Write As Rea

The happy intersection between what I want to write and what people want to read.

October 9, 2016

According to my friends and family, my cellphone is the equivalent of a rotary-dial phone wearing eighties-superhero spandex. It gets the job done, so I feel bad retiring it but someday, maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow…but someday, I will be the proud owner of a pretty and powerful Chris Evans-holding-onto-a-helicopter cellphone…which I’ll forget I have and leave in my purse too.

Sorry ’bout that in advance.

I can’t get off.

I don’t remember anymore how I found myself here.

Still, it spins and spins. The majestic mounts and the mirrors are all as familiar to me as the thoughts that plague me day after day.

Why am I here?

That is the question I ask myself the most, but it’s not the most painful question.

Will I always be alone?

Ah, yes. That’s the one. I don’t think about it much anymore. That’s what I tell myself anyway, as I watch the people as I swirl past. They go their way and I go mine and they don’t really see me here. I fade into the colors and their eyes gaze past me to the furniture of my cage.

Sometimes I wonder if they see that either. It’s a disconcerting thought. I see them. I long to follow, to join, to live untethered as they do. It is not to be. Night falls, and they disappear one by one until the lights blink on and hide the stars.

My favorite haunt is the phaeton. The little two-seater, and I, its lone occupant. My steeds dashing off to nowhere. I imagine someday that someone will join me. That the music will stop its grating tune, and the endless cycle will let me be at last.

“Is this seat taken?”

I hear it and think that I have fallen into a restless slumber, but I never dream and hope has long abandoned me on this fruitless journey. A stupor has me silent and the smiling eyes grow uncertain staring into mine. Seeing me.

My eyes fill with tears.

A hand is extended. Calloused but kind all the same.

“Perhaps you’d prefer to take a walk instead?”

That hand pulls me to my feet, to the edge of the unknown, and my fingers lace with those of my long-awaited companion.

I step into the abyss and the ground no longer spins beneath my feet.

(This was a fun little piece for me to explore. It started out as an idea for a ghost story on a haunted merry-go-round. While it can still be read that way, it can also be read as a metaphor for life or as a possible romance. It’s written in first-person perspective which I don’t generally like, but it just seemed to fit the nature of the story. The way it developed was a unique surprise even for me. However you choose to interpret it, I hope you enjoy!)


I go through life

With it swinging there

Hanging on a string,

One good blow and


It’s fraying from between.

When the wind whistles and it starts to sway,

I watch with fear-filled eyes

Because sometimes hope is all I have

Yet somehow, it remains.

No one responsible for it

Save I, alone

I almost wish that it would fall so I could breathe


Until I piece it back together or another takes its place.

This eternal vigil

Worth it for those few that float

Tethered to my heart

Pulling me towards destinations


Helping me find joy in the journey.


June 16, 2016

My version of ‘breaking’ the internet? Hitting the refresh button on my near-obsolete technology. System crash followed by a twenty-minute wait after rebooting? Yeah, sounds about right.

There is only today,

There is no more,

But along comes a day just like the day before.

A little voice whispers-maybe now,

but always seems to struggle not to be drowned out.

Like ‘patience on a monument’

you sit there Shakespeare clever, but still it drags on never changing

for the better.

And hope?

What is that in this bland monotony?

A treadmill of anxiety that goes on and on forever.

Where’s the light at the end of the blankety-blank tunnel?

I’m tired of waiting

Maybe it’s time to move to greet the future

I’m not a statue after all.

I swear, you try to do something nice for somebody…

So the never ending battle with S.h.o.d. moved into the bathroom over the winter. First I fixed the cartridge in my shower (disintegrating o-ring equals a leaky faucet handle) and then it got even with me yesterday by helping me fall out of it. Casualties were minor; bruised limbs and pride, and a traumatized towel bar, but my morale is a little low.

I keep trying, though, and I have learned a great deal in the process of caring for my home. Not just about how to fix things, but about myself, and why creating a place to belong is important to me. My home, difficult as it likes to be, serves as shelter from bad days and disappointments. It becomes a place I retreat to for dreaming, resting, and gathering together loved ones and memories.

It may not be easy some days, but it’s a place of learning too. And a place of failure. Sometimes I need help with projects beyond my ability. I know myself better from the experience of owning a home. There is a sense of accomplishment in the management of my household when I get it right. Don’t get me wrong, I’m still looking forward to a time when S.h.o.d is more about maintenance and less about attempted maiming but I am a more competent person for my experiences.

I guess I should get started on fixing the towel bar…