"thrilling, for once..." she whispered to herself her back to the kingdom her ring on the shelf the regal roses out on the terrace failed to sing to her spirit; when she wandered away to the poppies and sage she could finally hear it- the song of the loving all knowing stars the way they held her in higher regard than a king he is great he can give her a life and a jester so clever with his cap and his sceptor could show her how to really live a life but neither kept her satisfied like those rubies and emeralds out in the pines the turquoise and onyx in the ocean tide oh heavens she was so much more than a bride "truth teller to the queen" she replied: send for a backbone to go with this stone send for a spine to pair with this fine wine send for a deck of cards" a long night of poker dressed up as the joker she already felt like a fool following these beautiful well spoken rules flawless like diamonds when she was a jewel well known for what she wore on her hand for her man for her land for all the handsome things that she had when she longed to be loved for all that she lacked

when I sold my wedding ring

The day I sold my wedding ring. I met some fool for semiprecious in the parking lot of a grocery store. He had his little diamond spectacles, mandrels and charts. A true enthusiast for purchasing jaded jewels. After we concluded our swift transaction and before parting ways, he looked at me with uninvited pity. It seemed like it was part of his routine. Buy the ring, all business. At the very end, act like a seasoned witness of broken promises. I don't know if he said this out loud or if it was written on his face, but he said to me, "tough times...tough times...I'm so sorry. Now I'm going to go try and make MORE money than you just made. Goodbye." there are men out there who will never understand... let them buy the ring. let them sell it for more and the more money they make, the less pity they take the less they know the more you are free the happier the next woman who might wear the ring or the more they melt it back down to nothing the less sorry you and they will all be I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I sold my rin I felt, as I did constantly in my life after my marriage, so much guilt. It was my ever chosen treasured emotion. Maybe I looked sad to the man who bought my wedding ring, but not for reasons he thought. I'm sure he made up the same old story of the woman being left behind, blindsided by a man's sudden escape. Really the sadness that followed me around was the guilt I felt for walking away from something that didn't appear on the surface to be problematic in any way. That I was a selfish girl who ripped herself and two unsuspecting children from home and tore a family apart. For what? To sew her oats or something obnoxious like that? Nothing that could be recognized or seen. I carried that burden so heavily with me everywhere I went and with everything I did. I knew in my heart what I knew, but even for me it was often hard to see, explain and understand why I left, and furthermore, what in the world I was going to do now. With no career and no source of income, I was living off fallen feathers and lucky pennies. I used all the cash I made that day and went straight to the bank to open my own account. My main reason for doing this was so my ex-husband could no longer check my purchases and ask "Why did you buy a plane ticket to LA? Shouldn't he pay for that?" It's funny how I could have so much guilt and sorrow, and so much audacity all at once. leave your old ring to the Diamond King so you can totally be the girl whose waiting on some giant pearl that's almost always never whole but when it is, it knows your soul and you can feel the gentle pull that shifts the tides a new kind of bride the glowing moon you make your groom. a diamond or a pearl it's up to the girl it's always up to the girl Sometimes there is a course of action you know must be taken, but it is so paralyzing and scary that the only way you end up doing it is by making poor decisions to get you there. Such was my getaway plan. Find a different man who gives me all the permissions I don't have the decency to give myself. Hate myself for it. Look to new man to stop me from hating myself. He fails miserably. Ex husband fails miserably. All men fail to make me happy. Everyone is dissapointed. I'm not enough for anyone, especially myself. I drive from grocery store parking lots to the bank and back again in shaking cold sweats and tears. I carry on. I take care of my kids with my whole heart and soul. I sob every night. I feel like the worst mom ever. I wish to give them the world. I can't give myself a speck of grace. I'm the message in a bottle out at sea but I'm still wondering what my message will be no matter who reads it no matter who sees it the words... what will they mean. what of the man who so long ago got down on one knee? he's still a King just not for me just like the old diamond ring. there is a voice that whispers, as many times as the waves crash onto the scene... "You Are Not A Queen." All grown ass men aside, my new life I had with my two tiny boys was shaping up to be incredibly sweet, adventurous and miraculous. It was such little things of course, like when we moved into our new apartment and ate breakfast on camp chairs and used toy bins as tables. We had all these crazy new neighbors that we made up stories and jokes about. We laughed a lot. They loved me. I slept in their bunk bed with them. The first windy night we hid in my closet together with all our pillows and blankets because it was the only place in the apartment where the wind wasn't screaming at us through the windows. The first time in my life I was ever living on my own wasn't until after I had two kids. In that regard, they navigated that right of passage alongside me. They were so brave. They were so tender. I was so brave. I was so tender. I had no proper message I had too many apologies I swam toward the sound, a horn or a trumpet got more clear as I drew near it was more pronounced all other whisperings it drowned out a proclomation it beckoned me only the way it would a queen whose castle is a lighthouse dream and I am the keeper the only keeper I am the beacon and I am the swimmer I am the reflector I am the collector I am the diamond and I am forever. as green as emeralds was the ground the sea and sky in turquoise collide a ruby red stripe was wound all the way up to the catwalk crown and off in the distance into the trees onyx all around. Wilhelmina of the woods; you have been found. your wandering days are far from over but you're free to stick around. Wilhelmina all in black barefoot, and such a gem pretty and soft as a ballerina we will never give you back or sell you off to them

Never before seen footage.

I have way too many pictures on my computer. I have been filtering through them to get rid of the ones that don't matter, and I came across a lot of stuff I don't even remember having. It has been very entertaining. So just stay right here, cause these are the good old days. Dewey was a dumb dog. I never liked him. Yet I spent a lot of time with him in my backyard in my adolescence. I always fought him off. I would say "Go away Dewey. I hate you, you're disgusting." But Dewey was dumb enough to know that I really loved him, and I secretly appreciated that he was eager to come around me to be my friend. He was possibly the only one I had for a while. Awwww. Wherever you are Dewey, I hope you are warm and safe. And I hate you. It's true. There was this one summer when me and Daniel let ourselves go. Could be all the road trippin' and fast food, could be the lull of the music we listened to those days. This Providence sucks! Same type of thing as the previous picture. I think at this point in time I was a stunning photographer. Look at the rich happiness on Daniel's face, grandpa's famous sock tan line, the casting of the sun, and all the extras. There was this one time when I encouraged Lynae to lick a zebra truck. It was completely bad A. Only the beginning of my hardcore, eccentric friendships built at Pier49 pizza in American Fork, this is Melissa how may I help you? ohmygoodness, Look at Oliver! He's tiny!! Hahaha. Great angle. This is what I used as my Missionary picture. Hmmm.... good times.... . . . . I was probably trying to look super fierce. Too bad I just look mad. I always loved those earrings. I wanted people to look at me and think, she's some sort of highway child. I'm not sure, but maybe this was taken before I discovered chapstick. I have no recollection of this. Ohhh Arizona was too good to me. Precious, it's my room before I painted it dark brown! I think I was a senior in high school. I loved that shirt so much! All the kid's from the hood on graduation day. Me and Suzie did drugs at girls camp. If that kid is not gay by now, then I'll be. I wanted to belong in Costa. Sue me! Awww!! It's Sarah and Craig. I remember the good times longboarding with them. The times of a more simple friendship. I had to make use of my 10,000 villages lantern. I have no idea what this comes from.

A sharp little pin of all of the things In and out of my life In like a flash Out like a needle I practically sewed myself a new dress... But this time, I'm in my suit and tie As I salute the end of a summer That had me in the ring taking swings at me Now we're in round three A sharp little pin Forsaken, again Prodded their way in Time to digress Saw themself out Practically sewing me a new dress. But mystery is too great to fit through the eye this time my neck secures a bow-tie At the end of a summer, I turn and salute Put up my hair, button my suit wish me all the luck.... "You're glistening" you said to me as if it was the prettiest thing sweat and tears inside the ring never the essence of me The fool rushes in takes a swing to usher in the end of me Fools rush out as fast as they came While brilliantly I stand In the same pouring rain That made mud out of sand Quick, there's gold in this land. I woke up one morning, never the same And yet, I've never changed My sins of omission Traded for gold Brush me off lightly, please delicate hands are easily cold My last Ace my first warm sleeve My black dress laid for a time to rest In my field of clovers Never forget, my Sunday best was never meant to be trampled over The beauty of my suit and tie Beheld by my own eye

Ready before me As I woke up, to dreams of this day This very day that the light could agree to stay Even a bit longer is never enough for us The night will come but before then before darkness becomes darkness it is pink and gold and that we can capture a tiny amount of it in a vial that extra little piece we can set it on our nightstand and watch it glow we can stay up all night for the longest day yields the shortest night so we will be alright as we slowly, slowly, slowly lay this tall and beautiful day down to sleep gratefully and give thanks for that extra sliver of time that shines and shines and shines far beyond the impending night

I have been a circus nomad 60 years of my life. I joined in France in 1823. A 15 year old girl with the breasts and wits of a 32 year old woman. I could twirl like the best of them and move with the rest of them. And we moved a lot. About every 5 days. And within those days, when we were stationed to perform, no moment was ever alike. The only routines we knew of were when we were flailing our arms and legs for crowds of people, who had absolutely no idea what they were truly witnessing. All that went on behind the curtains. And what a shame. Because it was far more fascinating than the performances. The tent, and the swarms of citizens were all but a quick dream right before waking up, right before walking into the back side of the spectacle, beyond the velvet and into the lace. Where we all allegedly ran the show. On scraps of paper, scraps of fabric, hot hot nights where you could choose to sleep on the ground or on top of someone, or not at all. We were all just freaks, and that was it. When we were in the spotlight, we were just highly trained freaks, and that was it. And we were, highly trained. And we were, freaks. That's what gave us the ability to sore through the air and blow kisses at whatever blokes. It was always the young girls who handled the mess and assured damage control, from owners and brothers whose greed and power and pride and arrogance stacked atop one another's until everything toppled. About once a night. It was the girls who banned together to pack up the trunks at 4 in the morning and drag them accross dark fields and hoist them into train cars with our pale and skinny arms. Then we often just sat in the train car, behind all the trunks and boxes and costumes, just listening to men hollering at men and wailing animals. It seemed not to phase us, but we cared a lot. I put on such an air of carelessness and aloofness, and that's what gave me the ability to haul trunks around well into another day. But whenever I could, I would find a very safe place to be alone and I would cry. A highly trained, fearless, bold young girl who took beatings as a sport, still sat in the elephant ring to fall apart. My favorite time of the night. It's what gave me the ability to haul heavy trunks well into a new day.

Diamonds are forever; it's the people who change.

Let's start with the most dim and irrelevant thing and tilt, until we catch that elusive gleam.

A lighthouse
a foghorn
The day I was born
The last night
Of a past life
I no longer mourn
Send out a warning
My seafaring soul
Give me back the morning.

The sun cut through my window like a blade and settled across my bed. Like spreading butter on toast. Good morning my dear, dear, dear, dear Samaritan girl.

White girl
french bread
hello my dear one where is your head?

The sun. That one gold coin you put in your back pocket to last you the night. That one gold coin you find against the pavement, at your feet. At dawn. Your head, thrown loosely on your shoulders to last you the day. Your diamond, babe. Time to give it away.

I might have mentioned before that I gave away my last few 50 dollar bills not so long ago.

Then I sold my diamond wedding ring to a man who paid me in 50 dollar bills. It was on the same street corner where the old lady used to beg for change. The same street corner I gave my last one away. I thanked him for all those 50s to put back in my pocket. He said to me;

"hard times...I can tell...so sorry."

I told him not to be sorry. He ignored my plea, and continued... "so sorry...good luck miss."

No sir. Good luck to you.

On my way to the bank, I started doubting if the 50 dollar bills were real, and the man and his apology reflected in my rear view mirror.

"Grandma..? I'm very worried this money is fake. This sympathetic man has tricked me. How real even are these 50s?"

"As real as you want them to be my love. As real as you make them."

It was a man who bought the ring, and a woman who helped me open a new account at the bank wherein to transfer the cash. From my back pocket to my breast pocket.

The man was sorry.

The woman on the other hand, reflected the sparkle. She was there to ping the light and to not feel sorry.

As she helped me we talked. And I came to learn that she had been in a very similar situation to me. And because of that she knew, as well as I. We were golden. We were just fine.

But then she asked me...
"How long were you married?"

And she said...
"Well I gave my ring back"

She's judging me. She's judging me. I felt this creeping in and that sorrow and she saw it in the gleam in my eyes. She quickly reassured me. "I understand."

"I'll be the judge... I'll be the judge" Grandmother whispered.

There are men out there who will never understand...
let them buy the ring.
Let them sell it for more
and the more money they make,
the more you are free.
The happier the woman who might wear the ring
or the more they melt it back down to nothing
The less sorry you and they will all be.
I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I sold my ring.
Leave your old ring to the Diamond King
So you can totally be the girl
Whose waiting on some giant pearl
that's almost always never whole
but when it is, it knows your soul
and you can feel the gentle pull
that shifts the tides
a new kind of bride
the glowing moon
you make your groom.
A diamond or a pearl?
it's up to the girl.

It's up to the girl...
I'm the message in a bottle out at sea
But I'm still wondering what my message will be
No matter who reads it
No matter who sees it
The words. What will they mean.
What of the man
Who so long ago
Got down on one knee?
For me.
He's still a King.
Just not mine.
Just like the old diamond ring.

There is a voice that whispers, as many times as the waves crash onto the shore...

"You Are Not A Queen."

I pray to God no one finds me like this, breaks me open, to read these words. They will give me back.

To rid myself of these whispering words, I fed them to the sharks. Over, and over, and over again. And they just got closer and circled me in. They so loved my uncertainty. They'd never have enough.

"The 50s Are Fake."

"They will come back for more, Dear Sam. Forever and ever. It's not your job to feed the sharks. People will stop feeling sorry, when you stop apologizing."

The voice was as salty as the ocean itself.

It was a new voice that said these words. It was not Grandma, and I can be certain, because she never accompanies me to such places. Somehow I knew that the girl speaking to me now was my granddaughter. And I can be certain, because she really needed me.

A forghorn sounded again and again. It was her.

A small beam of light cut through the darkness and the mist. It stayed a steady stream, like a blade. Ready to cut me.

The sharks were ready to feed.
I treaded water.

I had no proper message. I had no apology.

I swam toward the sound,
the horn got more clear and more pronounced
all other whisperings it drowned out
It beckoned me
only the way it would a queen
whose castle is a lighthouse.

And I am the keeper
The only keeper
I am the beacon
And I am the swimmer
My crown is the Catwalk
I am the reflector
I am the diamond
And I am forever.

From the wilderness to the ocean, sun down to sun up, washed up, washed up, to a pretty little cliffside.
A lighthouse kingdom.
"Good Morning, Good Morning, Good Morning."

The grass was as green as emeralds.
The sea and the sky collided in turquoise.
A ruby red stripe wound up the hightower...
And off in the distance, into the trees, onyx, all around.
Wilhelmina of the woods;
You have been found.

Your wandering days are far from over
But you're free to stick around.
Wilhelmina, all in black
Barefoot, and such a gem
We will never give you back
Or sell you off to them.