated ourselves when we know nothing of the sort. Dust dances an orchestrated ballet in streams of sunlight and we see nuisance rather than wonder.

I just went to my email account. There were 143 messages in my bulk email folder and 2 in my inbox. I would expect that the 2 messages in my inbox would be real correspondance. They were both spam disguised as possible topics of interest.

I do not take this spam personally as, I'm sure, the sender did not target me personally...but, I like to correspond. These days are filled with isolation and the anticipation of interaction excites someone like me. Most artists have some patient soul in which ideas and thoughts are flushed out with long before the public receives an enduring work of art. Journals and blogs have arrived in time to fill this need.

I am not a starving artist. Like Crane, Elliot or Bukowski I work in order to write. Through working I place myself in a position of experiences to ponder. My philosphy has pragmatic traction, which is applicable to the subtlest nuances of daily life. I would love it if a person sent a random email just to share an idea or a weird thought that went through their mind. I am not the only one who wonders about things. I long for interesting conversation. Send me that kind of spam.

Current Mood: contemplative

I live in an apartment complex where stray cats often roam. A litter was born and when I would walk my little dog, the kittens would follow. Various members of the kitten family were either caught or went on to multiply. The runt of the litter was always able to stay just out of reach of being caught. As other litters were born the little calico was run off by the other cats. She managed to survive by living on rooftops, sneaking down to get food when she got the chance.
I was able to capture her a week ago. I have named her Little Miss Kitty.

Little Miss Kitty spent the first 2 days hidden under my bed. When I hold her, she is the most affectionate cat I have ever had. She comes out to eat and play a little more each day. She startles easily and is ready to bolt at a moment's notice. One day I came home to see that she had escaped from my room. She wormed her way through the sliding door to my bedroom and got the sliding glass door open enough to get out. Pretty resourceful cat.

Why have I taken her on? Maybe it is because she reminds me of myself. As I struggle to make a home for myself it just might help to see how it is done for this little kitty. She has somewhere to sleep, food & water, I bought toys for her to play with, and I make sure that she gets regular doses of affection. She doesn't seem to mind the music that I have playing. I let her have her space so that she comes out to visit on her own time and I try to instill a feeling of safety in her surroundings. Those seem to be the basics.

Current Mood: melancholy

I'm listening to Christmas music right now, which reminds me that Yahoo has a radio station genre called Scrooge Tunes that has some funny songs. I love music. I used to sing in church choir. There is nothing like being a part of the music - singing with a breath drawn from every part of your body, projected in harmony, knowing that the part you sing is the brush stroke of a composer's vision. That was my experience with Handel's Messiah.
I was in high school, freshman or sophomore year. There were tryouts for a statewide regional choir. You had to take a voice test. Voice tests used to make me so nervous that I would get laryngitis before taking them. Every quarter we would have a final that involved the teacher playing the first note on the piano, the singer singing the piece in front of them, and the teacher playing the final note to see if you were off. No pressure. Multiply that by a tryout and I could barely talk from self-sabotage. I sucked on a lemon, tried out and made it. My parents said I could participate if I could find transportation to and from the event. This was a seven-wonders-of-the-world experience that I remember vividly to this day.
The Hallelujah Chorus gives me goosebumps. Singing in front of the audience, holding those notes, singing with all the power I could muster from my nerdishness, being transformed into a choir of angels - and the audience stood up at the end, which I thought was a standing ovation (how was I to know that it was a tradition beginning in the courts of royalty) - an exquisite experience.
For joy, I might go to a sing-along Messiah.

Current Mood: contemplative

There have been several catalysts for this entry that will all tie together. I promise.

1. I was given a book to read, "Die Broke". I have a feeling that I could fulfill this one at any time.
2. Upon examining and seeking to change some of my habits I have been seeking opportunities. Two opportunities in real estate sales are in progress, with a close of escrow date of December 12th.
3. It is the holiday shopping season and I get paid twice a month.
4. This is the most constipated time of the year to be selling real estate - especially in this market.
5. The moon is almost full.

In real estate, Friday afternoon (usually right after 4) people drop bombshells. It gets worse the closer it is to a full moon. I received mine, right on time, for one of the transactions getting ready to close. The stress got to my client who is both buying the house she always dreamed of and selling the home that she is currently living in. Human beings were not meant to handle that kind of stress. So, she canceled the open house on Saturday & Sunday, wants 30 days more to close on the house she is buying and may just rent her current home. OK. I canceled the open house advertisements on the internet. I advised her that people are going to show up anyway.
Our company offers a bridge loan (kind of like a pay-day loan) where the seller can get at their equity before their house sells. She has stock. She can get some money from her mom. She has plenty of options. She wants the best of both worlds, low house payment, keeping her stocks, not paying much interest to get a short term loan (which is actually low interest, but she gets a bad feeling about my boss, which I should take personally) The thing about dreams is that there is some part of the old world gets left behind. The "Die Broke" book says to use cash - to have the physical experience of the money passing through our hands. On the money is printed the phrase "In God We Trust". Seems like "in money we trust".
At six o'clock this Saturday morning, when I should have been luxuriating in not having to get up early my own head is freaking out because I was counting on this money to give me a head start as my boyfriend is moving out in a month. His is the other transaction. He is buying his own condo. I haven't been invited along. Anyway, I lay in bed trying to figure out what to say next to this client. I did realize that she will have to pay my commission for failing to perform on the purchase of the dream home, but there I am trusting money instead of Divine Order. Then there is the realization that she, my boss and I have, to varying degrees, an unflattering trait in common. I have addressed this issue and modified my behavior. My boss does his best to surppress it. My client is just learning. The ugly trait is to (based on major insecurity and past pain) control life by money and mating. If you can't mate then hate. If you don't have an extra padding of cash then "they" can tell you what to do, so (at all costs) always have a reserve. Yuk. Even worse to see it from the other side.
Credit doesn't remind anyone of the emotional energy. In Visa or MasterCard we trust...unless we dare otherwise.

Current Mood: amused