Writing Reality

 From "Authentic, a Memoir"...     ....As the air seemed still, I looked over at the lieutenant, who I knew didn’t like women being in the Marines—then I looked at the goofy Marine and said, “You know this is not only a new cover; however, after I’d gotten out of sickbay yesterday, I sized and blocked this cover.” I heard a Marine say, “Just pay her!” I said, “No. Come here.” As I looked straight-on at the goofy Marine. Smiling he backed up. Yes, I was coming in for the kill. I’d get my kick out of the situation.     I moved forward, slowly walking toward his ordinary five-foot eleven inch hundred- and eighty-pound frame. “Come here.” I ordered the goofy Marine, a Lance Corporal (that’s one stripe and rifles). He backed up, I lunged forward grabbing the collar of his white t-shirt. I pulled him as fast as I could and landed a beautiful shin kick with my newly stripped and polished black military right boot. He landed on the ground, half moaning from what had bee...

The other day I realized I had to seek pain relief that I could not attain on my own. I usually figure out how and why, ergo the physiology of why I might be pained or feeling lousy and such. I surmised that I’d driven near 800 miles in under seventy hours. Which approximately 95% of the driving had been in the rain. And as Dolores, the retired detective I had visited after visiting our youngest daughter at college said, “Driving in the rain is taxing.” She would know. She’d been around the block more than once at age 94. Putting many decades in as a law enforcement official whilst raising two daughters as a single mother. Dolores still had such incredible energy as she and I had a near three course meal together for four hours that night, shutting down a Greek restaurant after ten in the evening. And still chatting as we left the empty restaurant and walked out to my parked car. Just days later I knew the surgical site I’d battled the most with for over thirty years daily was screamin...

  Javelin and Playing Ladies Softball     “Wait, you’re on a softball team?” Mr. Clancy nearly spit out the gum he was chewing as he’d scoffed. I replied, “Well. Yeah. It’s a ladies softball team for our town. I started playing with them in seventh grade. I’m their pitcher. It’s like once a week.” Mr. Clancy’s comment came as a trove of big girls showed up one afternoon in March 1979 to try out for the new girl’s javelin throwing team. There was a plethora of girls trying out. They were robust. People who I knew who were considered ultimate jocks were already acting as though they’d made the team. I hoped to be a spoiler and capture one of the three spots on the girl’s javelin team that day.     The test was two throws of a softball. Whoever threw the furthest in the top three throws, was on the team. There were at least 20 girls there. Some I’d never recognized. I saw Yvonne and Joy. They were two of our girl’s top three basketball team members. I...

  Speaking with a friend a while back, “We are supposed to be nonpartisan.” I was reminded by him. I nodded, “Yes.” Then I’d explained October 7 th to him, as he’d requested.   Among all of this, this year I’ve decided to disconnect from people who have been so privileged as to say either they were an independent, which they aren’t. Or that they didn’t vote republican in 2024 because they have a daughter who’s come of age. Yet they voted for this vile POS in our white house two times prior. Because they state they hadn’t known his past. Yet they read books; however, they read only fiction mostly because they fear their own panic attacks. Really? I have a middle finger I haven’t used in a while. Oh, but they attend church regularly, so that makes their white lives just ducky.   Then I’d had a man I’d known nearly thirty years tell me they were a libertarian, but yet liberal in their thinking. How in the absolute Samuel L. Jackson in Pulp Fiction does that work? I did ...

  There’s a difference between a violent death and a death of acceptance. A violent death is as you watch what is happening to you. As much as you know it’s coming, you still witness it only as an outsider. It’s too intense to stay inside the vessel that is being assaulted. I know I’ve been there.   A death of acceptance is one, where you know your time is short. Before you lay down, you know that if you wake up still in this operating vessel then you have lived another breath or so. You breath in such a way that the pattern is unhurried. There’s no rush, you just breathe. Your breath becomes slower and slower; and then you’re asleep. Perhaps you dream dreams and then either wake up or not. Somehow, I know I’ve been there. This is perhaps because I have an exceptionally low pulse. I have had a low pulse nearly all my life. I became aware of it by age ten. Then I would test it. I was compelled to test the control of my pulse as to not have to take asthma and bee sting medicat...

Yesterday was a sad day for the purple tank top. I'd received it when I arrived at the Roseland 5K Race in June of 1995. I'd worn it proudly as often as possible on my training runs thereafter. I'd won the race that day and set the women's course record. Which astonished me. I wasn't all that fast after going through the first mile in 5:07, I knew I'd pay. I had an added pain going into the race. I felt as if someone put crazy glue and duct tape inside my right groin, let it set for an hour and then ripped off the duct tape. It was that raw, scraping feeling. Only to find out later in the one doctor's office I knew was available on an early Saturday afternoon. "Jody, you have shingles. Didn't you see the blisters in your groin?" I replied, "Well I saw 2 small things, but didn't even think of it last night. And this morning I was too mentally busy getting ready for the race. I had no clue." 1995 was already a running disaster. Yet ...