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Source: APOTE’



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One of my most vivid memories as a young girl has resurfaced to offer a lesson in foresight. The event happened on one perfect afternoon and  was surely never to be repeated again.

Mom and her girls 001
Mom and her girls

I spent most of that extraordinary day with my mother. It began the moment she appeared at the doorway to my classroom as the sun highlighted her silhouette and crowned her with dark, wispy curls  –  turning all non-believers into beholders of my fairy godmother.  I was validated by her highly-anticipated visit for Open House, since the teacher and most of the stay-at-home moms were past of point of introductions, and many were privy to daily classroom pick-up and drop-off benefits.

I was in kindergarten, and my sister, Janis, was in 3rd grade at Our Lady of Lourdes Catholic School. Anita was a toddler and being cared for by our beloved Nanan. She was Mom’s older sister by a decade, and her surrogate parent. Mom left her sheltered existence in a tiny, one stoplight town to move to the Big Easy, and Nanan paved the way for that to happen. And to make it even more convenient, Mom didn’t have to look any further than down the street to find the man of her dreams, because that’s where my parents meet before Dad went off to join the Army and Mom pursued her career.

In between giving birth to the three of us, Mom was a clerk for Illinois Central Railroad in the CBD of New Orleans, but on that special day, she got off early and took the public bus from work to my school, visited the classroom and ate lunch with me in the cafeteria. The night before, she let me select her outfit. She was the most beautiful Mom in the world to me, and like every other day, she was dressed for success – certainly not your average Mid-City housewife.

Afterwards, we frolicked hand-in-hand for five blocks and took a slight detour to stroll through the oak-shaded park along the way. I still remember how special she made me feel as we skipped along grass-lined sidewalks while spying all types of animals playing amongst the fast-moving parade of luminous, shape-shifting clouds while we discussed school, family vacations or anything that was on our minds.

I can also remember how my sadness multiplied as each step brought us closer to Nanan’s house, which was my Ground Zero on that day. We stopped at the final curb on Danielle Street, and as Mom paused and looked both ways I squeezed her hand as hard as I could and dug my heals into the pavement to halt her pace. She looked down at my troubled frown for an explanation.

“What is it, dear?”

“Momma, can I ask you a question?”

“Sure, anything,” she replied with a glint in her eyes.

“Will there ever be a day when you don’t have to go to work and I don’t have to go to school and we can just be together all the time?”

Her brow got serious as she considered her answer. “Yes, there will be days like that, one day. But not yet. Right now, I just need to keep working and you need to keep going to school.”

I remember her saying it with such assurance, that I felt I could trust the answer.

Flash forward: 58 years later. Mom was right. And now, she lets me pick out her outfit every day.


She told me good bye one day before she left

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I believe our beloved pets are our intuits, our soul mates, our conscience connectors and our best friends.

Loosing this girl is proof of that, for now, her absence is felt and measured in moments of doubt, fear, joy, bliss, indecision, loneliness and pain.

RIP Aggie  (a/k/a, Agnes of God  - My Girl is Gone
                                       RIP Aggie (a/k/a, Agnes of God – My Girl is Gone

Current Music: The Great Gig In the Sky  by Pink Floyd

Current Mood: Melancholy

A beginning…

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The earth is on auto pilot – void of a button to disengage the inertia that drives all of creation across a path fraught with life-altering events. Humanity struggles to break free of the perpetual order that scams the universe as the puppet masters manipulate the strings to tighten their grip. Restricted by unknown boundaries set along an unknown timeline, pieces of the truth seep into our consciousness like an October dawn. Enlightenment seeks refuge in all living creatures and morphs through an invisible web seeking fresh victims with each vibration.

Seeking Inspiration

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The intoxication of seamless words arranged in faultless harmony perpetually delights my literary senses like a fine wine rolling across a discerning tongue. For as long as I can remember, I’ve drooled over phonetic infusions, becoming mindfully euphoric when flawless endeavor sustains my avid writing addiction.

A passionate embrace, a perfect rose, or a plateful of Cajun-spiked gulf shrimp, all evoke similar responses, but only the collaboration of well-chosen words can arouse my mental pleasure zone.

Manifested writing elicits curiosity regarding an author’s inspiration.  Many great writers describe their muses with the affectionate dependability of an intimate friend. Their disciplined relationships reliably sustaining flawless style allows me to track my own fleeting steps toward literary perfection. The significance of morning clarity, evening calm, superb music and self-imposed solitude further the cause. Enticed by the creative quest, I adopt a mantra focused on literary nirvana — the moment of truth when all will be revealed.

Poised for enlightenment, subsequent days are welcomed with youthful verve, responsive to each subliminal sign. Transcendence endows a wilted rose, a dispassionate glance or yesterday’s tuna casserole with the power to ignite my thoughts.

Revelations prognosticate a wise world where the disadvantaged offer the most insight into our self-inflicted wounds. Creative response pulsates within me as writing hurdles are conquered far from any beaten path. Surrendering pretense unearths a treasure trove sustained by my sensual muse, sagaciously guiding my nomadic pilgrimage.

Acknowledging her presence provides a fresh set of eyes to seek the messages hidden within the recesses of lives unfolding.

Inspiration? It’s just a glance away.



Writing as Fast as I Can

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Repost from April 20, 2013 at 12:06pm

    “I woke up this morning and realized for the first time, I am actually fulfilling my professional writing dreams (sort of).  However, since I didn’t require specific terms, I take what is given and am grateful for the validation of my skills and answer to my lifelong request of the Powers that be. “

Although slightly delayed and far from idealic, this writing grounds me like nothing else I could ever do at this point. It’s unimportant that my ego be stroked as a result of my published words, and truthfully, that’s the main reason good writers fail.  My ego has been chiseled to the point of non-existance and it feels liberating.  Fulfillment comes in knowing my words, thoughts and storytelling skills are valued and will be read by others. I take comfort in knowing my words might shake a free thought loose from a reader or encourage someone to look up and be inspired to reconsider some aspect of their life.  Yes, Visionary Fiction is alive and well and for sale to the highest bidder.

The graphic design education is truely the butter cream icing on top of my custom-ordered cake.  Before I’m done with it, they’ll be brilliant fuchsia roses and bleeding heart blossoms to honor Mom and Dad.  It will have lots of chocolate because I like it that way.

This story is far from over.  A keystone event requires full documentation.


The Ghost

Ghostwriting In Mississippi





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Clinging to winter, longing for spring, needing the summer, edging toward fall.