290: Torn Open

wiped clean
Torn Open

Torn Open

If I were a painter, I’d paint you as the river flowing through my heart, my arms outstretched in acceptance and need and want, my body limber and bleeding, the blood the very essence of my unquenchable desire.

The water, being you, would be the clearest and the sweetest, and the very richest, pouring through the canvas of me as melted butter across warm sugar-cakes.

I’d take you into me, soak in your yellow-sunshine, and swell into a catapult of expectation fulfilled. The rest of me, the part I’d left behind, outside the door that shelters our space, I’d call forth then, one by one and piece by piece, each part carrying in another puzzle of my completion.

And there, gathered on the floor, I’d rest, my every angle dismembered, broken, and waiting to be reassembled by you. In doing so the echoes of my desperate longing would be answered, and silence would ensue, if not forever, then for a moment, long enough for the splinters of my callings to rest and form shape.

There, in the silence, in the peace, I would wait, no longer afraid or without, no longer in pain.

Though broken and scattered, I would be whole. Though taken and left out, I would be home. Though ripped apart and tangled, the very heart of me missing his place, I would beat with a life so full my dreams would sing.

Like soldiers I would take flight; winged butterflies, a spectacle of starlit ghosts twirling and rising all at once to the trumpeting of our destiny.

You would whisper then, to me, this sugar-spiced dumpling of one form or another, in all my mystery, in all my guise; you would whisper sweetness so pure that my spine would tingle and take his place, amongst the pieces lost.

Here you would draw, your finger thick and calm, your voice trembling through the vibration of your flesh; and I, as ink, would appear, my design clear and precise, my meaning known and wanted.

I would not whisper, for the voice of the room would be yours, and yours alone. Your silhouette dancing in the shadows like a raven whom pecks the ripest seedlings from the foreground, a painter himself merging and forging to create substance for this soul.

Red would drip new, droplets of amulets and silver-tipped gold. My paint yours. A keeper of chance you be, diving into the gentleness and hope of tomorrow with the tip of your brush, a quail’s feather topped in delight.

Scribbled across white, I be.

Designed in the fashion you forbade and forbid, both ruptured and raptured at once.

I would burst for you, and you alone. My hungry voice rising to be heard above the quiet you created. Until, as serpent uncoiled and ram diving thick, I would come forth, rebirthed and complete in the making of you.

For where you dipped and twirled the horsehair and blanketed warmth, the artists stick and brush, I too dipped. For where you danced, I too danced, like a stallion in the moonlight free, my mane flowing beyond and touching the edges of your silhouette.

For in creating me, you both created self and dream, mister and misses. My sacrifice, though felt eternal, well worth the storm.

My endless searching, my endless calling, my escape into nothingness and a gentle calm, all part of the canvas you set forth. For if not for you and me, for my pain and your finding, then still I would pierce myself atop the mountain top, one knife after the other, alive but dead, awake but asleep.

For it was not until you called, until you came, until you saw me and claimed my existence that I truly was. Not until your coming destroyed me and brought me back again that I was truly born.

For in the existence that I know, you are my maker, my shaker, my taker, my master, my everything beyond the sun. In knowing you, or the part of you that held me, I have at last held myself.

And though the tears have etched and molded, created someone I know not, someone beyond my very self, alas I remain in awe of my beauty, inspired by creator you.

So please, as you whisper farewell, as you close the door, my fallen pieces reassembled and transpired, know I weep not so much for the loss of what was you, and what I thought I knew, but for the finding of myself.

~~~ Samantha Craft, December 31, 2012

Happy New Year….may you above all, having found the beauty of you, spread your light upon the waiting world. Blessings ~ Sam

289: Sleepless Near Seattle

motel me

I didn’t sleep well last night.

Tonight, I said to my husband: “Honestly, I’m not exaggerating; I woke up at least forty to fifty times last night.”

Then I replayed the sleepless night in my head, to make sure I wasn’t exaggerating about the amount of times I woke up.

I hate to lie. And to me, any stretch of the truth seems a lie. I almost self-corrected, as I calculated that to wake up forty times in an eight-hour period, I’d have had to have opened my eyes about five times an hour. In actuality, I probably woke up four times an hour …so it was likely thirty-two times. But I stopped myself from speaking all these thoughts aloud, and just stared at my husband with squinted eyes and furrowed brow, like I always do when I am processing in my head.

Then, knowing I’d paused too long when considering typical conversational protocol, I sputtered: “I couldn’t sleep because you snored.” Only that statement instantly didn’t feel right, and I knew I’d soon be speaking my whole truth, whether I wanted to or not.

I processed more. I have no clue what my husband was doing, even though I was practically on top of his lap on the couch. I was in a distant land thinking that I ought not to have provided such a large gap of time as the space between forty and fifty times—that’s a ten point spread.

Confused in general, I tried to recover and offered, “It wasn’t just you snoring.” I was sounding weepy and whimpy, by now.

Soon, the complete truth began to leak out.  I confessed, “And there was something else.”

Of course my husband asked, “What?”

I responded slowly, with a full-blushed face.

Within seconds my husband was laughing so hard that I expected snot to shoot out of his nose.

You see, last night, we had, at the last moment, decided to stay at a motel off of the interstate, while traveling up north-east for a snow-sledding adventure. The plan was to drive up in the evening and sled in the morning the next day. I  accidentally booked a hotel (with swimming pool, continental breakfast, two televisions, etc.) that was too far away from our destination; so last-minute-searching led us to a small, what I would call “cheap” motel.


I took this on our way up to the snow

I guess I was keen on the fact that we were likely staying in what could be termed a “dive,” when my husband informed me that we had scored a large room with three beds, in one of only two motels in the entire town, near a popular ski resort, for only $99. That, and the fact that the small, twenty-year old television only got one channel.

Oh, and yes, my son with Aspergers did say straight away, “I don’t like the smell of this place.”

Upon entering the spacious room, about six-feet away from where our mini-van was parked, I tried to get into my place of Zen; I do that quite frequently, set about to have a Zen-like mindset. I think to myself, what would a saint do, or Buddha or Jesus, if in a similar situation. How would he or she respond? And the answer is typically the same: act with gratitude and grace. And then I push down those thoughts of how much easier it would be to be Zen-like without my type of mind.

In considering the motel, I contemplated my good fortune. We had fresh water, shelter, blankets, warmth, electricity, and more. I snapped myself out of the “disappointment” zone swiftly, without calling myself names like “spoiled” and “unappreciative,” as I’m working on that whole positive-thinking thing, too. Which depending upon my mood, sometimes makes me want to gag.

But staying true to my state of positive-Zenniness, I began to list in my head everything the motel had to offer, right about the time my husband came out of the oddly-angled bathroom (toilet juts out and causes one to bruise knee when passing by said toilet) and announced, “Don’t forget to add that the floor slopes down at an odd angle to your list of why this place is cheap.” He knows me so very well.

So, I’m listing the positives to myself: (and occasionally out loud with a snicker to my husband)

Internet connection

Oldest son has own bed.

Even though I can’t use my bath salts as there is no bathtub, there is a quaint stand up shower.

Mold is only on the outside of the shower door.

The smell of cigarette smoke and what seems to be wet-dog-scent is not too strong.

There are other cars in the parking lot; which means other people stay here, too.

No hair that I can see: dog or human.

The sparkles glow that are set in the cottage-cheese-like ceiling; I don’t think I can get asbestos poisoning unless someone jams a fork or something up there.

The aged lamps painted poop-brown from the inside out, are all cracked and broken which makes an interesting type of abstract art; I wasn’t electrocuted when I turned on the lamp.

The boys won’t be fighting over television channels.

The door lock sticks and we can’t use it, but that chain should hold up for one night.

The light from the parking lot will serve as a giant night-light.

We don’t have rooms below us or above us, and on either side of our room are storage garages. The boys can be loud and no one will hear.

We don’t need to use the noisy heater that heats up the room too fast, especially since the curtains (that remind me of my childhood home) hang right over the heater, because if it gets cold, we can pretend we are camping.

This would be a cool setting for a Fargo-type movie or for the series Breaking Bad.

If anyone died in here, it was likely a long time ago.

I haven’t slept in a full-size lumpy bed for years.

The lacquered wall art of trees reminds me of the 1970’s.

I have both thick socks and slippers on, so I’ll be good to walk on the carpet.


I’m working on my list of gratitude when my husband chimes in, “And these walls remind me of my mother’s family room.” He’s pointing to the fake-wood paneling and laughing.

I fake a smile, and then whisper to him, “I probably shouldn’t tell the boys to stop rolling in the bedspread because the bedding is likely not laundered, and adults could have done any a number of things on those covers, right?”

“Yes, Hon. Not a good idea,” he answers with his trademark, I-married-a-loon-that-I-adore, shake of the head.

Right about then, my son who has Aspergers pipes in: “Have you seen what they can find with those special blue-lights in hotels?” My husband and I politely ignore him.

In the bathroom, after bumping my knee again, I notice that there is no shampoo, no blow dryer, and no supplies beyond toilet paper, Kleenex, four wrapped plastic cups, and a stack of some ten miniature soaps. Ten tiny soaps wrapped in brown paper? I think to myself.

I come out of the narrow bathroom, and soon my zen-attitude is promptly invaded by a case of the sillies…and everything spills out of my head in the form of a verbal-tag game of why this would be considered a dive hotel, with my husband.

Of course, I won, when I pointed out that there was no coffee or coffee maker.

Still, the little voice in my head circulated and percolated, reminding me to be ever-so-grateful. After all, there was a Starbucks nearby.

This brings us to tonight, and me explaining to my husband why I couldn’t sleep while in the motel.

This is how the conversation went:

“Well. It wasn’t really your snoring that kept me up. That was just a small part of it.” I paused, not so much for effect, but because I knew I was going to bust up laughing, even though I was entirely serious.

My husband Bob waited patiently.

I continued. “I couldn’t sleep because…..” I paused.

“I couldn’t sleep because I was afraid I might touch the sheets,” I said.

Bob smiled and held back his chuckles. “But you had your sleeping bag, pillow, and blanket from home and you weren’t touching the sheets.”

“I know,” I said. “But I was still afraid…I was afraid I would accidentally touch the sheets in the night.”

Bob busted up fully.

“Ha,ha, ha, ha. So you were like lying there asleep, and then you’d wake up with a jolt, look to your side and think the sheets, like they were some monster?” He stiffened his body and imitated me in a fear state on the bed at the motel, terrified to move an inch. “But you were in a sleeping bag,” he added.

“I know,” I said, “but I was afraid if I feel asleep my arm might flop out and…”

“And you’d accidentally braze the sheetttttttttttttttt!”

“Yes,” I answered, by now laughing hysterically. “I couldn’t move or relax because I was afraid I would touch the sheets”

“I love you, Honey,” Bob said, implying he knew how hard it was for me to be me, right before he did another mini-scene of me being attacked by the sheets.

Here is my bed: (See how close the sheets are???)


I guess Bob wasn’t too surprised by my sheet confession, because this morning in the motel I made another of my phobias known. I had whispered to him, “Okay, I’m just going to tell you now, so when you find the wet clothes in the laundry you’ll know why.”

“Oh, no,” he responded, shaking his head. “What?”

“I’m showering in my socks!”

blue skyOn the way home

I wanted to call this post: Attack of the Killer Sheets, but I didn’t want to give the ending away.

288: Winter Comes

dark tree

Winter Comes

Winter comes, as it often does, his cold face upon my flesh, burning,

And I am made as pine forest swollen thick, my endless branches covered in frozen stillness,

Swept across the carpeted white, my dreams shiver, the darkness rising with each fallen crystal,

Caressed, I was, in the tenderness of autumn’s promise, in the savoring of summer’s waltz,

In the incandescent spotlight of springing flower fields,

Dance, as we did, two drifting leaves upon the shadow of self,

Spun, as we did, our golden orbs woven true, one onto the other,

Until the sunlight ceased, and dawn dismissed her rays,

Like dripping-orange of long ago trails of children at play,

Come swing, come hide, come find me beneath the arching limbs,

I called, even as the last glimmer of day scurried down beyond the mouth of valley,

Even as the night embraced, father moon stretching arms about the stars,

I called, lamb of the vast sky and seeded land,

We mingled then, daughter I am, wed in delight to son of the mountain quake,

We quivered there, as two arrows set out together, to claim a destination,

Fine marksman he be, who willed us so, the child of the horizon stretched and bent into your clay-flesh,

Still, even as we clung in unison, our echoes the same, our landing near, one questioned,

Still, as if by chance the widow bleeds black and the talisman finds master, one denied,

And so dark winter claws came, as happens when beauty is stung, his steps the thickest snow marked in red,

And I as captive, deserted by the richest earth himself, had no choice but to follow,

My feet, my hands, my breath, my bosom, reborn rapacious, where your light was meant to live.

~ Samantha Craft, December 2012

287: Neurotic Films That Make Me Feel Normal

I like the fact that the word neurotic and erotic rhyme. No point to this statement, except that the thought makes me giggle.

I’ve been under the weather, since the start of the week.

(Paused to look up origin of the phrase under the weather, as I couldn’t concentrate until I knew. Findings: The crew aboard ships become seasick most frequently during times of rough seas and stormy weather. People experience seasickness as a result of a ship’s constant rocking motion. Passengers seek refuge from seasickness below deck. Below deck, or the keel of the ship, provided shelter from the weather but is also a place where passengers experience less rocking motion. Thusly, when one is under the weather, he/she is seeking relief from suffering by going below deck, beneath the weather.)

My acute illness has mimicked my eldest son’s head-cold exactly: sore throat, followed by body aches and slight fever, followed by faucet nose and non-stop dripping eye.

I look lovely, truly: puffy faced, swollen eyes, and red nose. But seeing I’m well enough to post, despite my ghastly appearance, I’m surely recovering.

For Christmas, my cousin sent me dark-chocolate that is molded into the shape of a cherub. At first I believed the act of eating a cherub to be strange. But then, after I used a knife to decapitate the angel and dismembered and mutilated the entire body, I felt oddly sinful and delighted all at once as the sliced-and-diced sweetness melted inside my heated mouth.

Being sick during the holiday season sucks eggs!

Primarily as there is nothing to do but plumage through all of the festive goodies scattered about the house. This cold came with a ravenous appetite, and seems I was unable to satiate my stomach unless I devoured at least ten english toffee pieces (covered in nuts) a day, and washed these devilish-treats down with goddess-like, sugar-coated pecans.

I now pause to thank the scale for announcing my excess poundage, and reminding me of my pillaging. I thank the mirror for reinforcing my weight gain, in the form of chipmunk cheeks and a plump little belly. Indeed, I resemble a cross between Rudolph and one of Santa’s helpers. Quite fitting for the season, I suppose.

I’ve been fighting the miserly voices in my head, those poopheads that like to admonish me for indulgences, reminding me constantly of life’s dangers, including obesity, liver disease, and lethargy, from anything from the spiked eggnog and port wine, to the nighttime cold medicine. Severe liver damage, the phrase itself, keeps dancing in my head like some vivacious roadkill demanding to be dissected. How I long for visions of sugar-plum fairies or the liken, and all things sweet. Instead I am endowed with this overactive mind, that can’t seem to ever relax, especially when drugged up, over-stuffed, and immobile.

I’ve had way too much time to meander through the wilderness of my own thoughts, and have, as a result, circumvented all my previous avenues for planned respite and escape. Knowing I needed to bypass my own supercilious mind, while stricken with fever and while experiencing both emotional and physical angst, I devised an escape plan.

I keenly reasoned, if I had a goal that involved helping others, but that also incorporated the act of relaxation, that I might indeed be able to relax, and feasibly enjoy said relaxation without too much guilt.  (Goal + helping another = Happy Sam)

I am happy to report that my scheme against my very own self worked.

As I rested flat on my back, and set about to watch some ten-plus, romantic comedies in the stretch of 48 hour time period, I repeatedly reminded myself, that in actuality I was neither sloth-like or a waster of time, because I was partaking in the act of researching ten movies (goal) in order to report out potential films that might offer others happiness (helping another). Thusly, each time the icky, snotty interior voice (that lives inside me and eats at my joy) spoke up, sometimes several times in a quarter-hour, spewing words such as: useless or fatly couch spud, I was able to strike back with my plan. In so doing, in speaking up for myself to myself, I was able to savor at least a few stringed minutes of peace of mind.

While this likely sounds quite ridiculous, my resulting behavior has produced this glorious list of  Enjoyable  Films.

1. Happy Accidents

I’m a Marisa Tomei liker, so I’m biased. This is a year 2000 romantic comedy. If you are a romantic at heart and love happy endings, this one is a keeper. Plus the main characters pretend name is “Sam.”

2.  Overnight


There are several films with this same name. This one takes place on an airplane. “This romantic comedy follows two neurotic strangers who meet amid an odd group of passengers.” ~ Netflix

3. Sidewalls

Sundance and Foreign Flick…. artistic and visually stimulating. One of my new favorites. Odd and lovable movie. True love will find you in the end. Highly creative.

4. In A Day

A UK film. Heart-warming. A man and woman spend one day together because “someone” wants her to have a great day; the woman is spoiled. Sweet with a twist. Loved this one.

5.  HottieBoombaLottie

A geeky movie that really made me smile. There is a scene towards the end that involves a person with a paintgun shooting in a classroom; because of events in the USA recently, I was sensitive to this scene. However the rest of the movie was delightful and unpredictable in its quirkiness and oddity. I love a movie where the underdog finds happiness.

6. Take This Waltz

Oh my! Erotic and Neurotic combined. One for the ladies. The ending seems to keep coming. A mixture of lust, love and heart-break.

The movie truly mimics this song:

7. The River Why

If you like fish, you’ll love this movie. About a man finding himself and escaping the tight-grip of his parents’ opinions. Nice musical score, lovely characters, and pretty people. Based on an acclaimed novel.

8. Romantics Anonymous (LES EMOTIFS ANONYMES)

I loved this one so much, I might watch it again tomorrow. Innocent and adorable and passionate, all at once. And it is centered around chocolate!!!!

9. Quill: The Life of a Guide Dog

I had to include this one on the list. I watched most of this Japanese film. The beginning is adorable. The end slows down some, but it is nonetheless deserving of attention. I don’t think it classifies as neurotic, but it definitely was an endearing movie. My dog, Violet, really liked this one, and kept watching the puppy.

10. The Fairy

“Belgium-based trio Dominique Abel, Fiona Gordon and Bruno Romy follow their acclaimed ICEBERG and RUMBA with another Tati-inspired, candy-colored romp: this time, a charmingly off-kilter adventure about a hotel clerk who falls in love with a wish-granting fairy.” ~ Youtube link above


If you live in the USA, these are all on Netflix.


Sam (aka: hopelessly romantic neurotic)

Seasons Greetings



Josh Groban 

From the album “Noel”


Somedays we forget

To look around us

Somedays we can’t see
The joy that surrounds us
So caught up inside ourselves
We take when we should give.

So for tonight we pray for
What we know can be.
And on this day we hope for
What we still can’t see.
It’s up to us to be the change
And even though we all can still do more
There’s so much to be thankful for.

Look beyond ourselves
There’s so much sorrow
It’s way too late to say
I’ll cry tomorrow
Each of us must find our truth
It’s so long overdue

So for tonight we pray for
What we know can be
And every day we hope for
What we still can’t see
It’s up to us to be the change
And even though we all can still do more
There’s so much to be thankful for.

Even with our differences
There is a place we’re all connected
Each of us can find each other’s light

So for tonight we pray for
What we know can be
And on this day we hope for 
What we still can’t see
It’s up to us to be the change
And even though this world needs so much more

There’s so much to be thankful for

Merry Christmas from Violet and Sam. See you soon. 🙂