“My demons come out through the pen.” — Morgan 

Quote yourself!

“Falling in love is mere attachment. And when it’s taken away, withdrawal. This kind of love is the sweet taste of blow: You can avoid the habit but the longing and desire always call.” –GM.

“Bukowski hated most people. He was pure chaos, not precisely fit for society. Women loved his damaged side and the fact that he didn´t care about anything. A girl describes that he looked like he could walk through a wall.” BC

“You know what I like about you? You give me lots of material… That’s what she said! Oh good one. Thanks what she said!” TWSS


What’s your quote? 

Email me at morgan.taliaferro@gmail.com or submit your quote anonymously: https://www.surveymonkey.com/s/HT8VMJJ


Chapter one of The Story of a Mildly Grandiose Woman

Chapter 1

“12 June 2084

Dear Reader,

My grandfather always said, ‘The true storyteller listens.’ That’s why he taught me to read. But books are obsolete these days, and so a letter I write you. During hard times, reading helped me escape. My grandfather wrote his first book in prison, and for unknown reasons, I have never read it. I grew up listening to his fantastic stories. I suppose now it’s my turn for a story.

‘Grab on to your underwear because you’re going to hear a good story.’


‘Start from the beginning,’ a stranger said to me in front of Ben Franklin Arts and Crafts. She saw me sobbing and walked up and hugged me. And so I began with Franklin. It’s odd how coincidental a life can be, or perhaps some of us pay attention. I didn’t get far before the police came. Her name was Mona. It was years before she hugged me again.

With my bags and a brain distraught, I had no idea what had just happened, but I knew it must have had something to do with my recent diagnosis. I called six friends and nothing. Perhaps it was a time of asking too much of loved ones and learning there’s one person you can always count on. I asked a man to drive me downtown to the bus terminal. ‘I would but I’m with my daughter. You should call the police.’

One of the friends who couldn’t help, said to me the next day, ‘You really shouldn’t have called the police because it wasn’t an emergency… You have no one to blame but yourself for yesterday.’ I didn’t show him the marks. That day I realised a friend tells you to take a cab to his house when he doesn’t have a car, and you’re in trouble. We never spoke again.

Very dear friends of ten years had just called me a whore, fucking bitch and the worst, plagiarist, then gave me $40 and dropped me off in the city. The blow up started an hour before. I was called a whore the day before. ‘I didn’t call you a whore. I said, “Don’t fall in love with him because he’ll reject you and he might think you’re a whore”… he’s so handsome.’

The next day, the husband, a man I looked up to like a daughter, started yelling about Pablo Escobar after I said I wanted to show them a photo of Medellin. I thought it was a joke at first. Then I realised he was actually angry with me! When I wouldn’t stop asking what I did, he screamed a threat. Triggered by a memory long forgotten, I lost it. I have never punched someone as hard and as much as I punched him. As I hit him, ‘Man up! Hit me!’ spilled from my mouth. He said he would do something my own father had done when I was a child. But I was an adult and this father figure did more than drag me by my hair out of the house. Then he threatened the call the sheriff, and I said, ‘Please do!’

After leaving me, they called my father and said I tried to ‘fuck’ their friend, kicked their car door in, and physically assaulted the wife. And was doing drugs. That was the only truth they spoke. I was smoking from their pot plant and taking an anticonvulsant. And I certainly didn’t try to fuck that friend of theirs but he did come on to me and we kissed when everyone went to bed. Maybe something else. 

After the incident, I asked a new friend, ‘Why does it have to end so badly?’

Without hesitation, ‘Because it wouldn’t be over otherwise.’

‘How do you know all this?’

‘Mucho sufrimiento.’

It was surprising that I would become so dependent on a dying canine for those days when no human in my life could understand what I was going through. Perhaps life was telling me while people are good at heart, they’re capable of terrible things, especially those you love and love you. That everyone has a dark side. That we cannot separate the pain from the pleasure. And that just when your faith in humanity is shaken to its core, a stranger reminds you that it’s all right, and that you’re neither alone nor giving up.

If you have ever been so sad your soul hurts, if you had ever felt so much you thought you would burst, if you have ever made mistakes or hurt others that changed your life, then this story is for you. We humans have but one story, one song, one poem, one painting, one letter. This is mine, these words, perhaps yours as well.


Except from The Story of a Mildly Grandiose Woman 

One night, desperately sad and crying over the boy who said he’d love me forever but abandoned me in ICU, I picked up Steinbeck’s book of letters. The first page I turned to so lovingly captured the letter he wrote his son Thom who asked for help with a girl he’d fallen for. He shared what he had learned in love: Love is the best that can happen to a person he wrote. And I say, tell the world I love you. Say it too much. Say it too fast. Say it to the wrong people, so you can say it to the right ones. Say it until someone hears you. Be irresponsible. Have sex on the first date! Be a slut for love. Love too deeply. Be too romantic. Hug someone who doesn’t deserve a hug. Hug a stranger, and let them defeat a tender place in your heart for they are without sin in your world. Give in to puppy love. Love is fever-induced delirium and sleepless, heartaching nights. Love will trigger psychosis and put you in the psych ward with miserable, crazy characters. She offers freedom but takes your life. Love until the pain overpowers you, and the aching, the burning, brings you to your knees. El amor te decepiona but you don’t give up esperanza. She is the Geisha and love is her sword that impales you. Love beats the shit of you and you ask for more! Love is the devil who guards his fallen angels at the gates of hell, then She escorts you across the River Styx. Kill for love! But She wants to kill you first and can literally make the muscles of your beating heart stop. Our lungs can neither breathe with Her nor without Her. Without Love, you’ve been dead but Love can resuscitate even with the instructions DNR. Stand in front of the firing squash and think of the day your father took you to “discover ice.”[1] Live for love! Love is a music box, wound up tightly and played ‘til there’s nothing left. Love until the very end, and when the music stops, even then, don’t stop. Love is a hard bugger poking your nostrils but dissolves the moment of contact. She’s the same bugger a child eats in front of someone without shame, and that moment ends in silence. Love until you’re exhausted, for the reason that it takes more energy to love than it does not to. Love is a secret “surrounded by a thousand dreams.” Love is dangerous. Love is risky. Risk it all, and never enjoy comfort. Love is a child playing with a loaded gun in a world that doesn’t lock up the fire arms. Love is a country with the right to bare arms but women don’t have the right to vote. Love is a sleeping dog at the foot of your bed, leaving a warm place for your feet. Love’s sovereign territory and you don’t belong. Cut off your ear for love because it’s too heavy on your “unbearable lightness of being.[2]” Go to Paris for love. Stay here for love because She’s always been in front of you. Find love, lose love and find it again since it was always there. Love empties into the Caribbean. Love is the mother fucking czar of the Silk Road; pay your taxes or give up your first born. Love is home in no man’s land. Love is the Trail of Tears and you are the one who survived genocide. Love now because you may not exist the next moment. Love is viral and cancerous and spreads to the lymph nodes, and besides, if you live long enough you die of cancer. Die fighting for Love, at Her side. Love is a war that you will never win. Love protects the city from pirates within Her wall but She is the pirates themselves. Bleed for love and nothing else. She’s a vampire who will suck your veins dry but you’d rather give up your warm heart and take on cold thirst for blood. Love is the sun that makes you sweat, even when you’re cold but the coastal winter winds dry the sweat, and the tears. Love is Aunt Elomi’s fried rice, chocolate chip oatmeal cookies and sweet tea, just Southern enough. Love is lonely, and answers to no one, especially not you, or me. Love seems to have little purpose because She is all questions and no answers. Lead with your chin but there’s no use. Love isn’t patient, nor is She kind; She’s jealous and possessive. Love is obsessive compulsive; let Her consume you. Love burns you up like a cigarette, and the person who set fire to you, stubs you out just as quickly as he lit you up. Love anyways. Love will incinerate you, so go up in flames. Love until you are reduced to ashes and the “embers grow cold.[3]” Love is nothing more than a funeral pyre for an adulterous woman who submitted to romance. Love turns everything to gold which is what you wanted but it ends you. Love is a golden idle that you worship, overthrown by Jesus. Love lies within the sex workers, who trade money for love, with whom he surrounded himself. Jesus loved the lepers and the hookers, why can’t you? Love is a semi with no speed limit running a red light when you have right of way.  Love makes us forget, not regret. Love is man and Wife. Love is immortal. Love is virtue. Love shatters you like mirror mirror on the wall. It can’t conform to all the bullshit rules adults think are important. Love existed before time, before the universe, before the galaxies, before the Big Bang… Be the eponymous character of your own story with Love. Let Her go. Just let go what’s not yours, and fear not, for we cannot lose something that never belonged to us.

[1] Gabriel Garcia Marquez, One Hundred Years of Solitude

[2] Milan Kundera, Unbearable Lightness of Being

[3] “Gilded Cage” by Blackmore

The Greatest Kentucky politician Happy Chandler and Home

Gov. Chandler was nicknamed Happy for his sunny disposition. He was a champion of desegregation. Before becoming the Senator and Governor of Kentucky, he was the head of the National Baseball League and made people angry in that position with executive actions like suspending players who were “detrimental” to the sport due their racist ideologies. 

When he died at age 92, his obituary made it to the New York Times (I found two typos!). The local newspaper used a photo of him planting a kiss on me as a baby but it looks more like he is whispering something to me and I am listening intently. 

He was quoted saying:

Happy Chandler

This Kentucky gal may have found home. 

A great song about home. http://youtu.be/DHEOF_rcND8

The story behind why Happy Chandler is so dear to me. https://lagringamakondiana.wordpress.com/2015/06/19/happy-loving-day/#