Bulls-Eye

Dear Hearts,

I can shoot a gun. And hit a target too.

It feels tremendous.

On a cold, bright December day in the Nebraska Prairie, Rancher and Dad taught me how to shoot a .22. I didn’t suck! I hit the target two of my three first shots. Things got really fun when Rancher set up some empty whiskey and wine bottles for me to shoot off a barrel. And, did you know that if you shoot at a beer can on the ground just right, it will fly up into the air? I didn’t. But I can do it!

In truth, it’s really a bit beyond me—how I grew up with my Pop and Dad and have never shot a gun. I’ve held a gun, loaded and unloaded. I almost took out the UPS man when he arrived late one night. And, I held a loaded rifle to my mouth—my thought was going out Hemingway Style.

Shooting a gun is made out to be this huge emotional thing. Like, OMG, I shot a gun with a bullet that could have killed someone. I feel so scared and I must cry. Yeah, well, I can kill someone with my car too, but I haven’t yet. I could also kill someone with a pen Godfather-style. But, I haven’t done that yet either.

I loved shooting a gun. I had to tunnel focus on the sight and the target. I had to breathe. I had to calm my body. Everything slowed down when I was taking aim and firing. Because of my shaking, I can’t hold a gun totally steady, but I can make a tripod with my upper body the way a newspaper writer once taught me with a camera. Hearing the PING of the metal target, the CRACK of the whiskey bottle, the POP of the beer bottle, and the TING of the metal barrel—sounded great. It felt great.

“Call me a fucking retard and fucking bitch?” POP

“Threaten to smash my fucking teeth in and fucking kill me?” PING

“You can threaten me, but you don’t threaten my cat.” CRACK

“Next time you get a DUI, I won’t pour the beer down the sink, I’ll fucking shoot it.” TING

“Make me pay alimony.” CRACK

I warned Rancher (a non-cursing guy who doesn’t even say “Oh My God!” but “Oh My Gosh!”) about my language and told Dad to chill.

“I am a Republican!” POP

“I am Katherine Therese Kennedy. I am alive.” CRACK.

Part of shooting the gun was aggression-relief, but a much larger part was that I could hit that target. From a 100 or so yards, I can take out a whiskey bottle. Precision. Concentration. The Demons in my head were scared away by the gun shots. I felt powerful.

And, I did it in my Calvin Klein Jeans. Nothing comes between me and my Calvins.

I have no desire to go out and kill an animal. Hunting starts really early in the morning! Nor do I have the desire to kill a human with a gun. Knowing how to shoot a gun is not going cause me to kill myself—guns don’t increase the suicide rate. If you are determined to die, you’re gonna find a way.

But, I have a desire to put that whiskey bottle in my sight and CRACK!

My trip with Dad to Nebraska was so much more than I hoped for. It was significant. Profound. Life-changing? Although, I can’t put the WHY into words yet.

I had one real episode while we were there. The night before I thought we were leaving. I didn’t want to leave. I wish I were still there. The bunk house was Spartan and cold! and I missed Angel. But, I loved being there. Eating dinner at noon and supper at seven. I liked being a part of the Rancher’s family. Mrs. Rancher had the best coffee ever!

I was away from the Real World and Life’s Responsibilities. Dad says I was happy and that he wants to see that for me all the time.

I don’t think it works that way.

I stood in the middle of the Nebraska Prairie and it was exactly as it was 1,000 years ago. God’s Country.

I drew instead of playing online games. I have not played an online game since we left for Nebraska.

Yes, I want to be back there. Even if I had to live in my long underwear, and wear the same jeans for four days in a row. The shower had finite hot water and two dead flies. The sheets—a couple of dead bugs too. Outside of the bedroom with its two space heaters, it was bloody cold. I demurely left the fatty part of the steak on my plate, even though the others ate theirs. I was out of my comfort zone. But, I felt…free.

I envy (not in a breaking commandment way) the Ranchers. Daughter 1 is 22 and married. She is happy with her life that stretches out 55,000 acres before her. Mrs. Rancher is two years older than I, and she has three kids and a ranch. They ride their horses. Hell, yes, there are hard times—and I saw only the “myth” of it perhaps, but I want that feeling when I looked out at the Nebraska plains and saw…nothing and everything.

Please take the fear, guilt, anxiety, panic, and disconcerting away. Please.

Teach me how to do that for myself. Please, God.

I just want to find “my place in this world.”

But, I’m 39 and unemployed and broke. “Hope is a thing with feathers.” E. Dickinson

Smoke ‘em if ya’ got ‘em. God Bless

In the name of The Father, Son, and Holy Spirit; Mother Mary, Saint Brigid; Saint Jude; Saint Therese Lisieux; Saint Peter; Archangel Michael, and my Guardian Angel, Jed.

“My Place in this World” Michael. W. Smith

The wind is moving
But I am standing still
A life of pages
Waiting to be filled
A heart that's hopeful
A head that's full of dreams
But this becoming
Is harder than it seems
Feels like I'm

Looking for a reason
Roaming through the night to find
My place in this world
My place in this world
Not a lot to lean on
I need Your light to help me find
My place in this world
My place in this world

If there are millions
Down on their knees
Among the many
Can you still hear me?
Hear me asking
Where do I belong?
Is there a vision
That I can call my own?
Show me I'm

Looking for a reason
Roaming through the night to find
My place in this world
My place in this world
Not a lot to lean on
I need Your light to help me find
My place in this world
My place in this world

Looking for a reason
Roaming through the night to find
My place in this world
My place in this world
Not a lot to lean on
I need Your light to help me find
My place in this world
My place in this world

Looking for a reason
Roaming through the night to find
My place in this world
My place in this world