There’s no avoiding the Butterfly Effect

Tonight I fell asleep very early, around 8 o’clock. I had a wonderful meal prepared for me by my dear friend the Kiwi and after the meal, 2 glasses of wine and listening to  a really terrific band called Supergroove from NZ, I conked right out. But then I woke up around midnight and went out back and sat under the stars and the Birds of Paradise when this thought came over me. Consequences.

Consequences of words. Consequences of actions. Consequences of motive and thought and intent. I believe it works like one of the laws of physics that says for every action there is an equal and positive reaction, or a thing in motion stays in motion or energy can neither be created nor destroyed, only transformed. What does this mean I wondered and how is it applied to human behavior? And just so you know, animals do not suffer this fate. They operate only within the laws of physics and never intentionally cause an effect to occur. It’s not like an opposum was cheating on his taxes and 2 weeks later a semi squished him into the pavement. It’s more like he was in the wrong place at the wrong time. That is immediate cause and effect and not what I am referencing.

These laws do not only apply to car accidents or creating fire or the birth of a star or even the birth of a baby, they apply to the things that people say and do in their lives. Often the results are not instantaneous. Sometimes the results of one’s words or actions will not be seen or felt for quite some time, perhaps even many years. I guess then we should all be very careful of what we say or do. And, if the Law of Attraction and Manifesting Your Intentions is correct, well then we should watch what we think too.

Fortunately I stick to that golden rule, maybe not like glue because anyone can make mistakes. But what about deliberate, calculated mistakes or wrongdoing? Words and actions that are executed with the supreme knowledge that it is wrong or maybe even perceived as, “evil”. (I hate that word because it sounds so pompous but sometimes it is the only word that accurately describes a thing or deed).

I’ve seen the consequences of others actions many times and I am certain you have as well. It’s like you could set your watch to it and wait for the the clock to chime out the hour of the consequence. Have you ever heard of some really bad misfortune befallen on someone and felt empathy for their plight? Have you ever wondered if that was the direct result of some action of theirs some time previously that you are completely unaware of? Without sounding like jury, judge and executioner, I’d bet it was.

Sometimes it is obvious. Someone robs an old lady and beats her over the head. You know they have it coming to them. Or some nasty teenager purposely harms an innocent creature and years later is eaten by sharks. (I figured that would be the perfect effect ). But what of those less noticeable actions? Maybe someone intentionally got a co-worker fired so they could take their post. Or someone lies for years about their true behavior and when it come out a family member kills themselves. I actually know of something like this that just happened, but I won’t go into the gory details.  I guess most people call this karma. You get back what you give out.

Sometimes I don’t believe this at all or that there is a god or a law of averages. I think that is because the Universe makes changes so very slowly and we here on earth are stuck in a time warp and rarely get to see the karma or effect occur. Anyone that has studied physics or science even a little has to at least wonder about the time-space thing. So it’s no wonder we rarely get the chance to see the bad guy get their comeuppance. No worries folks, the Universe is slow, but very exacting and if you notice, does a magnificent job at  keeping things running smoothly. Like clockwork.

So while I sat alone under a gorgeous southern sky, beneath that grotto of Birds of Paradise watching as the stars, moon and planets sped by, (a trick of the eye when the clouds move swiftly), I realized that there are consequences for everything and they occur all the time right under our noses every second of every day.

I consider myself very lucky. I live a semi-charmed life and though it has its ups and downs I can honestly say that there is no bitter or miserable effect waiting in the wings for me down the road because of something I said or did that I knew was wrong. Whenever I have done wrong, I have felt the immediate slap in the face. So I know I’m all right and in the clear of chaos theory or the laws of physics. I’d hate to have a big black hole swallow me up. Phewww…

Have a happy winter solstice everyone.

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French Vichyssoise a’ la Summer

This is an old classic dish, originally a peasant dish from France which was served cold. My mother brought the recipe with her from Nice, where she lived many years ago. I stick to the basic recipe but over the years have made some minor changes and serve it hot. This is comfort food for a blustery cold winter day.

6 to 7 large potatoes peeled and chopped into medium chunks or quarters.
3 to 4 large leeks, rinsed very well, trim the ends, slice lengthwise and apply a medium chop.
1/4 stick of butter, more or less. I like more.
6 cups of chicken stock,(you may use chicken bullion or paste, just reduce or omit salt later).
Fresh cracked black pepper to taste.
Fresh ground coarse salt to taste.
1/2 teaspoon nutmeg.
1/2 pint of heavy cream.
1/4 cup of Harvey’s Bristol Cream Sherry.

Saute’ the chopped leeks, in a cast iron skillet preferably, in the butter until wilted and very tender.
Boil the potatoes in the chicken stock until fork tender.
When potatoes are done cooking, lightly mash them in the broth, leaving small, medium and large chunks of potato.A fork will generally suffice.
(I don’t blend or puree the potatoes but the recipe often calls that you do. You choose what texture you prefer).
Add the cooked leeks to the potato and chicken broth mixture. Add cracked pepper, and salt ( if using fresh broth not bullion) and the nutmeg. Simmer slowly for an hour with the lid on.

Add heavy cream and then slowly add cream sherry. Simmer another 5 to 10 minutes or until the alcohol has completely cooked off.

I serve this with a fresh salad:
In a chilled bowl add baby green mesclun salad mix, sliced strawberries, mandarin oranges, candied pecans, baby goat cheese or bleu cheese crumbled, thinly sliced English cucumbers. Toss lightly. Finish with a strawberry vinaigrette.

Strawberry Vinaigrette:
In a blender place fresh strawberries, 1/4 cup organic honey, fresh cracked pepper, 1/2 cup apple cider vinegar and a pinch of cinnamon. Blend on pulse. With blender on, slowly drizzle extra virgin olive oil into mixture until well blended.

Pick of the litter (box)

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Somewhere in my attempt to understand human relationships, I made a connection one day several years ago that choosing a mate can be quite similar to choosing a pet. That realization came back to me last week, while tending to my mother’s cats’ litter box.

I have driven far and wide and paid a fair penny in my choice of animal companions. Once I drove to Fredericksburg, Virginia from the Jersey Shore to purchase a puppy. Not just any puppy mind you, a top bred Bloodhound from a long line of man-trailing hounds whose lineage harkened back to the Civil War. The breeder was an FBI agent at Quantico. The puppy I chose, tripped over his ears and weighed in at 17 pounds at a mere 7 weeks. He was  gi-normous. His Auntie Jemima, had given testimony in a murder trial. She uttered  a “Woof” when presented with the scent of the perpetrator and helped to convict the assailant. (I was informed at the time that when it comes to canines, it is only the Bloodhound whose testimony is accepted as a forensic science in a court of law. I swear I couldn’t make this up).

He was an incredible hound, with ten miles of ear canal and feet the size of a saute’ skillet, upon which he typically carried the entire backyard’s mud into the house with. He also deposited what I affectionately coined, “shoestrings” on the ceiling. Mucous drippings that averaged over 2-feet in length. It was reminiscent of the Gak that kids poured over each others heads, a ‘la,  Nickolodeon kiddie programming. Or at the very least, Alien slime. My days were spent dodging slime covered ceilings, counter tops and door jambs. I wanted everyone in the house to call me Ripley, as I felt we had a common bond.

To this day, I refuse to be a serf to a beast who needs his ears cleaned or toileted day in and day out. If you are unskilled in these minor tasks, our relationship probably will not last.

But how I loved this dog. Who tracked my missing three-year old one day with the help of local law enforcement; only to be found in a neighbors basement eating an entire pizza by her tiny self. We were never able to ascertain if the hound had tracked the child or the food to the hidden location. Either way, we were happy she was all right and he gorged himself on cheese.

Jean-Luc lived to the ripe old age of 11. He died after delicately, surgically even, removing 2 ears from 2 different human beings. Oddly enough, this Civil War lineage, FBI trained hound, was the pick of the litter.

My second choice in animal companionship was a German born and bred, solid black German Shepherd who understood and spoke, German. Achtung, der Hund wirklich verstehen Deutsch! Weighing in at 135+ pounds, he is the exact replica of the wolf in Little Red Riding Hood. But, it was not the breeder at Jaegermeister Kennels  that convinced me of Jack’s  linguistic abilities, even though all of my dog’s forebearers were international Shutzhund champions that only responded to German commands. It was the day he sat in front of the television, mesmerized by old black and white grainy WWII footage, cocking his head sideways like the Victrola phonograph dog Nipper. Listening to Adolph Hitler’s agonizing German rhetoric and propaganda, I was simultaneously entranced and terrified. Again, my choice was the pick of the litter and it cost me nearly 2k.

Nowadays, I keep my menagerie much easier to handle. I have 2 white cats. What is wonderful about them is that I am not reduced to being a litter box maid. They are trained to do their business outside. I refuse to manage a plastic container in my home filled with foul smelling dukie. Anyone with cats needs to understand that this is simply not a viable solution to a habitual problem. Cats prefer to poo in the bushes out of doors, where they can dig a hole to bury the stuff and wipe their paws on the surrounding fauna. A box, to which you must regularly purchase litter for and then scoop the poop to maintain the thing in the laundry room or some other place within the home, is weird to say the least. Honestly, why would anyone keep a box of poo hanging around anywhere? So I will have none of it and we are all the better for it.

Last week I found an old boyfriend’s sweatshirt buried in the back of a closet. At first I believed he was perfect in nearly every way. Handsome, polite, charming and intelligent. If you have read any of my posts about sociopathic relationships or narcissism, you probably know him by now.  It turned out, he was none of these things. A liar; a married cheating womanizing thief and someone who can only be pitied for his inability to be a human being with a conscience. He was not the pick of the litter. He was the pick of the litter box. Coining that phrase years ago, it had not occurred to me I had met one until the sweatshirt discovery. Ranking far below a man trailing Bloodhound, the slime he produced, a Hitler fascinated canine linguist or 2 pussy cats. He ranked right next to a cat turd.

I found myself laundering this sweatshirt and while I folded it without thinking, I came to my senses. Aghast, I took the sweatshirt, with his diving company logo emblazoned on the front, and promptly tossed it into the garbage. Since I was visiting my mother at the time, who has the nasty habit of being a litter box maid, I lovingly took out a pooper-scooper, and added a nice mound of cat poo to the sweatshirt, bagged it up and took it to the garbage can outside. It seemed a fitting end to that ugly sweatshirt, the nasty cat poo and decidedly to the only pick of the litter box I’ve ever known.

“Pick of the litter box” is a Summersaid Registered Trademark  😉

Untamed Heart

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“The greatest thing, you’ll ever learn, is just to love and to be loved in return..

From Nature Boy, written by Eden Ahbez and sung by Nat King Cole. The most beautiful song I’ve ever heard.

There was a boy, a very strange enchanted boy…

When you look over your life and all of the relationships you have had, certain shining qualities stand out amongst them all. After much reflection, the lack of human compassion, the absence of truth and the games people play, it is but a small percentage of us that ever really feel or experience love at its highest vibration.

Many relationships teeter on financial or familial obligation. Many others are brought together by even more sinister or selfish reasons. I’ve spoken in my posts of sociopathic and narcissistic relationships before and thankfully, I was shown the truth and no longer allow those experiences into my world and what’s more, I recognize them. My eyes are and continue to be wide open.

It is not the sweet whispers and promises of love, the exalted physical bond that entraps or even the grand gestures and gifts that stand out in my mind or in my memories. It is not a world wind romance that sweeps you off your feet or the diamonds, gifts and exotic dream vacations that I recall. They mean absolutely nothing where love is concerned. To experience true love, there needs be none of these things at all. You need nothing. And yet you receive it all.
Just one strange tiny connection can happen in one brief moment. In a world filled with pain and chaos, no matter the outcome, no matter the events that transpire, it can often be the most fulfilling, the most transcending.  Deep down in your heart and soul, when you recall this moment, the tears run forth readily.  I have had this magical moment and am better for it.
Have you ever had someone love you just the way you are? Or had someone watch you while you slept because the peace that came over your face soothed their weary soul in a world fraught with indifference and isolation? Instead of making large plans to fly someplace remote and exotic, have you had moments of complete connectedness with someone while photographing spiders? Or slept on the beach to awaken to a band of surfers?
I think it is these small miracles that spell out love. I have experienced so many forms of love in my life. Many of them destructive and many others not as much but yet none nearly as memorable as the simple moment of lying in bed watching a favorite love story on a laptop. Or going for pancakes at IHOP at 4 in the morning after laughing so hard your belly ached. In these moments when you stare into one anothers eyes, you will know each others souls and not matter who or what may try to disrupt those moments, you will know you have found love.
Being present for someones tears, hearing their past transgressions, adoring the peculiar differences and wanting to grow together and walk the same path is love. And if even for only a moment, to experience this, is worth all the other loves combined. I wouldn’t change a thing except to experience this again.

There was a boy
A very strange enchanted boy
They say he wandered very far, very far
Over land and sea
A little shy
And sad of eye
But very wise
Was he

And then one day
A magic day he came my way
And while we spoke of many things, fools and kings
This he said to me
“The greatest thing
You’ll ever learn
Is just to love
And be loved
In return”

“The greatest thing
You’ll ever learn
Is just to love
And be loved
In return”.

Summer heat wave

Today was a scorcher. Topped out at around 97 degrees. Yesterday, my on-board temperature reading was a fiery hot 101 by 12:30 pm. This evening is a warm 80 but the ocean breeze picked up due to the Coriolis Effect and the tradewinds wafting in from far off lands.

I spent my day indoors in a temperate 75 degrees. The cool, creamy leather, marble floors and glass and steel furnishings make the space simple and uncomplicated. The chocolate stucco walls and crushed voile sheers, citron green silk pillows strewn about and Flokati throws, create a Zen mood. I lit all the giant vermillion and sandalwood scented candles and took a cool, cucumber and lavender soak, waiting for the heat to return. I play Luna Muera and Max Melvin’s Seaside to complete my serene mood. Mmmm…

He walks in with a languid bounce and drapes his long legs and six foot frame onto the leather. He reminds me of a Palomino under saddle. Golden bronzed skin draping his chiseled shoulders and biceps, his thick blonde mane shading his eyes; he cocks his head to the side to brush the hair away. The voice, a sultry Southern hemisphere near Brit, calls out for me. Emerging damp and gleaming, my hair piled high, the wavy curls drip water onto his bare chest.

Bracing for exquisite coupling, the dance begins. Caressing my neck and finding his way to full breasts that hungrily await him. Twisting our lengthened bodies, our muscles squeeze one another gripping tightly to extract every ounce of sweetness. Crescendo after crescendo, there is no end to this symphonic tantric dance. Sugared and moistened, our tanned bodies and tousled blonde locks collapse onto iced satin sheets.

At midnight we stroll the beach as we nightly do, sipping wine and searching for Loggerheads coming ashore to nest. We commune at our beach and our favorite tiki and we dance again.

This is the heat. This is the cool blue sea. This is what I love.

Mr. Morgan: You are a Sociopath.

Danger! Keep Out! Gary Busey!

Danger! Keep Out! Gary Busey! (Photo credit: Lulu Hoeller)

Please be advised, for the umteenth millionth time. I see your Google searches and I can see when you visit my blog and view my photos which is why they are now private. I do not understand why you still keep coming here. Each time I remove the blog post, you force me to re-post it by making your monthly visits. It is the dumbest most narcissistic behavior I have ever witnessed.
I do not think about you. EVER. Except when I see your stupid Google searches and clicks on my photos. You’re very annoying. And did I mention, stupid.

You are not human let alone, a man. Please read Malignant Self Love by Sam Vaknin.
I know all about Portland, Maine and its nasty inhabitant. I know all about her pretenses, hypocrisy and lies and her affection for multiple married men. Seems like you are made for one another. I have not encountered 2 narcissists in a relationship in my research yet, but there is always a first time for everything. More than likely she is suffering from Borderline Personality Disorder and was abandoned by her father at a young age. I wonder whose mirror will crack first.

You lied from the moment you met me in 2008 right up until July 2011. You told me you  were in love with me and begged me to forgive all the lies you told for the first 10 months that I knew you. Then you pleaded with me to wait for you to get an apartment for nearly 2 years. You cried on the phone dozens of times telling me of the plight of your mildly handicapped daughter, your life and broken miserable marriage and when I questioned you as late as the winter of 2010 and into 2011 you still swore your love and asked me why I distrusted you or questioned your motives.

Beyond disgusting is the only way to describe you. Who on earth uses a handicapped child as a rouse to get women into bed? Who on earth could lie like that, for as long as you did? Other than a complete sociopath.

You cheated on your wife during your entire marriage, which you admitted to me, while traveling all over the place. You lured me into your twisted sick game too. Your patterns are very predictable to anyone that cares to take heed. You will never change. I still have all the phone records, text messages, photos and emails from you as proof of your sociopathic lies. You need deep therapy, unfortunately for you, there is no therapy. However, your victims do. I pray your child manages all right through life having you as a father. God knows, any girl with a father like that would be damaged forever.

But I do want to thank you. Because I am free from your psychotic and twisted affairs and lies. Because my children are beautiful, stable, successful and talented. Because I don’t have a past I need to run from or lie about. Because I make normal bonds with other normal people that have no need to hide who or what they truly are.
Please stop coming by here and making a fool out of yourself. Please ask your friends and that dingbat social worker from Maine, to cease visiting my blog. I have no interest in you nor your pathetic life. I know you are a consummate liar, a womanizer, a sociopath and a narcissist.  Remarkably, so do you, when you are alone with yourself (and if that dimwit has half a brain, she knows it too).

You’re not even good looking Mark. Look what I found? —>You look like Gary Busey with a red nose and big crooked yellow teeth. And the funny thing is, the resemblance is so uncanny, someone asked me if I had manipulated the photo. Nope.

I remember my gut instinct the night I met you was, “Weirdo”. Which was why I tried to give you the slip to begin with. But you hunted me down from Vancouver to Florida and to NJ and back again. You are a weirdo. You are a freak.

I will ask you once again, please go away. Stay away from my blog and please stop staring at my images. Just get used to your short, hairy, Wombat with frog legs from the woods.

The life you left  a behind will catch up to you one day. You are repeating the same thing all over again. You’re such an idiot.

Life is spectacular without you in it.

http://psychopathyawareness.wordpress.com/2011/11/15/the-psychopaths-hook-love-bombing-sex-and-flattery/

In a New York Minute

It’s been raining here in south Florida all day. A welcome respite from all that damned sun and terminally blue sky. A time to relax and reflect. Believe it or not, I occasionally miss grey skies and cool temperatures. Even a good wicked snow fall would suit me well right about now. Perhaps it is the Autumn most of all that brings forth lost friends, old memories and the smells of a New York night, the brisk chill with smoke filled skies and dirty puddles.
I’ve spent the last few days watching Wood Storks, with their massive white wings that spread out 7 feet and tipped in black, as if they had fallen into a paint can, feeding on brine shrimp and tiny crustaceans. The leering alligator hovering just beneath the surface keeps nearby, worrying the smaller spoonbills and egrets at the water’s edge. A raccoon, boldly walked onto the sun porch late last night, looking for morsels. My twin white cats, Odin and Loki peered out through the sliding glass doors as if the raccoon was somehow a familiar friend. Yet with all of this exquisite Everglades menagerie and fantasia it has made me long for some gritty New York weather, honking horns, cold chills and sweaters and boots. And so I’m off. For a New York minute…
I have people to see and bands to hear. I need to put my feet into my boots, put on my Pea coat and step into a smelly darkened night club and hear the sounds of raucous rock and roll at The Stone Pony or maybe some sultry blues. Life goes by too quickly and while glorified in sunshine, I’m afraid I may miss something. And so I do.
I miss my children’s hugs, my son’s wonderful film making stories and my dear mother, alone now with nothing to keep her company but her own piss and vinegar and Burlesque tales. But still, she is my Mom and I love her dearly. I love her humor and her crazy politics. I love hearing her reminisce and being with her brings me closer to my father, now gone 4 years. I am the prodigal daughter returning for her yearly or bi-yearly trek. Although I have shunned the sun of late, they will all tell me how tan I am. And just when the noise, the frenetic pace and the weather has taken its toll, I will return. So I am off for a New York Minute.
While there, I will look up musician friends and maybe sit in on a few sets. I will continue to write and work remotely as I have been doing. And when I return I will bring with me the flavors and sounds of New York. The bright lights and the big city. I will don cashmere sweaters and darker lipstick. Things not appropriate here in south Florida. One can only don yellow sundresses and pink tanks tops for so long. Some may find it odd that I return north for the autumn. But why I wonder? I love the gorgeous maroon and gold treetops and black cold skies at night. I love the smell of a fireplace burning in the distance. I love the way the stars look piercing the black velvet heavens.
In Florida it is always summer. I long for winter now. I long to sleep under thick blankets and be so chilled in morning that only the hottest coffee can cure, for a New York minute. I look forward to sleeping late, no being blasted out of bed at 7 am because the sun has crept right into the room, emblazoning itself to your eyelids. I need a hibernation of sorts. A temporary hibernation from paradise. And when I return, just as the sun will wait for me here like a lover, I will open my arms widely, kissing my adoring hot seas, the sanguine palms and my home far south of the border. Both the cold bluster of New York and the sublime heat of the deep south, you fill up my senses, come love me again.
I will return soon my love.

Summer