Saturday, July 31, 2010

I'm Not Sure!

You know, I'm really blessed. I have the incredible good fortune to have the most talented and creative and generous artists and photographers and poets and spiritguides and true-blue wonderful friends visit my blog, indulge me in my stretched heart and strange laments, laugh at my silly jokes, and ohmygod!, read my words, speak kindly of them.
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But this time I've gone too far, because this time I am posting a short story that is too long to read. In this way, being a writer is different than being an artist or a songwriter. Artists and songwriters evoke almost instantaneous responses and connections and feelings. But a writer: it's one word after another after another. It takes work to read a writer.
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And this one! TOO LONG! I know better than to post something this long.
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But.
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This is one of the first pieces I wrote when I decided to BECOME a real writer. I haven't read it over in ages, and if I read it now I might decide to put it back in my laptop archives.
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But.
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Here it is. I don't expect anyone to read it. It won't hurt my feelings. I just felt like I wanted to post it. No accompanying images even.
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I am off to Provincetown and the ocean tomorrow. I don't know if I will have easy internet access or not. Either way, you might as well know I now carry each of you with me. In some way you are part of my day to day life. I'm happy that's the way it is.
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I won't be gone too long. Meanwhile, have I thanked you lately for your care and friendship?
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Love
kj

Wholly Holy Holes

Vanessa decided it was time. She wasn’t sure whether to wear a bathing suit or sweatpants, but she was otherwise ready to make her entrance.

The hole had been discovered, actually uncovered, while she was raking her back yard. Just beyond the fence, just before the forsythia bush, and just around where she had thought about moving the hammock, she was shocked to see a hole right in front of her in plain sight. Actually first she was startled, then intrigued, then concerned and then shocked. She knew she was shocked because she heard herself gasp just before she said, “What the hell?”

The hole was three feet wide on all sides and she had no idea how deep. It looked like a perfect circle except it wasn’t. She could see that the bottom looked to be ten or twelve or maybe twenty feet straight down and curved to the left, reachable by ten or twelve or maybe twenty thin iron bars each two feet across that would probably hold anybody’s feet safely.

For three weeks Vanessa had thought and weighed and wondered about the hole. She had no idea why she had not told anyone else about it, except that it was true that it reminded her of the unpleasant memory of a little clubhouse in her back yard when she was eight that she had to share with her cousins and never once did she have it all to herself.

The hole reminded her of the possibility of being lost without getting lost. Vanessa thought maybe that was just what she needed. For ten days after she found the hole, regularly during the day, a few times late late at night, and once just before dawn. she secretly watched from her bedroom window to see if anyone—human or otherwise, approached or entered the hole. Nothing. It was surprising.

Vanessa decided to climb into the hole on the same day she lost her job and four hours later her boyfriend. “You can have one bad thing happen and do okay,” she said to herself, “but two bad things on the same day—you lose your skin when that happens.” When Vanessa lost her skin, she knew from history, it was just a matter of time before she lost her appetite for breakfast, then something worse, and then something really worse.

Since she was skinless, Vanessa felt she had nothing much to lose. She easily arrived at the idea, and then the act, of climbing into the hole, and turning left toward who knew what. She briefly remembered the true story of a drunken stupid man who was found stuck and dead half way down somebody else’s chimney. “What did he think about in that horrid space?” she wondered, since it seemed logical that it probably took him hours to suffocate or affixiate or however else he had died—she couldn’t remember that minor detail.

So Vanessa efficiently used her time without her job and without her boyfriend to select portable items to take with her. First, a flashlight. “No way am I dealing with the unknown without a flashlight,” she reasoned, “After all, I have to see what I’m going to do.”

Next, a cell phone. Vanessa wasn’t sure a cell phone would work in a three foot wide and 10, 12 or 20 foot hole, and she wasn’t too sure who she would call, but bottom line, she wasn’t stupid. You had to be able to at least try to reach someone.

Once she decided to pack the little orange knapsack she had bought for the camping trip that never happened, Vanessa’s confidence expanded with each additional item she chose: an orange for the dual purpose of nourishment and makeshift trail droppings, if needed; her red Swiss army pocket knife complete with corkscrew and tiny scissors—“you never know,” she shrugged, aarmuffs and extra pair of socks in the event that it was cold and wet that far below ground. A pen and small notebook to either write a sudden hello or final goodbye.

Vanessa could not recall a time when she had felt so brave. Maybe the day in school when the principal pulled her out of class to tell her that her father had died. That day she was given no warning and no niceties: the principal simply said, “Vanessa, something very bad and very difficult has happened in your family. You need to call your stepmother.”

Since Vanessa had no brothers or sisters, no tender grandmother, no favorite aunt, never a loyal puppy, she knew the news would be about her father. Since her father tried his best to protect and deflect her from Phyllis the meanest stepmother, she concluded her father had died.

Probably had a stroke or a sudden heart attack and died. She was unfortunately right, unable to derive any comfort at all from her needle point accuracy.

Part 2

As Vanessa and her backpack provisions climbed downward, slowly, carefully, one step following another—guided in by the ten or twelve or maybe twenty thin iron bars each two feet across—she wondered if she should have told someone—who?—that she was undertaking this mostly courageous journey, into the hole beyond the fence, just before the forsythia bush, and just around where she had thought about moving the hammock, She was mildly surprised she had not left a note, given that her planning had been impulsively and uncharacteristically thorough and practical.

When Vanessa reached the bottom of the hole, she had room to turn around with her arms outstretched, but she did not think to do that. She was slightly jolted by the fact that she had never seen darkness so very black. Thank god for her flashlight; otherwise she would not have seen the small tunnel to her left, accessible only on her hands and knees and even then the space around her was quite negligible. “Am I crazy?” she asked herself. “Why am I doing this?” Then she remembered she had lost her job and lost her boyfriend and the hole offered her of the possibility of being lost without getting lost. She remembered the mysterious and brave feeling she experienced—it wrapped around her like the blue fleece blanket she had kept from three summers ago—when she knew that she would get to the bottom of the here-to-fore unknown hole.

Vanessa had crawled approximately six feet—thank god it was only that—when she saw the bag. It lay against the wall looking quite grungy. When she reached out to pick it up she could tell from it was made of burlap. Her flashlight told her it was green burlap, but of course, who could be sure of anything given her present circumstance. It was at that moment—when she held the flashlight to the probable green burlap bag, which was by the way the approximate size of a shoe bag—that Vanessa decided she had ventured far enough. She could not tell how much further this left turn extended—it could be miles for all she knew, although who in their right mind would have a reason to push forward that far and that deep.

With the bag tucked under her left arm, just beneath her left shoulder, Vanessa crawled backwards, inches at a time, until she was again at the bottom of the hole. She looked up briefly and smiled briefly at her accomplishment, which seemed considerable given the present lack of accomplishment in her life, then she and the probable green burlap bag climbed back up the ten or twelve or maybe twenty thin iron bars to the far side of her back yard, where she had started 32 minutes ago.

Vanessa walked back to her house and left the screen door open as she walked into the kitchen, put the kettle on for tea, and sat at the small dining room table with its rickety two chairs and an old red tablecloth she had forgotten about until she found it in a bottom drawer while looking for matches. She pulled out the peeling blue wooden chair and sat down with the burlap bag directly in front of her. It was filthy, so much so it was hard to open the string that was tied in a Boy Scout type knot.

Vanessa could not imagine what she would find inside the green burlap bag. She put the fingers of her right hand in very cautiously, fearing the worse. She was not particularly surprised to find four envelopes, each the same size, each licked shut.

Part 3

Three of the envelopes revealed nothing. The fourth had immature handwriting, large and bold scrawled across its entire width. It said, appropriately or not," Open this last.”

Vanessa placed the envelopes on her kitchen window and did nothing with them for three weeks. She spent that time catching up on laundry, writing letters to old high school acquaintances, and on one occasion, seeing three movies in one day, something she had not done since she was eleven and needed to bide her time since she had run away from home and could not bring herself to go back until just before dinner. She was recovering from her foray into the hole, not knowing whether she was satisfied or dissatisfied by how it all ended—the small crawlspace and all, the dark damp space that she had only crawled into and crawled out of. Never the less, she had done what she had set out to do. She was proud of that.

That August, Vanessa opened the first envelope. She unfolded a crisp 8 by 11 piece of paper—not the cheap kind she was used to—and hoped for a few seconds that it might be a letter—a long letter—that would both amuse and comfort her. Instead, the letter offered three words on one straight line. The handwriting was similar to the outside of the envelopes, but more mature, so she thought.

She read and reread the first message: “Let it go.”

Hmmm,” Vanessa said. “That could mean anything. It probably means something.” She kept the so called letter open on her kitchen counter until several weeks later, when the bank called to tell Vanessa that she was now four months behind on her mortgage payments. She was surprised, no, not really surprised, more like defiant, as she heard herself say, “Oh, you can have the house back. I do not have a job, I cannot pay you, I am moving soon, and I don’t care anyway.”

That defiant pronouncement set things in motion. Within days Vanessa had booked her flight and written another set of letters—this time to several college acquaintances and to five first cousins, telling them she had decided to move to the west coast and would be offering her furniture and garage contents to anyone who had an interest. She spent several weeks sorting, compiling, storing and packing until all that was left was one mid size and one oversized suitcase, which she would take with her. In it she had packed only her summer clothes, one complete and one incomplete journal, a half candle left over from that week at the ashram, and a book someone—who, she wondered—had given her called, “the crazy world of cats.”

That Saturday, Vanessa opened the second letter. This time there were four words on one straight line. “Hey,You already know,” it said. Vanessa thought that the handwriting looked even more mature than it did in the first letter, so she decided to accept on the spot that she knew indeed what she already knew. Since she was not entirely sure, however, what that was, she proceeded to pretend, and was pleasantly delighted that no one challenged her to the contrary. Not the bank teller when she closed her accounts, not the mailman who she told him to hold her mail indefinitely, not even her horrible stepmother, who she had finally called after considerable weighing back and forth to simply tell her she would be unavailable until further notice.

Vanessa opened the third letter on September 3rd. The paper was different this time, instead of being crisp and classy, it was thin and lined. “I might as well be back in fifth grade reading this,” she thought. The handwriting was no longer mature. One line had turned into two, and the message was murky: “If you are reading this, consider yourself lucky,” it said. “Lucky Lucky. It’s time.”

Vanessa checked her two suitcases at Boston's Logan airport, enjoyed a cappuccino at Starbucks Express and boarded her flight for Los Angeles. She had $ 1300 dollars in her wallet and the means to access $ 3000 more if things got bad. She had let it go, she already knew, she was doing it, and she considered herself lucky lucky.

Vanessa sat in seat 21 B along side an educated looking middle age woman who wore a glamorous scarf, carried a laptop, and smiled politely. Fifteen minutes into the flight Vanessa opened the last envelope, The classy paper was back. This time the message was typed. She read the words carefully.
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“Enduring peace.” Vanessa smiled. She knew.

Five minutes after that, Vanessa turned to the woman with the glamorous scarf and said as calmly as she could, “Should we hold hands?”

The woman, whose name was Sue McRae, looked at her quizzically for the slightest moment. She had been crying.

“What is your name?” she gently asked.

“My name is Vanessa.”

“Yes, Vanessa, we should hold hands.”

Vanessa thought, “This is so different than when the principal told me about my father. This is all so so different than before the hole. Everything changed since then. Everything….Thank you Jesus!” Vanessa said.

Seven minutes after she opened the last envelope, at 8:43 am on September 11, Vanessa spilled into a demoral-like sleep, a lot like her surgery for that biopsy. Her last thought before the plane hit the first tower was “Finally. I’m holding a kind warm hand. This is a good person. This is a mother. Finally. Lucky lucky me.”

Thursday, July 29, 2010

Provincetown

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In two days, I will pack my vacation toolbox* and my laptop and "move" to Provincetown, a tiny penninsula off the tip of Cape Cod. JB and will settle in for a few days, return home for three days of work, and then I will snuggle into P-town for three weeks. The first four days I will be alone: I will write long hours into the night, joyfully determined to make a serious dent in novel # 2, and then JB will return and we will have two plus weeks of real vacation. We'll have plenty of visitors, our family and good friends coming and going, punctuated by sea breezes and all around relaxation mode.
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The toolbox:
white candles
2 micron pens
watercolor pencils
my Moleskine drawing book
a little packet of incense
fancy matches
my ten year old spa quality flip-flops
1 book on writing & 1 research book on love addiction
& love avoidance
tarot cards
1 pound of italian coffee
1 in process manuscript
my beloved camera
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I'm talking too much. I'll let the pictures of Provincetown give you a feel of this place where the light magically bounces off the ocean:
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with abundant love,
kj

Wednesday, July 28, 2010

Animal Wednesday: Emily is in MORE Trouble!

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I kj am sorry to report that despite her convincing pathetic story last week, Ms. Emily Rabbit has NOT been in jail and does not need bail money.


Ms. Emily Rabbit took an unapproved trip to Oklahoma City where she visited Babs and Mr. Babs. She arrived home several days ago, exhausted and unapologetic, saying she couldn't pass up such a wonderful adventure and she lied about being in jail because she thought the combination of sympathy and bail money would work to her advantage.


And not just that! With Babs' help, Emily got her nails polished, her legs shaved, and was fitted for a new bikini that is inappropriate for her age. Here she is strutting her new look--can you believe it??????


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Emily is currently resting and promising to share 2 % the proceeds of her lolli and jelly garden if she is not punished, and 3% if I do not tell her Mother she traveled without permission.

As for Babs, she is clearly a bad influence who according to Emily told her she could come back again when hell freezes over. Babs must have the patience of Mother Theresa.

And in case you're wondering, here is Emily's version of events. This letter made the trip home with her, tucked into a snug little box:

How should I handle this? She should be punished, right?

Love

kj

Monday, July 26, 2010

Facts, Feelings, & Tomato Plants

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Early on as a counselor I discovered that people hear and communicate in different ways.

Some are very factual: "Tell me about your illness," I'd say, and they would begin at the beginning and describe events and treatment in great detail.

Some are very emotional: "I imagine this has been very hard for you," I'd say, and they would hold back tears, explain how difficult it's been for them and their family.
I learned that it helped when I was able to communicate with a person at the level they operated from. If I offered a supportive comment upfront to a factual person, he or she would often respond with a yes or no. "Yes, it's been hard."

And if I asked an emotional person to forego their feelings and just tell me the facts, they would usually feel as though I didn't care or didn't understand.

And sometimes, I just had no idea where to start.
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These were the days, like now (full circle?) when I saw my clients in their homes. Most had had some illness or injury alter their lives, often in a large and significant way, and I was there to help them rebuild.
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So if I guessed wrong:
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"How does it feel to be out of work?" (I want feelings)
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"Not good." ( I get nothing much)
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or:
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"Walk me through what the doctor told you. (I want facts)

"Oh he was awful. I left his office and cried.' (I get emotion)

I learned to make an adjustment and start where the person was. This is important because you really can't build a trusting relationship if a person doesn't feel heard. Communicating at the same level, in a language that both people understand and are most comfortable with, is part of the science of neurolinquistics.

So often I would sit at a person's kitchen table and I would usually guess about our starting point.

And when I had no idea, either way, I would talk about tomato plants or the equivalent of tomato plants.
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"Hey," I might say, "Your garden looks fantastic."

A comment like this can establish a common ground: it is a way that two people getting to know one another or have having difficulty together can break the ice and talk about something easy, take some time before figuring out whether the dialogue is going to start with facts or feelings.

Sooner or later, we would need to talk about both. And maybe still tomato plants too. Or how the kids are doing.
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But at first, I'm a smart counselor to know where to start, how to help a person tell their story in a way that is most meaningful and most comfortable for who they are.

I've done a good bit of training and teaching communication and relationship building skills to all sorts of people, and I often start with Feelings, Facts, & Tomato Plants.
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I thought of this tonight, when I saw my own tomato plants happily relaxing on the kitchen counter. I thought that sometimes relationships don't work so well because one person is talking facts and the other is talking feelings.

Sometimes one person's words are three feet above the other's. They can't connect that way. It helps to know when that happens, don't you think?
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Love
kj

Sunday, July 25, 2010

Three Firsts

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1.Thirty minutes ago I did something for the first time in my entire life.
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I bit into a peach.
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Not a peach from the super market. Or from the farm stand.
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But a peach from my side yard.
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A peach from a little tree I planted myself,
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and even though I butchered it when I pruned, cutting off the main branch (what was I thinking?), this little peach tree is now abundant with peaches that taste absofuckinglutely amazing.
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2. Ten minutes ago JB and I finished the design and debut of the yard, at least for this spring and summer. For us two turtles, this is a project that never ends: shrubs, perennials & annuals, gardens & tomatoes, new soil, pruning, deadheading, and mulching. Lots of mulch. The mulch has been the final inch, weeding and then laying down to block the weeds and pretty everything around it.
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I have a philosophy about the garden (same with blogging) that I make sure I honor. No pressure. No obligation. No rush. Just fun, just creativity, just young pride in helping something come alive.
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3. I haven't written new poetry in a year, maybe longer. My friend Linda asked me if I write more when I'm sad than when I'm happy, and the answer was obvious as soon as she asked the question. Yes. It's easier, for some reason, to write when I am sad, or confused. But I want to change that.
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I wrote this a few days ago.
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Untitled
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How did I let time stop,
Lingering even now
Past too many petrichors
Dried from the August sun?
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What did I believe
Through this tricky lens
I adapted even though the camera I had
Worked perfectly fine?
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Why did I allow
a free fall to another
Who had no ability
To catch me, only magic words
that rendered this but not that?
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Now comes the third August
And finally I am here
Rightly unraveling
Trickery so fine
I believed my own deception.
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Here now in the garden,
In between loyalty and little loves
I unfold again,
Welcoming the colors I’ve always trusted.
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And for surprising reasons:
Let the bitterness decay on its own;
Let the natural order reshuffle
the questions and leave it at that.

Wednesday, July 21, 2010

Every Word...

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Not good enough? Or smart enough? Too emotional? Not emotional enough? Confused? Misused? Lost? Hidden? Emerging? Heartbroken? Healing? Hopeful?
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Not long ago I wrote a post that was as personal as anything I've ever shared on my blog.
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The response was incredible: comment after comment instructing and affirming and reminding me that all is well.
I've compiled a snippet of this sage advice from every comment I received and put them together in an 8 by 11 flyer.
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If you would like a copy I hope you will be able to print it from here. But if not, or you want a higher quality on cardstock, just send me an email or tell me here and I will happily send one off to you.
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Every word carries the weight and wisdom of friendship, of experience, of love. I was pretty sure that what I said would be well received, but I did not expect such a heartfelt and ever-wise outpouring.
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This will be my roadmap ahead. I will keep it nearby and let myself be calmed and comforted and guided and held when I need a push or a pull forward. Take a look: the directions are pretty clear.
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Thank you thank you.
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Love
kj

Animal Wednesday: Emily & the Trouble with Trouble

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BAAHAAHAHABAHABOOHOOHOO!!
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I am innocent!

I was only trying to show how to cry from your stomach while shaking your legs straight up in the air while crying and whining very loud. I was only charging three dollar bills or 18 carrots, which was a bargain price.

It is not my fault that one of the lessons took place on the keyboard of someone's computer and it broke.
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And it was not my idea to demonstrate the cry-from-your-stomach technique to certain animals who apparently decided to cry and whine all night and blamed ME when they got in trouble for waking up the whole street.
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I think Mitzy, Laurel and Jelliana are in for hard crimes. They look nice and they have offered me sugar free mints but I am waiting to see how much trouble I am in before I start sucking on candy, even sugar free candy, which by the way, I think, defeats the whole purpose of candy.
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Why oh why am I the one who gets in trouble when there are so many rascals in the world and one poor little innocent bunny gets arrested for damage to property, disturbing the peace, ad soliciting without a license?

Don't tell my Mother!

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Where is kj????
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HELP!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
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Sincerely,
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Emily Rabbit

Monday, July 19, 2010

The YART (Yard plus Art)

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Wanna Come?
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I'm serious!
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The New England change of seasons
and leaves in October is a wonder of the world.
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But even better is friends and artists
sharing and chatting away.
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I can think of no greater thrill
then hanging out with the likes of you.
kj
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(are you serious??? email me and i'll fill you in)

Sunday, July 18, 2010

Letters

It's a new day.
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Thank you to everyone who read, commented, supported, and maybe even puzzled over my last post. It was important to do, it's done, and I'm moving on. I'm living full up these days and the universe here is such a large part of how and why. Thank you.
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This weekend was the final clean up of my Mother's house. She and my Dad lived there for 56 years. It's been some experience sorting through their possessions. I found this flyer with the cards and letters my Mom had saved. I've heard her mention this man named 'Arthur' before but until now I didn't really get who he was.
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And since I'm at least indirectly on the subject of 'letters' and recently more directly on the subject of endings, here's something from my brother this morning. I think these goodbye letters might offer you a laugh or two.

And I'm quite happy to provide even the smallest reason for a laugh or two.

Love always,

kj

Dear wife:

I'm writing you this letter to tell you that I'm leaving you forever. I've
been a good man to you for 7 years & I have nothing to show for it.

These last 2 weeks have been hell. Your boss called to tell me that you quit
your job today & that was the last straw.

Last week, you came home & didn't even notice I had a new haircut, had
cooked your favorite meal & even wore a brand new pair of silk boxers. You
ate in 2 minutes, & went straight to sleep after watching all of your soaps.

You don't tell me you love me anymore; you don't want sex or anything that
connects us as husband & wife. Either you're cheating on me or you don't
love me anymore; whatever the case, I'm gone.

Your EX-Husband

P.S. don't try to find me. Your SISTER & I are moving away to West Virginia
together!
Have a great life!
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Dear Ex-Husband

Nothing has made my day more than receiving your letter. It's true you & I
have been married for 7 years, although a good man is a far cry from what
you've been. I watch my soaps so much because they drown out your constant
whining & griping. Too bad that doesn't work.

I DID notice when you got a hair cut last week, but the 1st thing that came
to mind was 'You look just like a girl!' Since my mother raised me not to
say anything if you can't say something nice, I didn't comment. And when you
cooked my favorite meal, you must have gotten me confused with MY SISTER,
because I stopped eating pork 7 years ago.

About those new silk boxers: I turned away from you because the $49.99
price tag was still on them, & I prayed it was a coincidence that my sister
had just borrowed $50 from me that morning.

After all of this, I still loved you & felt we could work it out. So when I
hit the lotto for 10 million dollars, I quit my job & bought us 2 tickets to
Jamaica But when I got home you were gone. Everything happens for a reason,
I guess. I hope you have the fulfilling life you always wanted. My lawyer
said that the letter you wrote ensures you won't get a dime from me. So take
care.

Signed,

Your Ex-Wife, Rich As Hell & Free!

P.S. I don't know if I ever told you this, but my sister Carla was born
Carl. I hope that's not a problem.

Wednesday, July 14, 2010

To Be a Lesbian

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It is nightfall and a dozen people are sitting in front of the Magic Cottage, drinks all around on a makeshift table decorated with a red and yellow flowered tablecloth from the ‘50’s and several small vases of all-colored zinnias. JB’s first annual yard-art party is winding down and in a now quiet evening we are all winding down too, along with Jess and Mike and some of their mutual friends, including Jess’ best friend J.
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I can’t remember the prompt, but at one point Jess smiles at J, who is pleasantly impaired from a full day of summertime wine.
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“If I were a lesbian, J,” Jess says, “I would want it to be you.”
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J blushes, smiles back. It is a tender moment between friends.
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My son-in-law, who is also loose from the wheel barrel of beer and ice nearby, chuckles in mock dismay.
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“Hey!” he says. “Cut that out!”
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I cherish this memory. It is starkly different from the junior high school days when I would find our birthday and anniversary cards face down on the mantel, Jess afraid that her friends would see them and figure out that her Mother was a lesbian.
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JB and I have been together 25 years. We were officially ‘married’ four years ago, when the state of Massachusetts enacted an historic law recognizing gay marriage. I didn’t think the freedom to marry would affect me as deeply as it did. Something monumental shifted that morning for both of us, at the Post Office Café in Provincetown, when we exchanged vows and walked the beach later, our hands clasped together, securely, swinging freely in the wind.
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When I first fell in love with a woman—a brilliant African American woman who was both aloof and tender, I was barely 30 and building a business and being gay was not an attribute. I did not acknowledge our relationship until it fell apart, after three years, and it fell apart in large part because I was unable to publicly acknowledge the love we had for one another.
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I was married to my ex-husband for twelve years before that. Together we are the proud beneficiaries of the most wonderful daughter. Our marriage cracked before my interest in women became clear and even today I can’t say I have no interest in men, because sometimes I do. I don’t know if everyone who knows me would agree, but most often people I meet do not know I am a lesbian until I tell them, a fact among many I now share freely if asked or when there is a reason.
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Four years ago I met a woman, initially through blogging, and she and I loved one another from the beginning. Our relationship was intimate and intense, spanning two and a half years and hours upon hours of daily phone calls, emails, letters, colors, words. We had occasional actual time together, mostly at my insistence. She met my family, my friends, I met hers, we laughed, we argued, we shared, we struggled. Even so, I believed that we would love one another throughout our lives, that we would and could land that love softly, without injury to ourselves, to our partners, to the people we loved.
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We ended badly—one of us callous and one of us pathetic. I’ve been told about and have read her proclamations and descriptions of our relationship as dysfunctional, me as a bully and a stalker, the time we were together as 'toxic ooze'. I knew it was best not to acknowledge, not to respond. It was enough that I was writing about my own personal wounds and confused emotions. But I couldn’t bring myself to speak badly of her, to push back or correct the facts.
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I’ve recently become aware that part of my silence has been because I’ve wanted to protect her privacy. That began to change when I was shown an email she had written about me, referring to me by name, with great disdain, outlining a tale so far from my experience, my memory, my truth, that I began to realize that the vilification of what was real and who I am might have spread further and more harmfully than I thought possible.
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So now, there is a part of the record I now wish to set straight. It is this:
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We loved one another. It was mutual. It was reciprocal. It was consensual. There was a reality, and no relabeling or recrafting will change that. There was confusion and recklessness, but really, honestly, in my heart, it was nobody’s fault.
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Being gay or lesbian is not easy. Even today. There are social, cultural, religious norms and expectations that can still encourage shades on the windows and denials in dark corners. It is not easy to change the beliefs of an upbringing. But shame is not my issue, fortunately, and even through this JB and I have been protected by our enduring love for one another and by the diversity and range of people who generally share our values and views on equal rights. But every so often something occurs that startles me, wakes me up from a comfortable life that I now take for granted.
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Recently I’ve had occasion to wonder if my being a lesbian ever creates discomfort among any of my blog friends, specifically around comments I may leave them, about how I may express myself, or about what may have been said about me. It’s not in my constitution to hold back affection and love, and until now I haven’t given a second thought to expressing either to so many special people I care deeply about.
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Now there is another record I wish to set straight. It is this:
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Being a lesbian does not mean I have a physical/sexual/sensual interest in my friends. I don’t. The relationship I’ve described above never did start with just friendship. And except for a night of intoxicated impulsivity a hundred years ago, I have never crossed a line from friend to more-than-friend. I have no interest in that what so ever. So please, if anything I do or say makes you uncomfortable, I have been oblivious to that fact and truthfully, and I want to know.
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There was a time in my earlier life when I was embarrassed to be a lesbian. I felt awkward, sometimes even.‘less than.’ I don’t wish to feel that way again and if I can help it, I won’t let that happen to me. I don’t want to worry about a comment or email written about me or that I share with someone I care about because I’m afraid my intention may be misinterpreted. I hate the horrible effects and aftermath of shame to a woman I trusted and loved, who I believe trusted and loved me too, and while I wish I could shrug it off and move on, the truth is I’m sorry that anyone who loved me had and has to ever feel that way. I'm sorry when someone cannot allow themselves to be who they are.
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I’m sorry for that, but I will no longer let myself and what was true be misrepresented. I won't be so quiet any more. If challenges and corrections of the truth are needed, I will provide them. As of now, that is my decision and that is my honor.
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Thank you for taking the time.
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love
kj

Tuesday, July 13, 2010

Animal Wednesday: Em & Em





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kj's all-the-time friend and my-all-the-time friend Mim and I Emily V. V. Rabbit are going to be famous because we are going to be in comic strips throughout the world: okay, maybe I won't be there all the time because Ms. Em is going to have adventures that don't include me but then again you never know when I might show up too and don't you think we both have a promising career together and maybe even not together, but that doesn't matter anyhow because look at us now and let's face it, we are both too adorable for anyone to do anything but smile and maybe even laugh out loud.
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Right?
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Mim sent the original drawing to kj and when kj opened it she screeched on the couch, which she usually only does when she is very jubilant and sometimes late at night but I don't know what that late at night screech is about so I can't say much more about it and besides anyway I think I would get in trouble if I did.
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kj told me that Mim told her a long time ago that once she accepts someone as a friend they become family to her. I asked kj if Mim is family to her back and she said yes right away. I know she means it because whenever she talks about Mim she is happy and she says there aren't THAT many people in life you can love and trust and then laugh with too and Mim is one of them. Myself, everyone knows that Marianne is my best friend and I don't see that changing anytime soon ever but now that Mim has included me in her comic strip I am moving her up to 'okay she's really really cool' status.
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By the way, some horrible someone stole all my lollipops from the garden! Can you believe it? I have no idea who. kj says it was probably an animal but what would an animal want with my lollipops anyway?
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Have a good week, everyone. If Mim and Ms. Em and I little Emily are going to be written up in a big magazine or newspaper I will be sure to let you know.
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Sincerely Yours,
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Emily Rabbit

Monday, July 12, 2010

Pinks of the Universe

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No camera for the next few days! How could I leave anywhere without it? I must have been intoxicated by creative juices and terrific company.
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Caroline's recent watercolor reds and pinks inspired me to take a second look at this poem. I wrote it while standing in the quicksand of hope. It's one of my favorites.
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Hope
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1.
We planned that stolen trip
to Kansas City when the dogwoods
readied to open wide,
the pinks of the universe
reassuring that some things deliver.
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2.
I thought about strolling in that promenade,
reaching for the wild roots--
trusted jubilant hands
washing secrets clean
and steadying those fickle fears.
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3.
I thought along the streets
we’d find some stones,
lying there like easy promises,
different in pattern and size
but rock solid, like the sound
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4.
Of running water at midnight.
I wanted to hear you turn the faucets--
your impulsive hand guiding
the steady flow
of this surprising outcome.
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5.
I didn’t dare tell you
about the questions
lying at the curb
tucked under hidden trash,
safely protected by petrified answers--
not the kind that cause rigor mortis
but the kind that strengthen
even when they bend.
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6.
I wanted to tell you I felt safe
that day In Kansas City.
I told myself that I could
let the roots and water and questions
wash over me
until I was soaked in my own security.
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7.
I wanted you to know
about foundations built on sand
but fortified through grace and gravity--
strengthened when muscle and movement form,
and skin that protects—
and even glistens—
from the August place where we began.
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8.
I wanted to tell you we are both safe here,
that whatever happens hope will float around us.
I wanted you to know this.
I thought we should both know.
So when the itinerary changed
I was not prepared.
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9.
I wondered how long it will take
for the obvious to settle,
until Kansas City is Chicago
and Chicago is Newark
and the curbside trash
Is worth every stretch and every risk.
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10.
I didn’t know this then, I didn’t:
I thought the things that matter
were formed strictly in the place
where roots and unspoken hope
converge in one cemented spot.
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11.
I thought we could walk on this one promenade
and resolve our differences in only this one way. .
I didn’t know until the very moment
when you changed the plan
and the opportunity was gone
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That even in the years ahead—
even through disappointments
too quickly frozen in place
we will still be here and there,
slip sliding straight into
the destiny of a sunny day,
looking down, and then around,
comfortable in our common ground.
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12.
I didn’t know
that we can walk through any promenade—
the ones in little cities and the ones in the Arizona desert--
and we will still find every missing piece
safely, solemnly, soulfully tucked beneath
our best intentions.

Sunday, July 11, 2010

For Annie: the New York Museum of Art on one June Day

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This post is for Annie. If anyone else enjoys it, that is good and fine. But mostly I am happy to offer a glimpse of the New York Museum of Modern Art (MOMA) to my dear persistent gutsy always hopeful friend Annie. Okay already! Here it is, girlfriend!!
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We'll start with Picasso's lithographs:
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And we continue to this exhibit which I found inspirationally heartbreaking. My first true love was an African American woman and although I can never know the depth of slavery and oppression, I think I do know something about racism and prejudice.
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forgive the poor quality of my picture taking, not to mention I snuck into the shot.
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And on to Women & Photographs:
I apologize that I did a totally poor job of being able to attribute and credit the photographers. I should have used my Moleskine and not relied on my camera to connect one picture and one artist. So I won't even try. I will let these women speak for themselves:
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Okay Annie. This is my best shot at an active act of friendship! I hope you've enjoyed.
Love
kj

Fillins

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I left my camera at Lolo's.
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I should be in bed by now.
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I want to post something.
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These photos are strictly for visual
and a wee bit of creative interest. :)
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Have I posted this poem before? Lolo will know.
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I wonder when I will start writing poetry again, in earnest? I am pretty sure I have a serious essay to write first, and I have two novels--one in need of promotion and one in need of writing--that keep calling to me.
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But in a nutshell, here's what's going on with me. Some things never change. :)
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Enough
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I’ll be damned
My head is crammed
With thoughts of flying
Crying
Drying
Eyeing
Lying
Prying
Sighing
Spying
Tying
Vying
And maybe even
Applyig
Allying
Decrying
Defying
Denying
Retrying
Supplying
Undying
And even possibly
Semidrying
Catalog buying
Instrument flying
And
Forever trying

Thursday, July 08, 2010

For a Wonder Woman

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"The heart has no bones you say, so it won't break,

but the purpose of loving is the pounding it takes."
Josh Ritter.
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(found like a falling feather from my friend Melissa's facebook page)
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I may soon write an overdue personal post on this blog, but not now.
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Now I want to tell you about Tessa .
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Many of us know her, love her. She is a painter, a writer, a photographer, a humanitarian, always an African, an elegant beautiful woman with an eye and a paintbrush and heart so expansive there is no doubt, zero, about the privilege you feel just standing, walking beside her.
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She is also sick. Seriously so. She found the grace and courage to talk about that today.
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Through blogging I have finally learned that there are no limits to love and bonds and acceptance: they and we exist and thrive beyond countries and geographies and cultures and boundaries. It's true.
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But I did not know until my beloved friend and Senior Angel Renee died in March that these borderless bonds exist, and thrive, across the thin line between life and death. These are bonds that flow directly into your heart, into all you know, passionately, tenderly taking residence there, no matter what may come.
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How selfish that I cannot bare to think of one moment without Tessa gracing the planet I live on. .
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Please go to Tessa's blog today, tomorrow.
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http://aerialarmadillo.blogspot.com/
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Read her Stormy Weather post please, and let yourself witness grace and gravity wrapping its wings around you.
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And while you're there, please tell Tessa that her friend kj, and all of her universe, is root-toot-tooting for her. Tell her she will not be alone for a single moment. Tell her, in your own way, that somethings endure, forever. Tell her you appreciate knowing how much dreams and accomplishments and love really, truly matters.
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Tell her you know all these things, and you are grateful for it.
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Tessa gave me this calendar last Christmas. It is on my desk now, the best calendar I have ever had. Take a moment while you are visiting her to look at her paintings. Like Tessa herself, they are simply, totally exquisite.

Together Strong, dear friend. Here We Are.
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Thank you.
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Love
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kj