Child Abuse Sucks

Child Abuse Sucks

Our red Jetta had a scratch.

I found a grand “Child Abuse Sucks” sticker, black-and-white which I figured would look great on red, and decided to cover the scratch with the sticker.

Today we came out to our car to find someone apparently thinks Child Abuse doesn’t Suck?


Guess I need a new plan for covering this scratch.


Matthew Raymund Michael Morris Niblick

Oh! Breathe Not His Name
by Thomas Moore (1779–1852)

OH! breathe not his name,—let it sleep in the shade,
Where cold and unhonored his relics are laid;
Sad, silent, and dark, be the tears that we shed,
As the night-dew that falls on the grass o’er his head.

But the night-dew that falls, though in silence it weeps,
Shall brighten with verdure the grave where he sleeps;
And the tear that we shed, though in secret it rolls,
Shall long keep his memory green in our souls.



SB 131 Allows Victims of Childhood Sexual Abuse to Seek Justice

Lawmakers say the bill corrects a Supreme Court case that, because the statute of limitations had been reached, denied a narrow group of child sex-abuse victims the right sue religious organizations, private and nonprofit groups that employed their abusers.

“If we didn’t do it, the law would still be invalid and the people would waiting on the legislature to see if we wanted to correct the law,” said Sen. Jim Beall.

Under the proposed law, victims over the age of 26 in 2003 will have a chance to file lawsuits during a one-year period.

On October 13, 2013 Governor Jerry Brown has refused to sign SB 131 into Californian law.

Brown studied to become a Catholic priest as a young man. This will doubtless fuel debate as to Brown’s motivations for turning down the bill. Kathleen Conti, a keen supporter of SB 131, expressed her sorrow this morning. “It is extremely disappointing that our Governor has allowed powerful deep-pocketed religious leaders, influential religious lobbyists and law firms to cloud the real issue here, which is the right of abuse victims to pursue justice for crimes committed against them,” she said. “Subpoenaed documents clearly show that certain religious institutions have been fully aware of the danger posed to children by pedophiles within their own ranks, but have kept things secret and handled matters internally instead of warning parents and letting the proper authorities handle perpetrators. I find it distressing that congregants will continue to not only attend but also financially support such morally bankrupt institutions who claim to have God’s blessing while at the same time being guilty of concealing crimes against children.”

On October 13, 2013 Governor Jerry Brown has refused to sign SB 131 into Californian law.

On October 13, 2013 Governor Jerry Brown has refused to sign SB 131 into Californian law.

Continue reading


Baxley + Glass

The Baxley & Glass families of Charlotte, North Carolina
have been family friends for generations.

Philip Darryl Glass and Angela Marié Niblick-Baxley Glass

Darryl and Angela

We invite you to sneak a peak at into our social life…

Darryl Glass

Philip Darryl Glass

Darryl “expounds upon Angela’s virtues a little”

“Angela is personable, beautiful, loving, joyful, spiritual-minded, brilliant, playful, serious about important things, sociable, likable, engaging, charming, studious, always thirsting for knowledge, one of the best friends a person can have, and she’s committed to ‘us’.

Angela is a designer in the tech world, I am a consultant in the business tech world. She loves people, family, and culture, like me. She loves to travel and experience other cultures, like me. She’s anxious for the end of this bad system and being a part of God’s new one, like me. She hates all the cruel injustices of this world, like me. She wants to make life a little better for people, like me. She loves the Bible, like me. She believes in the enjoyment of life, like me. She loves the ocean and the beach, like me. She’s also weird and slightly off, like me. All in all, we’re a pretty good fit. 🙂 Good thing since we are becoming “one flesh.'”

Angela on Darryl

“I just asked for the guy version of me.”

David said to Mi?chal: "I will celebrate..."

Raped at Disney World

Disney World Rape Story

To be honest, I feel more violated by the way Disney treated me than I feel from being raped, and I’m worried for every other person that has been in my situation.

I have a feeling that with enough publicity over how poorly their company handles sexual assault accusations, Disney might actually do something proactive about it. So if you would, share this article wherever your online presence may be. We’ll see what happens.

Dana Wierzbicki

It Happened to Me: I Was Raped at Disney World and Nobody Cared” by Dana Wierzbicki via xoJane

See also theWalt Disney World: Change Your Policies Regarding Sexual Assault petition

This petition had 5,613 supporters

Last spring, I was approaching college graduation and trying to figure out what I would do for my First Post-College Job. I had absolutely no idea. I loved studying anthropology, but hadn’t found a prospective job I was really interested in.  

I had heard about the Disney College Program from a few friends that had an amazing time working for the company and thought it would be better than nothing. Add the unlimited access to their theme parks, warm weather, and four extra months to figure out what to do with my life and it sounded pretty ideal.

I was accepted into the program and arrived in mid-August.  After a few days of orientation, I started work on Main Street U.S.A. in the Magic Kingdom.

Three weeks into the program, I was raped by one of my co-workers. 

I don’t feel a desire to share every detail from that night, but I’ll give you the bare bones: He and I went to a party together, we went back to his apartment later, and I said “no,” but he wouldn’t stop.

In Beauty and the Beast, town hero Gaston harasses Belle and refuses to take no for an answer. Later, Gaston is threatening her father … an emotionally abusive tactic that he knows will work. “So, you want me to throw her father into the asylum unless she agrees to marry you?” Gaston has Maurice committed in a mental institution.

See Why These Disney Films May Help Perpetuate Rape Culture

Teen Vogue (2017)

For two months I kept everything that happened that night to myself. I told my roommates that things went fine and I had a good night.  I didn’t know how to feel about what happened. In the beginning, I told myself it was a misunderstanding; maybe he hadn’t heard me. I blamed myself; I should have yelled louder. I should have pushed harder. I should have punched him and ran out of the room.  I always thought that if I was ever raped I would beat the guy up. Does that mean I wasn’t raped?

I tried to talk to him about that night. I thought if we could “work it out,” we could still have some great friendship and I could sweep that one bad night under the rug. I honestly thought it would be easier to befriend my rapist than to deal with everything that comes with a person admitting they were raped.

When I tried talking to him, he said he was too drunk to remember what happened that night. I didn’t believe him, but that was where our conversation ended. After that I still had to see him at work nearly every day, all while being reminded that I was working at The Happiest Place On Earth. I cried a lot in the bathroom and prayed I would get horribly injured (I specified “not fatally”) on the job so I could go home without any further question.  

I finally decided to talk to someone after the first time I ran into him outside of work. He showed up at my friend’s Halloween party dressed as the Phantom of the Opera, which made seeing him that much more unnerving. I spent the rest of the night watching him hit on girls, worrying, and wondering whether or not I should tell my co-workers what happened.

I made an appointment to see one of the counselors in Disney’s Employee Assistance Program. I tried to be optimistic.Of course they’ll listen to me. It’s Disney, a company built on childhood innocence and happiness. Wouldn’t they want to fire an accused rapist immediately? (Spoiler Alert: No.)

I recounted everything that happened that night while the counselor stayed silent and seemed at least mildly sympathetic. When I told her we had been drinking, her face changed from “concerned” to “you made a mistake.”  Still, I told her, I said “no” the entire time and he never listened.

The first thing she said to me was “Well, now you know not to be hanging around boys in the middle of the night. You know what they want.”

Take a few seconds and re-read that. Now let’s unpack it.

A certified counselor was insinuating that it was my fault that my coworker decided to rape me — as if I should have known better than to interact with any man after dark. Not only that, but she was advising me to approach every interaction with a man as if he is a potential rapist, including every man that works at Disney World.  If I react to a man with anything less than hostility after sundown, whatever happens is my fault.

I told her that “no” means “no” whether it’s day or night. That was apparently too radical an idea for her, as she said nothing in reply. She continued to make excuses for my rapist. She asked where he was from and I told her, “France.” She remarked that “cultural differences” were probably part of the problem, telling me that the French have a “different view of love” than we Americans do.  

It was at that point that I completely let go of any hope that this woman would help me.

Still, I told her that I was worried for the girls he was hitting on and didn’t know what to do. She apparently took that to mean I was jealous that I wasn’t getting his attention, because she told me to show up at the next party looking hot and make him jealous.

“You’re a pretty girl. I’m sure you get all the boys.” 

I was stunned.Why on earth would I want to make my rapist feel jealous? That sounds like it would make my rapist angry and want to assert his dominance over me and the situation in a sexual way. And if I followed that advice and he raped me again, they would probably just tell me I should have known better than to dress so sexy around him. I stayed silent and took a card with our next appointment written down. I never showed up, and instead filed a complaint against her.

Over the next few days, I had a breakdown that led to me telling my parents what happened in a frantic, panic attack-induced phone call at three in the morning. They encouraged me to tell the company what happened and said they would fly me home the moment I said I wanted to leave. I ultimately decided to stay another week to report the assault and get all my things together.

It was good that I gave myself a week to get the situation straightened out, because it was impossible to find out where to report a sexual assault within the company. There was no information about how to report a sexual assault in the college program, nor any resources for who to contact.  

I tried calling every department that sounded like they might deal with sexual assault, but ended up in an endless loop of transferred calls until I finally gave up. I went to the front desk of my apartment complex in search of an answer. The look on the guy’s face when I arrived and asked “Hi, do you know where I go to report a rape?” told me he had absolutely no idea. He gave me the number for department I already called. Eventually I had to ask one of my managers, and thankfully she knew who to contact.

I made an appointment to meet with Cheri in Employee Relations. When I got to her office, I wrote down my statement recounting everything that happened the night of the assault and waited to be called in. Unfortunately, she handled the situation even worse than the counselor had.

“You were drinking?”

Yes, I’m over twenty-one. That is legal.

“Why didn’t you scream? If his roommates were home, they would have heard you.”

Thank you for your brilliant insight. I haven’t beaten myself up enough for that already.

“Why didn’t you push him off you? You said he wasn’t that big.”

I froze. The rape took me a little by surprise.

“Why did it take you this long to report the assault? Are you sure you’re not reporting this as a rape because you wanted him to be your boyfriend and he said no?”

… Fuck you.

“Now what I don’t understand is why you didn’t call the police first.”

Because of literally everything you’re saying to me right now.

Those were the things I thought, because I was crying too hard to answer her in the moment. I was told they would still carry out an investigation, but I had little hope anything would come of it. I left her office and immediately booked my flight home.

About a week after I got home, I received a letter that said my complaint had been “noted” in the counselor’s file. I decided to make a follow-up call to Employee Relations and get an update on my investigation. I was told my case was closed, but that they were not able to tell me what actions they had taken. I immediately contacted one of my co-workers asking if he had recently seen my rapist at work. He told me, “I saw him yesterday. He was fine.”

I’m still floored by how unsupportive Disney was during every step of that process. This is a company with tens of thousands of people working for them just in Orlando, including thousands of college-aged adults living on their premises with very little supervision.  

There is no information on how to report a sexual assault and seemingly no one competent enough to handle the situation when someone figures out how. To be honest, I feel more violated by the way Disney treated me than I feel from being raped, and I’m worried for every other person that has been in my situation. 

These past nine months have been incredibly difficult; “Disney” is not an easy name to escape, along with constant reminders of the time I spent there.  However after all this time, I’ve managed to turn all of the bullshit in this situation into an immense amount of self-confidence and self-love that I have never felt before.

It’s difficult to ask every person that reads this article to stop supporting a company that is so pervasive in pop culture (though be my guest, as they say). Nevertheless, I have a feeling that with enough publicity over how poorly their company handles sexual assault accusations, Disney might actually do something proactive about it. So if you would, share this article wherever your online presence may be. We’ll see what happens.


My Grandpa, Herbie Schaadt

HERBERT LOWELL SCHAADT, 78, of Fort Wayne, passed away on Thursday, June 13, 2013, at Visiting Nurse Hospice Home.


Born April 26, 1935, in Willshire, Ohio, Herb was a son of the late Dorothy Fritz & Edward Schaadt.


On Jan 23, 1957, he married Laura “Katy” (Hilton) Schaadt. He retired from International Harvester and enjoyed being a musician in Audiences Unlimited.


Herb will be sadly missed by his wife, Katy; daughters, Wanda Rodman of Antwerp, Arlene (Melvin) Baxley of Statesville, N.C. and Audrey Knapp of Sarasota, Fla.; brother, Marvin of Fort Wayne…


seven grandchildren

  1. Allen Eugene Rodman
  2. Burton Lowell Rodman
  3. Angela Marié Niblick Baxley Glass
  4. Sandra Nicole Knapp
  5. Heather Reneé Niblick Baxley Puckett
  6. Matthew Gabriél Niblick Baxley
  7. Erin Estellé Baxley Hagar


and 13 great-grandchildren

  1. Luc Andrew Rodman
  2. Nathaniel Marc Rodman
  3. Madelynn Grace Rodman
  4. Hannah Marie Knapp
  5. Tyler Jayce Roberts
  6. Michal l’Lena Rodman
  7. Brittany Leann Hagar
  8. Katie Danielle Hagar
  9. Evan Elijah Rodman
  10. Hailey Estellé Hagar
  11. Mackenzie Leigh Puckett
  12. Hannah Nicole Hagar
  13. Jackson David Puckett
  14. (Addison Rae Knapp)
  15. (Charlotte Avery Baxley)

Uncle Randy and Grandpa

He was also preceded in death by his son, Randy; and brothers, Richard and Raymond.


See “You Died“, originally published on Medium, and the

And Grandma rocks my beats

Grandpa Schaadt and Gidget the Clown, his grand daughter

Service is 2 p.m. Monday, June 17, 2013, with viewing two hours prior to the service, at Dooley Funeral Home, 202 W. River St., Antwerp, Ohio. He will be laid to rest at Maumee Cemetery. Memorials to Hospice Home.


Condolences and fond memories may be shared at

Published in Fort Wayne Newspapers on June 15, 2013


Escape from Christendom

A friend and I were wondering about the etymology of the word Christendom the other day, and theorized that it might have meant to imply “Christ’s Kingdom”, only given Revelation, it would be the kingdom of the false Christ.

I then came across this story…

Escape from Christendom

by Robert Burnell

The Journey

In my dream I see the lone figure of a man following a road. As the sun sets beneath the hills, a city comes into view. Nearing it, the traveler sees what appears to be a large group of churches. Spires and crosses pierce the skyline. His pace quickens. Is this his destination? He passes an imposing structure, a neon sign flashing “Cathedral of the Future.” Farther on a floodlit stadium supports a billboard boasting that fifty thousand people crowd into evangelistic meetings there three nights a week. Beyond this, modest “New Testament” chapels and Hebrew Christian synagogues cluster together on the street front.

“Is this the City of God?” I hear the traveler ask a woman at the information booth in the central square.

“No this is Christian City, “she replies.

“But I thought this road led to the City of God!” He exclaims with great disappointment.

“That’s what we all thought when we arrived,” she answers, her tone sympathetic.

“This road continues up the mountain, doesn’t it?” He asks.

“I wouldn’t know, really,” she answers blankly.

I watched the man turn away from her and trudge on up the mountain in the gathering darkness. Reaching the top, he starts out into the blackness; it looks as though there is nothing, absolutely nothing, beyond. With a shudder he retraces his steps into Christian City an takes a room at a hotel.

Strangely unrefreshed, at dawn he arises and follows the road up the mountain again; in the brightening light of the sun he discovers that what seemed like a void the night before is actually a desert–dry, hot, rolling sand as far as the eye can see. The road narrows to a path which rises over a dune and disappears. “Can this trail lead to the City of God?” He wonders aloud. It appears to be quite deserted and rarely traveled. Continue reading


this block of wood

Life is infinitely stranger than anything the mind could invent.
— Sir Aurthur Conan Doyle

I couldn’t invent the story of my life if I tried, it’s hard enough figuring out how to write it. Life has been non-stop and I just can’t seem to figure out how I’d ever explain it all — I imagine with the tools now I can basically rig up a wedding photo montage with music introducing the couple style experience if I could just compile all the images (curate them) and add the details like the music, atmospheric settings, etc, and if technology could only get as good as the ideal—it being fully recorded for full sensorial experience upon playback, upon editing.

Unlikely adventures require unlikely tools.” — Mr. Magorium

Continue reading


Randy Lowell Schaadt 1957-2012

Grandpa, Me, and Uncle Randy

Randy Lowell Schaadt, 55, of Fort Wayne, passed away Friday, September 21, 2012 at his sister’s residence in Antwerp, Ohio.

Uncle Randy: Family Photos

Randy, known by his three sisters as “Bubby“, asks that you watch his collection of family photos (on Flickr, above) with the accompanying track “GOODBYE” (below, on SoundCloud) as a slideshowAngela suggests playing the video (further below, on YouTube) on low volume over the soundtrack as you watch the slideshow, too.

Randy was born in Van Wert, Ohio on August 31, 1957, the son of Laura “Katy” (Hilton) and Herbert Schaadt of Fort Wayne.

Uncle Randy

The last song the family, the Three Rivers band, played together—Angie, Katie, Herbie, and Randy—was the Animals “House of the Rising Sun“.

He will be sadly missed by his parents and sisters, Wanda Rodman of Antwerp, Arlene (Melvin) Baxley of Statesville, NC & Audrey Knapp of Hobe Sound, Florida.

Schaadt's in Hell

Continue reading


Not the Life I wanta

I write with a weary head—last night made my heart tired, and I carried that heavy heart to bed, as I finally got home sometime after three in the morning.

My friend, he’s 37, a former Army man. We only met this summer, but we’ve hung out quite a bit since that chance meeting in August.

He invited me to his friend’s karaoke night. She’s a friend, a co-worker I think, young, something like 26, and single. I met her earlier that night as I learn he’s procured the “goodies” for his friends and we’re going to drop hers by her place in Ocean Beach before her dinner… karaoke isn’t until later. I learn that it’s something like $60 bucks worth of white powder.

As I see her, I already feel underdressed for her party to come… She’s in a short shirt (or shirt dress?) covered in sequins, black fishnet leggings, and applying false lashes with very dramatic, artfully applied eye makeup. I had chosen a striped knit shirt that shows of my curves, but isn’t much more interesting than that, and a pair of jeans with boots.

Her apartment is typical of that in Ocean Beach. Her front door opens to her parking space immediately adjacent to the alley and the busy street. Incense of some sort is burning, and it’s adorned in an eclectic mix of items collected, the quantity and quality expected of a just-out-of-college girl, as I assume she is.

We leave and make our way back north along I-5 and into a neighborhood where, coming from my beach life perspective, I’m pleased to see real houses. You know, the kind that some kids are lucky enough to grow up with. This one a split level, enough bedrooms for the parents and kids, a small yard, garage, lined up on a street of all the same and a culdasac or two for good measure.

Here I’m to meet the friends he grew up with. He considers these friends his “family”, inasmuch as he considers the friends in his Mission Beach ‘hood and co-workers just “friends”.

They have two little girls, about 5 and 6 years old, one a red head and the other a blonde, otherwise difficult to tell apart. We bring the count of couples up to three, and we’re there to hang out a bit before taking his pal, Pete, with us to the party. He grew up with the boys too, and is in from out-of-state. He seems quiet, though it’s hard to tell, as he’s sort of stuck back behind me in the corner in a seat a little apart from the circle.

Sitting in the living room with these friends, I quickly felt welcome and included. Much like eager parents, they are happy to welcome a girl into his life. They tell stories about childhood in their suburb of San Diego. Playing football, warrior like battles of throwing sticks, then graduating to swiping liquor from the uncle’s cabinet and replacing the vodka with water.

As I relax in my rocking chair it’s easy to see myself hanging out with these guys again. Easy going and warm, and when we have to go, a round of hugs to go with their hopes that we’ll do it again soon.

I go to grab his car, he borrows a cooler to stock for the party. I’m the designated driver. Pete climbs in the backseat.

I’d been hanging with my pal all day, and I wonder at how it is he’s not simply starving. No breakfast, at about three in the afternoon we’d had a half of a Rubicon deli half sandwich each. Plenty for that moment, but long since forgotten and long in needing. As we approach Muzen, the Vientamese karaoke join, I ask if I can drive through Wendy’s real quick for a burger. He doesn’t eat anything.

Earlier he had explained a bit of the in’s and out’s of cocaine to me. How it just amplifies whatever it is someone is… crazy people become crazier. Normal people just seem to have much more energy. He said he’d had a “bump”, “testing out the goods” earlier. I think maybe he’d had two or three lines thus far. I have no idea how much that is, I have no idea about using cocaine, and just a little more about living with it in your world. I think maybe it’s the cocaine that keeps him from being hungry. In this moment, I feel like I should apologize for being hungry, for the quick drive thru detour…

We arrive, and turns out this isn’t the same place as they’d been before. It’s not BYOB, but he hustles the guy at the desk, passing him two bills, a twenty on the outside, as I help him carry the cooler past into the room.

The room is much larger than times I’ve gone to Asian karaoke. I’m relieved to see that the people inside are dressed like me, I fit in. Peter was ahead of me and grabbed a seat on the corner of the couch. My pal seems to now been in performance mode, assuring his presence is noted among his friends. I take the small corner of the couch next to Peter, happy that there’s someone else here with us. It’s not feeling much like an us. As far as us goes, I guess you’d say he didn’t introduce us—Peter and I, to his friends.

He fixes me a drink—it’s three or more hours before I’ll be driving us home. I’m okay with that, though I know to some of my more conservative friends being the DD means respectfully no drinking at all. Meanwhile, it the party girl is smashed, and he is keen to catch up quickly adding two more beers to the three or so he had at our last stop.

Peter and I talk a bit, left to each other alone in this group of commrades. He doesn’t know anyone here either—maybe he’d met two of the girls once before. I learn he’s single, and as quite an attractive guy, I comment on the single girls. Turns out it’s just the belle of the ball who’s solo, and so far her performance isn’t attractive to his eye.

The contrast deepening between these two men, I become ever more thankful that Peter was along for the ride.

Meanwhile, the shirt dress outfit struggles with boundaries, especially as she starts performing dramatic drops to the floor in a half split. Obviously intentional, but I’m not so certain about the intent of her friend who routinely comes from the couch to stand from behind, hoisting her back to her feet lifting from her under her pits. It makes for interesting people watching, but I wonder if she’s aware of how it looks to us. It appears to be no easy task for her friend.

Our pal is quick to ensure everyone has a drink, and with assistance his bounty is gone. He’d taken $20 from Peter in the purchase, but I notice he’s had only a couple beers, turning down new ones from our ever eager host of sorts. Some are dispatched to the store nearby to procure more. I don’t know if our pal went or not, while the room was open, I had long given up on his movements. He hadn’t even spoken to me more than once or twice since entering.

Peter was a back up singer from the couch, but I took on a couple of songs. The other single guys interacted with me, seemingly uncertain of who I was and why I was there. Sitting besides Peter the entire time, I don’t blame them, who knows who I am, and if I’m game. The volume prevented conversation to distill the truth.

I watched him encourage dancing on the couches, the leader of the pack. Not that they needed too much encouragement, but I suppose it was something of the age difference, made more apparent by the two of us—Peter and I—as the seeming wall flowers. He called for the party girl to get up on the table and dance, suggesting Coyote Ugly. I fear for her, as she’s already kicked over my cup, spilled a few drinks, and besides the table being strewn with drinks, it’s also covered in liquid. I don’t know if she ever made it up there, I just recall seeing her making an attempt, lifting her foot to the table, but teetering backwards. I wonder if she realized that her top wouldn’t allow her to make it up there… though since I’d seen everything between her legs several times already, I’m not sure that’d really be something that would matter to her. I wonder how much of her goodies she’d consumed already. She talks to one of her friends about how the guy running the place has singled her out, I couldn’t hear the descriptive she used, but the point was clear. She thought herself undeserving.

All in all it wasn’t so bad. Tame really. I compare to my experiences with my friends in San Francsico, and frankly with them I’ve had far more fun. Packed in, having to share laps as seats, hot and smelly. We too have plenty of sequins and short dresses. And we’ve definitely danced on the tables.

The unsettled difference isn’t quite apparent to me yet.

I’m surprised to find it’s after 1am, as I had known the reservation to have gone until midnight. Frankly, it pleased me that time passed so fast. Hanging out with my pal has made me feel a little bit lame. Not quite able to hang as long, as strong, and no desire to waste my days away in hang over.

My self-prescribed lameness returned as Peter and I hear our pal working making plans to move the party to his place. I think Peter had hoped for some time with his pal, being as he’d driven 8 hours to visit, and was just here for the weekend. I know I had hoped to return to a scene more like the house of friends earlier. Several people had left already, it was the singles who were raring for a plan, and he was all too happy to promote his, to our dismay.

I was going to drive Peter “home” on the way back, but our pal applied multiple aspects of peer pressure, I think it sealed the deal when it came down to the other car following us. Meanwhile, I could hear the negotitations of the other car. Party girl wanted to carry her open bottle of champagne, and I heard someone suggest putting it our car, as I was the sober driver. Geez. I saw that bottle set aside atop a trash can.

In the car, our pal became an animated conveyor of plans, repeating himself again, and again. As he addressed Peter—his wanting to go home, his not singing a song, etc, I found myself wanting to defend him. What? Our pal didn’t get up and sing a song either… he was just a clown on the microphone, using it to instigate, notsomuch sing. And hey, not being introduced didn’t leave either of us much impetus to converse, let alone that the volume that accompanies Asian karaoke.

Peter relented. I just knew he’d regret the decision.

Our pal urged me on—faster—to the liquor store, worrying we’d not get there in time. The shop was closed. I’m aware of being careful of those following behind, and negotiating where I was going with my drunk (and I assume, still high) navigator who urged me again to go faster, even though we’d exited the highway and were now on the closing time, people strewn streets of Mission Beach. I was relieved to hear Peter pipe up from the back seat trying to settle him down a bit. The next liquor store was also closed. Darkened so that we didn’t even notice it was there as we passed. Now, onwards to the grocery store—it’s 24 hours. I park in the underground lot, and the other car pulls up aside. He runs into the store, Peter in tow. Peter arrives back at the car to announce that they aren’t actually open and that our pal has moved on to CVS.

A security guard comes over to tell us that we can’t be parked there.

If I hadn’t already, this is the moment that I realized my position as the “adult”. The driver, the local, the one in the lead. I decided to stay put. Who knows where the pal that joined all of us together in this night was?

Turns out it was a smart move. When he returned to the car it was from 7/11, as it turns out that CVS was also closed. He proudly proclaimed his feat of aquiring 32 cans of cheap beer, and a bag of ice, which somehow had something to do with cutting the line.

I drove us, leading the car behind, to his place.

As he took my place to park his car in the garage, he told me that he wasn’t sure what they’d do with out him. When I replied that I wasn’t sure what he’d do without him, it was just a reply. He gave me the key to the door with quick instructions—open the door, put on music… anxiety isn’t quite the right descriptive. I don’t know what you’d call it. There were mere moments between my opening the door, and he coming in behind me.

I put the music on, and moved into the bedroom. Exhausted from his interupting my sleep the night prior in the wee hours in the morning, setting this day into play, I crawled on top of the covers to rest. Knowing that I would, earlier he’d said he’d change the sheets—the bed being given over to his guy friend and some girl he hoped to score with the night prior—but that wasn’t a priority now, and frankly, it wasn’t for me either. It’s not like I was going to be getting any sleep in this setting.

I got up after just a few minutes. I stepped into the living room to see him leaning over the stereo. He didn’t hear me. I warmed my hands at the heater, and when he turned he came over. Nearly the same moment, Peter came in from outside. He was going to catch a cab—go home. I quickly considered offering to drive him, borrowing the car, and perhaps even taking myself home while I was at it… No, at this point I was there to observe from a separated distance.

I felt for Peter. $20 funding drinks for people he’d never met, and now a cab ride that couldn’t be any less than $60 or $70, just minutes after arriving at the party he’d never wanted to be apart of any way.

Peter left, and he turned back to me. I snapped. I pulled my arm away, as he said I could just take a cab home too. No, I was going to wait until it was all over. I was appalled. How had I missed how little respect he’d shown his friend he considered “family”, and the girl he considered his “girlfriend”.

He might offer words of affection regarding those friends he’d known since grade school, but his actions showed no concern for the relationship. I counted myself the same. He didn’t care what I did—he’d pay for my cab—as long as it wasn’t an interruption.

In the moment my heart sank with sadness as I realized that the way I yanked my arm back from his touch showed more than any words could. My eyes must have too. And that I knew that from his perspective, it was all my problem.

I gestured that he should just join his friends, the party in progress, and return to his intent of getting wasted. I stepped away and back went back into the bedroom, this time pulling the blanket over my head to block a little of the noise, and the lights, leaving room to breath and see.

Party girl entered the bedroom, and a plate with more of the white powder was had. He stepped out of the room trying to prevent others from joining and having to share, and in that moment she took all there was left. Three swipes I believe, from the sound of the snorting. I’m pretty sure he was offering just one, but then again he didn’t intend to give away the $60 worth earlier, but I was starting to see why it was that he was so confused about the night before and all the money he thought he’d spent. He’d muttered something about $400 bucks. Yeah, I’d be concerned too, as it seemed that that was just another of his typical Thursday nights.

He came back in the room, and drawn with him with another of his co-workers. He saw the plate too, apparently he would have partook, but there wasn’t any left, but he’s offering to call his guy.

In the course of the next hour, while I attempt to rest in the dark room, waiting out the chaos, I hear conversations… someone pushing him to get more “goodies”, though the his guy hadn’t responded. Other voices join the mix, distinct in that they carried foriegn accents, Irish maybe. More hopes that they might score. Even from my distance, separated, observing by ear only in the bedroom, I could hear things growing out of the scope of his intent. He had come in early on to bring in my iPad, so it wouldn’t be swiped, and that left me thinking of my iPhone, sitting there playing the part of Rdio DJ. People came in and out of the room, to get to the bathroom. Party girl came in numerous times, her words were slurred to begin with, I don’t know how to describe the progression from there. She dropped something loud to the floor, in the darkness, and I wondered why she was spending so much time apart from her party people. Earlier she’d been alone in the house, on the couch, looking over a book. I’d gone to check out what was up, as she’d dropped something to the floor then too, and that sound alerted me to something amiss. My pal had been robbed apparently a few times before, people in and out of his open house while partying… oh, it’s just her. I didn’t address her, just moved to get some water before returning to the room.

It was near 3:30am. They are deciding to go to the bay. Chaos, commotion.

I’m not ashamed, I suppose purely for the fact that I think there shouldn’t have been enough shame left for me to take a part of it.

I got up and pulled on my boots, and grabbed my bag. She was huddled near him in the doorway to the room, a sad gesture to see. She thought she wasn’t visible, and the look that passed was obvious. Yes, I’m lame. Oh, wait. No, I’m not.

He stepped from the doorway into the living room, to clear way for me and that left her lingering oddly in the room. She stepped uncertain to the door, and I gave a firm hand to her back to guide her out the door, closing the door partially to make sure my intent was clear.

He had wide eyes, hard lined pupils.

I told him I was taking his car to go home, and conveyed my judgement.

He didn’t respond, except when I asked if Peter was still here, to say “No, he can take care of himself”.

For a moment I thought when he stepped to the door with his keys, that he was leaving me to take a cab, the only means by which it seems he’s ever able to travel or to convey me. No, he was going to pull the car out for me.

Again, sadness.

This guy, really, he’s a great guy.

But it was just that day that he had told me that he’d been mean to me to see how I’d react.

He opens doors, and he always pays for dinner.

He always pays for my cab.

I want a guy who can pick me up.

I left knowing he’s not that guy—he’d rather a beer in his hand.


Time Out.

One-on-one, I wanna play that game tonight…” Monday Night Football. I mean, come on guys, really.

Some days are just the kind of day where you can’t sleep. You know. Something rocks your world, and you’re finally just bonafide Awake. Yeah. Capital A. Like the Scarlet Letter on my chest, I’m Awake. Oh wait, wrong story? I’m not a martyr?

Yeah, so it’s a day-by-day thing, playing these games. Some days I slip into a little faster and some days it’s a little slower. Then again, you’d probably believe some guy if he told you that he could keep the sun up in the sky for three days, or slept for three days,.. or didn’t for ten.


The Cleanse Song, Bright Eyes

I met him at my favorite coffee house, Bird Rock Coffee Roasters. As I joined the line to order, I noticed him. I summed him up. Nicely dressed, but so is everyone else who lives here. Nothing striking about him. A little shorter than average height. Given to talking to people, I told myself I wasn’t going to talk to him. I needed to focus. I’ll pass.

He picked up the white cardboard container of organic oatmeal, examining it’s nutritional values and marketing.

“I’ve been wondering how that’d taste.” Oh, well… Well, I had been.

“I was wondering the same. I don’t imagine it can be that good, but I’ll try it.”

“Right? Can organic oatmeal in cardboard taste like anything but, well, cardboard?”

He smiles. Warm, dark eyes, with dark eyebrows that made him seem both deep and sincere. He buys the oatmeal and orders a coffee, and then takes the corner table against the garage style window.

The Cleanse Song, Bright Eyes

Hear the chimes, did you know that the wind when it blows
It is older than Rome and all of this sorrow
See the new pyramids down in old Manhattan
From the roof of a friend’s I watched an empire ending
Heard it loud and long the river’s Om
Time marching on to a madman’s drum
Don’t forget what you’ve learned all you give is returned
And if life seems absurd what you need is some laughter
And a season to sleep and a place to get clean
Maybe Los Angeles, somewhere no one is expecting
On a detox loft through a Glendale Park over sidewalk chalk
Someone wrote in red, “start over”
So I muffled my scream on an Oxnard beach
Full of fever dreams that scare you sober
Into saltless dinners
Take the fruit from the tree, break the skin with your teeth
Is it bitter or sweet? All depends on your timing
Like a meeting of chance with the train station glance
Many lifetimes had past in a instant reminded
Of a millstone house in a seaside town
When your heart gave out in a mission bed
So your wife gave birth to a funeral dirge
You woke up purged as a wailing infant
In Krug Thep, Thailand
Hear the chimes, did you know that the wind when it blows
It is older than Rome and our joy and our sorrow


The Movie, The Doors

The program for this evening is not new
You’ve seen this entertainment through and through
You’ve seen your birth your life and death
You might recall all of the rest
Did you have a good world when you died?
Enough to base a movie on?

Notes from the story about the night my dad died, and his motorcycle accident.

Daddy, Momma and Me

Found out many years later that he was wearing his helmet. Someone who found him removed his helmet before help arrived. Daddy died of closed head injury. My baby brother, his son, was born weeks later.


Jamie Viviana Glass

In memory of adorable Jamie Glass

When I was younger, my family was good friends with the Glass family. I’ll never forget when Darryl came back from Peru with his beautiful Angela.

Her name, like mine, was Angela Marie/a—except in Peru the girls were all named Maria and then a different middle name, so technically she was Maria Angela, and referred to as Angela: I adored her.

Darryl and Angela married, and had Adrian and Jamie.

Jamie died in a very tragic family accident at three and a half years old.

“The most unnatural death is that of a child before the parent.”

Continue reading


Lost, Please Find.

It started with opening facebook to a post Patrick Terry had just put up:

“That’s all I wanted, something special,
Something sacred in your eyes,
For just one moment, to be bold and naked
At your side”

Daddy and Me

I wondered for a moment at who wrote it as I gestured over the comment notifications, coming to one from a name I know from my oldest memories, Rosalee.

Rosalee Matt was a great artist, he had his Lincoln Life uniform on. I hope Arlene saved some of his work, it was amazing.

Angela Baxley Hey Rosalee—unfortunately I don’t think we have anything left of his. It seems each piece one by one met by some untimely demise along the way. I’m most heart broken over the one he painted specifically for me. If you do come across anything of his, including reproductions, Heather and I would love to collect whatever we can.

Daddy's Tired

Pam That’s you, Heather—in his expression!

Lisa Is that the hat that they gave your brother in December? The one of your Dad’s!

Heather You know—I don’t know. I’ll hafta ask Momma. That would make it that much more special!

Lisa Yes it would.

Heather It certainly does look like it!

Lisa That’s what I thought. I think it was Wonda was tagged, ended up being your pics. So I was checking them out again. But it’s time since your trip home. When I looked at this one I was like OMG I think that is the hat!

Angela Wow. That makes me so happy. I’ve always hated Matthew hasn’t had anything of his. It seems so unfair they never met—they look just alike. It’s so hard to see my father stuck at the same age as my brother. We’ve all grown older than he has now.

If you have any artwork by the artist Matthew Raymond Niblick (1958-1983), this is my father. Please contact me via

Momma and Daddy

Update 4.9.2013

This morning via Twitter I was alerted to the Facebook “Other” inbox—others also being made aware that there might be messages missed… I went to check and there was a message from a nun in Wisconsin responding to this post. She had written in February:

A friend of mine is doing research on the paintings in the back of St. Michael Church, in Dane, Wis… I know that these were painted by Matthew Niblik as they are signed..

He painted these pictures when our church was new…1975. One of St. Michael sending Lucifer to hell, one of Our Lady of Guadalupe and one of our school and church.

I remember he had a sister who is a sister of St. Agnes…Sister Lael.

Not sure if this helps you.

longtime teacher at St. Michael…now Blessed Trinity School.

I’m hoping to they’ll be able to send digital photos — so exciting to really get to see artwork of his we’ve never seen!



I’ve been told that I was Daddy’s girl. I’m not quite sure if that means he adored me, or that I preferred him over my mother—the concept is difficult knowing how critical my relationship with my mother is to me, but then again, perhaps that’s because the first best friend I lost was actually my father?

I took my love, I took it down
I climbed a mountain and I turned around

After he died, I was taught that one day, I could see him again in a resurrection in a paradise earth where we could live forever, together. As long as I made it there myself.

And I saw my reflection in the snow-covered hills
‘Til the landslide brought me down

Today was a special day for me, one of reconnection. I experienced my nervous system exploding where it felt like my nerves were crawling, struggling against the skin on my face for release from capitivty in my body.

Oh, mirror in the sky
What is love?

I wasn’t raised to believe that he’s in heaven, looking down on me. My mother sat me on the back stoop on Reid Street and explained how he was no longer, and that he would go back to the earth—crumbling a leaf in her hand demonstrating how life deteriorates, ashes, dust. It was March, in Indiana.

Can the child within my heart rise above?

I’ve struggled—”would he be proud of me?”—my whole life to live.

Can I sail through the changing ocean tides?

I have. I will. I am.

Can I handle the seasons of my life?

He would be proud of me.

Well, I’ve been afraid of changing
‘Cause I’ve built my life around you

I don’t know how to breath, and I don’t know how to feel emotion—my nerves are deadened, a life lived in conflict.

But time makes you bolder

I guess today was the day I came to terms with my life.

Even children get older

My sisters had babies, and they are growing up without me.

And I’m getting older, too

And so is my mother.

Oh, take my love, take it down
Oh, climb a mountain and turn around

I wonder if my mother will hold true to this torture our whole lives.

And if you see my reflection in the snow-covered hills
Well, the landslide will bring it down

I had my father for 42 months, and the days of my birth and his death.

And if you see my reflection in the snow-covered hills…
Well, the landslide will bring it down

I wish I could know my mother.

Oh, the landslide’ll bring it down.



From the moment we are born,
the world tends to have a
container already built for us
to fit inside: A social security
number, a gender, a race,
a profession or an I.Q. I ponder
if we are more defined by the
container we are in, rather than
what we are inside. Would we
recognize ourselves if we could
expand beyond our bodies?
Would we still be able to exist
if we were authentically

—Paige Bradley



Did you really not think of me on New Years Eve?

“Now don’t blow smoke up my ass, say things you don’t mean…”

Dressed for him, eye makeup, hair, and lotion, selected my jeans, shoes, shirt. I was complimented at bar by guy on my shirt. Jeff complimented the jacket I chose previously, and the manicurist complimented my jeans.

It was all for him. What about him? Was I not attractive? Did I not succeed in looking good for him? Did he not think I looked pretty? Did he not appreciate me? Worse yet, does he think that I had dressed for someone else? Does he think that I do it for anyone else? Does he know it was all for him, and that it always is? Does he know that I look forward to seeing him and picking outfits to appeal to him and doing my makeup to please him?Does he know that all this makes me happy?

Dreaming of him… “you and I are…” he says, and I wake up. I know what we are. So strongly that I wake up and am here wide awake still.

You think I shouldn’t need to feel your touch

To know that you love me

I shouldn’t need to hear your words

To know that you care

I shouldn’t need your gifts

To feel special

I shouldn’t need your time

To know that it’s me

How is it that I should know?

I wonder

But still my madness is that I do

Without your touch I long for you

Without your words I need you

But without you I still believe

You love me.

I begin to wonder what it would be like if you were to reach out to me, to start the night anew, if it were to go differently, if you were to affirm me—not even us, but just me…

I open the door, and you step in to close the space between us and give me a big warm hug. Told me, wow—you look great! I love that… shirt, glow on your skin, your hair, your smile, your outfit. (Instead you didn’t compliment me, but denigrated yourself—commenting on your coat. It made me wishI had been faster to compliment you, because as usual you were stunning to me…but it was then too late to tell you.) What if you had brought something to the night to tell me about? Something that you wanted to share with me? The problem you might have solved, all the apartments you’d seen, what you did this weekend while I was busy, how you’re looking forward to your first weekend after working again. What if in the car you reached out to me? Offered me your hand, or your arm, or guided me by your hand on my back? What if when I showed my insecurity, you turned to me and hugged me tight, kissed my forehead and told me that I’m beautiful and you’re so happy that we were getting to spend time together? What if walking to the bar you had wrapped your arm around my shoulder walking with me side-by-side? What if you had laughed, smiled, caught eyes, asked questions, or interjected—in short, contributed to any of the stories I told? At the bar, what if it wasn’t every other man’s eyes, but yours that were on me? If you looked at me, instead of staring ahead or at the television? What if you reached out to me with little touches here and there as I do to you, a quick rub on the back, a touch on the knee, a moment resting your hand on my arm?

Things that told me that you love me, last night:

You smacked my ass playfully as we walked up the stairs.

You told me that you like my talking.

You took me to the Irish bar instead of just going home after giving up on La Puerta.

You walked me to my car door when we were going home.

Nip/Tuck had a quote about Julia—the only way she felt she could get your attention is through screaming or sex. That quote struck me so hard. Of course, I thought, I have always known that I desperately desire your attention, but it had not occurred to me that what happened to us was an unhealthy shift to my trying to obtain it by either screaming, or sex.

Last night when you got mean, which is what you do when you go on defense, you told me that what did I want, you to say things you don’t mean or blow smoke up my ass? I was hurt and retaliated. I spit at you that you just like to hang out on the cheating side of town. Could you ever been faithful to someone? You said with venom, yes. I of course heard what you wanted me to, yes you could, just not to me.

I am a failure that I do not inspire you to care for me. I long so desperately for your touch, your words. I learned that it was acts of service, which make you feel loved, and I began to look for ways to show my love in that manner. Making dinners for you, for us—shopping, cooking, and cleaning. All the offers to do things that you don’t let me do—wash your clothes when you were visiting, return your shirt, mail your phone. I asked for you to show me love in your language—would you repair the leg on my wine cabinet (you had even offered!), would you hang my mirror and my pictures? I appreciated when you hooked up the Wii for me.

Do you know that I hurt so much when you asked if I wanted you to say things you didn’t mean, to blow smoke up my ass, because I believe that there’s no way possible that you couldn’t have thought there was something you could have offered to me that night. 

Do you know that I feel madness in loving you because I feel you still, you there, just beneath this cold veneer, this shell, this surface?

I hang on to the tiniest things.  You will have to cut me off entirely to make me give up on you. I recall you telling me how you were pleased that I looked hot the night we went to the Mizzou game at the bar. You may have chosen to tell me as a stab when you were being mean, instead of just telling me upfront, but I remember it regardless. It has fueled my continued pleasure in dressing for you. You smacked my ass last night. It was spontaneous, and playful. It was reaching outside of yourself for something you wanted to do. It was touch. It means something to me. I imagine that you don’t go around smacking other people’s asses like that. I immediately thought of Christian, who I spent nearly all weekend avoiding being smacked by (and failed miserably) and just as immediately knew how I loved that you smacked mine. I would never avoid your smack—only playfully. It gave me the courage to ask for permission to kiss. I will hang on to that you like to hear me talk, that you want to date someone like me who does talk.

While I wish I could stay on the highs, I feel like maybe you’d understand me better—my madness—if I continue in train of thought… the point is to understand the oscillation between feeling love from you while there being no evidence that it’s true, and feeling rejected. As such, I’ll tell you that from those highs I’m reminded of the things you don’t do. I spoke to you once about the book I had been reading at the time—about bids. It meant the world to me when you referred to bids later in conversation with me. You were listening to me! Something I said had enough value that you would adopt the terminology! But here we are now, and I wonder why you don’t respond to any of my bids. I wonder if you even see how classically I am constantly begging for affirmation, reaching out, and instead being rejected. How you turn away, or turn against, but very rarely turn towards. Are you doing it on purpose? Last night I told you that I know that you are intelligent. I think that you are capable of being the cruelest man on the earth. It’s actually a compliment—I think that you are so very intelligent that you could ruin someone quietly while standing by their side as if loving them. I just don’t think that you could that to me, at least I won’t let you do so without awareness.

Then I think about New Years Day. I think about how I wonder how I could offer you more affirmation and love, and what your needs are. You give so little to me, that I have focused so much on what I desire and forget to offer in kind what I seek. As much as I don’t forget the little highs, the notes that remind me so securely that you love me despite your desire to deny it, I also don’t forget the moments the remind me that we are both people who have been incredibly hurt by life. New Years Day, you honor me by asking me to breakfast, while I was still in bed myself. Then you arrive mere moments later. I open the door, and you joke about worrying that you would have arrived to an awkward situation—me in bed with someone else, while you stand at the door.Oops! You “joked”. In that moment, I was saddened because I never believed that it was anything more than a thinly veiled confession of the fear truth. I took it that you honestly believed that I would have been in such a position. Later what saddened me was two-fold. One, not that you don’t know me well enough to know that I wouldn’t do that, and instead to you would believe that I would, but that you don’t know how much I love you and how much I live my life loving you, regardless of what you choose to do, or where and with whom you sleep with on New Years Eve. And secondly, that the joke was a joke about you. You weren’t actually insulting me, but showing your vulnerability. I want you to know thatI appreciate your showing up at my door, your inviting me to breakfast, your knocking once you arrived and had that moment of fear; I appreciate your taking the chance at having gotten hurt.

And that moves me to the breakfast where we leave and you want to show me Carlsbad… the drive up the coast, driving in Leroy with the topdown together. It’s another moment that I hang on to where I know that you love me.

I know that you love me because you don’t hide that you are with me to Randy. When he calls, instead of avoiding saying that with you’re with me (as little as I feel he values me) you affirm me by acknowledging my presence. I even feel like it’s with pride. Are you proud of me? Do I add value to your manliness? Am I the kind of girl that you’re proud to tell your buddies that she’s with me, and yeah, she wants to be?

I can’t appreciate how much it is that while Vanessa and my entire family may know many gory details of our relationship that require a stomach of steel to swallow, that you have not shared any of this with Heidi (or Gretchen). That you instead of recent told me that you present me as something desirable, as worthy of competition, as someone you love… that means the world to me.

The sun is coming up. I suppose I should try to get some sleep, and I think now that I might be able to.

I will send this letter as an email. I will probably wait until around 4ish or something… late enough that you possibly have time to read and digest it and perhaps that it alters the course of the evening, but not so early that it distracts you from your day, your focus at work.

You see, I believe in you. I believe that you are a beautiful and so incredibly strong man. I believe that you are a loving person, and that you are good. That is to say, that I believe that you cannot turn a deaf ear to my pleas, that your heart could be untouched by an appropriate expression of my love. We have gone so far off our path, but I don’t believe that it’s hopeless. More than anything else that you could desire in someone that you would share your life with, understand this—I believe in me. I believe in you. And I believe in us. Those are three unique and individual statements.

Believing in me is what is required for me to find my way back to wherever it is that I left my smile. You cannot save me.

Believing in you. That’s the most special thing I have in the world. Believing in you as I do is a unique experience that I have shared only with you, and you alone. Believing in you is so close to loving you. The first two days we shared together were the happiest of my life. But they were not love. I did not believe in you. I will never forget the moment I looked at you and I knew… the moment where I believed in you. I believed in you as a man, as a partner. I will never forget that moment, because that is also the moment where I knew that it was true, it was love, that I had fallen in love with you, and it was truly love. Those first two days, and the first week or so after you moved so swift and sure. I wasn’t there. The irony is that we changed places.Once I knew I was yours, I moved swift and sure, and you were uncertain. I then was the one to come on too strong.

Micheal, in this time of darkness in our life together, I wait for the day when you look at me and tell me that you have decided to love me. I keep hoping each time I see you that you have chosen to love me.

Our life will not exist without love. We are special. I don’t quite know how to express that I feel that we are so entwined. I’ll try…

Friendship is love. You love your friends. What you desire to share with me is a friendship. To be friends, you must love me. To love me, you must look at me and act lovingly in my best interest, as a friend would doin kind. To love me right now, I need affirmation and touch. I am a friend in need.

Tonight I realized that what I seek from you is completely okay, even in the context of just a friendship. If you were to go back and read what I’ve written again, you’ll see that. I am seeking support. To receive your support is to be loved. To be loved is to be restored. Love is the strength tor ecover.

The careful thing is, the disclaimer that you must know, is that if you were to act kindly to me; if you were to support me; if you were to love me; then we would fall in love again.

We are intertwined.

Being near you without your love destroys me. Likewise, to be loved by you is more than anything I’ve ever known in my life.

I want to find my sparkle, and restore my smile and the light in my eyes.

I am asking you for your help. I am asking if you can choose to love me, to be my friend.


Conscious streams of rambling…

From: Mike Tyler
Date: Wed, May 27, 2009 at 2:26 AM
Subject: Conscious streams of rambling…
To: Angela M. Baxley

I’m often up late, or early, I guess, depending on your perspective. 😉 I am pretty much the classic nightowl, and I feel much more energized at night. It can be painful for those who love me, I’m not going to lie. Or it can be REALLY great. 😉 I actually participated in a Delayed Sleep Phase study at UCSD to try to learn more…. more on that later, as your interest piques. 😉

I tend to overuse emoticons. I know this about myself. Please don’t get annoyed by this – like Skynet, I am self-aware. Are techy people such as yourself generally annoyed by excessive emoticoning? I just can’t help it…I like to think I’m expressive, but my tone is lost in email or text or IM form. Not in Twitter form though – you’d know my tone there. See I just typed that entire paragraph with no emoticons, and it was painful. 😉 😉 I’m sorry.

What happened to Book-n-Beach? Inquiring minds are….inquiring. 😉 (yay, tautology!)

I’m glad you enjoyed the picture of the unmade, Angie-less bed. You do not want to see the picture of the unmade, Angie-less Mike. It is not as cute. It’s nearly a mess.

Is that consulting gig in San Diego your Dream Job? Could it be? I’ve heard San Diego is a good city, but I have much more to explore. I’m currently looking for someone to do more exploring- I checked Craigslist, but their "Strictly Platonic" section seems like a ploy. Guess I’ll have to settle for a more romantically inclined exploring partner…

Not sure what I "just don’t know", but what I do know is that I’ve been positively plagued by thoughts and memories that threaten to turn my stomach inside out from all of the increased Lepidoptera activity. And by plagued, I mean constantly. And by positively, I mean it feels amazing.

(and oh yeah, I just did write that. "Lepidoptera". Let it roll off your tongue. 😉 )

I didn’t realize you weren’t going home until today. More LA fun?

If it makes you feel any better, I find Elvis very distracting too. Like I would want to work with such singable happy tunes around me! Ha!

A perfect picture? Glad you asked….imagining you trying to work, shifting your legs, noticing a slight bruisy soreness – and seeing a certain "goofy smile" creep across your face as memories flood back with attendant aching in their wakes. And not getting back to work until 11 minutes later. Thank you for the imagery…I think I can now get through the next 17 minutes.

I can’t tell you how many times I got "caught" today….staring off at the sand, the ocean, the empty-Angieless spaces, getting completely LOST in frantic mental reconstructions of the exact places our bodies meet when you perfectly nestle into what I used to think of "my space", but can now only think of as "ours". And then a sound, a change in breeze, an aroma, and I find my way back to the present….to see my friend’s incredibly amused face because she knows just where I was, just how long I was there, and just how submerged I was. And 3 new shades of blush ensue.

Living without your smile just will not do. It is life.


You drove away…

From: Mike Tyler
Date: Tue, May 26, 2009 at 3:18 AM
Subject: Re: You drove away…
To: Angela M. Baxley

Wow……so much to comment on. 🙂

a) Thank you for sharing the Stroke of Insight speech…wonderful stuff, and yes, I can completely see why you would think of that during the course of our conversations. I loved this “left hemi = serial vs right hemi = parallel” concept – I’d never heard that before, and it really makes so much sense to me because for the last few years, I’ve really become aware that I am an extremely poor multitasker. It’s been frustrating, and I never felt like it made any sense because I feel like I’m a reasonably organized, with-it kind of guy. But my left brained trappedness being described as a serial processor makes so much sense. Not less frustrating, but an explanation. 🙂 And of course, my desire to move ever more to the right side increases after hearing Dr. Bolte Taylor’s experiences.

2.) I would have loved to hear Ori’s version of your cousin kissing. You’ll have to recount. 🙂

iii. And thanks for sharing Ms. Roach’s talk too….because you know, nothing makes this expanse of time go faster than spending 20 minutes thinking about you and orgasms. Aye. 😉

E.) Love to see the crazy outfit for today. I’m assuming pics? You seem to be a chronicler. Which book did you spend time with today? What was your favorite new thought or insight directly inspired by your book?

V.) Did you know today was Memorial Day? beach was a little crowded [he said both ruefully and ironically], so we ended up downtown again instead. Tomorrow is beach day I guess, because our mutual friend needs to see her some ocean something fierce.

(8) Now who’s rambling?

and finally…’s the comfort and pleasure of sleeping near you that is exacerbating the “bit of emptiness” to near excruciating levels now that you are no longer here. oops….I mean…..yeah, I liked sleeping near my pal too.


On Mon, May 25, 2009 at 2:58 PM, Angela M. Baxley wrote:

Ori describing the kissing cousins scenario from last night, over breakfast with friends, was hilarious.

Current note of interest, when O asked how I slept, I said like a rock like usual, because totally comfortable with my pal. He said well, yeah, he has an awesome bed. I pointed out that while that’s true it’s more the comfort level with whom you share your sleeping space… At which point I get that now classic goofy grin of the weekend when I realize how very well I slept next to you… Even on the floor!

Headed to the beach. With a good book and a crazy outfit. Cowwwboy baby! 😉

On May 25, 2009, at 1:22 PM, Mike Tyler wrote:

No question still sleeping…..and now time for eating. Nothing to distract me today, so i’m painfully aware that I’m STARVING. Van and I always go to a beautiful place with an elevated deck LITERALLY “on the beach”, so we can sit there and eat and chat and watch dolphins and swimmers and surfers and beach bums contemplate how utterly beautiful San Diego is, and how it just may well be the most perfect place on earth.

You know….as far as cities go. 😉

(can’t wait to get back to check out TEDTalks, one of what I hope will soon be at least 3980 things that you will share with me in the near future. 🙂 )

On Mon, May 25, 2009 at 9:18 AM, Angela M. Baxley wrote:
The first thing I do on waking is grab my phone and, yippee!, you’ve emailed me back!

Hopefully you’re still sleeping.

And Ori knew your t-shirt quote before I finished it. He quipped, us scientists get it (or something like that). Told you you’d get along.


On May 25, 2009, at 3:10 AM, Mike Tyler wrote:

Is this your way of asking for my number? 😉

I was right…..just a bit empty here now. Days being counted as we speak….

On Mon, May 25, 2009 at 12:13 AM, Angela M. Baxley wrote:
…and I wanted to text you a cute message… And that’s when I realize that I can’t. We never did exchange numbers.

Ori was confused. Thought *you* were my cousin. That was hilarious! I couldn’t figure out why he was hanging around. That explains it. 🙂

I can’t even describe my appreciation. I won’t try.