memories/ book/ writing/ marriage / rage / reposing

A lifetime of memories will never return quickly, as my memory problems have less to do with the memories having been erased, than my not being able to find them just yet. The filing cabinet is there for them. It is my ability to go to the cabinet that is impaired. I almost have to pass certain levels to get to the next level, some days I reach that level, some days I do not. In the beginning my thinking had slowed, but that has improved, memory is spotty, whole sections still locked in that file cabinet inside my head. I have had to redefine myself, become a new version of 'me'.  Writing very frankly about, well, just about everything, aging, mortality, my midlife crisis, my children, my accident, my surgeries, my marriage, rage, anger, abuse. Anything I stay up nights worrying over, I write about. At this point in life, I have much material to write about. A jaded piece here, a jagged piece there. Yes, that's my life, a measurement of extremes! 

In between all of this, I am also carving out a romantic haughty interlude I have yet to put a title to.


>>..he had named the island after her, turquoise pool of water she often leaped into, her naked body clambering up on the rocks, breasts exposed to the sun. She could sense the presence of his body climbing towards hers, the smell of his skin as it awaited the touch of her fingertips. The rain forest fringed by white sand beaches that hid their secret, often arriving by private ferry, in complete seclusion. She had thought about the valley of desolation, the narrow path of her life that had plunged her to these gorges, the crack in the earth’s crust she had fallen in to. She had tried to back away, but bruised and blistered, she always came back to the cauldron of boiling water that held their secret and the lure of the passion, the fire each held for the other. The island held their secret, as they held one another clinging to branches, fully experiencing the flesh of one another...