The real story

isn't always as nice as the one we tell.
I'm not talkin' about what we tell others.

I'm talking about what I tell myself.

This isn't easy. I'm not gonna hide anymore. It's tough. Layers of tough.

I R O N ∴ W O R D S


I made Take-Two to tell a story I don't know how to tell.

A story that I live but don't talk about.

May 23, 2015

What is transparency ? Truth ? Isn't the truth different, depending on the context in which it surfaces ? Truth for me may not be truth for you ?

I'm trying to get out of this. Fact is ... no one knows who I am. I don't.

This exercise is an action toward change. Not so much this little spot, but the greater whole. It symbolizes wrenching connection. Toward knowing myself. Those I connect with. Letting them know me.


Mom and dad. Before I'm born.

Let's start way back — let's start at the beginning.

I was born into chaos. It was typical chaos and like the average dysfunctional home, I had no idea. This chaos worked to push me to self-occupy. I was neglected out loud ... they were present but I was not there. Or, I was there and they weren't.

Mom and dad fought everyday. They scared me and angered my sister—eight years my senior.
When mom remarried my hate was firmly focused on her new husband. I wasn't old enough to know hate—there it was.



My sister, mom and I on Willow. Behind us, a dying citrus orchard. To this day I want to live in an orchard.

May 27, 2015

He wouldn't always be my enemy. He may never have been. One time, when a neighbor ratted me out—he saw me sneaking into the garage at 4 AM, without my car. He never did tell mom. Funny how many things we ... live around.

My stepfather, Philip Cole. At the ranch in 1971.

May 27, 2015

I remember loving his sons and daughters. Phil, Beth, Elise and Riley. And ... another daughter. I only learned about her when Phil died.

I was close to Phil Jr.—he'd let me talk on his ham radio. He lived with us in Cherry Valley. He is perfect. He may not want to hear that. From me. Phil and my mom ... they ... left them.

I lived my own father's absence. Not because he left and because he did.

Dad left first. But, Mom and Phil, they moved us far away from dad. Far away from my step-family. Whom with I'd explored childhood. Camping. Beaches. Fear and joy. A dried river full of singing frogs. Gorgeous summers. Gone.

I don't remember questioning why. Until in a corner of my own, defending myself over I can't remember what, I grieved them. For the first time. Millions of times since.


I am not my



May 28, 2015

I didn't get very far did I ... so, life was fine. I didn't know it wasn't but when my dad died in '07 ... lots of ugly shit shook loose. In me. In him too, before he died. Choosing the other woman. Again. She had left him, but he was sure she'd return if I would just sign the house over to her. We never heard from her ...

May 29, 2015

I've not ...

May 31, 2015

I am determined to beat time. Like my father. I search for moments—use them to power forward.

You have been waiting haven't you ... patiently and ... wondering. So what. What already ?!

S E C R E T # 1 R E V E A L

You helped create a funding platform. I've long wanted, thirty years now, to create a way for people to make money doing what they do already.

Documenting life is valuable. Rewarding. The platform I hint to is a money tree. A machine. A tool for people willing to leverage the life they live, to have more time to do even more living.

S E C R E T # 2 R E V E A L

I was injured growing up. But all of us were. At some point, humans fuck up. It doesn't seem so bad typed. But, I've done a LOT of fucking up. The kind my parents did. My own inventive fucking-up. I've followed others into fucking up. Yeah. Lots. Fuck.

I learned young, keeping secrets is normal. There are a lot of secrets. Family secrets. Personal secrets. I kept mine starting very young.

Now, they hurt. Seemingly forever festering. Growing. A kind of invisible cancer. If I tell all, will the ache go away.

I believed I could do anything. I believe it still. The path is not clear. I fall. Over and over.

The guts and the gore ... the real. This is where healing starts. I'm ok. I know that I will be. I always am.

I didn't use this kind of language for years. It was ... I have sons. I hated to hear them say anything so I didn't. And, I was asked not to. I'm glad I can use any language now, that communicates the message. But, I'm more glad they didn't hear it younger. From mom.


I started this project to tell a story. Not to you. To ... to a man I met only once. We held eyes but he doesn't remember nor know me. Comfort and torture all in one. I spent a month grieving then a year coveting. I hated. I loved. I cried. When I finally let Him, God healed my broken heart—it is healed. I am happy.

Somewhere, for 17 years, I found all I needed knowing you are well. Happy. Loved. That is enough. I don't go. To you.

Though ... I miss you. I have worried and I have hunted for your image. When I found it I couldn't stop looking. I sent you to my sister. To my mom. I was so excited. You are happy. You are beautiful. You are near. You are so near. I follow your games. I do not go though. I am close no matter where you are. I miss you. Every second of every single day. Every sleeping and waking hour.

If there comes a time, when you want to find me. I am here.

I love you.

Written to my son, whom I adopted to his loving family. I just needed to tell someone. Thank you for letting me use you. I will return that favor ! Promise.