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il concetta profunda*

After I left home, my mom told me she’d discovered that she liked Italian Opera music. She was kind of put out that she’d not known this earlier.

I’ve later discovered that I like it, too. But I mainly just like the male singers. Something about the deeper voices is just pleasing to me. Even with female singers, I’ve tended to prefer the more deep voiced among them. Like the one Pointer Sister. (This is not intended to take anything away from sopranos. They’re fantastic. This is just a personal preference.)

In other types of music, as well, I always like the low base singer in the group. Boys II Men is a good example of that.

I also love Il Divo. And Andrea Bocelli.

Have you given opera a chance?

*used google translate to develop basso profundo (deep bass) to concetta profunda (deep concept). Any error is google’s. Or maybe mine. 🤷‍♀️


I had a dream the other night. It was a weird, icky dream. It woke me up and I didn’t want to get back into it so I just got up.

It was a very strange terrorist situation that ended with me killing a child who was the bad guy to stop him.

I then called the police on myself and spent the rest of my dream trying to figure out if I was delusional or not AND WHICH WOULD BE THE WORSE answer to that question. Did this sequence of events happen the way I think it did (and potentially not be entirely resolved?!) or did this all happen in my head and I killed this kid because of a mental break. I was seriously not able to parse which bad thing was worse.

Also, since I was in jail (or mental hospital) because of this, I was also worried about my son and his living situation and finances, et al.

Now, I’ve been thinking on this and I think it might be a good story. I’m just not certain I can get there from here. I “woke” into the dream late in the action so I’m not sure what terrorist stuff went on.

Anyway, I guess we’ll see.

Romance junk

I’ve read “trashy romance novels” almost my whole life. The ones with ripped bodices and reformed rogues. And dashing reprobate dukes and governesses. And billionaires and receptionists. Or whoever it is in the alpha male rescues or discovers his muse. Even the debonair Dom who falls for his sweet submissive.

But at this point I’m very tired of the arrogant, rich dude who specifically does what he agreed not to do or what she asked him not to do just because he thinks he’s right and has money.

And I can’t take a man who decides that a strong woman (either a businesswoman or an actual Dominant) needs to be submissive to balance her life or something. Even if that was true, that’s not his decision to make. Especially without discussion beforehand. Consent and respect are real things that need to be present in relationships. Especially when you are dealing with power exchange.

Those types of tropes are disappointing. And worse, help continue dangerous thought patterns regarding women.

If a book goes this route it turns me off and I don’t read it.


I don’t have any real desire to move back to Nevada. There are, of course, good memories and good people there. But mostly it’s a strange Wild West State and that’s how they want it.

The things I miss most from there are the easy access to entertainment and the food.

The casinos have great shows and artists come in and they also offer fantastic food at generally good prices. They know they’ll get your money some other way so they don’t want you to leave.

But you don’t necessarily need to go to a casino to get good food at fairly good prices, because everyone else has to compete with the casinos so the bar is pretty high.

I remember going to a buffet after I moved out of Nevada and being pretty underwhelmed. And I’ve continued to be so ever since.

My list of things I need when I next move has a couple things on it. Most recently I remembered that easy access to good food needs to be on there.

This shelf isn’t blue.

My mom kept a lot of her mental health issues from me. Probably to protect me for the most part. And in the interest of fairness, I doubt I was equipped for and open to it.

As far as I knew, she kept herself wound together tight so that she could take care of me and once I was out of the house she let go of her tight hold. And slowly she was unbound and unwound and eventually began to unravel.

Not completely. She was never someone who couldn’t pay her bills and keep her house and property up. She was fine in the practical ways. But she wasn’t fine inside the privacy of her mind. She had delusions and paranoia and other “fun” symptoms to deal with.

A few years ago I saw the documentary Running From Crazy about The Hemingway family from the perspective of Mariel Hemingway who is Earnest Hemingway’s granddaughter and famous in her own right as an actor. She talks about having plenty of people in the family who were alcoholics or depressed or both, some of whom succumbed to the depression and committed suicide. She said she spent her earlier years afraid that it was just a matter of time before she “went crazy” too.

Eventually she realized that she could live healthier and not drink and potentially treat any symptoms she might develop instead of drinking and wallowing and not treating them as much of her family had done. And that she couldn’t live in a fear state all her life.

I do relate to that feeling of wondering if it’s going to happen to you.

So I’ve had it in my head that my mom had a blue bookshelf in her living room. And I went over there the other day to continue (finally) and finish up getting mom’s things out. And the shelf I thought was blue is white.

And I can’t figure out why. I assume I’m just incorrect about the color of the shelf before. But my brain also gives me the helpful suggestion that somebody could have broken in and switched out the white shelf for the blue one. (And put everything back how it was, too.)

After I go round in circles for a bit trying to think of why the heck a person would ever want to do that, I stop. It occurs to me that that is very similar to the paranoid stories my mom was always telling me about someone, usually a neighbor but sometimes the government, listening in on her and/or messing with her tv channels.

I’m still sometimes nervous that things might get away from me like they did for her. But, if I have anything on my side, it’s that I don’t think I’m holding things together nearly as tightly. So I don’t think I’m as prone to uncoiling in quite the same way.

For now I just know there is a white shelf.

Not blue.

Grief: To Infinity and Beyond!

I’ve read a lot of articles about grief since Mom and Al and folks died.

A lot of them seem to be angry/hurt responses to people telling them they should be over it already. Or moved on by now.


Eff that noise.

I guess I’ve been fortunate in my selection of friends and family because nobody has ever said such a thing to me.

Honestly, what an ignorant thing to say. I’ve lost people that I love when I was much younger and I’m still not “over it.” I don’t think I ever will be. Because they are gone. Even if it doesn’t hurt as badly as it did when it first happened, it doesn’t mean it’s “all better now.”

I appreciate being in a place in the healing where it’s not as intense and continuously painful. But everyone takes their own journey at their own pace to get to the next spot.

It’s a bit like that thing in math where if you measure the space from you to a wall and then move half that distance to the wall. If you keep doing that, theoretically you’ll never get to the wall because there will still always be another half of the remaining distance to go.

And even if it can’t be seen with the naked eye, there is still an infinity left to go.

Anyway, I guess I’d just say that if someone is grieving, stfu unless you have something actually nice to say. It’ll mean a lot.

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