Tag Archives: Adoption

Kraft Instant Powdered Mac’N’ Serendipity

Sometimes my life feels like a ball of yarn with both ends tucked in the inside and I have to pull at loops until the whole thing unravels.  Once and everything.  Sometimes there are more than two ends that attract each other like magnets, and clack through coincidences in life that seem like they were spat out by Screenwriter Plot Generator v2.0.

Last night I spoke to a friend I hadn’t spoken to for at least a half dozen years. We went to graduate school together in Iowa seventeen years ago, lived together with two other people, so I’v known him almost half my life.  Last night, we were chatting and I realized I knew at one point he worked at Highmark, the super conglomerate insurance company.  He lives in Pittsburgh with his wife and two children. I asked him if he knew ‘Mrs. Paul’sFishSticks’. (I am protecting her identity, sorry if there really is a Mrs. Paul’sFishSticks; it’s not you, baby.).
“You mean ole Stickers?”
“Yes. Ole Stickers”
“You know her?”
“Yes, she gave birth to me.”   So my friend, working in a company with thousands of employees, knew my birth mother.   Now, I was born near Pittsburgh.   My family is from there. My parents now live in Greensburg, PA, their house being five minutes from Catholic Charities, the organization through which I was adopted.   One of my close friends happened to move to Mt. Lebanon, right outside of Pittsburgh, near my Uncle, My friend lives there now and worked with my birth mother, who also lives in Pittsburgh.

I don’t believe in coincidence.  But clearly the earth’s energetic grids have a secret transatlantic cable from my life right to Three Rivers Point.  I can’t make anything of it yet.  Who knows, maybe it means that all of these events are pushing me to go there and fulfill my destiny and buy a basketball accidentally printed with the Pirates logo on it and then bounce it down the aisles at Toys’R’Us and get busted and become mayor.  I don’t know, but there’s always some activity in the landmass.   But this gets the Serendipity Award of 2013 thus far.

My dog’s 18.5 years old.  That’s about 130 human years. Take that, world’s oldest Japanese woman.  Try living that long pooping outside and walking around naked with only a collar around your neck.   I was trying to  date the history of nicknames I’ve given my dog over the years. Anyone who’s had a dog knows you go through nickname epochs. One sticks, then it fades, there’s usually an interim spell where a bunch of new nicknames are tried out  until a new one emerges, like conception.  Thinking back I came up with these, from most recent to earliest:

Creamy Biscuits
Pumpkin Pie Head
Auggie Ben Doggie
Squashy Nugget
Beasty Feast
Scrunchy Pies
Moosifer (when she is being naughty)
Lil Pooter (This was the first, in 1995).

I’ll keep adding to this as I go deep into hypnotherapy to recover memories from being in the womb and nicknames for my dog.

Good night and “BULLOCKS to DON REVIE!”



Today is my second birthday, the date I was adopted and brought home by my parents from wherever I was being stored in the meantime.   I am grateful, it is like being born again  before you’re old enough to even know what it really means. I was placed in a stable family and given the best chance of functioning in the world without overextending my more extremist tendencies. It takes a few years to start to realize this.  There’s a backside to it in that some of the more latent gifts of my life, some of the colors and sounds and fabrics swimming around infant eyes got stored away in the slight risk of being reopened years later.  That’s what it’s been, my life, a long time coming. And after finding my birth parents a couple of years ago, when that deep sacred wound throbs with the language of a baby, I guess that I might not have lasted to forty. It’s a guess.   I’ll go into more of what happened later but suffice to say it seems my birth mother hasn’t come to deal withe that monster floating around inside of her, base don her tone of the letter I got from her.  Same with my birth father.  My guess is she didn’t really love him so she turned down his marriage proposal after finding out I was the Cinnabon in the oven.  Maybe she did love him and it frightened her. What I do know is that there’s a lifetime channel open in me for them and while I may never speak to them, I have to keep it pried open because without them and their willingness on some level to endure that pain and mess and slop of losing a child to the world I wouldn’t be here.  See what a mess this is? But life is slop.  And now I have a chance to make it glorious slop, currents and countercurrents whirling together with pieces of the past and future making a soup of the day.  But finding them, I had to walk through that. So I could love more deeply, unify myself, take trapped sediment, drill down into it, set it free and not walk around with one eye squinting inward while this beast of rage and pain swirled around my guts. Cause that’s what is, rage and pain swirling around the guts. Anyone who’s lost anyone especially near birth knows the slick dark road I’m mentioning here.  And after what happened two years ago, it was two years I gave to the process, two years where I walked through it and now, after reaching the end of that road and seeing a casket with my old body and soul in it, I can be born yet again, and live my new life.   There are heartaches and moving little calliopes of drama and trapped love to ride, convert, set free, but now I can feel a little more balanced and grateful to both sets of ‘parents’ who through their actions, have made me what I am.  For me it’s easy to slip into what’s wrong so today I have to say it’s all right.  We bring in selves before we’re even born. That’s no one’s fault, not society’s or parents or George W Bush’s.  It’s a delicate balance between facing that Sacred Darkness without letting it swallow you. And it’s more fun when you have someone with you, especially someone that looks great in lingerie.

Happy Valentine’s Day, Internet and CIA monitoring Internet.

Sliding scale morality

As an adoptee born in Pennsylvania where I am not allowed access to my original birth certificate I find it funny it’s warped inside an abortion issue where the idea is that life begins at conception; unless you’re adopted; then it begins conveniently once you’re taken home. everything before that is plastic shit; not even real feces that can be recycled and used for mulch to grow wisdom tulips for the next generation; this is Monsatto sponsored chemical dung that can only sit in the garden for the next six Mayan cycles and do nothing for the world around it;  if life begins at conception, then it’s time to make that rue apply to everyone;  I think what they should do is just put a UPC symbol on every woman’s uterus so the Uberstate can monitor when life begins inside of it or if it’s just echoes of pleasure pudding from joyful sex in which case the uterus will be confiscated; why be coy about the issue here.  when I think about how much nonsense I had to go through to find my birth parents due to this legislative Candy Land for Sith Lords it make my man uterus crinkle and spit.   So which is, life at conception for all or for none?  Oy vey, I’m voting for Dr. Kervorkian for President. Al Pacino as Dr. Kervorkian for Vice President and Bill Hader  as Al Pacino for Secretary of Defense.  I’ll run everything else.

I know it’s a Presidential/Summer Olympic/NY GIants Super Bowl champions year and so usually it’s easy to get caught in the froth of red vs blue or grinkle vs drunke or whatever other Boolean analogy we have to make it seem like we have much of a choice; this year feels strangely quiet, like a rhythm is being missed for something larger and that brings me comfort because it means that underneath the usual patterns of fervor of spitting on the opponents lawn there’s a resonance in the soil, a humming that will seep into the feet quietly of every citizen of at least this country and cause eyeballs to shake loose theirHoliday Inn 1953 canned Eisenhower blankets and allow themselves to sway like blades of grass, together swaying with one wind but each in their way as nature does so easily;  I think there’s a  whole new currency flowing underneath the money we call money now and if you crack open the pyramid on any dollar bill and withstand the crooked tears and the angry mob spittle you’ll hear and see what lies inside: gold ole turn of the species wisdom ready to blow through modern times;  I can’t vote for either of the two candidates this fall presented by Duff Beer (Duff Dry, Duff Light.. all from the same tub); vote for new resonance;  vote for the achy heart winds that sit in our wounds waiting to be blown across our souls for healing, a vibrant sex that will heal the crack in the Liberty Bell, that will spill out what hasn’t been written in the Constitution by the imagination’s little orgy dance with the unknown hymns inside every child, every animal, every creature that walks this country.

Of course, if we don’t fess up maybe Jesus will come back and kick the sex right out of us.  Ah, we’ll see.