A Travellerspoint blog

My, My, My - It's Been Awhile.

Worst blogger in the universe...

It's a bright sun-shiny Saturday afternoon with a temperature of 95F or 35C - take your pick. They are the same. It also means I'm not going out into the 'wild blue yonder' to check out the heat index. My thermometer is already telling me to stay indoors or I will die. I like not dying. Instead, I've decided to see where I've been lately by visiting my own blog. In doing so, I have discovered I am probably one of the worst bloggers in the universe, or at least, on this planet. I do not write often and not very much when I do show up to add something. Then again, it may just mean I've been busy with other things that are of more importance...

One of those 'more important' things is depicted in the photo above. In the left hand sort of corner you will see a smiling guy known as Beerman. I know him as my husband of (almost) 22 years and my bestest friend in the world. Yes, being an editor, I know 'bestest' isn't really a word. But, the statement is true regardless. You will also see a carriage drawn by a mule named Rocky (short for Rock and Roll). The city is New Orleans, Louisiana and it's Beerman's 50th birthday trip. Okay, part of his trip as we also traveled to Florida shortly thereafter. The point of the photo is that we took that exact carriage ride with a wonderful friend (also TP member) and her fiance (now a new friend). Rocky pulled us around as we viewed all of the haunted hotels and homes in the French Quarter. Since it was 95F or 35C at 10:00pm, we opted for not a lot of walking. We only had one night together to catch up on six years of past history but what a lovely night the four of us shared. Well, Rocky would probably disagree.


My, My, My - It HAS Been Awhile. And, I AM the worst blogger in the universe!!

I started this blog entry a year ago today and never finished it. It's now exactly one year later and once again it's Beerman's birthday. Sadly, he had to arrive in a timely manner at the beermine where he works. He also will be jetting off to Calgary, Alberta in a few hours to spend the next two days doing brewery-related stuff. Yeah, nice birthday. I do realize it's no different than the majority of the work force who do have to work on the day of their birth. Personally, I think birthdays should be considered a paid personal holiday and the employee allowed to spend the day playing, eating, drinking and doing what they want to do for 24 hours. That's just me. We'll celebrate on Sunday after he's had a good night's sleep at home. (Plus, I did put a small secret gift in his carry-on that Canadian customs won't confiscate. Didn't want the day to go unrecognized.)

I'm now sitting here listening to the Pirate Radio movie soundtrack and trying to organize what I need to and should do with what others consider my 'free time'. As a friend commented to me: "Oh, you'll be a FREE woman for a few days". No. "What am I free of?" is the real question. Though, she and I decided birthdays last as long as they take to celebrate them. So, Beerman gets an extended birthday this year - just as he did the last. This one just isn't as entertaining nor spent having fun in the sun, spent on a train trip we always thought would be cool (it was) and seeing surrogate sons.

Regardless, it is Beerman's birthday today and I have this to offer him until he returns 'en casa':



Posted by Isadora 08:14 Comments (0)


Yeah, stupid question. The world ain't fair.

Train/Bus,Lima-Huancayo-Lima  Photo by marlis

Train/Bus,Lima-Huancayo-Lima Photo by marlis

I tend not to understand life in general. I should be concentrating on work-related things but I can't at the moment. Okay, I do understand life and I realize it's rarely fair. I also realize that we only have so much control over the things that happen to and/or affect us. It's always a mix of good and bad - just enough to keep us on our toes and off guard.

I'm going to back up a bit here because most of you have no clue of who I really am... That's okay. TP is about the only place where I'm not invisible to the world. Planes - flight attendants don't see me (I always try for a window seat. Maybe they can't see that far from the aisle.) Cars - everyone just pulls out in front of me including very slow moving farm tractors. I'm the only one in a restaurant sitting with 10 other people who doesn't have their plate cleared at the end of a meal (even when it's an empty plate). I'm used to it. It's been happening all of my life. My dad used to laugh about it. My husband now orders my meals in restaurants and my ginger ale on a plane. He's gotten used to it too. I accepted the fate years ago and can joke about it.

Why do I bring this up? Because I (we) have lost two good friends in the last month or so. Though, in respect for their families, I will not mention their names, but we will miss them dearly. Nameless in this blog is one thing but I do not want them to be invisible - been and still there. Our sincerest sympathies and so happy we had the chance to 'meet' two terrific people!

I also bring this up because I'm totally motivated by music. I find the artists that I like tend to do 'crap' when life has been going well. Hey, happy they are happy - they just write 'eh' stuff. I (we) have a new musical obsession and one song in particular reminds me of my lost friends. So, I dedicate Gregg Allman's "Just Another Rider" to them. I know they will both understand the sentiment.


Daylight again, memories fall like rain
Reminds you to take it slow
One step at a time, baby
Til you find your way
Back to the big show
Places you been
Things that you done
Remind you, you're still on the run

Just another rider
On that train to nowhere
Just another fool
Too far from home
Just another stranger
Tryin' to get somewhere
Somewhere, but you're still all alone

Watching the world passin' you by
Telling everybody that you done been cursed
Tell them all how you try, try, try
But your luck keeps getting' worse
Seems like such a long long time
Since you've had, a little piece of mind

Just another rider
On that train to nowhere
Just another fool too far from home
Just another stranger
Tryin' to get somewhere
Somewhere but you're still all alone

Punch your ticket, drop your load
Time for you, time for you to get on board
I know you love it
You know it too
What in the world has come over you
Do you remember, blue skies shinin'
Money flowed, it flowed like wine
You had a real good woman
Yes, she was sure, she was sure enough fine
Storm clouds risin' in from the sea
Winds are blowin' cold reality

Just another rider
On that train to nowhere
Just another fool too far from home
Just another stranger
Tryin' to get somewhere
Somewhere but you're still all alone

Just another rider
On that train to nowhere
Just another fool too far from home
Just another stranger
Tryin' to get somewhere
Somewhere but you're still all alone

Posted by Isadora 13:12 Comments (2)

The Therapy of Friends

I think I'm stuck in a rut. Looking back at my last two entries, the darker side of myself is showing. Or, maybe it's the real part of me that few ever get to see. Like all of us, I am not one singular persona. I am a walking, (constantly) talking mix of Maude (Harold & Maude), Morticia Addams (Addams Family), Nora Charles (The Thin Man) and any number of other 'characters'. (No, I don't have dissociative identity disorder. I know my 'characters' very well.)

At one point in my life, I wasn't so sure who I was, where I was or even why I was. Yeah, sounds whiny I know. I'd just lost one of my closest friends to suicide, my favorite aunt to breast cancer and my first marriage was falling off a very high cliff at a very high velocity. I needed help. I found it in a group of strangers. It took me a couple of years, I pissed off our therapist, but I decided when to say that final "fuck you" and show the world I could take on whatever it threw at me. I haven't looked back - until today, when I rediscovered this...

The Therapy of Friends

Did we truly believe we were learned enough to understand?
Or possibly blessed enough with honest intent to make a difference?
Learning self-love was a children’s game most of us
had forgotten how to play years ago,
and we fought, tooth and nail, against having to board the
“way-back” machine just to revisit the rules.

Therapy was suppose to help us clean out our cranial closets of cobwebs.
To view it as our toolbox to better living and achieve that final “fuck you” -
showing the world, and each other, that we were whole or wholesome again.
Instead, we took potshots at each other failings, fell in or out of love, cried,
laughed, and continued to meet for coffee once a week.

Through all the bravado and bullshit - what did we finally find?
We found our weaknesses…
Our faults…

And, maybe a friend or two by accident.

Life may still be throwing me curve balls but I hold a very big bat. Bring it on.

Posted by Isadora 10:37 Archived in USA Comments (0)

Death of the Insignificant

(A Daughter's Look at Love and Loss)

As I stated in my previous post, "I honestly haven't a clue about what will show up here". Well, I now have a clue as to "what" will comprise this entry. I have had one of those surreal weeks and it's only Wednesday. There is a full moon due on Friday so maybe that has something to do with it all. Then again... I will not bore anyone with the details but it has brought me to, and confirmed my decision, in choosing the piece you are about to read. (You can click the back button now... 3... 2... 1... Okay, you're still here...)

This is an essay I wrote about my father a few years after he passed away. To this day (I am 57 years old), I am still my father's daughter and will remain so forever.

I admit to my literary ignorance when I say that I do not know who wrote, "Time heals all wounds". Nor do I know if it is the complete quote, the correct quote. I do know, however, that it is not necessarily a true quote. Though the jury is still out, I may (and probably will) find that I have spoken out of turn... But, it is sooner, not later, for me at least, and the wounds still follow me around.

My father's name was G. Curtis Wilson. He was a kind, gentle, caring man. He was a wonderfully loving father. He was also a human being with a number of thread-bare patches in his moral fabric that he felt needed no repair. He died September 14, 1993 at the age of seventy-five, of prostate cancer. Though he fought the battle with his disease bravely for three years, he knew in his heart he would eventually lose. He did.

Toward the end, Dad began looking forward to being with my mother again. (She had left him behind nine years earlier, almost to the day.) I would find him in the early morning hours talking with (never to) her, disclosing how immensely he had missed her over the years. He would always be sure to ask, during each of these dialogues, for her forgiveness for all the sins he had committed during their separation. Whether or not she would accept his apologies made him laugh, but I could see the true disquietude in a very tired face. Before the second hand would pass "Go" too often, he would grin like the Cheshire Cat, tell me how Mom was going to "give him hell" as soon as she laid eyes on him again, and pour himself more of the back water he called coffee. With each passing hour I grew more aware of the wounds he had suffered during my mother's long fight on the breast cancer battlefield. It also became apparent to me that time had not healed those wounds; they only kept my father from ever being whole again. Now it was my turn to try and accept the wounds death inflicts upon all of us.

I am an "only" child - an adopted one at that. (Something I will be thankful for all the rest of my life.) I had immeasurable love for my parents. I still do. But, when my mother died, I chose not to carry the burden of sorrow around with me. My eighteen years in the medical field had kept me clinically sheltered from grief and I embraced the distance. Little did I realize I had left my father with the monumental task of mourning for both himself and me. I had refused to let the inescapable reality of death put my wounds on public display. Though he never questioned it, I don't feel Dad ever understood that unwillingness.

This summer I saw my forty-sixth birthday. It was also be the sixth anniversary of my father's "leaving here to join your mother". (Her name was Audrey S. Wilson) Long ago I forgave her for leaving Dad to fend for himself. Something he did not want responsibility for from time to time. And something he relished in bringing to my attention again and again, as if I were unaware of his existence, his personal drop in the bucket of time. Likewise, I have forgiven my father for starting a new journey shortly after my fortieth birthday. Though quite impossible to do, I tried not to understand why he had died and searched for an eternity for that clinical shelter which had protected me years before. I did not find it. So now, even through all the acknowledgments of loss, processes of forgiveness, and acceptance of the inevitable, the wounds still linger as reminders that in a world of so many, I am left alone to mend. It may be true that time will heal all wounds, but I have to admit, at this point in time, you can call me a skeptic. Maybe next year I'll change my mind...

A year after writing that piece, I had not changed my mind about time and wounds. Since then, ten more years have passed and I have altered my thoughts on the subject. The wounds do not heal. But, each of us finds our own form of bandages to hold ourselves together, look fondly upon our lost ones rather than only in sorrow, and become able to keep their memory safe within our own selves.


Road To Nowhere Photo by Kris Kalav

Road To Nowhere Photo by Kris Kalav

Again, can't promise were this blog will lead. But, as Talking Heads put it (and we'll see...):

We're on a road to nowhere
Come on inside.
Takin' that ride to nowhere
We'll take that ride.

Posted by Isadora 13:40 Comments (1)

The Land of Lost Things


Welcome to the blog that has no other purpose than to satisfy my own want for self-expression. I can guarantee that travel may or may not be mentioned now and again - but that's about it. I am leaving the chronicles of our assorted adventures in the trusty hands of beerman. He is much better at the descriptive interpretation of our wanderings. Whether those chronicles have been embellished or not will be left up to you. Never trust your decision will be the correct one...

I honestly haven't a clue about what will show up here. It may be song lyrics, ramblings of an aging crazy woman, poetry, recipes of things that have tasted good, random writings, more ramblings (like this one) or a search for some of the things which may have been lost along my past journeys. With luck, I'll find a missing sock or two in the process. Either way, you are welcome to join me down this "yellow brick road" to nowhere in particular.

On that note, I will leave you with my most recent obsession - the lyrics to The Ballad of Serenity - the theme from Joss Whedon's Firefly series.

Take my love, take my land
Take me where I cannot stand
I don't care, I'm still free
You can't take the sky from me.

Take me out to the black
Tell them I ain't comin' back
Burn the land and boil the sea
You can't take the sky from me.

Leave the men where they lay
They'll never see another day
Lost my soul, lost my dream
You can't take the sky from me.

I feel the black reaching out
I hear its song without a doubt
I still hear and I still see
That you can't take the sky from me.

Lost my love, lost my land
Lost the last place I could stand
There's no place I can be
Since I've found Serenity

And you can't take the sky from me.

Posted by Isadora 13:17 Archived in USA Tagged random ramblings Comments (0)

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