Patterns Of Time

Here is what is this about. I don't know what I'm about. Funny. People look at me funnily. I'm not sure why. I'm pretty sure I don't want to know why. Even if I knew why, my memories have, and still are. The experiences are now flat. Flat as a photograph.

Time is a thing that speeds by on a billion schedules, pattering its way around the world in an infinitely interactive lacy web. Life billows. My heart-my heart my heart my h-heart hear-t beats to its own fucking drum. I have a past. I have a history. I have a story. Stories. I have things. Like my blue Le Creuset dutch oven, which I purchased at the Crate&Barrel. I worked at the Estée Lauder counter inside Nordstrom. When I worked in The Stanford Shopping Center I purchased a lot of things.

Somewhere. Things. My bed. My paintings. My Dutch oven I purchased at th

I have a heart. Full of Iron. I feel the iron. Non-melodiously, I feel it in my erratically beating heart.

Born and raised in Northern California, I moved to the Sierra Nevada high desert just before I turned thirty.

Most people call me Feisty. Go to Amazon, search Lilli Feisty, and you'll see why. I write. I play with my dogs. I write letters to my kid. I knit. I write. I read. I 

I used to write romance novels. Now I write my memories. I love pretty stories, even when they're not pretty.