Really? Who Cares? by Julianna Rowe

 The song to the right is written by me!  It goes with this Post.  And Copyrighted.

Who Cares?   No one knows I gently placed a photo of them high atop my antique wardrobe within view of my slumber area to view at each days end.  Or at an interval during the day when I am passing and look up at the photo while tossing a sweater into the hamper, then moving on.

No one knows about the wine glass Sarah painted for me seven years ago with broches laying among the beautifully painted flowers holding the glass. How I walked to get the bamboo stool from next to the high bed, walked to the kitchen to reach the grass on the top shelf. To then walk it back to the old antique wardrobe and fill it with grandma's old broches. 

Then set it next to my mirrored jewel box and old doll from Germany not to be seen by anyone, probably ever, as she is hidden back in the dark corner of the tall box.  

Who would know the one broch among the many was worn in 1957 at Grandma Tillie's fiftieth wedding anniversary dance.  Or that the other broch was worn by me a hundred times while I was a successful insurance agent who walked with a spring in her step and a deep kindness in her heart.

No one knows the fur scarf that drapes over the pearl pillow I made came from an $800 coat gifted me by a lover I met while traveling the South.

That lover and I secretly driving to a rendezvous area, making love under a large tree that covered us with a secure blanket of safety. After a lingering time never to see him again. Decades later. No one knows my mind in the dark hours before dawn.  No one knows the lack of breath I feel or the fear of how to walk in it and with it.  The lack of life force energy doesn't offer sustenance. It  maintains my temporary life force but....there is no security at the primal base.  None, unless I create it and earn paper money for what I create.  The broches don't pay. The photo memories don't pay. The rendezvous by the tree is a blip in time for what?  A miniscule dot on my brain, an intangible noting no one in any of the vast Universes knows of but me.  What was it for? Maybe for this moment only.  At 3:11 am four decades later so an old woman could relive that lovemaking rendezvous out in the West Texas countryside with a handsome viral rich businessman just like herself.  Then driving away, free, long blonde hair, loosely wrapped scarf blowing in the wind.  Smile lingering, and secure.  Unlike today. Where nothing matters, no one calls as often, or cares as much.  The body weakening, the mind failing.   The broch lay in its wine glass tomb and I in my tombstone mind. How do I roll it away so I can get paid and live on.  Living isnt free.  Only memories are. 

Snap out of it.  There are more broches under the bed and in the box in the closet.  

Move on Julianna. You got this. It was just a bad dream honey. Although getting older does change our lives.  

P.S. I  had surgery today on a skin cancer and could not bend down to get Grandma's broches out from the bottom of my closet for a photo.  So I borrowed one online from Zaza of Canada.  Those are her broches.... Later's on my Gma Tillie's.   

The Marble Cake Disorder..... by Julianna Rowe

 The Marble Cake Disorder—(Pardon my occasional bad cell "French!")

They never die. They leave their “shit” among us in our cells, our DNA, and spread like diarrhea depending on the percentage of positive or negative cells. 

We grieve their bacteria-ridden skin and put marble stones atop their rotting graves (forgive me), but they are still here. Beware of where "they" have been and still are in your mental and physical body. 

I am no psychics professor, but can you imagine the equation for generations of shit? Cells left behind. Good and bad, however, the bad seem to carry a heavier, louder weight. Say it with a megaphone. Of course, meekness is not a good cornerstone, yet it is preferred. We mentally paint a pretty picture of what we want to see, but the other side of the picture is reality. Some call that black and/or white swirling together like the marble cake mixture of the mind. Impossible. Keep blending it until the black and white levels out and one cannot take over the other. Hard, I know. Not really if good is chosen, but then, as I said, the bad dead cells live on, and depending on their strength, their weight can overtake. So can the good, but the challenge is the rather.

Identify the genes/cells' reproductive shit that is NOT in the grave, rather dancing within you and yours. Kick out the ones that do no good and teach your people the same. (Easy for me to say) The more you “rid,” as in lice, yourself and yours on a continual basis of either the good or bad, they eventually die out and the stronger remains. That is a war that never ends. "The Marble Cake" lives on. 

My reference to lice was referring to the immense difficulty in their removal. The product Rid is only the beginning. Each teeny, tiny, minuscule nit (baby) must be picked out by hand, usually more than once. No different than our grandma's generational cells. At least we can see lice!! Grandma left us an invisible challenge.

Religion calls it good or evil with a Supreme God at the middle in charge of your generational cake mixture. They say, "Praise and worship him, and the off-balance marble cake has no power." That works for many to keep the bad cells from taking over. Balance has never been easy. Physically or mentally. Balancing dead ancestors is the key to life. Because they are not dead. Grandma’s shit is in your bones, and you better not forget it.

We busy our minds. Keep mental rooms with locked doors. When our mental doors are locked, we feel safe and cannot see what is coming. Mentally or physically until it hits us in the head or knocks us down completely. Like a child hiding under the covers. Yet it's all still there, coming at us or in us. Stop running. Thus, the words. Face your fears or simply face your generational issues. Or face your GREATNESS.

It's all in "The Marble Cake."  
We all have MPD or MCD to some degree. Multiple Personality Disorder. Marble Cake Disorder.

You only can manage and balance your generational Marble Cake.

Taint easy. 

The old “He Ain’t Heavy, He’s My Brother” (or Grandmother etc.) is not true.

 

                                 Linley C. Morrison—Grandfather

                                Grandmother and Great-Grandmother

                                         My great-great-grandfather is on the left. Harry Morrison-Me age 4

                                                

Diamonds Are Forever.. A true story by Julianna Rowe

   Diamond’s are Forever   (A true story)

They say God speaks to me in a quiet, still voice.

Among the traffic and life’s harsh noise.

I lie still in my bed for as long as I can.

To listen and see if I get to hear from the man…

My ears are ringing from God only knows what.

And the TV news is talking nothing but smut.

The next day comes, and I try again.

Finding a way to run from political newsmen.

Sitting quietly watching YouTube’s fireplace scene

Hoping to hear God’s gentle lighted beam.

When a cluster of diamond dust burst out of the dark.

Yes, into the room it was spark after spark.

I counted it roughly fifteen times over.

As I rubbed my eyes gently, begging it to hover.

But it exited the door, and I wondered no more.

If that were the God that loved me to my core.

What a great person I must be to receive a visit from thee.

Never shall I forget how much he loves me.

By Julianna Rowe: A true story

 

  

My Hidden Universe Within?..... by Julianna Rowe

The Brooch?

Who cares? Two words with an ending mark. A question short of emotion... 

No one, or any particular person, knows I carefully and gently placed a photo of them at my day's end, high atop an antique wardrobe within view of my slumber area. A silent offering to my hidden universe. 

At any interval during any day when I am passing, I look up at the photo while tossing a sweater or socks into the hamper as I move past. Its meaning is only for me. 

No one knows about the seven-year-old wine glass Sarah painted for me. No one cares how I walked from one end of the apartment, weak while recovering from a three-week virus, to the other end to get the bamboo stool from the high bed and walk it back to the kitchen to reach that wine glass on the top shelf of the round corner cabinet. Then walk it back to the old antique wardrobe and fill it with Grandma's or my old brooches, set it just right next to the mirrored box and old doll from Germany not to be seen by anyone, probably ever. Who would care anyway? 

Who would know the one brooch among the many was worn in 1957 at Tillie's fiftieth wedding anniversary dance? Or one of the other ones was worn by me a hundred times while I was a successful insurance agent who walked with a spring in her step and a deep kindness in her heart.

No one knows the fur scarf came from an $800 coat gifted to me by a lover I met while traveling in the South. We would secretly drive to a rendezvous area and make love in nature near a beautiful, huge tree that comes into my mind on days I might need it. To never see him again. Yet the memory touch sparked a cascade of beauty from a different world, offering me a beautiful yet silent language in a glass in my old bedroom wardrobe. Security, that is. The lack of life force energy doesn't offer sustenance. It maintains my temporary life force, but....there is no security at the primal base of my life at this time. None, unless I create it and earn paper money for what I create. 

The brooches do not pay.  The photo memories do not pay.  The rendezvous by the memory tree is a blip in time for what? A minuscule dot in my brain, an intangible nothing no one in any of the vast universes knows of but me. What was it for? Maybe for this moment only? At 3:11 am, four-plus decades later, so an old woman could relive a love rendezvous out in the West Texas countryside with a handsome, rich businessman just like herself. Then driving away, free, long blonde hair loosely wrapped in a scarf blowing in the wind behind me as a sign something had passed. Smile lingering, secure. Unlike today. Where nothing matters, no one calls or cares. The body weakening, the mind failing.

The brooch lay in its wine glass tomb, and I in my tombstone mind.

How to roll it away like they say Jesus did on the 3rd day?

I must roll it away and move forward to get paid and live on. Living isn't free. Only memories are.

Snap out of it. There are many more brooches under the bed and in the box in the closet. More stories to tell. 

You've got this. No one said growing old was going to be easy. 

I lean on my hidden Universe within.

No Empty Corners......by Julianna Rowe

 No Empty Corners

I have no empty corners

I am a wall hoarder   

I got this from my grandma Gillie

If there is an empty spot

I will fill it with a lot

At the least a spool, a plant, or table

Anything at all to keep my mind stable.

An empty space means trouble

Probably why I am not a couple

For who could stand such OCD

And park their car to live with me.

My busy home is done in great taste

It is a bit busy but classy at its base.

I am not a woman with thirty-yard arts,

My home is full of items from the heart.

I see my Granddaughter got the same gene

Good luck to her trying to keep it all clean.

There is more than meets the eye in my home

A wonderful place for your heart to roam

My mini museum from the 30’s and 40’s

My walls are my never-ending stories

To make life more beautiful is the rule

The bathroom, the bedroom, using my tools.

Cats and birds and ten clocks read my days

Old and new, striped pillows join the maze

Six TV’s I rarely watch so not alone

Life and color, come love in my zone

A real live cat named Bob quietly sleeps

Near a peacock feather and a strand of pearls

Fairy lights dance among my collection of mirrors

To keep at bay a reflection of tears

Beads and crystals glistening the sun

This happy place is always fun

Or maybe it’s just a lonely love story

Oh, hell no, it is Bogart, love 'n never being sorry

Leather, rocks, wood, and fairies dance in my lighted glory.

I promise this is no fish story!

It is the deep breath I so wonderfully need

By Julianna Rowe   2025

 

The Imaginary Crown......by Julianna Rowe

 The Imaginary Crown

                              I used to be a princess with an imaginary crown.

Then one decade it fell royally down.

Time kept passing. I stopped to the $1 store

And I bought one more.

It was plastic and didn’t shine like the original one.

But it matched my shine I had lost over the years

The old crown stayed the same

Meantime I changed my name

Did it help?

Nope, the crown stayed the same.

It didn’t tarnish; I did. 

I put it back on.

Smile, laugh, come back to your crown,

The one that sparkles and never lets you down.

Don’t look in the mirror

Look into your heart

Then simply go play with your old dog, Bart.

Love yourself, wear the dress

Put makeup on and don’t be a mess

Sing a song from days gone by

Loud and clear for all to hear

Wear your crown to the grocery store

Yes, you can; let them think your insane

Most will smile and see your heart

And realize your old youth needed a jump start

A pretend visit from that sparkling crown

Lifted you up from where you’d been down

It didn’t change the way you appeared

It brought your heart back up from the rears!

By Julianna Rowe

 

The Family Blood We "Share"...or Not By Julianna Rowe

             

                  Family—The Blood We “Share”

Money is more important to some than the blood we share or the heart that moves it. The heart cannot move paper. It cannot purchase medications. It cannot sustain the body with nutrients. It pumps poison thorns or velvet strength. And at that, it cannot without the mind’s offerings. 

So, you see whatever you do and think daily pumps through your veins. It surrounds your being unseen and even unheard.

Open the mental compartments for release of the thorns. If not, they shall grow onto your bones, sucking and tearing your velvet strength, devouring your living nutrients, and breaking your heart to death.

Don’t let the thorns take your breath of life.

Julianna Rowe