The words never come quickly in the afternoon. My mind tends to harden during the scrum of the day; dreams are not born of this reality; they are writ as an escape.

via The Dreampurple Light by Leila Allison

Funny thing how Mom always said she and Dad only wanted three kids whenever I broke something or brought a note home from school. I mean, really, this late in the game she ought to come clean with it. We’re all grown ups now, and if she still feels that one of us shouldn’t have been born, well, fuck it, you can only hold on to the apron string for so long.

Plenty of time to think on the ferry ride home. One hour. I bet it was my brother Joe, Mom wanted to send back initially, then as he honed his butt kissing skills, my star fell.

Can I help it, being honest. Sort of a feminist King Lear thing going on in the family. Instead of only two wicked siblings, l have three.

Can’t think anymore. Woman behind me is eating Cheetos like a swine. Hope she’s reading over my shoulder.

It’s always either too hot or too cold in the ferry terminal. There is never a variance in the people here; there are always too many.

I try not to listen to their desultory travel talk. And I try not to wonder why it is that all tourists seem to never have ever been out of the house before.

I commute to work Tuesday through Saturday by ferry here to Seattle. Although Saturday is always my objective, it is also tourism day.

Why are these young tourist couples having so many children? They don’t manage the little bastards they have, why make more?

It took from the dawn of history on until my mother’s birth in 1959 for their to be three billion persons alive at the same time. In less than sixty years the population has increased 133 percent. Can’t blame Mom, she only had four. She likes to say one of us wasn’t planned. Never says which one. You’d think you’d get over that sort of thing…but she always looks at me when she says it.

Anyway, the ferry is pulling in, and the little shutheads are running amok.

I wonder if any of their mothers say the stuff mine says

via Blessed are the Little Things by Leila Allison

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via The Great Cszminoothe by Leila Allison

Charleston’s White Pig Tavern became legal at the end of Prohibition. Built on the outskirts of town along an old wagon trail later to be named Corson Street, and not far from the Philo Bay …

Source: Saint Frances Everlasting by Leila Allison