(Hello! Just a reminder that these pieces are part of a new collection I am calling Muffy Edelstein Talks Smack. This collection is more irreverent than you might be used to reading from me-consider yourself warned. Also, I am working on a new collection of world-building prose. Not sure yet where I will post it but it will likely be on this Substack under a new header.)

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It is a beautiful day in early August. Doug, Kyle and I are sitting quietly looking out at the boats in the harbor and further out to the bay. Wind chimes sound in the background. A damp warm wind tickles my neck. A water taxi pulls into the dock, the chatter of passengers sounds festive and full of joy. Pickup trucks navigate the sloping landing, lowering small boats into the water. Directions are given in a dialect that alerts my heart that I am home. “A little fahther,” it says. “Yah, that’s it. Lowa, lowa, nice.”

I watch as a family of three, father and two young children, prepare to embark in their Whaler. It is a perfect day for such an adventure. I close my eyes and rest for a moment. The scent of the ocean is strong.

“Ooop, he has lost interest,” says Kyle. “Fifteen seconds, not bad.” He adds. The sarcasm is palpable.

I open one eye, reluctant to commit more of myself than that to this interruption. I take in the scene unfolding. Ugh. This has trouble written all over it. I sigh. Kyle nods.

The little boy, no more than 10 or 11, has abandoned his station. He is dicking around on the other side of the dock and jabbing some found object, sort of like a javelin, into the dock itself. I notice him trying to pull the metal rod out of the old dock. Once liberated, he begins stabbing the water with it. Who leaves a rusty tool like that behind?

I look towards Kyle and he points my attention to the little girl. She must be his younger sister. No more than 7 or 8. Her attention to the task is sublimely heartbreaking. She is still on task, still attending to her station. She looks resolute, holding the rope with what appears to be all of her might and concentration. The boat moves against the dock and the back end swings out wildly away from the dock.

And then she starts to whimper. She is getting tired.

“Where the fuck is the dad?” I ask.

“Probably sexting in the car,” Doug replies.

We chuckle.

“Probably working one out,” Doug adds.

I am an easy mark and Doug knows my number.

I start laughing.

Kyle does not.

“You two are fucking weird,” Kyle adds.

If it weren’t for the shifting circumstances, Kyle would still be shaking his head at us.

Doug proceeds to amplify the absurdity. I am literally a sitting duck.

“Just one more second,” Doug moans.

“For fuck’s sake,” Kyle says.

“Touchy, touchy,” Doug says.

“He’s getting old, Doug. Cut him some slack,” I add.

“We all are.” Doug grumbles.

Caught in our call and response, Doug and I miss the beat. Not Kyle. Kyle has had his eye on the prize the entire time. Slowly Kyle shifts his weight in anticipation of standing and moves into the unfolding storyline.

Without warning he is jumping up from the bench like a 40 year old and begins hobbling in the direction of the dock. The little girl clearly lost her grip and the boat is now moving away from the dock. We all see her leaning too far out from the dock.

“Stop!” I holler in her direction. She looks perplexed. She is in the air, falling toward the water.

I yell out across the parking lot.

“For Christ’s sake, no one can hear you, Muffy!” Doug says. He begins yelling.

I shake my hand dismissively in Doug’s direction as I move towards the dock. I’m not sure how I expected this to go, but I am a bit frozen. I cannot get down on the dock to reach my hand out in hopes of helping the little girl. I attempt to use the rod as a grab bar, but my tremor is so active the rod has become more of a hindrance than a helpful tool.

So I point my energy in the direction of the little boy. “See what happens when you don’t pay attention!” I growl. The little boy cries harder and I feel shame and full of regret for my misplaced rage. But how do I tell a 10 year old kid that my anger is about me and my failing body and my perceptions of my ineptitude?

Doug steps in gallantly and mediates. He even gets the boy to smile. Meanwhile, a soaking wet and cold Kyle has saved the day! The little girl clings to his neck until her father arrives.

Finally, the father comes running in the direction of the dock.

Dad is joined by a posse of younger dudes. Their comportment says, we got this, you can all return to your regularly scheduled programming.

The kid looks terrified. Doug waxes philosophically. “Kid, this won’t be the last time you experience this feeling. But do your future self a favor. Don’t let it become a vampire. It’s just part of the gig, ok? Being human is a tough thing.”

The child nods agreeably. “Give me five.” Doug says. The two bump fists.

Doug, Kyle and I sigh in unison. Another crisis averted. Just three average humans at your service.

We blow off some steam, throwing insults and accusations around.

“You look like a wet cat.”

“Remind me, if I need saving, to not rely on you to holler for help.”

“What planet were you on and what were you smoking?”

We take up residence again on our bench overlooking the harbor. Kyle and I pass a thermos back and forth. Doug is feigning offense. “Excuse me, don’t I get a sip?” He asks.

“Sure,” I say and hand him the thermos.

He looks at me suspiciously. “What’s in it?” Doug asks. “Just try it, Doug,” Kyle and I say together.

Doug inhales the woody scent and looks at me with a question mark on his face.

“Chaga,” I say, laughing.

Now it’s time for Doug to roll his eyes.

We are off duty.

But really, are we ever off duty?

Doug places his head on Kyle’s shoulder and I place my head on his other shoulder.

We have been on duty with each other for decades. It is hard work and often it sucks.

But we know that being on duty with each other, day in and day out, has created the conditions for this moment of grace. This messy, crazy, imperfect grace.

I wouldn’t want it any other way.

Jamie’s at my house for the weekend. She is my brilliant 16 year old niece. When Jamie visits the years wash away and I become something fresh and young and new.

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That is, until I look in the mirror.

“Jamie what have you got for us this weekend?” I ask.

Jamie time won’t last forever you know and I don’t want to miss a second.

We decided to begin with a late morning ice cream cone down on the old dock. We grab bowls to capture the drip of our oversized cones and plant ourselves on the edge of the dock.

Jamie time is my respite from the haunting mirrors of middle age. All the detritus that got swept into dark corners reemerges. Simultaneously we become more and more attached to our favorite stories and beliefs. Somehow along the way to 60 I began to believe in my stories. Worse, having learned to trust the storytellers, I had made myself vulnerable. And I wasn’t alone. So it makes sense then that an interloper would find easy passage, nesting in our facile psyches.

Interloper is too kind, mind you. I am talking about wretchedness so penetrating that it is reshaping what it means to be part of the human family.

We are quietly being devoured by carnivorous parasites, quietly sucking our marrow down to the bone.

Most of us don’t even know it’s happening.

For my peers, 2026 is sort of like one big hall of mirrors. And my best efforts to point at the illusion goes unacknowledged.

I can see the movie reviews now.

“A spellbinding dystopic universe filled with harrowing plot twists.”

“The protagonist is such a tragic character. He is both his own savior and his personal satan, the existential threat to a life in motion.”

I mention some version of my concern to Jamie, curious to hear her thoughts on the topic. She looks at me with that side glance that teenagers have been looking at old people with for millennia. Regardless of the era. “You’ve got to be kidding,” it says. “Whatever,” it protests.

“What, Jamie?” I ask. “You are giving me that look!”

“Clearly, you don’t understand The Algorithm,” she says nonchalantly.

“What?” I ask. I defend my cool tech status. “I do too know what an algorithm is.”

Jamie snickers. “Exactly. This is not an algorithm. This is The Algorithm. And we all, pointing at an invisible group of her peer group, we understand its behavior.”

“Behavior? It’s a computer command.” And then I remember. The creepy crawling feeling of that interloper.

“Yeah, we know it’s there so we don’t buy into anything it says.”

“And yet it still has uses,” she adds. “You don’t need to take a blow torch to it,” she jokes, tousling my hair. This is a playful jab at one of the favorite Aunt Muffy moments when a bout of lice led me to eschew creams and nit pickers for a buzz cut. Given my blow torch tendencies I was one of few in my larger social circle who abandoned all social media platforms in hopes of maintaining a chaste mind.

“We’re not obsessed with the big stories, because they are unverifiable. We are interested in collections of smaller stories that we can weave together first hand account by first hand account. These stories are simple, have fewer characters and less moving parts. For example if you are trying to track down a celebrity. There is a way to do it by using a web of simple 1st hand data points. It works below the stories. The Algo owns the stories now.”

For a moment time stops and I am Ally Sheedy and I am teamed up with my best friend Matthew Broderick as they hack good old fashioned tech to build a map to find Joshua.

“Show me show me” I squeal.

“This,” she says, and turns her phone sideways like she’s dealing cards. “Okay. So. Say I want to find out where some celebrity actually is right now, not where their publicist says they are.” she continues.

I am already ready to hack the Pentagon, my fingers hovering over some imaginary keyboard from 1983.

“It’s just like WarGames,” I say. “You’re basically Matthew Broderick, hacking the school computer to change your grades before he finds Joshua.”

Jamie doesn’t look up. “Who’s Joshua?”

“The computer. The AI. Global Thermonuclear War.” I groan dramatically.

I am delighted with myself.

Jamie continues.

“Ok, well anyways.” Jamie says, pausing before she continues. First, someone always posts something dumb and specific. Not “having a great day,” something with a location baked in without them meaning to. A receipt in the background. A weird little regional product.” Jamie says.

She flicks through something too fast for me to see. “Then I check who else is tagged nearby, not by them, but by other people, randoms, at the same place, same hour.” She adds.

“But how do you know?” I start.

“Because I follow one of the randoms already, from a totally different thing, two years ago, some dance video. So I know she’s real. She’s not a bot, she’s not paid, she doesn’t know she’s a source.” Jamie shrugs like this is obvious, like I’ve asked her how a doorknob works. “That’s the whole thing, Aunt Muffy. It’s not one post. It’s four people who don’t know each other, who all showed up in the same place, and I already trust one of them for a completely unrelated reason.And they unknowingly become my 1st hand source.” Jamie says.

I groan. I get it but I don’t get it entirely. This map is of an upside down universe where the rules are being built now in real time.

The first thing I must entertain is that I won’t find my way to the true story using old fashion technology. What I will continue to find is a chorus of crows cawing the same story with slight twists. And that is The Algo at work.

Something small clicks into place “The only winning move is not to play.” I say, quoting Joshua the computer character in War Games. “Adding, mind blown.”

Jamie laughs. “You are such a dork, Aunt Muffy.” she says.

“Takes one to know one” I say.

I pull her toward me for a quick hug. “Look at us. Two dorks sitting on the dock of the bay, birthing our own living verification network.” I say.

Jamie snorts. “Blow torch,” she adds.

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Lilian is my oldest friend. We go way back; to proms and SunIn, and trips to the mall.

Lillian is dying.

When she received the diagnosis, she looked at her doctor and thanked him. And then she turned towards her husband and murmured, “get me out of here”. And so he did.

As Buddy, her husband, animates the retelling, he dramatically thrusts his arm forward.”Go North.” He declares.

Lilian didn’t deserve this fate. She was too young, too good. I moaned. How wretched that so many better candidates were passed over by death only to take my dear Lilian away.

According to Buddy, she texted her sister, Patricia, giving her a short list of things to do in anticipation of their arrival at the seashore. Then, she closed her eyes and whispered to Buddy,

All I could see from where I stood

Was three long mountains and a wood;

I turned and looked another way,

And saw three islands in a bay*

I got the news a bit later, from Lilian’s sister. In a fit of fury, I threw some of my belongings in the backseat of my car, blew a kiss to my apartment and drove north to the sea.

Camden, Maine. Little did I know then that I wasn’t driving to Camden of today, nor of our childhood, rather I was traveling to Camden of a bygone era. Of shipbuilding, and summer people, of island hopping and of cool nights and warm long days.

Lilian had made the decision to die in 1905, not 2025. She had decided she much preferred to die a Victorian. No, not a Vegetarian. She preferred the early 1900’s to the hustle of 2025. Grammy’s old summer camp was prepped for the last visit. All artifacts of modernity were to be removed. TVs and modems and lamps. Microwaves and dumb phones too.

Buddy was in quite a state of despair when he called. What would he do without the internet? Sometimes I think Lilian chose 1905 just to trigger Buddy. I imagined her regaling the story of Buddy’s inanity and inability to feel anything with laughter and irreverence.

Without her at my side I lacked her diplomacy. “Buddy, really?” I asked. “Just please for the love of God shut up.” I added.

And he did.

Yes, Lilian was going Victorian. Not Caveman. She preferred a much more genteel time.

We embraced when I arrived. The nurse, Ronnie, had just begun the unsettling task of organizing the tools of modern day death. Lilian being Lillian, she refused most interventions rather adamantly, except for a collection of narcotics. We would call them tonics, I was told.

With a handful of books at her side, she began her descent, “Down the Mt Battie trail to the sea.” she whispered.

The first few days she slept.

We planned a small gathering of her intimates. In person or bust. She exclaimed forcefully. No zoom, no text. In person at this house by the sea.

We chose a date for a few days later as we acknowledged time was driving now.

Most days she rallied for a couple of hours. Buddy and I took turns holding vigil at her bedside. She waxed poetically and often was quite morose. On occasion I would snap her funny bone and she would burst into a fit of giggles.

But mostly, she slept. In my helplessness I took to holding a damp cloth to her forehead. It gave me time to learn the trails that time had etched in her face.

The party was, dare I say it, fun. I met people from her city life I had heard mention of but never met. I reacquainted with old friends of hers. But mostly, I sat in silence with her sister Patricia and pondered a world without the light of Lillian in it.

As dusk arrived. Ronnie gathered us all in a circle. It is time for Lillian to rest now. She has something for each one of you. Ronnie handed out tiny envelopes to each of us. It occurred to me that while I had been sleeping next door, Lillian and Ronnie had been burning the midnight oil. Later, I learned Lilian dictated each note to Ronnie.

It was a dark night in 1905. The oil lanterns remained off and there was no shimmer of dancing candles in sea air. Only a clear night sky and a waning gibbons illuminated our silent stroll to the sea’s edge. Our laughter and weeping filled the night air. We were, each one of us, inside the magical story written just for us.

People departed as the moon rose higher in the sky. It was only then that I felt prepared to read the last chapter of the last story. Her parting farewell gift to me.

Just one line awaited.

You were the love of my life. It read.

I took a pause and then all the moments of every moment of a 50 year old friendship flooded my heart. Of course it had always been so! How could I not have seen it? That which was so clear looking back.

I pondered a dramatic goodbye-motoring up the small hill and into the room where she lay dying. And quickly changed my mind. For we had already said goodbye. As I began to weep, I moved again towards the seashore and placed her final words on a bumpy ocean. I watched as the water speedily consumed her.

Once death has decided there is no turning back.

…

My friend Lilian has died, Departing 1905 she left us no trace to follow.

What she did leave in its place was the solace that memory holds to ease our spirits in the darkest of nights.

Sail on, my dear sweet Lillian!

*Poem by Edna St. Vincent Millay

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And what happens when the pattern is intolerable? What then?

To be human is to know the pattern widow intimately. She is alive and well in each one of us and memorialized in archetype.

And sometimes, be it the sting, the speed, the violence, the dark wit, saying “no” is the only decision that makes sense.

And that is the true heartbreak.

As I wander through my back garden, I pause to say hello to the trees planted in memoriam.

Recently a need for a new tree arose. It just so happens I had the perfect tree. A volunteer tulip tree, Liriodendron, had found its way to a shady spot in my front yard. One of the tallest North American hardwood trees, the tulip tree is happiest when planted in fertile soil and full sun. It is called a tulip tree because of its showy springtime bright yellow tulip shaped flowers. It is the perfect tree for this moment.

My 10 o’clock walks into the back yard. “Whatcha doing?” he asks.

“Finding a home for a new tree.” I say.

“Ahh yes, Muffy’s homage to being a difficult person.” He says.

“Takes one to know one.” I say. “You really can be such a bitch.” I add.

“At your service Mam.” He says. “Always glad to be the worst. Thanks for putting up with me all these years”

It’s an old joke between us. “You are the easy one.” I say.

Regardless, the receipts were thrown away long ago. Neither of us can return the other now. Patterns and all. It wasn’t always like this, mind you. Mr. 10 O’Clock and I have had a couple moments, where it was too close to call.

“This last one was brutal.” I don’t think I have any more room for this type of loss.” I say.

“Certainly no more room for more trees.” He says.

“Yah. Especially because you do the digging.” I say.

“What type?” He asks.

“A tulip tree.” I say.

“Oooh wee!” He rolls his eyes and croons. “Must be a beauty of a pattern.” He adds.

I nod my head as an acknowledgement and begin to weep. “A beauty.” I whisper.

Snot is running down my face and coating my lips.

Mr. 10 o’clock hands me a handkerchief. “Come on now, clean yourself up.” He says. He stretches his arm out leaning back as he thrusts the handkerchief in my direction.

I move to hand him back the handkerchief and he squeals like a pig. “Eeeeek!” He hollers. For such an unflappable human he is surprisingly squeamish about mucus. Words I am “forbidden” to uttering in front of him include: snot, mucus and the most terrifying of all, ear wax. On a bad day my pleasure for ear wax could send him packing. We walk a tight knife’s edge with this kink of mine.

Weird pattern. Not funny after all.

So I adapted. My fascination is now a private exploration.

I laugh and hobble towards him. “God damn it. I wish I could catch you.” I moan.

My illness has finally overtaken my gait entirely. I move like a drunken sailor.

He beams and chuckles. “You are adorable!” He says. I roll my eyes.

Adorable is not the word I would choose.

We are both a bit breathless from our game of tag. I point to the two chairs in the yard. “Sit with me for a minute would you?” I ask.

He bristles. Now it’s my turn to laugh. “I promise I will tick-check you” I say.

We sit in silence, moving the chairs from time to time to catch a new perspective on where to plant the tree.

And then just as we begin to shift our chairs towards the north, the planting spot catches our attention.

Bright sunshine abounds and we are encircled in a warm and golden hue.

A homecoming.

…

A few weeks later as summer turns towards fall, Mr.10 o’clock digs a hole for our six inch tulip tree. We mix in some compost and place her roots in the dirt.

“Be well, tiny tree.” I whisper. “Show this spot of heaven what you got!” He says.

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Doug stands on his porch, smiling as John, one of the local vagrants walks away. He feels glad for his contributions to John’s life including the old cowboy hat John is now sporting.

John was like many amongst us. He was a person a financialized world had no use for. Worse his mental and physical ailments were a drag on a stuttering economy. Culture had failed John, thought Doug, but I will not.

And so Doug made allowances. Most strikingly he answered to John’s pet name for him, Berry. What a goofy name! I once exclaimed to him. Doug had limited tolerance for it-it messed with the image he had of himself.

Doug was not only a good friend to the discarded, he was the Master of Ceremonies for the myriad events he hosted on his porch. Potlucks and sing-alongs and giveaways contributed to the blossoming community of vagrants, the displaced and the drug addled.

As a self-avowed outsider, Doug has claimed he feels more at ease on his porch with his neighborhood junkies than socializing across the river. Across the river is the yuppy food coop where Doug works part time. His clientele; a gaggle of geese donning hundred dollar yoga pants, spouting socialism. Perhaps, it was the lack of pretense of his neighbors that felt more honest.

He has pondered this paradox for as long as I have known him.

He is in a moment of repose considering his inquiry when the new beat cop stops by.

“You Berry?” The cop asks

Doug pauses and sighs. “Yes officer, I am how can I help?” Doug asks.

As they say, no good deed goes unpunished

“Your pal John is down at the county jail. You were his second call and well, no second call permitted. He needs his bail paid. Blames you for his incarceration. Hence, why I am here.” says the beat cop.

This stops Doug. “Me?” Doug asks. He raises his right eyebrow.

“Yah the hat. The gift.” Says the beat cop.

“Officer, what’s wrong with giving him my old hat?” Doug asks.

“It’s covered in anti semitic paraphernalia. The DA is considering it a hate crime. And since you are the owner you too may be implicated.” Says the beat cop.

“But I gave him a hat free and clear of paraphernalia. It wouldn’t occur to me! I mean really! For fucks sake.” Doug says.

“Sorry sir. You’re gonna have to come down to the station with me.” The beat cop says.

“But but fuck. Can I have one minute?” Doug asks.

The beat cop nods.

Pressure mounts. Paranoia swells. What am I supposed to do with Daisy? Doug is in full throttle panic right now. Fuck fuck fuck. Better to err on the side of transparency. Doug mumbles. He decides to bring anything that could be counted as evidence, should there be a case against him.

Daisy is his life-sized silicon lover. Doug purchased this marvel of silicon ingenuity after his most recent breakup. He was turning over a new leaf. He proclaimed. He was officially set free from the tyranny of dyadic, heterosexual sis gendered partnering!

Doug grabs Daisy and his rap sheet. The rap sheet tells the story of a politically active citizen who took action on his beliefs. It is an accounting full of acts of civil disobedience and resistance. Daisy, well she is her own category. An anomaly that doesn’t fit Doug’s pattern. Which is the most compelling part of this story.

It is an odd bird who moves against the pattern.

Getting Daisy down the two flights of stairs proves difficult. She weighs over 30 libs. Doug considers pushing her down the remaining stairs but Doug is committed to treating Daisy with respect.

“Sir sir what’s with all the stuff?” The cop asks.

Doug is apoplectic; he starts arguing his case to the beat cop. He realizes he is knee deep in one of his historic patterns and pauses.

“Just in case they want to avoid getting a warrant, officer.” He says. “I say, better to be prepared than not be prepared.” Doug stumbles over his words.

Who’s the crazy one now, he asks himself.

Sometime later. He calls me. I am his one call.

“Muffy, you gotta get me out of the clink.” Doug says.

“I’ll be there as soon as possible.” I say.

Doug is my patient zero. We go back to the days when I was practicing my therapeutic magic on friends rather than practicing on unsuspecting people. Doug always played along heroically. We laughed a lot.

When I arrive at the jail Doug is sitting cross legged on the ground in boxers and a tee shirt. On the bench is an odd looking Harajuku doll with what looks like a faux vagina. Doug looks at me sheepishly as I take in the scene.

“Alfred and Bill needed warmer clothing.” Doug says. “and Daisy, well she refused to sit on the floor.”

I look in the direction of Daisy.

“Daisy I ask?” I point in her direction.

Doug nods.

“Is that a vagina?” I ask.

Doug replies. “It’s quite remarkable, huh? Pretty realistic.” He moves towards Daisy’s privates to demonstrate.

“No Doug please stop.” I say.

He giggles.

“Ok lets go.” I say.

I post bail for Doug and John. In the meantime the DA’s office has decided not to prosecute.

“You’re both free to go.” Says the beat cop

“Officer,” Doug says. “John is in no condition to-”

John’s ratcheting cough interrupts Doug’s advocacy. The beat cop nods.

“How are you doing buddy? What about we take a trip down to the ER and get that nasty cough looked at.” John nods and coughs.

“Here.” Doug says pulling out a wad of cash and counting out 5 20’s. “Just in case John needs anything.” He says.

The cop pauses and takes the money. “Buddy I got some money for you. We’ll give it to the ER folks, ok?” The beat cop says.

John nods and coughs.

“What do you want to do with the hat?” Asks the beat cop.

“I’ll hold onto it for him, for when he gets out. John, I got your hat. I will hold onto it for you. Ok?” Doug says.

John’s coughing jag continues.

“Be good John.” Doug says.

He turns to me with grief written all over his face. I squeeze his shoulder.

“Thank you man.” Doug says to the beat cop. “Come meet your neighbors. It’s potluck Thursday.” Doug says.

The cop nods. “Will do, buddy. Will do.”

“Well, I got some cooking to do for potluck.” Says Doug.

I nod and hold back my own wellspring of sadness.

“Take Daisy with you, ok? I never was good at relationships.” He says.

I look at him crossed eyed.

“Seriously, she is a good conversationalist. Give her a chance.” Doug begs in a hushed tone of voice.

We pause.

“Ciao brown cow!” We say in unison.

“Jinx you owe me a coke!” We scream.

“Double jinx!” We laugh.

“I’ll visit soon,” Doug says.

I smile and inhale the familiar wisps of disappointment that live between us.

What 60 years of being human under my belt has taught me; the patterns persist. It was futile to think it could be otherwise.

Rather than chasing the elusive story that change is possible, consider for a moment a new story. That story isn’t will I/they/You change but rather; is this a pattern I can make space for in my heart?

I smiled.

“Looking forward to it, Doug.” I say.

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Well this is it. The time is nigh. Today Steven (AKA Mr. MB) and I are reconvening. It has been a while. We haven’t met in person in almost a year. I am eager to be with him again.

I feel like I do when I am nearing the end of reading a great book. My inclination is to skip pages to get there faster. As creatures of stories, we have a vested interest in endings.

Pacing isn’t helping, checking the time isn’t either. Chocolate covered ginger seems to soothe the worst of the itch. Nothing soothes desire like chocolate. And well, scratching bug bites.

I love-hate a good bug bite. Have you ever taken a hot rock and placed it directly on a bite? It is a pinnacle of sensation. Highly recommended.

I’m knee deep in chocolate covered ginger and day dreams about third degree bug bite burns, when Steven walks onto the porch. He laughs, “sorry Ma’m,” he says tipping a make believe cowboy hat. Seems like you’re in the middle of something”.

I blush.

In all the world, there is no sensation more pleasing, though than the taste of a technicolor human.

Steven glistens like gemstones refracting their facets on a calm sea. I have eyes only for him, this moment and that which animates him.

My cup runeth over. My heart is full.

Tears quietly work their way down his cheeks. “The gates,” he whispers. “ I nod. There is nothing remaining to say.

But you dear reader, oh human lover of story. Perhaps you are sitting there gnawing on your cuticles desperate to know about the gates and how we two came to be sailing the seas of eros together, cognizant and in perpetuity.

How do you solve a problem like a Mosquito?

…

“This is it, our last meeting, right?” Steven asks.

I nod my head.

Steven looks ready to weep.

“Before you get all peeled grapes on me. Dish. Any great stories left untold?” I ask.

He laughs.

“Well, there was a wedding.” He says.

“A wedding? Jesus Fucking Christ. I told you to be careful and practice temperance!” I say.

We laugh.

“How did it work out?” I ask.

“How do you think it worked out?” Steven is laughing even more boisterously.

“Shit show?” I ask.

“Beyond shit show, more like a shit storm. Get this, 300 people at a destination wedding. Her first wedding. And there we are just about to say our vows and there is this knocking sound. It gets louder until it is deafening. I am sweating balls. I am starting to panic. The minister is looking at me for the cue to continue. I nod yes and then I kid you not, the wind changes direction and the sky turns an ominous shade of oily blue grey and the knock now has words, not words exactly but you know what I mean.”

I nod for indeed I do know exactly what he means.

“And I clear my throat and turn to our 300 guests. I apologize and explain that there will be no wedding. Gasps of horror, salty boos and moans of sorrow fill the space. I turn towards my fiancee to apologize but she won’t look at me. So I quickly leave the site of the fiery psychic massacre and turn my attention towards getting the fuck out of paradise.”

“Shit sandwich” I remark. “Congratulations.”

He bows.

We lean into that which holds us.

“How about a walk?” He asks.

Steven offers me his hand.

“Well, shall we?” He asks.

We make our way.

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I still remember the first time we met. This was after a few weeks of conversation and prior to our week-long kick-off meeting.

It felt important to see Mr. MB in action in his native environment. Showing being way better than telling if you ask me. It’s more revealing.

A naked bear can’t easily hide its nature.

Mr. MB did not disappoint. He was a shining example of all pomp, no, there-there.

The performance was just about to begin and I had front row seats.

How often have you seen a grizzly with its arm buried deep inside a beehive?

I was practically incapable of keeping my enthusiasm under wraps. I was giddy.

..

Mr. MB’s game of choice is high end residential real estate sales. He confided in me that at this point in his career referrals accounted for nearly 85% of his gig.

“It’s so boring.” He complained. Yep, even million dollar sales people get bored.

Mo money no eros runs its course. Just fill in the blank people. Everything devoid of eros has a short half life.

Mo bungee jumping no eros

Mo fucking no eros

Mo gambling no eros

Etc.

We were meeting a prospect for lunch at Aska in Brooklyn. It was definitely, mo high end eclectic foodie land. Mr. MB had cold called this guy. Didn’t know him from Adam. He’d persuaded him that an hour lunch was worth his time.

He was correct. What a show Mr MB put on. He played us both like string instruments. Electricity pulsed warmly. We were transfixed and heading quickly toward orgasm. Mr. MB was a highly skilled maestro. I wanted him, I wanted it so badly. My desire was carnal and flooded my system.

He was going to pull this off!

Tap tap tap. (My higher self weighing in)

No. I can’t hear you.

Tap Tap Tap (Again. Now higher self getting more emphatic)

Fuck me. Really? Mr. MB was on the edge of greatness. A gesticulating mad man in his element is not to be interrupted!

Tap Tap Tap. (And again-what a persistent bugger higher self can be)

Ok. Ok. (that’s me, Muffy)

What a buzz kill. (Muffy again)

MY shift in position caught Mr. MB unaware. He didn’t see my leg as he spun wildly around the room.

And then. Woops.

Ass over kettle he went. Malbec erupted from his wine glass shooting streams of deep burgundy red across the starched white linen shirt of his prospect. Mr. MB grabbed his arm and moaned like a small dying animal. His arm appeared broken in two places.

We stood there incapable of moving from this battleground. “What is wrong with you?” he shouted. “Don’t just stand there like fucking idiots. Call a fucking ambulance. Do something.”

I’ll admit, it was a pretty rad encore.

…

Still licking his wounds, we headed north.

I hate a quiet car ride. It makes me twitch.

I hummed.

He growled. Remind me to never share a car ride with a hungry bear.

Ten minutes passed in silence.

“Is it funny yet?” I asked.

“No.” He replied.

I chuckled. Funnier by the moment if you ask me.

“Stop that.” He said.

Ooh but he was so funny. I tried holding back laughter. But that only made it worse and now I was choking. “I can’t breathe”, I said in between laughing jags.

“Driver, pull over at the next exit please.” He said.

“You’re leaving?” I asked. I had to be careful not to piss myself. It was just so hilarious.

He was going to walk away now? This was prime time.

I sighed. It was a helpful reminder to surrender to that which I cannot possibly understand.

And then, something shifted. It was palpable.

He sighed.

“It was pretty funny huh?” He said, grinning sheepishly.

We laughed together.

A moment or two later he leaned across the gap between us and placed his head on my shoulder.

“That was close”, he whispered.

Yup.

“Promise me you wont let me quit.” He asked.

“That’s all you my friend. You and Eros. She’s your lover now. Listen to her. Be patient. Remember you are not supposed to figure this out. But guaranteed she won’t ever abandon you. Only you abandon you.” I said.

“Promise?” He asked.

I laughed. “Ask her, not me.” I said.

He looked at me with his puppy dog eyes. “One piece of sage wisdom? Pretty please?” He asked.

I said something pithy. He laughed.

“Now that is boring.” He said.

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And indeed it was.

High hopes for this one.

New project. The topics come from a friend who requested I reengage with Substack. Each piece follows an ordinary story arc, typically in 5 stanzas. In an attempt to pace myself, I am going to post the 5 stanzas over the course of a handful of weeks. The first topic is, Eros.

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I’m meeting up with one of my high rollers this week. We’ve been meeting for about a year. His missive, to untangle the football field sized knots that have taken up residency in his psyche. It is slow, painstaking work because it’s really not his to do, he is simply responsible for crafting and amplifying the conditions that make the untangling possible.

Mind you, it’s not where we started. We started with an introduction from a former patron (and now dear friend), Raneesh, who practically begged me to help his pal out. He prepped me for the possibility that I was facing a potential lost cause. I laughed. Who the fuck did he think I tended to?

So, like the others that came before, Mr. Money Bags paid my fee and off to Casablanca we flew, spending the better part of a week, digging through the muck of his beautifully kinked life.

Just call me Muffy the lost cause magnet. A glutton for punishment tis I.

Can’t help it that my taste preference runs to the histrionic. I just love me some junkie ragtime. especially the day dreamers.

They are, more potential less drag.

They can fly.

It makes my job so much easier. Ever try taking a depressive through, well anything? It is just so damn cumbersome. Emotional relics are beastly heavy. And I am no longer a body builder.

What about me? I am an amplifier. More succinctly I am a servant to amplification. I have no contract or obligation to this process other than to care for my own relationship to amplification. My intention is to step out after twelve months, no more no less. Mr. Money Bags is in the final stretch. I’m rooting for him.

Yep the goal is that while they come in through the back door they leave through the front door. The initial work is the easiest part. It is the “come to Jesus moment”, that invites these poor fools to embrace their passage through this upside down Alice in Wonderland rabbit hole, in hopes it can be the lubricant to unclog the pipes. Yes, yes, all metaphors apply when there are rats nests to contend with.

Have you ever seen a rat’s nest? Disgusting. The innards of wall board, feces, skins of dead plant matter, bits of insulation. A creature who beds down with his crap. Nature’s ultimate hoarder.

Hmmm sound familiar?

Anyhow no rainbows promised. No glorious celebratory reckoning. Just another human twisted in knots due to an imperfect construction. And that is the juice of it.

So, this particular joe, upon the middle part of our first engagement, pops out of his self induced slumber momentarily, frows his brow and exclaims. What the fuck is wrong with your belly? I explain for the 400 hundred millionth time although they have all been warned about the deformity that is my liver. I am a post menopausal lady who looks ready to deliver twins, No joke. Living on borrowed time here.

But ain’t we all?

it’s my liver fucktard. I’m sick. I take the opportunity to remind him of my other ailments just incase he rises from his stupor and asks, Why they fuck are you shaking?

Never fear. You’ll get yours. And may you too be blessed with the good fortune of receiving the private musings of others about your mortal condition. “No, are you really sure you aren’t pregnant?” “If I were you I would get a new liver” and my favorite, “If I got that diagnosis I would be pulling a plastic baggie over my head and tying it off around my neck.”

The cool thing is, it’s just a reminder of what we’re not.

Now that is a great teacher.

A knot loosens.

Invariably, it comes to pass at one point or another, that my patrons will lean in and whisper confessions. I just don’t understand why I am so attracted to you. You are magnetic. You make my balls twitch and yet you are old and unwell! They weep uncontrollably as they proclaim their undying loyalty and love. They express momentary confusion and dislocation in the face of that which they cannot see.

The paradox. It’s all right there. It is the fractal that keeps playing. I have heard it, in myriad forms, many times. It is what opened this particular line of engagement to me. I am like the flame and the promise and they are moths starving to be fed the heat at the center of their being.

Eros. Plain and simple. If you got it and you know it, clap your hands. It is the only thing that stands a chance of getting through the residue and knots of human conditioning.

While everyone has it, not everyone knows what it feels like nor understands when they are in its presence. No one can fake it. That is just a charade. And child’s play. And if charades float your boat, go play!

Just stay the fuck away from me.

Charades are entertaining but they will never deliver the nectar you scent.

Because it’s already you. And I know you don’t get it, words have a charming way of hollowing out bone. But try this: right now: your skin is covered in roughly 1 trillion living bacteria. While you cannot see them or even fathom their existence, they are there. And they are an integral aspect of your you/not you.

Anyone? Anyone? Are you getting it yet?

First things first. Relax.

You got to begin by demystifying it. It’s not your charming personality or any of your lovely bits. It’s not your expression, not your art.

Second, you gotta get down on it. Dance it in the moonlight, have the time of your life with it, you know ride that train with it, high on cocaine.

Give it some time to penetrate you

Leave well enough well enough. Tend to your responsibilities to your obligations. Slow down. This isn’t a race and even if it was the odds are stacked against you.

You are a loser.

If you are still with me, Welcome to the foyer. That’s how it started for Mr. Money Bags. He did his time in the foyer. He was remarkably beautiful there. Chains and hooks. Courage and persistence. He got a ticket to ride, a ticket that his money couldn’t procure for him.

This tour through Eros is his story. I am here to highlight the best parts and offer up a TL:DR if necessary.

Will he or won’t he? I am rooting for him. I am his ally.

But I am not a fortune teller nor do I have a magic eight ball or a pack of Waite’s Tarot in my satchel. It is impossible for me to understand the way things work.

So I don’t know if the doors to the club will open for him before he shuffles off to Buffalo and attends to that series of pearly gates.

What I can attest to is sometimes an invitation is granted. But it is not up to me to grant entry. I’m just a monkey in its cage. It leads I follow.

My patrons belong to an exclusive club.

I encourage you that if you find yourself with an invitation, get on the damn ride!

If we happen to be in the same neighborhood, rest assured I will be here when you stop cold in your tracks and see as if for the very first time.

“I have been looking for you for all time and eternity.”

Surprise! Here I am.

Shall we begin?