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requisite request for votes!

* We are down to 16 Idol writers! It's one of those things that feels simultaneously as though we just started last week and we stared a millenniaago. LOL. I love The Real LJ Idol! I mean, I really really love it. The writing, the reading, the prompt-based anxiety. I have nearly 150 pieces of writing because of my time in this crazy rollercoaster of a writing ride. That's a gift to a writer, it really is. 

Anyway, this week I revisited one of my favourite topics - pioneer women! If you enjoyed that small fic, please click through and vote! Also, if you are so inclined to read and comment and vote for other GREAT writers, you can access each entry via the poll -


Thank you!

* Stepped on my Kindle in the middle of the night because it was on the floor and because the silly LittleDog needed to go in an out of the house two gazillion times. I was literally sleepwalking the last time and bammo! ruined the Kindle. They aren't pricey - $40, but still. 

* Speaking of electronic devices, I haven't told you all how CRAZY I am about the gift my mother gave me for Christmas - an Instant Pot!!! OMG, peeps! You all NEED this kitchen appliance. I haven't been this mad for a kitchen doodad since I got my KitchenAid stand mixer. I will be getting rid of my big crock pot. I still use the smaller size (that I got for a wedding gift) for drinks and such. But this Instant Pot is the shizz. An electronic pressure cooker! I have been using this four times a week since the beginning of the year and continue to be amazed and impressed by it each time. I really recommend this product!

Such a treat to hear Nick -

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Literary Prize Fight - Wk 16 - Inkling

She stood beside the tiny grave, beneath the Waning Gibbous Moon, the darkened sliver of its shadowed crescent an inkling of its full-bodied turgidity. The empty plains spread wide open beneath her booted feet, her world cast colorless in the silver light.

She hadn’t known. How could she have?

The way the daily press ran the stories, she should have known. But the conception of it, the revelation of the truth, was as strange a thing as the conception of her child had been; the act itself between him and her, but also the creation inside of her of the child, the human form of it, the way it was tied to her, that cord still pulsating from her body to the babe’s body for long minutes after she had been delivered of her confinement. Both of their confinements. That was a definition that made sense to her. Confinement.

And one of the reasons she had chosen to Go West, to leave the herring-boned brick roads of her town, the warmth of her rooms, the sustenance of the kitchen, the comforts of her small and spinster life. She had felt confined, by her surroundings, her female skin. As with all leave-takings, there was fear and sadness, resistance to letting go, but leave she did. Other women had done it, too. There was a small group of them, gathering in the evenings, discussing the possibilities until they took on the appearance of realities. They answered advertisements, wrote letters to an unknown entity, received responses in a male hand with a male sensibility of his surroundings, who he was in God’s eyes, and what he wanted from a life lived with shared fortitude. She had her own collection of correspondence, kept in a fine wooden box with a metal clasp and tiny lock. She kept the key on a long thin ribbon around her neck, falling between her breasts.

She recognized that her inclinations were towards the feminine and the romantic, but she felt more than anyone else could discern, that inside of her might be a rod of resolve. She wanted to be able to lean against it for support, test its untested strength. She was ignorant, then, of how a human spirit becomes tempered steel.

The last letter from him, before the new beginning, and she was on her way. Embarked. Tickets purchased and her belongings sorted. An early-morning freighting wagon with her trunks to the train depot, then with a long look backward before settling into her compartment for the exhausting six days to the Territory. She had educated herself about such lengthy travels. On that score there was plenty to be learned, the endurance of it made easier with such knowledge. But still, it had not been easy, and it took a fair amount of her resolve to bolster her stamina. Mid-way through she spent a restless night in her berth considering climbing off at the next station and finding a new life alone. But she had been made loyal, and she knew he would be waiting on the other end of her maiden’s journey. She passed the time by finishing the fine hem on the rectangle of woolen plaid she had purchased, a wedding gift for him from her. She expertly frayed its edges and marveled at how handsome a neckerchief it would make her Scotsman. The next day she pulled loose three blood-red threads from the hem of her favorite skirt and used them to embroider his initials into one corner of the necker. She found herself smoothing it flat, folding it over and unfolding it, rolling it, unrolling it, laying it across her lap, and then dabbing at her perfumed neck and wrists with it for hours. Finally, she wrapped it in a piece of dress gingham and packed it away.

She was less than a rail day away. She pressed hard on the padded prows of her hipbones and wondered at the mysterious ways in which her soft body would harden.


The child grew ill. Her husband had been gone for days that had become weeks. She knew she would not see him living again. Out of a strange sense of duty and sentimentality, she wanted him returned to her dead so that she could do right by his body.

There was no doctor nearby and she could not drive the buckboard, nor could the child be roused to ride. Another emigrant, widowed, rode out on a pack mule and sat beside the child who was tucked up in the marriage bed so that she could curl into bison pelts and quilts in front of the stove and sleep. She slept hard for hours, but then woke from a dream in which her husband had returned, riding backward on a Crow Creek Sioux pony, its war paint smeared into lines and lines of hand-written English words, she had run outside to read the mount, but the child was in her skirts crying, small hands pulling at the skin of her thighs, the sound of grief growing louder and more dissonant. When she woke, it was the terrified mule braying and the widow at the door with the shotgun, screaming into the darkness at a cougar.

The mule lived, the child died, neither woman able to kill or capable of killing the lion. The neighbor left, promised to return but she was alone, her breasts growing heavy with undrank milk, her guts gnawing unfed. She had to use a pickax to carve the hard earth into a grave.

Each night she stood beside the grave and looked up, watched as the moon rose with the setting of the sun, moved through her phases, the stars all her scattered unborn.

Two men brought news of death. She could not remember the proper response to bereavement. She had poured all her grief down her throat and pounded at her body until her flesh became black and blue with the shape of her fists. The messengers had a small purse of coins, his gun belt and empty holster, and the tartan that bore his initials, her initials and the given name of their child, that he wore around his neck.

This entry was originally posted at https://bleodswean.dreamwidth.org/331430.html. Please comment there using OpenID.
 !~!~!~HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY BIRTHDAY, [personal profile] murielle ~!~!~!

I hope you're having a GREAT day! Here's to a wonderful year filled with creativity!

*HUGS* This entry was originally posted at https://bleodswean.dreamwidth.org/330785.html. Please comment there using OpenID.

Literary Prize Fight - Wk 15 - Periphery

She was cognizant of the edges of things, of people, places, experiences. Life. It was an unpleasant comprehension, and the feel of these edges was a tactile knowledge, a visceral knowing, that left her nauseated.

She had always feared horizons and sunsets. And could disturb herself with the way the ocean seemed to push against the pane of sky, contained.

As a child any discussion of space would make her light-headed, swaying on her feet, or in her classroom seat, until sometimes she even lost consciousness.

Artwork was unsettling in two-dimensional form, flat mountain ranges, armies condensed into an entire frame, portraits of people who had lived their own lives until the demarcation between alive and dead. Three-dimensional art was even worse, the stiffness of a body, the encasement of marble or stone or ceramic.

She was mystified by the limits of existence, how a living body seemed to have an interior and an exterior. The boundaries of a body were easy enough to identify, trace, press. But the involution was confusing. She did not enjoy envisioning the unborn alive inside another body, and if she had to for some reason or another, she did so with the same electric trill that a trypophobic will consider a lotus seedhead.

All lives seemed to her to be akin to marbles rolling around freely inside of a box with holes drilled into the bottom, tilting to and fro, until eventually, each one dropped through, and then the box was empty, and she didn’t want any part of it, not really, she just wanted to crush the marble of her own life beneath the heel of her shoe. And even that made little to no sense, but in her mind’s eye, it was clarity itself.

Still, suicidal ideation was a psychological term and too cleanly clinical to hold the definition of emotion and dread and anxiety that seemed to plague her more particularly than others. Or perhaps everyone was also thralled and afflicted but better at schooling their faces than she seemed to be.

All these thoughts and memories ran in and out of her mind as quickly as a light switched on and then immediately off in a dark room will illuminate and then blind the retina. It was unnerving how the mind worked, as though it were a gun, she thought, and then decided to sign that beneath his waiting palms. Would he understand her meaning?

He was sitting, facing her, beside the small kitchen table in his single room in the assisted care facility. He didn’t wear sunglasses inside, but his blindness didn’t disturb her. Their legs pushed towards one another, alternating, his knees much broader and his thighs thicker. He had both his hands actively on top of both her hands while she signed. She was supposed to be signing the day’s itinerary to him; he had a doctor’s appointment and then she was going to take him to the library. A book on his wait list had finally arrived after months of waiting. “Astrophysics for People In a Hurry.” That was what had diverted her thoughts and sent her mind skidding.

She narrowed her eyes, trying to shape her thoughts into words her hands could convey, then began signing.

He shook his head, slowly as though befuddled but then faster as he gained her meaning and then he was laughing. Of course, she couldn’t hear his voice, but she could see the physical act of laughter. Her hands quieted, and she settled them on her lap.

He signed EXCLUDE, and then FREEDOM, and a sign that they had formulated between them which meant RESIGN THIS. Over the years she had worked in the deafblind community, she had learned that resignation acted similarly to an anti-anxiety medication. She tapped his knees with her fingertips, and he lightly rested his fingers on the backs of her hands. She answered him with FEARFUL and SICK STOMACH and POINTLESS. He signed quickly, and she signed pulled her index finger from his knuckles up the length of the back of his forearm SLOW DOWN and he did but his intent was complicated. It took her a long time to spell it out inside her head.

She didn’t know how he knew she was weeping, but he reached out for her shoulders and pulled her towards his body. The awkwardness of being seated on the edge of a chair with their knees pressed nearly into one another’s groins caused her to crumple in front of him, knees on the floor, her elbows wedged fast together between their legs and her hands clasped in his lap as though in prayer.


She bought the bottle of cyanoacrylate at the drugstore on her way home. She took it into the bathroom with her just before bedtime. She brushed her teeth, braided her hair, washed her face and smoothed on moisturizer. The entire time she watched her face in the mirror, thinking of how he told her that inside his mind, locked inside his skull, the edges blurred, the horizon expanded, the view was 360 degrees.

She twisted the cap off the bottle and tipped her head back. One hand to squeeze out the drops, one to hold each eye open.

This entry was originally posted at https://bleodswean.dreamwidth.org/330529.html. Please comment there using OpenID.

It snowed!


And snow dog is happy! This is his happy face! 

* So, we moved Kidling1 twice in two weeks and both times it was in a torrential downpour. But she's settled NOW and we have our money back and she's happy and can focus on her job. First paycheck this week and she will have to begin paying us back for the accrued cost of living past graduation. She got a full ride to ASU, so that's not an issue, thank goodness. Unlike her cousin who graduated medical school the same time and is now in her residency with a waitforit loan nearing $300K and just now decided to wellwhythehellnot get pregnant. This girl is an OB/GYN specialist so this was no accident. Ever since she was a wee girl she's wanted to be a stay at home mom with a mess of kids, and now she's almost 30, married to a Navy Seal, in the first year of her residency, and....well...I'm a bit stunned. I think we are selling women a load of crap when we tell them they can and should have it all, because you literally can't. And that's not being anti-feminist, it's being realistic. Unless you want to embrace a kind of Zionism wherein you produce a baby and those women best suited to raising it raise it while you return to what you are best suited to. I wish the best for these two kids but I, personally, can't envision it. 

* Had a huge assignment this past weekend that I polished up at five this morning. A time that suits me! I was up with the men as they were getting ready to leave for the Bay and there was SNOW and they made me a fire and I had coffee and a small dog and this article, so it was an enjoyable time. I think I need to commit to five am every day and get back into the writing saddle. I have finally decided that I've missed it and I want to return to it in full. Besides, there are SO MANY submission opportunities in these modern times and that makes it as much fun as writing for A03 used to be!

* So far the tweakers seem to be steering clear of Jerry's place. We keep checking on it every few hours. D has told the niece that he wants to purchase and is willing to hire a probate attorney for her. I think the harsh truth is that he's going to have to be the one to hike up the mountain and find what remains. The police really don't seem to care. 

* I drank the KoolAid and mainlined "A Discovery of Witches." And it was GOOD! I had read the first in the trilogy when it came out and literally threw it straight into the garbage I was so incensed by the cliffie. But the show is better suited to that sort of break in the story. Not a huge fan of either main actor but the supportings are wonderful and these two work together well, so it doesn't abrade. Anyone else watch it? 

* Found Tobias Wolff's "In the Garden of the North American Martyrs" at the thrift store last week and read it this morning and OMFG. My dark heart adores him so much! He is a GENIUS and his short stories are stunning. Something to aspire to certainly. 

Then there's this -

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This is not ME asking YOU to do my homework....but I do have a large article on the boards about frugality. Especially frugality in the home. And I'm wondering....

I am one of those people who enjoy being frugal, as does D, so we are matched that way. It has allowed us to pay off our house - THIS YEAR! But it has also meant no car payments which means no snazzy vehicle, no credit card debt which can mean no snazzy holidays, no dining out, no cable TV, no shiny-off-the-floor new things. In short, not much snazz. Lol.

At this point in our lives, being frugal is just practicality, but early on, it was necessity. I worked very, very hard at it.  

What are some of your most favourite frugal tips? My editor suggested those wool dryer balls in place of dryer sheets and I thought to myself - AMATEUR - because as the frugal amongst us know, a dryer is NOT frugal. Line dry those togs, bitches, or hang them in your laundry room. 

THE most cost-saving thing we've done in the house was install a hot-water-on-demand water heater, or a tankless water heater. It was pricey out the door - $1,000, we found one on clearance $890, and convinced the Lowe's guy to sell it with another 10% off because it was open box, and we had a coupon, too. :)  D installed it himself. Our electricity bills were hovering around $300 a month because we did not have gas or propane, only electricity and the hot water heater was killing us. D tried keeping it on a timer but the reduction was not very deep. The tankless heater dropped our bills $200 a month. I kid you not. And we got the added bonus of finally installing propane.

The most expensive thing I, personally, have ever purchased was my Hasselblad gear when I went pro. I started out with second-hand equipment and then finally signed up for a 12 month no interest loan from Hasselblad and paid off my new gear in a year's time. I only paid it off with the cash coming in from portrait/wedding work. 

We purchase our beef by the side from a local butcher who takes exquisite and kind care of his steer. It saves us thousands of dollars and lasts about three years. 

One thing I dig about frugality is that it oftentimes means greener healthier alternatives.

Again, tell me what YOU do to be frugal! 

This entry was originally posted at https://bleodswean.dreamwidth.org/330068.html. Please comment there using OpenID.

Jan. 28th, 2019

A few of us are having a pretty decent convo over at The Real LJ Idol today about LJ vs DW. Check it out and join in -


This entry was originally posted at https://bleodswean.dreamwidth.org/329884.html. Please comment there using OpenID.
* Happy/sad with my Idol piece this week.

Happy because it came together rather quickly once I had "seeded" it to dream the night before. This is a new technique I've been working with, trusting the process, or giving over to the Muse. My Muse has shifted, too, that goat-footed boy...but I will talk more about that another time. The seeding works the same as any seeded dream. I spend five to ten minutes before I fall asleep with the prompt and some googling and then let my subconscious take hold of it and follow that around for a while. Invariably I wake in the earliest hours with Ideas and Images, Thoughts and Characters, Scenes and Lines and then I type all that into the Notes program on my iphone and send it to my email so that I can read it when I wake. I have not yet been unsurprised by what I find in that sleepy email. It's a strange technique but it is a technique. When I try to consciously plot and populate a piece of fiction, I have not been able or capable. I'm wondering if it's because I'm writing so much non-fiction these days which requires a very honed conscious intent. 

Sad because that sort of grief is becoming my mother's complicated grief and things are bad again. 

* Jerry's cabin. Things went upside down fast and D got smokin' hot enraged and then took over for the entire road. Cops got more involved, detectives consulted, legal counsel phoned, Jerry's niece was found and drove three hours up here, we discovered who planted this fucken idea in this tweaker's head, and then FINALLY the cops were still saying that only Jerry could be the victim and regardless of the fact that he's dead up on the mountain he isn't here to claim victim status and then lo and behold they discovered a crack pipe and meth on this scrumbler AFTER he threw more of Jerry's stuff out the door - mattress, clothing, food, cooking items. The saws, the guns, the air compressor are all gone. The firewood has been moved down to this dirtbag's mother's house she is renting at the end of the road. The deputies cut a deal with the loser saying they would only cite him for the drugs if he would get out of Jerry's house, so apparently he's gone. But this was Thursday. Yesterday, D and the other men on the road went over there and fully contained the property because this guy had left all the lights on and a brand new widescreen TV mounted to the wall on at full blast, so they turned all that off, screwed the door shut and locked the gate. The niece is trying desperately to find a probate lawyer. And that's where it stands today. 

* Kidling1's apartment woes got worse and then got better. She's moving AGAIN this next Saturday to a very nice modern apartment complex with all the amenities and her attempt to live the hip boho life downtown are on hold. She's okay with this because she has become actually frightened of the management and has been staying in a hotel! And I think her fears are founded because the first morning at the hotel the manager texted her and said he saw her car at the hotel and he was sorry. OMFG, WUT??? This town is known for it's bizarre religious cult element and we are thinking these folks are part of that. Anyway, she does LOVE the job and says she would have zero time for hipster past times because she has to focus on her career now and the learning curve should be months. We will be moving her next weekend and we will all be able to sleep soundly after that.

* Remember when we were all going nuts for Diane Setterfield's The Thirteenth Tale? Well before things got cuckoo here, I had begun her new Once Upon a River and it's fantabulous! I'm anxious to get back to it. 

* And I really do want to hold forth about True Detective S3! 

Kidling2 and I are trying to master this left-hand. Fun!

This entry was originally posted at https://bleodswean.dreamwidth.org/329222.html. Please comment there using OpenID.
She decided, on that last day, to rise, as the sun rose. Slowly, steadily. With great precision and startling illumination. She would have liked to spread warmth outwards but she knew now the frozen core of her would not be thawing, there would be no melting. Her heart’s love was a corpse, her blood thuggish with the icy pain of it.

Her daily walks had grown longer, her stamina increasing tenfold over the arduously long weeks and weeks of movement. Only outside, moving with purpose, was she able to remember that life is, by its very definition, a thing for the living. Inside their home, she shuffled, from sofa to cook-top, teakettle to cup, sofa to bedroom, a litany of loneliness. His seat, on the other end of the sofa, had become a repository for her conversations with him, the observations, the asides, the chuckles, the weeping. He bore it all with invisible stoicism and patience, the ghost of him inside her head not in the living room.

She was caught in a kind of living death. And that wouldn’t do, not grammatically nor metaphorically. Neither certainly nor physiologically. More and more often, lying in the middle of their bed with her ankles crossed and hands crossed, on top of the windowpane duvet she had crocheted when they were newlyweds, she demanded of her body to stop, begged of it to let go, pleaded with it to cease, asked it to end itself.

Her body had become unwilling martyr to her sacrifice.

The early morning was cool; she donned layers. The day would warm quickly. It was an anniversary, but a secret remembrance that mattered only to her and to him. To the non-existent them. She held it close, the way one does an injured creature and warmed it with her breath.

No need to bother locking the door or leave a note. There was no one to care.

She did make a sandwich. She had been subsisting on small loaves of pumpernickel and deli liverwurst. She had a bottle of good mustard in the fridge, and she used her last red onion rolling about in the veggie drawer. She made a discipline of the slicing and spreading and layering. Cut triangular halves, wrapping it artfully in a square of wax paper. She tucked the folded package of it into the pocket of his great coat. She might need sustenance to make it the distance.

Outside on the stoop, she breathed deeply, and her lungs protested. It was early. Feral cats and garbage men. She set out.

The familiar route she had been taking every day seemed strange at this hour. She walked through her neighborhood, without turning back this time. She crossed a major street and methodically began pacing city blocks, downtown, a bad spot of slum, midtown, uptown and then past the sprawling university campus and into upscale suburbia. Lights were on in upstairs rooms, kitchens bustling behind curtains and TVs flickering behind blinds. Dogs barked politely and then parents loading children into cars. She entered neighborhoods lined with quintessential ranch-style homes, set back evenly from the street, then past the enclosed mall, and into older neighborhoods, post-WWII cottages, cyclone fencing, worn out apartment complexes, townhomes, strip malls. As she neared a freeway and the edge of her town, she looked back over her shoulder, wondering if her sins were numerous enough to be turned to salt, but her blessings won out and she smiled, ducked under the overpass and came out into a flattish field with a smattering of black cattle. She took the frontage road northeast. She was further away from home by time rather than distance and began pondering that philosophically, missing him more in those moments than she had for months. Walking towards the sun, she welcomed the flickering of her sight as she stared unblinkingly ahead.

The walking was tedious up on the shoulder, beside the barbed wire fence, across the dirt and rocks and scrub. A young man pulled his truck over to the side and called up to her, his face was earnest and his voice sincere, and she smiled and waved him on. She knew she must appear peculiar, slightly bent wrapped in a black wool coat, walking along the fence line in the middle of nowhere in particular. He stayed, idling, for long minutes, she could hear him finally pull back onto the roadway and continue his day.

She turned down a country road named with a single letter and realized the sun was overhead now. She adjusted her direction so that it would set in front of her. Her eyes were burning, she was parched, and her calves were aching. She looked out at the horizon and knew she wouldn’t be making it to the foothills. For the next few hours, she considered all the human beings who had lived on this land before her, stretching backwards into the void. She found comfort in this line of thought.

As the daylight shifted and began to reform itself into evening light, she climbed through a fence and headed towards a line of river elms in the distance. She didn’t want a drink of creek water, but she longed for the sound of it.

She had begun stumbling and finding that she had to stop periodically to calm her heart and pull air into her body. She was, after all, quite old and bereaved. Underfed and underslept. Now she wanted to eat and then to sleep. Beneath the trees, the dark loomed and she welcomed its beckon. The creek was larger than she had imagined, moving with purpose over rocks and between its banks. She lowered her body by the muddy edge of it and fished the sandwich out of his pocket. She had worn the coat because that’s what he had worn on that last day, stepping just outside the front door of their home, looking down at her, reaching for her hand as he pulled the door closed. He had taught her to love the molasses taste of pumpernickel and the creamy bite of liverwurst, pressing the two pieces of thin bread together with his knuckles, holding the rounds of onion fast between his thumbs and fingers. His hands had shaped her world. She had taught him how to use the waxed paper as gift wrapping.

She peeled back the paper and nibbled on one corner of the sandwich she couldn’t remember making, then she unwrapped it entirely, shoved the paper back into the pocket, and scattered the food on the ground beside her for a nocturnal discovery. Standing again was an agony but she was so close now. She didn’t want to reprimand her body, he had loved it so very much. She stepped into the creek and lay down to sleep in its bed.

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We had a strange and unsettling weekend. Two things, both maddening and a bit mind-blowing, one is rectifiable the other is not. 

The first is Kidling1's new place. After doing all the "right" things to insure that she would be settled before her CAREER begins today, we spent two exhausting days moving her, only to find the pricey apartment was in no way ready for occupation Saturday when we arrived mid-day. Not only was it unclean with burnt out light bulbs and no smoke detectors, we were hit like a sledge hammer by the overpowering odor of sewer vent. OMFG. The manager and landlord attempted to act shocked but the more we talked the more it became apparent that this is an issue they have been grappling. There was no explanation about the condition. We HAD to move her in because we had a U-Haul and were two hours away from home. They did offer her use of their AirBnB apartment down the hall....but uh, okay? She remained calm and has been handling it well. My baby done growed herself up when she was in Phoenix for three years. She got the place professionally cleaned yesterday and this morning a plumber is coming. She spent most of yesterday morning out looking for another apartment only to come up very frustrated because the two wildfires have added to an already stressed housing issue in the area. So, she got very firm with the landlord and he said they would give her the odor-free double unit down the hall for the same price. That's great, but means I will have to go up there this weekend and help her out. The menfolk already have plans. 

I only wanted to make sure that she stayed centered and focused for today, for this week, for the new beginnings. But she was actually less stressed than I was, simply said she doesn't have time for it. I need to begin learning from my children.

The second is a seriously fucked up thing. You all remember the sad story of my 83 year old neighbor and D's friend who went missing two years ago. His cabin and gorgeous acreage abuts our place and we've been keeping an eye on it, wondering if a death certificate would foreclose it so we could purchase. We have always loved it, tried to purchase it when J was alive but couldn't get a loan because it has no foundation, just giant river stones. LOL! Anyway, we knew the Camp Fire was going to bring "elements" into the area, we just didn't know it would be so close to home. Friday, some scrumblers moved in. They had been trolling tax records and paying off delinquent property taxes and beginning the adverse possession of various properties. J's is one of them. They moved in and began breaking into all his outbuildings, garage, trailer. By Saturday afternoon all his stuff was thrown out on the yard or sold. They chained up their pit bull and posted No Trespassing signs everywhere. They won't answer the door. All his guns were in there, his THINGS. It's sickening. The Sheriff's office is saying No Victim, No Crime. D is heartbroken. 

Now, we have to live next door to them. For. The. Rest. Of. Our. Lives.


I will return ready to discuss True Detective S3 or Blacklist S6. 

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