Sent from my HTC Tilt™ 2, a Windows® phone from AT&T

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Sent from my HTC Tilt™ 2, a Windows® phone from AT&T

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First decide on a pattern to emulate. Any search engine with show you photographs of marble patterns you can use as a guide. My first can was a Florentine Green but for the rest of my cans I went with a light and dark blue pattern since I already have a shelf & stool in my bath with these colours. The base colour for both these patterns is black so I gave all my cans a base coat of black spray paint. 

Next I prepared a pallet for the second layer of colours. I buy samples of acrylic wall paint at the hardware store in coordinating shades, in this case bright blue; baby blue and white (which is my veining colour). On a washable surface (I use a plastic plate) drizzle the two coordinating colours in swirls and crisscrosses in roughly equal amounts, first the darker colour and then the lighter colour. Top this with approximately half as much white paint using the same swirl and crisscross method. If you do not have a sea sponge, wet a dish sponge and pick irregular pieces of the edges so there are no square lines. With the wet sponge, dab onto the pallet and transfer the paint to your project. Do not be heavy handed or the paint will muddy - just dab it so you have random bits of colour overlapping the black background but leave some background paint showing through. Compare to the sample you found on your computer and judge by eye. It takes some practice but is easy once you get the hang of it. Allow this to dry while you wash your plate and sponge. 

For the veining, apply a stripe of white paint to your plate with a few drops of water in the center. Tilt the plate to make the center of your paint a little runny. Run the edge of a feather through the paint, picking up thick and thin amounts of paint on the edge. Paint veins randomly across the base coats but only in one direction. Paint off shoots from the veins like creeks off a river but make sure they flow primarily in one direction. The thick and runnier sections of paint on your pallet should make some areas of the veining look opaque and some more transparent, similar to real marble. This takes practice, too, but if you really screw up you should be able to wipe it away quickly and try again; just be careful not to make it too muddy looking. 

Allow project to dry thoroughly. Spray with a clear lacquer sealant. 

For these decorative tins, I curve the library drawer label frames to conform to where I want to attach them, mark the placement holes and drill holes into the container. (My parakeet hates that part.) Attach these with prong fasteners (rivets could be used instead but are harder to attach without denting the can) and slip a label into the holder. You're done!

They would charge some crazy amount for these at Pier One while paying someone in Bangladesh twenty cents a week to make them so feel virtuous for recycling without exploitation (but say a prayer for the Bangladeshi).   

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Having marbleized a shelf and step stool in my bathroom I came up with the idea to recycle old metal containers along the same line. This is my first example. I painted this can that soaps came in and then mounted an old metal tag holder on the side to label the contents. I think a whole row of these will be both useful and cute plus I am recycling which is a virtue. What do you think of my idea?

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It’s sad when you have a passion and try to do productive things to fulfill that passion but find you’ve made poor choices. I’ve done that.

My passions are a cure/ effective treatment for cancer and the prevention of homelessness through understanding of it. Forget the later, for now, because most people aren’t interested in the topic until it happens to them and it seldom does. Cancer happens to everyone, whether directly or through someone they love.

I still give toward cancer cures and to cancer patients and their families but I believe I could do more and once thought I was. I guess I picked the wrong organizations. The organizations I picked were not about the cause as much as they were about themselves and when I realized that, I pulled out.

Organizations need to realize people feel passion for things that touch their lives. They’ll pull all their punches for those causes, in this case, cancer.  I want to do something in memory of the people I lost, to make that loss less painful and feel like it is less in vain. If the organization is founded on celebrating one person and not the whole of the cause, it loses me. My heart is with those I’ve lost and helping others not go through the same thing. As much as I admire survivors of cancer, have personally witnessed what it is to go through the treatment, and celebrate their fortitude, cancer is bigger than one individual.

I think I am able to get people behind me for a cure and support for cancer patients and their families because my Grandmother died of breast cancer, my Grandfather died of leukemia, my Father died of colon cancer, my mother died of ovarian cancer, my Brother died of lung cancer, and my Sister died of liver cancer.  It is one person’s family but it could be anyone’s family. It could be your family or another's family. It could be you or anyone you love. Cancer is just that BIG. That urgent. That close to home for EVERYONE. It is not about you or me but about the human family.

So I am missing an opportunity to help the cause because I feel an obligation to remind people, cancer touches everyone and ALL survivors are rock stars. Their families, me excluded, are rock stars, too. Don’t think, just because I am not a rock star, I don’t feel the hurt of missing an opportunity because I’d like people to see a bigger picture. I just believe that bigger picture will fuel more fires. 

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See the full gallery on Posterous

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He died when I was still young so my memories of him are faint but a part of him lives on through his poetry. My Mother hand typed these poems and passed them on to me, knowing my love of language.

Father left high school early to join the Navy for World War II. That is how he met my mother, a USO accordionist, on the opposite side of the country. He wore his Naval uniform for their wedding.

Few of his poems were about war but the following is. 

The Zero Hour

The whistle of the bombshell
The shot screamed high above
As I burrowed like a groundhog
I thought of home and love

We hadn't long to linger
The word came for the charge
We were welcomed to their trenches
By a blistering barrage

We took full half a mile
Of that cursed No Man's Land
Then reached the German trenches
And were fighting hand in hand.

I passed from the world of the living
And entered the world of the dead
Another American soldier
To that war machine been fed

He was not fed to the war machine during World War II so he again served his country in the "Korean Conflict." (It took years for the United States Government to admit the action in Korea was a war so I remember it being referred to in this manner, in our household.) When Father retired from military service it was as a Senior Master Sergeant for the United States Air Force.

This was all before I was born but so much a part of my Father's identity that history class was alive for me. My oldest brother was a Vietnam era veteran and I remember the fear in our family of wondering when the war would end. When my sister joined the Air Force I was unnerved to see her in uniform. I was told she would be okay but as a little girl, growing up with hushed stories of war, how could I be certain?

Father always seemed haunted but at the same time, in wonder of life. When he finally was defeated, it was not war which took him but cancer. He raced to button up his life for his wife and remaining small child. He was not given enough time but Mum was a military wife and knew how to get through. By the time he left us, we both did. It helped he left us with this, which was read at his funeral:

Just See That You're Happy Today

Don't worry yourself with tomorrow
Tomorrow's a long way away
Forget all your troubles and sorrows
Just see that you're happy today

Try living your life for the minute
Who knows what tomorrow will hold
Try getting the best that is in it
Tomorrow itself will unfold

A lifetime you think lies before you
Can't you get wise to what's true?
A million and one things can floor you
Then where is tomorrow for you?

So live as I say for the present
Tomorrow will come as it may
Though you be a king or a peasant
Just see that you're happy today

He wrote the second poem while still in the Navy during World War II (February 10th, 1942). The world was going to hell in a hand basket and he was writing about embracing life. This is the legacy he left.

War. Service. Cancer. Duty. These are the words I think of when I think of my soldier father. On this day where we memorialize those who served and those who died for our country I give to you his words. For those who have suffered and died and those who have suffered and lived through the illness that was his final act in life, I give you his inspiration. Frederick A. Devlin III never missed an opportunity to serve his country or its citizens. 

Godspeed to all soldiers past, present and future whether fighting for this country or fighting for your life. Thank you for your service to country, community and family.

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I have many incomplete posts about my Mother. Thus far I have been unable to find words that are worthy of her. I doubt I ever will. I'll try again and hope that at least I can paint a picture that would not embarrass her in its inadequacy.

My Mother was beautiful, inside and out, smart as a whip and talented on accordion. That is how she met my Pop when he was in the Navy during World War II, when she was a USO Accordionist. Fast forward several decades....

She had already had a complete family – two girls and two boys – perfect really, but then she was pregnant with me. She thought she was menopausal when I was conceived and she was not Catholic so I've no idea why she went through with having me but she did.

No one was happy about my birth. I don't want to beat a dead horse if you have read anything I have written before. I was not planned, not wanted, resented...yada yada yada. Except by Mum.

When I was old enough to vocalize, “Why did you have me?” She said, “You were my gift to myself.” She explained every other child was planned, expected, wanted, mapped out but I was her surprise. I was the child she had by choice, not obligation. She could raise me without distraction. I was hers.

I don't remember a period where I did not know she had more grace and intelligence in her left earlobe than any other mother had in their entire frame. She helped so many with no appearance of assisting. She kept peace in our family. She was a rock to disabled Veterans and the marginalized alike. She never judged. Everyone deserved and received her love even if they were at odds with her. She never held grudges. She just wanted to do what ever she could to make people happy they were alive.

Grace. That should have been her name but instead it was May. May as in Spring. May as in birth, beginnings, emerald as new cut grass. May, fresh as daffodils or the first harvest to feed the hungry, her heart as pacific as oceans.

I've never met any to compare with her. And I know it is not just the years that separate us on this terrestrial plain that make me think this. When she left me she confessed that she felt guilt for leaving me motherless so young. I said to her, “I would rather have YOU for the years I've had you than another Mother for a life time.” I meant it then and I still mean it now.

That young orphan had no idea how hard life could be. She did not know she would be homeless and literally living on the street. She did not know there would be times where she would be asked to trade her integrity for survival and when she would not make the trade, she would, at one point, wish she was dead. She could not know then how the hole in her heart would feel after spending as many Mothers' Days without her Mother as with her but she had to know she would survive it because she is the daughter of May. Brilliant, beautiful, intellectual, kind, self sacrificing, funny, hard working, joyful, thankful, strong, patient May.

If I am anything, it is because I am the daughter of the most incredible person I have ever had the pleasure of knowing. If I won a Nobel Prize or Pulitzer it would still pale to being the daughter of May. I have friends who mourn the loss of their parents at seventy, eighty or ninety and I feel sad for them, adrift with their beginning ended, but not as sad as I feel for them, never having had my Mother as theirs.

I miss you, Mum. I love you. And I still would never trade a day with you for the comfort of having another mother for my lifetime.

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I was thinking of this anecdote today and decided to share it. I am often torn between speaking my mind or playing it safe. Anyone who knows me knows the former usually overpowers the later. I believe most people think this is to my detriment. I am very good at controlling my impulses when acting on behalf of another but when I am being me, I tell people what I think. I am poor at playing politics. I know fully what is most popular to do and say but it is not always what is honest or real. I hope this means people know where they stand with me. I have the same tools to bullshit as others do but primarily choose not to use them.

I took a temporary position with a much maligned company within my industry. It turned out, they were great. They treated me with courtesy and respect plus they were really good at what they did so it was a joy to go there. What was supposed to be a short term position lasted months because they liked the work I did. There are certain freedoms about working as a temporary employee for a company - you are expendable. You can be replaced. Some might have fear from this but I find it freeing because my expectations are so low. Now onto the story...

I went to the kitchen for a cup of coffee and two executive looking types where bitching about the quality of the coffee. The building we were in had a cafe so they had another choice if they were compelled. As I waited for them, I could not help but hear them malign what the company had to offer. When they finally got out of my way but did not leave the kitchen I said they should be thankful the company provided anything at all. Not all companies offer a full kitchen and free coffee. The company was under no obligation to provide them coffee. I pointed out they didn't know how good they had it and had no right to complain about a service that was free. They acted ashamed and both agreed they were out of line to be complaining about something minor, they were not entitled to.

A few weeks later I was invited to a company party. I did not officially work there, so it felt slightly awkward but my manager & coworkers seemed to really want me to attend. There I learned the two executive looking types were the President and Vice President of the company. They remembered me and laughed at my discomfort at realising who they were. Both said they wished more of their "real" employees were as grateful as I am. I was soon after hired as a direct, full time employee at a salary exceeding that of most employees in my position.

image courtesy: http://thetweetermama-becausemamasaidso.blogspot.com/

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For months I have been haunted by Phoebe Prince, the 15 year old South Hadley (Massachusetts) High School student who took her life after being bullied incessantly by classmates. I've read articles and the comments under those articles. Her classmates may have taunted Phoebe after her death but most of what I have seen has been outrage that the bullies were not stopped before the situation resulted in suicide.

Another theme I have seen running through the comments is people recognizing bullying has always existed. Why, in this instance, did this student succumb to it and decide to end her life? Was it because it was relentless and followed her home via Facebook, Twitter, Craigslist and Formspring? Couldn't she just shut these off? Or was it something unique to her situation?

From radio reports I have heard Phoebe Prince was a model student. None of her teachers in Ireland would have imagined her classmates treating her the way they did. She was neat in appearance, well behaved and earned good grades. She was loved by family and friends. She must have been excited to come to the United States, imagining all the people she would meet and opportunities awaiting her. Nothing could possibly have prepared her for what she received when she arrived here.

As I have mulled this over in my brain I had an epiphany the other night. Being loved has an unexpected dark side; you don't know how to behave or react when you are not loved. Everyone has to learn this eventually but how much can a fifteen year old have learned about hate without the exposure?

That isn't really how my epiphany started. It started when I realized I can't remember when I was NOT bullied. I wasn't “supposed to be born.” I “ruined all our lives by being born.” If I wasn't born “everything would have been better.” I could go on with the phases etched in my brain by my older siblings but I don't think that is necessary.

Our mother was my saving grace but there wasn't much she could do once I was in school. Back then you did not question educators for fear they would kick your child out of school. They put me in the “stupid class” because “you Devlins are stupid and never amount to anything.” There I was treated like “white trash” even though my mother paid the deepest attention to make sure I was clothed well, had manners and good grooming.

In high school I was informed they were “expecting me.” They knew I'd “be trouble” because there had been a line of Devlins before me who proved “you are no good.” I don't think anyone likes to be type cast, especially when you are not the one casted but people before you. But I was used to it by now and knew there was little I could do. I was a freak my freshman year when my father, brother in law and grandfather all died within six months of each other. I never missed an hour of school. (There as a scholarship for perfect attendance.) Kids aren't used to death but adults are and children follow the lead of adults.

I discovered power my sophomore year of high school. I was not a suicide risk but I did not really care if I died. I saw a known bully unmercifully picking on a freshman and I stepped in. I said something like,

“You want to pick on someone, pick on me. You do it anyhow. She's fat and defenseless. An easy target. Go ahead, beat my face in.”

And it didn't happen. Neither to me nor the originally intended victim. (We became friends). I learned then it's no fun when your target is unafraid of what you may do to them. I wasn't unafraid. I did not care. Subtleties in those definitions are rarely picked up by bullies.

After that I was bullied by the school administration. They tried to keep me out of the honor society. In my school you had to not only academically excel but also excel in the community. I was a First Class Girl Scout (equivalent of Eagle Scout in Boy Scouts) and was Head Acolyte in my church as well as being in the choir. My art teacher spoke up for me: Ryder Martin, and his wife, my home room teacher, Mrs. Margaret Martin. I'll never forget that. Some people are just golden.

Senior year, our class project was to clean and make beautiful the quadrangle of our high school. I helped. While I was out there the Spanish Teacher, Ms. Hartung, interrupted her class to yell out the window, “Isn't that appropriate? Trash cleaning up trash.” I kept doing what I was doing. Funny to think of that now. Teachers could get away with more back then without repercussion. Behavior like that is not right but we were tougher back then. When there is little recourse, you have to be.

In college, freshman year, I was raped. I reported it to the Assistant Dean of Students and was informed, “That doesn't happen at our school. If you want to remain a student here, you would do well to remember that.”

When I was twenty two, Mum died. After being her primary care giver for months, I rushed back to work and my siblings divided my belongings, as well as hers, when settling the estate. They neglected the portion of her will that singled me out to divide everything she had not specifically willed to others.

It goes on and on to this day. I am adult now; old enough to have my own children, had not decided early on I would never subject a child to the possibility of the life I have had. Since I can not guarantee my child would never say, “I wish I were never born,” I can not in good conscious have a child.

When my oldest sister calls, she can still make me mental. For days. Mind you, she does not call often. She only calls when someone is dead or dying. She left me alone for a while, lulling me into a false sense of serenity. I raised her ire when she found out I had been communicating with our ill sister in law before she had the opportunity to tell me she was dead. She did not plan to tell me until after her funeral and there I was, AT her funeral. Her joy is telling me enough to upset me but not enough to have closure with anyone in our family. Heck, she made up a drug dependency with our mother's half of family. She told them I was hopelessly addicted to something requiring rehabilitation. Me, who just went through wisdom tooth removal without filling my prescription for narcotics. You can't combat that kind of rumour because then you just look like you are in denial. So I had to kiss half my family goodbye. When you are bullied you learn to be a realist. Even if doing so is very painful.

Our oldest brother leaves me alone, for the most past. As a little girl I worshiped him. When he flung me face first on concrete that was a little passive aggressive wake up call. When he embezzled funds from our mother's estate, I uncovered it and held him accountable. That was our playground moment. “Go ahead, beat my face in.” I know even more which he has done and I think he is aware of that so he leaves me alone. Best not to wake a sleeping tiger.

Even through social media I have met people who bully. Someone gains fame through something remarkable and lets that define them. Suddenly none of their other actions matter. They feel they are bigger than you or anything you contribute to them. You are an ass to think otherwise. Unless you have spent a lifetime being bullied and manipulated. Then you can walk away from that behavior even if it makes you a pariah. You still have your soul.

I now have no wonder Phoebe Prince took her own life but it does not make me less sad. She likely saw her future life being full of manipulation and bullying. She did not want to live in that world. I don't want to either. But there is light in that world. When one has moments of triumph despite the deck being stacked against them, the triumph is sweeter. I wasn't “supposed to be born” and was a “mistake.” I am “stupid” and will “never amount to anything” but I am still here. And I speak for the stupid, worthless detritus, like me, who sprinkle mankind. We survive. We even accomplish great things when we are allowed to. Look at the civil rights movement.

Phoebe, I will never forget your trial. One reason for your fifteen years on earth was for the eventual wake up call to everyone else. We could use more people like you. What saddens me most is, this was not your battle to fight. You were and still are loved. It should have been me. I was born and raised for this battle.

Go ahead, beat my face in.

(Image courtesy of: http://www.themedguru.com )

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One of my followers on Twitter encourages people to disregard the new Twitter retweet button and continue using the old manual method of re-tweeting. While I respect his opinion, I do not agree. Below is my response. I believe you should be able to follow my thoughts without the original post.

I will continue to use the new retweet button except in the case of protected accounts, where the button is not available. (If the comment made under a protected account is obviously something meant to be shared ONLY with the select people they have allowed to follow, I respect their privacy & will not retweet.)

I don't feel a need to capitalize on someone else's words. If a person said something worth repeating, why shouldn't they get full credit for saying it? There is nothing special in my agreeing or finding value in it. There IS something special in my following someone worth retweeting but if I am seeing their content you already know I was smart enough to follow them or follow someone who does. If I disagree & want to say so, I can write my own tweet & give the url to the poster's original tweet.

What gives me the right to edit someone's words? They are THEIR words. Unless I am employed to edit someone, I think it is out of line for me to do so. Do what you want but I am not presumptive enough to alter another's statement. Under the old retweet method, if I could not shorten a tweet without possibly changing the meaning or making them look illiterate by including a bunch of "ur" "u" and "r"s then I wouldn't retweet but I might still link to what they said and comment on it. Also, I don't see any reason why I can't tweet a related comment in a separate tweet.

I don't understand why I have to see the avatar of someone who retweeted something. I already follow that person so I see their avatar all the time. I have no problem reading the information under the tweet so I can tell who found a comment retweet worthy. I've always read that information even before the new retweet feature. It is how I follow conversation threads and also how I get an idea whether the person is mobile or sitting at a desk.

I know when someone retweets me using the new retweet method because I periodically check the web version of Twitter. If I can do that, anyone I retweet can do the same. I don't believe I render myself “invisible” by retweeting with the new method. I also don't feel it is overly important that I always BE visible every opportunity I get. How is it social to feed my own ego? Social is a two way street. If all my actions on Twitter are a variation of shouting, “Look at me, me, ME,” then I am not concentrating enough on the other portions of the conversation.

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Privacy - Giving It All Away http://www.emmadevlin.com/2010/04/privacy-giving-it-all-away.html

(Image courtesy of New School University)

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I am baffled by family; at least my family. I can't quite figure out the balance between what loyalty I owe people because we carry the same genetics and where I can, with good conscience, draw the line to save my own sanity and break from their control. The advice of others hasn't helped either because their viewpoints vary drastically depending on their own reality and upbringing.

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It started with not feeling well one Sunday morning – stuffy sinuses, sore throat and cough. I had a number of things to get done so I set to work without checking into Twitter. As I was going about my manual tasks I had plenty of time to think. What if I never went back to my social networking sites? What if, for some reason, I couldn't?

Before you starting thinking I am being morbid and melodramatic consider my sister had a stroke and aneurysm when she was exactly my age. She has neither worked nor lived independently since and she has lost her ability to communicate with all but her daughter. I've somewhat dreaded this year of my life and look forward to getting past it.

I've seen a few articles about setting up a contingency plan to inform one's social network in the event of a personal emergency. They suggest giving a trusted loved one passwords so they may communicate on your behalf. Since I am on many different sites and change my passwords regularly this is impractical. I suggest keeping a list of the sites you frequent, the email addresses attached to them and the passwords for those email addresses. Make sure your loved one keeps this information locked up in a safe place. If it becomes necessary, they can retrieve your password information through your email.

But that is not what this post is about.

My thoughts continued to wander to the point of wondering, if I disappeared would anyone in my virtual network notice? If so, who? Would it be who I would expect? When would they notice? I decided to perform an little experiment to find out and then write about my findings.

I checked my Twitter profile to make sure none of my recent tweets would cause concern. One of my Twitter friends has been missing since October. I know from his tweet stream he was headed out to a birthday party that night. I truly hope nothing happened to him. My stream appeared clean of any such red flags.

To get a sense of how likely it would be that anyone would notice my absence it should be noted that www.howoftendoyoutweet.com indicates I tweet or otherwise feed into my tweet stream an average of 86 times per day. Since this is an average it would not be unusual for me to only tweet ten times during the course of a day but to tweet nothing is unusual for me. This means I also had to avoid sending Twitpics, commenting on blogs, posting to my Posterous site or Flickr, sending emails or text messages or doing anything else that would indicate my presence on the web. After the first day I dreamed I accidentally retweeted someone while watching Twitter so I stayed off the computer after that.

Similar to many detractors of social media, I agree it is often a narcissistic pursuit. How else does one justify exposing one's activities, ideas and interests to random strangers if not to get some validation? I'm constantly amazed anyone cares enough to respond to me on the internet but then again, they are likely seeking validation in return. A certain amount of narcissism is healthy but I'm under no illusion people have my blog on a reading list or hover over my Twitter profile page waiting to see a twitpic of my lunch. Thus I was a little surprised when I received my first text message, noting my absence, Sunday night.

After this I heard nothing until Tuesday when I received another text message from a different person. Later on Tuesday I received another text from a third person. I debated what to do about these messages. I didn't want to skew the results of my experiment but it was also not my intention to unduly alarm anyone. I decided to message these three people, tell them what I was doing and ask them to pretend they had not heard from me. They thanked me and agreed to say nothing. On Wednesday I received an email from a fourth person indicating he and a fifth person were concerned about me and asking if there was anything they could do for me. I thanked them for their concern and filled them in on what I was doing. That afternoon I received another text from a sixth person but she seemed more curious than concerned so I didn't think I needed to reassure her by responding. A seventh person texted me late Wednesday night and I let her know what I was doing. She is the only one who sent a message to both my Twitter accounts. In addition to these seven people my Twitter replies tab shows me five other people noticed I was not tweeting – one on Monday, one on Tuesday, two on Wednesday and one on Thursday. This is a total of eleven people (six women and five men) or .18% of the people who openly follow my movements on the internet. Of these eleven people only three have met me in person and none were members of my family.

I can not say I am surprised by these results. A phrase of my Mother's comes to mind - “out of sight, out of mind.” I have several virtual friends I am concerned about because I have not heard from them in a while but after searching the web for activity from them there is only one who has completely dropped off the map. Also, I've only been inactive for five days. That is enough time for twenty people to unfollow me but not quite enough time for anyone to bury me.

One thing I learned from this is, I do not need a contingency plan in case anything happens to me. As long as a few people have my phone number they can text my phone and my partner can let them know what is going on. I may take the time to teach him how to respond to a Twitter DM sent to my phone but that should be sufficient. I may give his phone number to a couple people as a backup, in case anything happens to my phone, but anything more than that is exaggerating my importance to my social networking community.

What do you think of the results of my experiment? Would you have performed it differently? Would you be satisfied with these results from your own virtual community? Let me know your thoughts.

(Special thank yous go out to Rhonda, Rosy, Scott, Brendyn, Don, Amy, Margaret, Marcy, Paul, Ralph and Sarah for wondering where I was. You guys are the best!)

(Image courtesy of http://www.punchstock.com)

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Several months ago unusual things started happening. People I used to speak with on a regular basis became too busy for me. Some would schedule time with me and cancel last minute. Then the number of direct messages I receive on Twitter increased drastically. People who used to “tweet” me in public would only send me private messages. I started testing whether I might just be over sensitive. I'd send out a message on the public time line and, if I received a response at all, it would often be via direct message. I am speaking of people geographically local to me.

Then there were people who messaged me to get my phone number because they wanted to speak with me about “something important.” They'd call, speak with me for a minute or less and say nothing of substance. In one of these conversations there was a great deal of laughter in the background. None of this would be surprising if I were twelve years old but none of the parties in this story are under thirty.

Most recently someone convinced me to join him in making a positive difference in a cause I feel passionate about. I dove in: bought the domain for the cause, created a mission statement, made lists of what needed to be done, started recruiting volunteers, did research, talked with people who could give me practical assistance and then I realized I was the only one doing anything and would likely be the only one doing anything for the foreseeable future. My partner disappeared and people I thought would welcome such a project don't want to meet with me to discuss it.

I am not foolish enough to think everyone is going to like me. I don't play politics and I speak my mind. I'm also courteous enough to let others speak theirs and to listen when they do. It is not in me to consciously hurt another even as I know people will not always agree with me. This is why I set out to find if I was being targeted and why.

Many people I asked brushed me off as being silly and walked away. Mostly I found people didn't want to entertain the question, “Did I do something wrong? People seem cold to me of late.” Finally someone gave me The Gift of Dubious Value. This person told me it is not in my head. People have been speaking about me but this person could not tell me who was speaking or what they were saying because this person didn't want it to get out that this person told me. (Do you like how I worded that? I believe in protecting my sources.)

I don't like feeling paranoid. It is nice to know my suspicions are not in my head. Since someone has confirmed it, it is no longer paranoia. It is real. I still don't know what “it” is but it is real. Someone recently sent me a post they wrote about “do overs.” She encouraged people to learn from experience and embrace change to become a better person. I've done this numerous times in my life but those times I knew what I had to change. Other times I haven't changed but instead dug in to demonstrate why I believe what I believe, presented my evidence of why this is right and convinced others that it is good. I can do neither when I don't know what change is being asked of me. I could randomly guess and end up accidentally changing what is best in me. At this point I believe the best move, is no move.

If you are looking for me, I'll be over here being me. There are plenty who like who that is. For those who don't, if you have a better idea, I'm all ears.

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“The thing is, it's really hard to be roommates with people if your suitcases are much better than theirs - if yours are really good ones and theirs aren't. You think if they're intelligent and all, the other person, and have a good sense of humor, that they don't give a damn whose suitcases are better, but they do. They really do. It's one of the reasons why I roomed with a stupid bastard like Stradlater. At least his suitcases were as good as mine.”

Holden Caulfield, Catcher in the Rye by J.D. Salinger

Notice this statement is from the viewpoint of the more affluent Caulfield. “You think...that they don't give a damn whose suitcases are better, but they do. They really do.” So who is the one who is really bothered by the difference? Caulfield is uncomfortable enough that he would rather room with a “stupid bastard.” He is not immune to the differences between them and acts accordingly.

The last time I became homeless, people who spoke with me the week before suddenly stopped speaking with me. This may have happened before but I had not noticed. All I knew is, I had not asked anyone for anything but they still steered clear. Once I struggled to my feet again a few of those people reflected to me how admirable it was that I was able to work my way back to normalcy again.

I think it would be asking a lot of me to forget who those people are. I have not. I never bring it up but it is there. It is even there with people I did not know at the time. It taught me what is in the heart of many. If people see a weakness, in this case poverty, people will shun you as Caulfield shunned his roommate. I've learned that about people. I knew it before but could not express it effectively and besides, who would I express it to?

I often feel strong knowing the things I've survived but then I feel weak because I am forever the pariah. I don't have a safety net. I can't “network.” Networking involves schmoozing , connecting and being connected with others in the hope that something will come back to you. Don't get me wrong – I'm not a wallflower. I enjoy meeting people so I can connect them with other people. The only one that is missing from the equation is me.

Sometimes I am angry I am not like other people but that same thing that is not like other people is appealing for some and liberating for me. I don't have to kiss ass because I am not going to get anything in return regardless of my behavior. Knowing that, it is freeing to be who I am. I know how to play the game but I won't because people are the same in the end, whether you ask anything of them or not. They worry about themselves, their image, what spoils they will collect.

Like Caulfield's roommate, people can see my suitcase. It may be sturdier and show fewer nicks but it's the same suitcase. I can't leave behind the suitcase because that luggage remembers who I am. Funny how it never works in reverse. No one gripes of good baggage gone bad except the tabloids. Even the tabloids admire a good suitcase that has gone around the world, been beaten up but returns well, to the right destination.

People expect bad baggage to return where it came from or not at all. And if it was bad to begin with, who will miss it?

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