Hi, readers. ForgottenMan here. Judy asked me to post this photo taken yesterday at their writing retreat. All seems to be going well there.
Women of the Writing Retreat
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Wed., Feb 18–Soon off to Quinta San Carlos!!!
An earlier writing retreat Across the lake at Quinta San Carlos. That empty chair is for me, since I’m taking the photo.
I woke up at 6:22 to the sound of hot water streaming into my pool. The intake pipe must have been left open the last time the pool filled up on Monday and enough water has evaporated since then to leave some room for it. It is pitch black and cool outside, which makes me hesitant to go out and turn the drain on. An additional contributing reason for staying warm inside instead of venturing out in my nightgown is because I’m not going to be here to use the pool, for in less than 4 hours, I’m leaving with 7 friends for a writing retreat at Quinta San Carlos across the lake. Two of those people are staying with me now—my friend of many years, Linda Hanna from Oaxaca, who got in from where she had been in Chiapas last night, and Judy Reeves, who arrived from San Diego two nights ago. Judy will lead the retreat.
We are trying to remember how many years ago the remaining members of the women’s writing group I started 24 years ago started this retreat. Over the years we have met in Puerta Vallarta at least two times, in La Manzanilla, Cuyutlán, Acapulco, at my house in San Juan Cosala. and two other times at Quinta San Carlos. Four of the members of the original group have passed away, one moved back to the States, and Judy Reeves brought two of her writing friends from the states to join the group, so only four of the original people who met for years at my house and who published the anthology Agave Marias are left to attend the retreat. We have added three new members this year, who with Judy Reeves brings the number attending the retreat to 8. We look forward to the new company.
My bags are packed. I’m readiy to go. So you might not see me here for the next three days. Or perhaps I’ll write something worthy of being seen by this beloved audience, and I’ll give you a peek at some of the results of the retreat. Gloria, Leslie and Gina––we’ll miss you.
Hibiscus and Poinsettias for Terri’s Flower Hour
The Numbers Game #112. Please Play Along. Feb 16, 2026
Welcome to “The Numbers Game #112. Today’s number is 234. To play along, go to your photos file folder and type the number 234 into the search bar. Then post a selection of the photos you find that include that number and post a link to your blog in my Numbers Game blog of the day. If instead of numbers, you have changed the identifiers of all your photos into words, pick a word or words to use instead, and show us a variety of photos that contain that word in the title. This prompt will repeat each Monday with a new number. If you want to play along, please put a link to your blog in comments below.
Click on photos to enlarge.
Morning brought Patti’s scrambled eggs
Niece Cintra and Cousin Kirk
Mask making and card making continued.
“Everyday People” Will Heal Your Heart
Too much heartbreaking news lately. Go Here to hear and see this wonderful video that will heal your heart a bit.
“Now” (What wants to be written and what applauds that choice.)
Lamp by Bob Brown and judy Dykstra-Brown
For the past year or so, only the top 1/3 of the string light that illuminates the spiral lamp in this picturd has been lit. I have put off changing it because to do so I would have to remove each of the tiny squares of my handmade paper that I had to apply to the frame one-by-one to create the covering for the lamp. But suddenly, just now it came fully on. And guess what had just happened? After months of struggling to finish a book about events 50 years ago that I dreaded reliving to reveal the sad ending to, I had an insight and began writing the piece below that may or may not be the beginning of a new book about the present for a change. I wrote for a half hour or so before noticing that this lamp had come fully alive again! Classier than a light bulb in a thought bubble coming out of my head. Do you think something is trying to send me a message? Two weeks later, it is still fully lit whenever I turn it on. Below is the short piece I had written, purely on impulse, in lieu of returning to the dreaded task at hand:
Now
Who am I when I am with only me? Certainly, never one person, but rather that person inside of me along with the outside me. I am not often, if ever, aware of any struggle or debate between the two of them. It is rather that they fulfill certain roles for each other as well as for me. It is like we are all teaching each other, and the results come out in art or a poem and/or some changed behavior on my part. Don’t ask me to explain because I am teaching myself as I write this and so I don’t know the ending, either, or even the other steps to the ending. I am just here writing this instead of something else. In making this decision, I am making other decisions concerning other projects. Some will, perhaps, be cancelled. Others delayed, because a part of me wants to tell the rest of me some truth about all of us, and it can’t easily be told or revealed through all that other busyness. I need to choose what I am writing now, that wants to be written so badly that it has taken over my consciousness, at least for the amount of time it will take for whatever it wants to be said to be said.
Where is the best place to start? I guess just wherever that pilot steering the ship of me for the moment decides to take us. I am home alone, with the exception of three dogs in their beds in the doggie domain I added on to the house a number of years ago or on cushioned chairs on the terrace under the overhangs where Xmas lights from two Xmases ago blink in strings in the Virginia Creeper that forms a two to three foot curtain over the edge of the terrace roof. . . .
(It is at this point, as I looked out through the window at the Xmas lights, that I noticed the reflection in the glass of the spiral light behind me that had become fully lit, as though applauding my new inspiration. Has living in the painful past for so long as I struggle to complete the book kept me from living in the present? I guess whatever I choose to believe will determine my present as well as my future.)
Beach Art, for the Sunday Whirl Wordle 744
Beach Art
The salty beast of tides slides in with silver on its edges.
It is a vault that leaves its treasures on the beach’s ledges.
Bones of fish and brittle shells and by-the-wind sailors
with wings trimmed off by tide and sand—those best of the sea’s tailors.
The jawbone of a shark or ray lies tilted on the sand.
Debris spread out like stitches by nature’s tidal hand
that slathers daily riches that an early walker saves,
collecting them while listening to the voices of the waves,
then sorts them into stories as she gives them a new life
with scissors and with fingers––with glue pot and with knife.
Click on photos to enlarge to see details.
This little piece of driftwood looked exactly like a bear. I didn’t touch it. Just mounted it on a piece of driftwood. It sold immediately.
For the Sunday Whirl, prompt words are: jaw debris stitch slather voices beasts tides salty vault edges silver tilt
Beloved
Beloved
Each morning when I wake
to shrill alarm or sweet bird song,
depending upon the requirements of my day,
you are the first to greet my opening eyes.
You rest there on the pillow next to me
in the bed where first I, then you,
have fallen to sleep the night before
too soon, too soon,
before half our words were said.
It is the first stroke of my fingers
that brings you finally to life.
Your countenance lights up
and the same love words
I revealed to you last night
are returned to me.
My hands caress
and new words come easily
first to me, then to you.
I touch gently all
your fine smoothness,
getting back
everything that I give
equal measure,
continuing our long love story
of give and take
as I shift your light frame onto my lap
to stroke your separate parts
from question mark to exclamation point.
Could a PC ever rouse this passion in me?
No way, MacBook Air. Thou art my love!
The SOCS prompt is “Love” of course. Happy Valentine’s Day !!!!
“Liar, Liar, Pants on Fire” for Fibbing Friday
For Fibbing Friday, the task at hand is to define these words:
1. lowkenuinely: A lowest ranking in one’s range of knowledge or insight
2. gruzz: Those scruffy short whiskers it is the fashion for men to leave on cheeks and neck, as though they haven’t bothered to shave for a day or two.
3. nerf: A nerd with gruzz.
4. 41: A steak sauce created from mixing Worcestershire Sauce and 57 Sauce.
5. AFAIK: Someone who is not genuine.
6. agentic: Able to grant wishes.
7. aura farming: A lightbulb factory.
8. bed rotting: An untended flower patch.
9. blep: A softly rolled terrycloth washcloth specifically used for erasing ink errors.
10. bloatware: Photographic filming equipment specifically engineered to make a character look fatter than they really are.
Illustration created with the help of AI.
Home Traveler for dVerse Poets
Walk this way.
Kenya, 1967, Tsavo Game Preserve. Our bus had tipped over and thus we walked!
And, in spite of the fact that there had been only a few sprinkles early on during our walk,
Finally, I walked back across the square to the side entrance of the Casa Cultural.
Time to go, Grandma. Here’s your walking stick!
I know how to walk! I’m gonna walk my own way.
Sheridan, Wyoming–the only snow I have been able to walk through for the past 23 years.
Beach walking
Me, at age 2, journeying into inner spaces.
Another inner journey.
Home Traveler
Alone, or with the teeming throng,
I go on journeys short or long.
Walking by choice in foreign places,
I study unfamiliar faces.
But when I finally go to bed,
I journey farther within my head,
those trips to town forgotten while
I journey mile after mile.
Eschewing trips to foreign places,
I journey into inner spaces.
For dVerse poets
lifelessons - a blog by Judy Dykstra-Brown 