I read, I write, I make art.

The taste of reed –
a dry and tangy mix of sandpaper and sweat –
and the cool slick feel of rain-dampened fingers
sliding on the keys….
I remember this.
Not the music, but
the too-bright football lights
and the weight of a blue fur helmet.
A happy-vague pride, I remember too.
From not screwing up, not breaking stride
or rank or whatever it was called.
My life was whole
when I marched in step.
Accepted, calm, real — I didn’t
know of “flow” then, had never heard of
zen, but
I knew happiness when I marched it.

About Me
Fiction writer, coffee addict, cat owner...doesn't every "about me" say that, usually with a cutesy photo? I don't do cutesy. So I'll add to the list: I'm short, stubborn, very unfashionable, clumsy (typing this with a wounded wrist, always have bruises), opinionated, and a humanist. BS degree in Journalism '83, certificate in technical writing, addicted to reading, can't boil water without setting off the smoke alarm, non-skinny, politically active (and annoyingly loud about it). Love comfort, hate camping, wouldn't want to live in a world where chocolate and caramel hadn't been invented.