Last night insomnia struck.  The wind was roaring and the power went out.  While my sleeplessness was only worsened by the beeping of my surge protector, something came to mind.

It came suddenly, as these things often do during periods of insomnia and I don’t know where else such an idea would have popped into my mind in the wee hours of the morning if it weren’t for the tragic events that transpired in Brussels.

It’s been ten years since the end of the Fifty Years War, the Unholy War, the Angod War. It started out as Christianity versus Islam with Jews, Buddhists, Hindus, Pagans and everyone else getting caught in the middle. After the first few nuke strikes, the agnostics and atheists rose up against those that were left of the pious. And now we are all that’s left. We are wretched and destitute. A disheveled collection of devout and dissuaded. Bodies fall en masse, disease and starvation are our only liberation. There are no heroes or leaders rising from the ash. There is nothing to rebuild. Reserves are depleted. Resources are gone. The young and old died first and we are what’s left. There is no desire to save what’s left. Everyone is apathetic and exhausted. We wait for the end. Somewhere in the deep, dark forests of Africa and South America, where technology was never welcome and only the earth was worshiped, the cradles of civilization are being reborn. We are nothing to them. All will be forgotten. Our books will be dust to them and our history long forgotten. But somehow I can only hope that our errors will be discovered and for once, humanity will learn from its mistakes and as I drop down on my knees to rest beside a man who could have once been my enemy, I can only hope that my dust will become their salvation.  



I don’t write poetry very often…. or at all, generally.  I don’t know the first thing about it… But it’s been about two years since I was involved in a case where a young Siberian Husky was hit by a car.  I still remember every detail like it was yesterday, some things just stay with you and while I was supposed to be writing up charts, these six lines crept into the back of my mind late that night:

There’s blood on the door

blood hits the floor,

I look into her pale blue eye.


She opens her mouth

takes her last breath,

a young life dies.    


I think about it often and I so wish we could have saved her.


Of Jerusalem: written by one of my favorite authors

It wasn’t that long ago when I finished reading Neil Gaiman’s latest collection of short stories and poems, Trigger Warning.  And while the majority of the book I thoroughly enjoyed, I must say that one story was quite a…. well a disappointment.

When I first discovered a tale entitled Jerusalem within the collection, I was excited to read it.  I was keen to embark upon a journey with Mr. Gaiman through one of history’s most iconic cities.  A place I have been to a few times myself.  I anticipated his realistic style of writing but steeped deeply with moments of fantasy.  Perhaps encountering mythical beasts from a time before monotheistic religion, beasts that could not be forgotten because they were so fantastic, becoming part of the mythologies behind the Torah, Quran and New Testament.

But it wasn’t that.  It was a story about a British couple and their relationship with Jerusalem Syndrome.  The writing was fine and the story held my attention but I felt like it was lacking… It was lacking the Neil Gaiman touch, in my humble opinion.  Maybe I was looking for an American Gods type story but in the Middle East.

hmm… there’s an idea.  Inspiration rising from the ashes of disappointment, like a phoenix.

No, no… not like a phoenix, maybe more like Simurgh.


I will make an attempt at my own short story, inspired by Mr. Gaiman’s tale and my own imagination, I think I’ll get to work right now.



A search for beauty between the grit.

I grew up in the lush forests of the pacific northwest (Oregon and Western Montana), so my move to Los Angeles came as quite the culture shock.  I’ve learned, over the years, to appreciate nature wherever I can find it… though I do miss the trees so much.  Lanky palm trees are ugly, under most circumstances, and the way they shed is appalling.  These weedy trees will never fill the void left by the magnificent, near magical, trees that adorn the memories of my childhood.

But I’ve digressed, I live in L.A. now.

The upheaval of sidewalks by persistent tree roots, the way little birds use street signs to house their nests, the snail-trails dotting the route of midnight voyages, and the blaze of the setting sun caught in a songdog’s eye are all reminders of the power and endurance of nature.  Of which, I greatly appreciate.

Anything that moves against the mundane pace will catch my eye.  The flicker of a bird’s shadow, the passage of gossamer caught in the breeze.  And though I must admit that I will never grow accustomed to the cockroach’s scurry, I have grown quite fond of one native resident to Southern California.  The black widow spider.

With a nefarious reputation, being the source of nightmares, how can one appreciate such a creature?

The articulated front legs and iconic hourglass marking are enough to induce chills throughout the constitution of most.  And while I have a few tales about my relationship with these spiders, and from there have even written a short story, that’s not for here.  Maybe later.

It was the way the black widow recoiled, knowing when she was being watched.  Almost giving the impression that she knew her reputation.  It was the overall shyness of such a monster that left an impression on me.

Now I’m not on some “save the black widow spider” platform.  Their venom is potent.  If they’re in an area that could endanger a person or pet then I have no qualms with the end results of such association.  But when they are out of the way, just being spiders, let them be.  When I walk by their messy, tinsel like webs, I always stop and take a look with hopes of seeing one.  I will admit that I am disappointed to notice that they seem to be vanishing.  They are being replaced by the brown widow spider.  This may induce ovation in the vox populi, for arachnophobes especially, as the brown widow’s bite is less harmful.  But for me, I suppose I have sympathy for the villain.  Sympathy for my own little Byronic heroine of Los Angeles.

black widow black and white

(black widow-black and white by Firefly6)  firefly6.deviantart

Let’s get the ball rolling

Why enlightened wolf? Because I didn’t know there were sheepdogs… I always thought it was wolf vs. sheep.  I refused to be a sheep…  I wasn’t aware of the whole sheepdog thing until I saw American Sniper.  And it makes sense, there has to be someone looking out for the flock.  I’d rather run with enlightened wolves than conformist sheep has been my mantra since I discovered it in high school.  It doesn’t have anything to do with theology, well, not entirely.  I am uncomfortable with organized religion.  However I do respect it, so long as it respects me.

Anyway, I’m an aspiring writer on the lookout for inspiration.  I use music, science, history, pictures and paintings, anything that will make my brain storm a good storm.  I’ll just be here lurking the shadows, standing on the fringes and observing, waiting for the ideas to come….

enlightened wolf