I learned last night that a singer who was important to me once has died. She died several months ago, as it turns out, but it was news to me. Or perhaps not. I had been thinking of her off and on over the past few weeks, or rather of her music, as first one of her songs, and then another drifted into and out of my mind for a few days. Somehow, I knew, so seeing the past tense in the search results did not shock or surprise me, as it so often has in recent years. Maybe I caught a fleeting glimpse of a headline awhile back, and put it away out of consciousness until I was ready for it to surface.
For a moment, when I saw the singer’s age, I thought, oh well, she was getting up there. Then I remembered my own age, which I often forget, and which is not much less than hers.
Savage Breast
Music meant a lot to me during my depressed years Continue reading
Cassandra only wanted to use her gift to prevent unnecessary suffering and death. But she told people things they didn’t want to hear, so she was pronounced insane, and ignored. Her own family, who had surely noticed her prophecies always came true, nevertheless locked her away, and dissed her along with the rest. They soon had reason to regret that, but by then it was too late.
Living with other people was what I turned to when I first struck out on my own because it was what I had always done, but I soon realized the omnipresent relationships placed unmanageable demands on my energy. Sometime in my teens I redefined “home” as “the place I go to get away from people and rest.” And that is what home still is to me. 
sensitive type 