I have a love-hate relationship with the wind. / Sometimes, i find myself all dolled up to go out, feeling pretty & fine & fancy & queenly, & as i wait for my cab, perched on my porchrailing off of which the paint is peeling, the wind off the sea forces its way past our protective shielding pines, & tears my false, hairspray-fortified loveliness from me like a sheet off a line. It sticks its dry, sharp fingers into the corners of my eyes, making me cry unsad tears, & it musses my carefully-arranged flirty skirts like a too-eager highschool boyfriend.

Then, as news of the slaughter spread through the city, the streets filled with rolling-mill hands and other workers who broke into a gunworks and captured two hundred rifles and additional small arms.

As a Usonian of Celtic-Franco/Gallego Mexican-Quaker-Catholic-German-Blackfoot-Rock&Roll descent, I feel at home.

You made your best honest effort; if they judge you harshly, that’s their problem, not yours.