Writing Reality

  The body does remember. It is in its fibers. It’s as if as humans we have fiber optics running through us all the time. It’s true. There’s no denying it. Although I have ‘Rainman-esk’ qualities where most don’t. It is my consciousness. Everything that happens stays current. Front and center. No, it’s not from any form of PTSD. It is from my childhood. I had much to remember. So, I decided early on to memorize practically every incident, then perhaps every spoken word, dates, times, or perhaps everyday items. And I have some kind of math skills. Math skills and above average math scores only to be seen on the standardized tests I had taken to my mother’s dismay. My now deceased husband who was a high school math teacher said to me one day over twenty years ago, “You have the mathematical mind of a chemist.” I asked, “How so?” He responded, “Your willingness to just sit there for hours and do logarithms. It’s the one type of math that I despise greatly. You enjoy it.” Granted, I’ve

Hope hangs in Balance, Awaiting Our Discipline... We may wonder... Why does death come to some earlier than others. It's as though we watch death come in and take someone and we're just standing there. The void is either quick or long awaited by those suffering or a long drawn out hanging on by someone, perhaps with something.  Is the hanging on, something to say? Perhaps some prophetic message? We stand and wait. Was it supposed to be our turn? Or were we meant to witness their turn? Or not waste it? In our existence when do we get the message? If there is a message to get, perhaps to give. Do we give it to death or in our dying? Or are we supposed to give it in our living? Or in not the waste of living? Every day l think of these questions or questions like these.  I witness people paying no mind to their existence. Some go into the 'wannabe' section. Neither progressing, nor moving. They remain the same, expecting others to come their way. Some do. Those which are ma

 The Section About a decade ago, after I’d finished my post-fight interview with Bruce Kivo of “MMA Confidential”, I began to collect my gear to head home. It was after one in the morning. I was in Manhattan for my fight. My husband was just getting to bed, and our two daughters were fast asleep back home in suburban New Jersey. As I packed my things and threw a pair of warmup pants on over my fight shorts, I saw a fighter I knew. I’ll call him “The Section”, ‘Sect’ for short to protect his anonymity. Sect had come from my team to watch me. He looked a bit lost. The place that the fights had taken place in was now practically empty. Bruce was wrapping things up behind the draped in area. Some fighters from the Midwest were ready to leave as they’d gotten their gear together. I looked around and caught my teammate’s eye. “Hey!” I called him. His eyes lit up as he walked over to me. “Hey Jody. Do you know where Phil is?” “He left.” “Oh no.” “What’s wrong?” “Well, the two