Bye for a while

Obviously, I can't keep up right now. I could use the typical excuses: The Holiday Season, Personal Writing Goals, School Work, but...well, those actually sound good so I'll use them. I'll be reading up on what you're doing,Bloggers, but I don't believe I'll post for a while. Life's got me busy as busy can be. I may join you again soon if I can feel like I've actually accomplished something. Until then, please keep me entertained with your lives. And please buy Product (Red) if you're consuming.

Snow Day

It’s a winter wonderland up here in the Northwest, something we’re not quite sure what to do with. We’re all agog, wandering down snow-covered lanes with brand new mittens and kicking at the powdery ground with our fur-lined boots. Every time it snows out here, you would think it was the first time in history, such a rare event it is. Adults throw snowballs, cars rear off the road into ditches. It brings us great glee. The city shuts down; a snow day for all. Only the cats are distressed, staring perplexed out the cat door, unsure what is causing the glare. They touch their tiny paws to the ground, and then run back in the house, not caring for change.

Goddess Envy

The question in this week’s Sunday Scribblings is “Do you have a nemesis?” I did have one at one time, a nemesis such as we use the word today: an enemy, an opponent, a source of harm. She was supposed to be my best friend. But that’s another story.

I want to talk about Nemesis, the goddess of vengeance. Daughter of the Nyx, the goddess of night. Nemesis rides in a carriage pulled by griffins (part lion, part eagle). She is the pursuer of the wicked, she will bring down justice. Nemesis punished Narcissus for being so conceited. She is sister to the Fates. There is something deep inside me that longs to be Nemesis. There is a need in me to see the world ironed out, even, fair. Plus she wore only indigo. I look good in indigo.

Nemesis also wore a sword (one of the few Greek Gods to do so), but she is not merely a source of evil and power. Think of her as the teacher of the tough lessons, disciplinarian to wayward humans. The embodiment of Karma. Nemesis is a necessary force. She is part of the balance of the universe; teaching us right from wrong and making us pay for going off the path of righteousness.

Now I’ve done it, now I am treading the waters of morality and religion. Karma and divine justice. Who is to say what is right and what is wrong? Is the world really so black and white? Unfortunately having a batch of opinions and a pocket full of indignation probably doesn’t qualify me for such a lofty position. While I’m studying up on my theology I’ll just think of myself as a Nemesis in training. I’ll keep my opinions to a minimum and keep trying to do the right thing. Someday maybe I’ll wear that sword.

Photo Day

Feeling a little uninspired. Feeling a little down, sad, call it what you will. I'm in the midst of the doldrums, I'm in the thick of the void, I'm staring at the walls waiting for inspiration to arrive. I'm feeling a bit like this guy without the sunshine.


And so I give you photos I took in Asia last year: blinks of the artist eye, work I can feel good about.


Bangkok on the river

Hiroshima temple

AND........






What???

Let it Shine

Another sunny day that lifts our gloomy mood. Sitting atop the roof looking out over the land, surveying the trees as the owls do at night, their particular screeching cat-yowls, the most frightening sound at midnight. Another calls back in a hoot that echoes out across the darkness. This land is beautiful in its crisp autumn sunshine. Unlike the dark days of winter. I’m working very hard at pulling things together. I’m trying to be good, to focus, to get things down, in order, in place. I’m ahead of the game and want to stay that way, feel I’ve been granted a particular freedom: a lightness, a warm breeze, a chance to rejuvenate, pick my head up. All this the power of sunshine.

Ouch

Yesterday I had a dentist appointment. You all know: it can never be pleasant. It just can’t. The skill level of the doctor factors in only slightly. There are few things in the natural world more humiliating that having your mouth propped open by a rubber and steel instrument while you are being asked questions you can only answer by a particularly meaningful squint of the eye. Few things outside of intentional torture, that is.
My dentist is excellent. He is professional, efficient, and funny. But somehow all that matters very little when you cannot feel the right side of your mouth and are watching globules of spit fly up out of your mouth and onto the dark glasses they have provided. You feel a drop land on your nose, but no one is wiping it off for you. Why isn’t the hygienist wiping it off for you? You obsess about that drop of spit on your nose, imagine what your face looks like, stretched wide open and covered with blue rubber, that shiny bit of spit across your nose.
You have never looked more ridiculous. They must be laughing at how you look. The hygienists must talk about it in the lounge at lunch.
You know it is only making the situation worse, focusing on that spit and so you try to let it go, try to concentrate on your breathing, but then the whine of the drill, high pitched and chilling. You wonder if the Novocain is going to work, maybe it isn’t strong enough, maybe he missed and that drill is going to be more painful than anything you have ever experienced. Your hands clench tight around the copy of Newsweek on your lap, open to a story you will never finish reading about a man executed in Texas. Did he feel like this, strapped to the table, awaiting the lethal injection?
Oh for god’s sake breathe, you cannot feel the drill. But the spit is still there, on your nose, though it is dry now. You wiggle your nose, lift a fist to your face, but the dentist tells you to lie still, almost there. The hygienist laughs and says you have the loudest spit she’s ever heard. What does that mean? Doesn’t everyone’s spit sound like that when they suck it up the tube? Now you can only hear the spit, nothing else. The sound of the spit drowns out the drill, the chit chat they are making so close to your face, the two of them prodding and poking, laughing. You have the loudest spit. Stop it spit, stop it. Stop making that noise. You try to shift the tube with your tongue, but it only makes the noise louder and it seems to echo in the tiny room.
There is nothing that can be done about this; nothing but to accept that you have loud spit, accept that you are ridiculous and numb, drooling and distorted. Your muscles relax and you sit defeated in the chair.
“Okay,” the dentist says. “You’re all set.”
“Thanks,” you mumble, and wipe your nose.

I Don't Want to Be a Passenger in My Own Life

This week's Sunday Scribblings prompt is a quote from writer Diane Akerman.

The scenery is shooting by at an alarming rate. This morning I thought I would take a nice peaceful train ride. I would not have to think about the insanity of the highway, gas burning, the possibility of a debilitating crash. I did not want to worry about flat tires, oil leaks, engine fires. I boarded the train so that I would not risk a pebble flying at the windshield, a jack-knifed semi sliding across the median, triggered air bag, concussion.
Here I am in my safe cushioned seat, first class ticket, power outlet below me for my laptop, a conductor who comes to me for proof I have paid. I have paid. But we are moving too fast for my eyes to see what it was I wanted to see. I had desired scenery, a backdrop for my thoughts of life and death and the Holidays upon us. I am thinking of learning and children and cooking and health and I sought a pastoral view while I pondered this forest of ideas. Not a blur of shapes and colors. Not a continuous, nauseating smear.
This is not what I had in mind. Stop this train! I look around in a panic, but the other passengers seem comfortable,seem content with this rocketing speed. Up above me I eye the red emergency stop button and my hand trembles towards it. I don’t want to be driven if I have no control over the pace, the direction, the destination. This ride is not for me. I stand, staring at the button, and ask myself: Do I dare?

Prompt Part 2-
Favorite quote:
“Opportunity is missed by most people because it’s dressed in overalls and looks like work” Thomas Edison

I've Been Meme'd

Okay, bug, I looked up the term:

meme (plural memes)

1. Any unit of cultural information, such as a practice or idea, that is transmitted verbally or by repeated action from one mind to another. Examples might include thoughts, ideas, theories, practices, habits, songs, dances and moods and terms such as race, culture, ethnicity etc.
2. A self-propagating unit of cultural evolution having a resemblance to the gene (the unit of genetics).



10 wonderful things that start with L:


* Life
* Libraries. "L"s are too easy.
* L-Dopa (an amino acid, precursor to Dopamine, synthetic form used to treat Parkinson's disease)-ooh, seems I did learn something with all that studying.
* Laughter
* Language
* Lesley University
* Lady's slipper, a most stunning orchid
* Legends- they keep us going.
* Lingering. Just the sound of the word is enjoyable.
* Love. Of course.

Five bad things that start with L:

* Lewis "Scooter" Libby. Too wrapped up with Cheney et al. Don't like him.
* Lint. Does it serve a purpose?
* Land mine.
* Lap dances (sorry guys, it just looks wrong)
* Liposcution. Nothing right about that.


Hey FC, if you're around, I'm requesting a Q list from you (should be challenging, but I'm sure you're up to the task)

Issues

There are certain subjects that need to be addressed with ferocity. People need to speak up when the loudest voice being broadcast is so completely offensive. Bibi says it better than I could in her post Dear Rush Limbaugh

The other subject I want to prompt you to explore is that of the impending war with Iran. Yes, that's what I said, no typo, no dropped q-- war with Iran, which is what ex-weapons inpector Scott Ridder says the Bush administration is planning on pursuing. He was brilliant on the PBS program I just watched. This man should be president, but alas, I fear he is far too rational.

Here's what my local PBS station has to say:

Scott Ritter This week on KCTS Connects, Scott Ritter, former United Nations weapons inspector in Iraq, joins us to talk about his new book, "Target Iran: The Truth About the White House's Plans for Regime Change." In 2002, Ritter became a lightening rod for controversy when he cautioned that the U.S - with its plans to invade Iraq - was on the verge of an historic mistake. He warned that Iraq did not have weapons of mass destruction, and criticized the Bush administration of disguising its policy of regime change with spurious claims of threats to U.S. national security. In his new book he charges the Bush administration for following the same disastrous model in Iran as it did in Iraq, and argues that "the path that the United States is currently embarked on regarding Iran is a path that will inevitably lead to war."

So, I feel the need to stay wary of our questionable leader once again. We cannot afford to invade another country, neither morally or financially--for any reason. I'll defer to my politically savvy husband for info on staying active on this one. There are times we cannot afford to turn our heads. I'll let you know what I find out...

The Trappings of Technology

Well, isn't that always the way. I was all set to jump into full blogging glory and my DSL is down and out. It may be from the colossal rains, it may be some sort of sign to cool it on the computer work. Whatever it is, it has forced me to an internet cafe (the only one on the island) to comment. This after half the day yesterday was spent on the phone to a technician in Manila who tried to walk me through fixing my Quickbooks. (A word to the wise, if you are thinking about starting your own business, try to stay away from the Evil Program that sucks you in, makes you dependent on it, and then charges you exorbitant fees to make it work). I have so much to say, so much to ponder, and yet, limited internet access once again. This seems a recurring theme. What does it mean???

No Need to Worry

Lest you think my bones are off bleaching in the desert sun, I write to tell you I am alive and fully saturated up here in the Great Northwest once again (in fact, thinking of building an ark as the deluge will not stop). Having finally come out of my sleep-deprived stupor, I am wading through miles of mail from the last three weeks and breathing a gigantic sigh of relief for having barely squeezed out my last submission for school. I guarantee I will be back with you all in full blogging glory by the end of the day... Oh, how I've missed you all.

Desert Tunes

It is high spirits and pumpkins galore out here in the desert. The stages are up and the bands are rolling in. Only waiting on the audience now. They are lurking on the streets of Las Vegas, awaiting the moment we open the gates. Crews are rushing around, putting up the last of the fencing, painting signs, and sound checking. My stage is right next to the Indian food and the smoothies—I’m in vendor heaven if I can find a second to sit down. Here’s to hoping the bands don’t have too much attitude and the generator doesn’t blow a fuse. Party on

Take a Look Outside

Oh, just a few more days in this lonely tumbleweed town. I can’t say I’ll hate to see the last of the Red Roof Inn and the Jack in the Box across the street. I can’t say I’ll suffer by forfeiting the Subway sandwiches and bad Chinese. I won’t miss the giggling twenty-somethings in the next room or the warehouse I’m working in. I won’t miss the mini-van I’ve driving around one tiny little bit (flat tire incident with the compact rental).
But somehow it is easy to get accustomed to a new routine. Just a few weeks and I am ready to accept the hassle of walking outside to the ice machine twice a day to keep the half and half for my coffee unspoiled. With that first hint of the crisp air hitting my face, I wander, body-blissed from a half hour of yoga, out into the morning. I’ve started to enjoy the image of the sun coming up in the mirrored building across the street, a shimmering pink and yellow reflection of itself.
When I get home I will have to remember to walk outside first thing. Funny that it took coming here.

Tell a Story II

I lift my glass as a muffled curse comes through the wall, abrupt and thick. The man’s voice. I can’t make out all his words, but I did hear a distinct “bitch”. I stand up with my ear still to the wall. Her voice is faint and hollow, but it’s there; at least she is alive. She says “every time” and “why are you” and I could swear I heard the word “trust”. A few more hostile tones pass between them until a drawer slams and seconds later the door flies open. I jump and press my face to the peep hole, but only catch a glimpse of a hairy arm swinging past stone washed jeans. And then it is quiet.
The thick plastic curtain is drawn across my window and I pull it back. No one is out on the landing and I press my hand to the glass. The night is just arriving and it carries a chill the likes of which we have not felt in Texas since last February. Out past the railing the horizon is lined with the last misty rays of color, pushing through layers of air pollution and atmosphere. One last look at the city in the distance, the city I am leaving behind, and I drop the curtain back in place. I don’t need to look out there again.

Words to Live by

For this week's Sunday Scribblings I did not scribble, but sometimes a few words are a powerful thing...



This photo, which I've used full form in another post, Inflammatory Comments was taken in Nottingham, England. It was on the doors of a church.

I'm Going to Tell a Story

I hadn't really planned on making a story out of these little ideas, but I'm going to give it a shot. This one's for you, bug:

I can’t hear the couple fighting anymore, even with the glass pressed up to my ear against the paper-thin wall. I sink to the floor and run my hand across the tight-piled rug, staring at the blank wall across from me, picturing the woman in the next room lying bruised and battered on a dingy floor, the man donning his cowboy hat and smoking a cigarette while he stands over her. It’s that kind of place.
The glass I’m holding wasn’t in the room; the glass is mine. I bought it at the Target when I went to get hand sanitizer. The hotel has plastic cups wrapped in cellophane sitting next to a sturdier plastic ice bucket, neither of which I can abide. You can tell everything about an establishment by the kind of glassware they provide in the rooms.
This is the emptiest hotel I have ever set foot in. No coffee maker, no desk, no closet even. There are two twin beds and a television the size of a bread box, a couple of hangars on a silver rod mounted across two brackets. The first thing I do when I walk in any hotel, no matter how nice, is peel off the bedspread. I saw a 20/20 program years ago where the investigators tested for substances on the spreads of ten different hotels. I don’t even want to say what they found on them. If I start thinking about even the corner I had to touch to get it off the bed, I won’t sleep at night. They never wash those things.
I lift my glass as a muffled curse comes through the wall, abrupt and thick. The man’s voice.

I Don't Think the Gamma Ray Thing Worked

Repetition. Repetition. Linguistically I love it. Sonically it satisfies. As a life pattern, repetition seems impossible for me. Today I will be doing one thing at work. Over and over and over again. Cut the gel, label it. Cut the gel, label it. Cut the gel. Allll dayyy lonnng. Maybe tomorrow too. Oh. This kills me. Many many years ago I worked as a temp in a carboard factory, graveyard shift. I lasted less than two weeks. My job there was to take the piles of flattened cardboard off the conveyer belt, straighten it up and put it on a pallet. Over and over and over again. I wore canvas gloves on my hands and a blue bandanna on my head. We took breaks when the whistle blew, everyone stepping outside to smoke, because, well, what else are you going to do when you work at a cardboard factory? You could dance around and sing incomprehensible words like Bjork, but you would probably get fired. Today while I’m cutting gel I will think about the twists of fate and the power of choice. I will think about a woman I met outside while smoking on our fifteen minute break at the cardboard factory. She had had the same job for fifteen years. I didn’t make it fifteen days.

Cosmic Trigger Me

I had a very different topic I was going to discuss today, but this was just emailed to me by a yoga friend. I must admit to loving a little hocus pocus now and then. I'm going to indulge and hope for the best. I could use a little positive vibin' today:



*A cosmic trigger event is occurring on the 17th of October 2006.*
This is the beginning, one of many trigger events to come between now and
2013. An ultraviolet (UV) pulse beam radiating from higher dimensions in
universe-2 will cross paths with the Earth on this day. Earth will remain
approximately within this UV beam for 17 hours of your time.
This beam resonates with the heart chakra, it is radiant fluorescent in
nature, blue/magenta in color. Although it resonates in this frequency band,
it is above the color frequency spectrum of your universe-1 which you, Earth
articulate in. However due to the nature of your soul and soul groups
operating from Universe-2 frequency bands it will have an effect.
The effect is every thought and emotion will be amplified intensely one
million-fold. Yes, we will repeat, all will be amplified one millions time
and more.
Every thought, every emotion, every intent, every will, no matter if it is
good, bad, ill, positive, negative, will be amplified one million times in
strength.
*What does this mean ?*
Since all matter manifest is due to your thoughts, I.e. what you focus on,
this beam will accelerate these thoughts and solidify them at an accelerated
rate making them manifest a million times faster than they normally would.
For those that do not comprehend. Your thoughts, what you focus on create
your reality. This UV beam thus can be a dangerous tool. For if you are
focused on thoughts which are negative to your liking they will manifest
into your reality almost instantly. Then again this UV beam can be a gift if
you choose it to be.
Mission-1017 requires approximately one million people to focus on positive,
benign, good willed thoughts for themselves and the Earth and Humanity on
this day. Your thoughts can be of any nature of your choosing, but remember
whatever you focus on will be made manifest in a relatively faster than
anticipated time frame. To some the occurrences may almost be bordering on
the miracle.
*All we ask is positive thoughts of love, prosperity, healing, wealth,
kindness, gratitude be focused on.*
This UV beam comes into full affect for 17 hrs on the 17th of October 2006.
No matter what time zone you are in the hours are approximately 10:17 am on
the 17th of October to 1:17 am on the 18th October. The peak time will be
17:10 (5:10 pm) on the 17th October. You do not need to be in a meditative
state through out this time, though would be beneficial. The main key time
no matter what time zone you are in will be the peak time of 17:10 (5:10
pm).
Perhaps at this time if you can find a peaceful spot or location to focus.
The optimum is out in the vicinity of grounded nature, likened to that of a
large tree or next to the ocean waves. Focus on whatever it is you desire.
What is required for the benefit of all Earth and Humanity is positive
thoughts of loving nature.
We call this UV beam trigger event, "818$B!m(B gateway. Please forward this
message to as many people as you know who will use this cosmic trigger event
to focus positive, good willed thoughts. We require approximately 1-million
people across globe to actively participate in this event. Please use
whatever communication mediums you have at your disposal. Reach out to as
many people as possible. We require 1-million plus people at the least to
trigger a shift for humanity from separation and fragmentation to one of
unification and oneness. This is your opportunity to take back what is
rightfully yours I.e. Peace and Prosperity for all Earth and Mankind.
This is a gift, a life line from your universe so to speak, an answer to
your prayers. What you do with it and whether or not you choose to
participate is your choice.
*Mission1017*
*Raphiem/Blue*

If I could stop time.....

This week's Sunday Scribblings prompt was not inspiring me personally, so I did what fiction writers do...I made someone up:

If I could stop time. If only that argument hadn’t taken place. If only, if only is my mantra. I wander the stinking city imagining that I didn’t drop that coin down the sewer grate. The only thing that was left to me of my grandfather, of his pathetic life. I meander with no destination, no direction. I cannot go home now, not after I was so stupid.
What was I thinking, taking that thing out of my pocket on a crowded city street? A foolish maneuver. A piece of bravado that I will pay for dearly. But I know the old man would have understood, might have done the same thing. I wanted the woman in the blond skirt at the bus stop to notice me. Ridiculous, really, considering there isn’t a chance in hell she would know that the coin was from 1842. Why would I think she would know that? What was I going to say to her?
“Look, this coin is worth a lot of money. My wife doesn’t appreciate me or my coin. She wants me to sell it. You wouldn’t make me sell it if you were my wife, would you?”
I walk and I imagine that moment all over again, the reach into my pocket, the rough cold metal against my fingertips. That is when time would stop, right there, and I would keep my hand in my pocket for that extra beat before passing that bus stop and the blond skirt by. If only.

Be Very Afraid

Last night I watched a program on the Discovery Channel called America’s Tsunami, Are We Next? Despite the scare-tactic name, I sat riveted (I usually refuse to watch any show that tries to sell itself on fear). My husband had attempted to tell me last week that if there was a Tsunami that we would have three minutes’ warning on our little island. I brushed it off as alarmist talk. Remember Y2K? Apocalypse scare in the late 80’s? I wouldn’t join in the hysteria.
Then I watched the show. Respected scientists are saying it’s not a question of whether or not it will happen, but when. They swear it could happen any minute. The target? 30 miles off the Northwest coast. Oh good god. What am I waiting for? I’ve only got a couple of five gallon jugs of water and four cans of food stored. Last night I dreamt about the Tsunami—of myself as the hero (I’m often the hero in my dreams), trying to drag people out of the water, housing and feeding them.
For the first time, I’m glad our house isn’t right on the beach. I’m going to look up our elevation when I get home.

Just a Little Bit

The thing about staying in a ratty motel is that it is humbling. You learn very quickly to appreciate the good things you have at home, the “amenities”you now realize you should have insisted upon before agreeing to the gig: coffee pot, gym, refrigerator. No matter. They’ve always got good cable stations in the crap hotels. (This is me looking on the bright side which is hard to do when you’re wondering if you’re picking up germs by touching the remote.) Mind you, it has been a long time since I’ve stayed in a place like this, so I didn’t even think to bring a sanitizer. I’ll admit it, I’ve been spoiled. So I’ve decided to count this as a blessing. If there wasn’t good cable, I wouldn’t have been able to see Bill Maher show. I decided after watching that he’s my new boyfriend (Dorsey will understand). Brilliance and wit is sexy. But then a few hours later Bill got usurped by Bono, who, lets face it, Bill doesn’t stand a chance against. Bono and Bobby Shriver were on Larry King Live talking about their new (Product) Red that donates 50% of sales to the Global Fund, helping Africans get medicine for Aids. Brilliance and wit is even sexier if you throw in a whooping mound of generosity. I went right out and bought myself a (Product) Red sweatshirt at the Gap. Thank you Bono. Thank you Bobby. Thank you universe for letting me stay in a crap-ass hotel so that I could learn how lucky I am to be in a position to help, even just a little bit.

Yeeeehaw!!

I always enjoy writing the first few sentences of a story the most. How about:

She had always imagined that Texas was hot, that she would live beautifully in the heat, steamy and sultry like Sybil Shepard in the Last Picture Show. Long highways and tumbleweeds blowing-- desolation as a backdrop.

Or:

I can’t hear the couple fighting anymore, even with the glass pressed up to my ear against the paper-thin wall. I sit back on the tight-piled rug and look at the blank wall, picturing the woman in the next room lying bruised and battered on a dingy floor, the man donning his cowboy hat and smoking a cigarette while he stands over her. It’s that kind of place.

Oh ho ho. These are the types of images that come up for me, because, yup, I’m in the Lone Star state. You haven’t heard from me because the Rockettes were calling. They needed me more than you. What are the Rockettes doing in Dallas, you say? Well, their Christmas show, of course. And no, I’m not dancing, nothing as glamorous as that. I’m merely getting them ready, making them look good, all those beautiful long legs. I’ll be here for a couple of weeks until I head to Vegas for a festival— cabaret, rock n’ roll, and hip hop all under one tent (that’s right, my stage is appropriately placed in a circus tent). I’ll be all over the map and lonely as all get-out. Should make for some good writing.

Repeat After Me

It's NUCLEAR, not NUCULAR!
Why do they let people speak in public if they cannot pronounce this simple word? The man was a senator being interviewed on BBC for crying out loud. Our President has set a very bad example and the pestilence is spreading.

Dorkus Amongus

I’ve been thinking lately about what is cool, what is not, in general what a big dork I am. I’ve finally come to terms with that, with the fact that I like to stay in at night, that my tastes run to the nerdy side. I like math, I like science, and I would rather play a board game than go for a drink in a bar. Many years-- all of my twenties, really-- were spent trying to deny my natural tendencies. Many years on the scene, in clubs, at the right parties, in the right clothes, knowing the right people. But it’s just not me. I like wearing sweatpants and I like raking the yard.
What I’m really trying to get at, though, is the materialization of a trend, about what constitutes cool. Let’s talk about two things that have re-emerged over the years: knitting and yoga. My grandmother knits. She’s eighty-seven. When I was ten, I wanted to be like her, so she taught me. I loved it. I knitted all through my teens, but I didn’t do it in public. Knitting was not cool. Now look at it, it’s everywhere. Not only do knitters enjoy their passion in public, unashamed of this previous private pastime, but there are yarn stores and websites (visit Transitions, Ink for links). Nowadays, I feel like I want to be knitting too. After all, you get warm fuzzy things to wear when you’re done.
And what about yoga? I found a book that my mom had when I was twelve. No one was doing yoga in the eighties. It was Twenty Minute Workouts and high-impact aerobics. Now you can’t drive ten blocks without seeing a yoga studio. I am loving the way we’re going: opening up our closets, revealing our true enthusiasms.
There are several movies now about spelling bees—who thought that was cool in grade school? There are shows where you watch people play poker. (To me that’s as boring as watching someone play golf, but people love it.) Personally, I like to participate rather than watch. I’m wondering what’s next in the popular culture program. Hoolahooping? Weaving? Clogging?
My personal preference would be crossword puzzles. I love them and I’m not ashamed to say it. I’m going to start using it as a verb, and see if it catches on. If you need me I’ll be crosswording.

Moon through the Trees

I have been so busy and the moon is so bright, I could not help but get up tonight to say a little something. My brain has been swimming with physiological terms. My mind has been tripping with settings for stories. My body's exhausted and I can’t come to terms with needing so much sleep.
It is time to bed down for winter, and out here in the Northwest, that means cutting and piling wood, getting anything that might have a chance to rust or mold under cover. We seal our houses against the coming rains, every day telling ourselves this might be the last sunny day.
But global warming is making a play for dominance. We’ve had two rainy days in a month. My new dogwood tree is protesting the drought and the rhododendron droops. I can feel the dryness in my bones, in my skin that begs for moisturizer.
I’ve accomplished so much over the last few weeks; I may not know what to do with myself once the rains come. I probably shouldn’t be worried. This life is so full.

Poetry Thursday, Synesthesia

Well, I thought I didn't have time, but since I'm writing a novel with a character who has Synesthesia, I really had no excuse not to post for Poetry Thursday. Some of you have read this before, the opening passages of the first draft (now trashed by the way):


She sensed it more than anything, the pulse, regulating existence. She couldn’t hear it at first, the regular thumping, the rhythmic beat, the pounding. It was purple, glistening violet, with a fuchsia lining. It was germinating, internalized. Liquid center, viscous, melting molten heat. Heartbeat, blood, the essence of the human form, the first recognition of awareness had a twitching effect on an infant Alina, her body and mind just recently introduced to one another. Rarely do people have more than a passing, fleeting memory of the first years of life, but Alina’s personal images of a sing-songy mobile over her head, marching band wooden bars on her crib, and a honey-flavored mother are branded deep, are fossilized into her bones, so that the taste of each memory lies thick upon her tongue.
She was sitting upon a velvety twinkling binky on the hardwood living room floor the first time she felt her heart thu-thudding, the first time she made it stop with a thought, stutter for a second, and watched the purple oval expand and contract. That’s how she saw it in her mind, a mauve shape of light and air with the movement of all life, sparkling with the energy of an electrical storm. But of course, she did not think “electrical storm”, because at one and a half she could not identify what was happening atmospherically the evening that she chose to come in to the world in the Arizona desert; she just knew the feeling of it, the dry prickly air, the sharp flashes. That’s what the heart held for her, before Alina had heard the word “heart”, long before she was taught about vessels and veins, and years prior to understanding what it means to have it broken.
While sitting upon that petunia-smelling blanket, Alina first understood that this sensation was inside her own body, not pounding out there, out beyond her skin; not over by the sink where her mother stood as tall as a giant. The water running from the tap was not beating like this interior source; it had another, string like quality, a silvery, high-pitched sound and a metallic smell. No, that water was not her heart, nor her blood, this other warmer sensation moving through her uncontrollable baby limbs. Her arms flailed and her vocal chords twittered at the discovery of definition, of boundaries.

I'm Dancing

So I’m having trouble with this story. I’ve got good scenes, I have good character development, I know how I want the main character to change, I have a theme, but there is absolutely no plot. The guy is just wandering around the city.
No big deal, I’ve been here before-
What I’m amazed at is my ability to dance around when I get in this state. I start six other stories (bound to be more brilliant than the original), I sweep the floor, I stack some wood, oh the cat needs some food—better go to the store. God, this vase is filthy. After I wash it I’ll work on the story. Yoga would be good for me right now, it will calm me down. This could be the last sunny day of the year, better go for a bike ride. I can write tonight.
Agggh.
The clock is tick, tick ticking away....

Panic!

The thought of having a job gives me an ulcer. You would think I’m lazy if you read just that line, but it’s the truth (well, almost the truth – it definitely gives me acid reflux, if not an ulcer, not yet anyway). I can’t even picture myself getting in my car and going to work every day, nine to five, coming home, going back the next day. Now, before you get to thinking, “that spoiled bitch, I have a job, I have to go every day”, let me tell you what my schedule is like. I do have weeks off at a time, but when I go to work, I don’t go for eight hours, I go for fifteen, sometimes eighteen. When I go to work, often I will work for three weeks without a single day off. What am I thinking? Do you know what working fifteen hours a day for even one week does to your body? I used to be able to bounce back in a day or two—sleep for twelve hours and Bob’s Your Uncle, good as new. Not anymore. Now I’m half awake for half a week. Now I’m brain dead and bone weary. It’s catching up with me, this life-style.
What brought this panic on was a question my husband asked me: “So what are you going to do after school is over?” I thought we had discussed that. He was surprised to hear me say I would not be commuting into the city every day to work at what he imagined to be a fabulous literary job (anyone know of any fabulous literary jobs?). I told him I would rather keep doing what I’m doing, shit, doesn’t he know about my plan to be a freelance writer, making plenty of money, selling a novel? Why is he talking about me having a job? I thought he said I wouldn’t have to work, that I could stay home and write, and now he’s talking about a JOB??
I just don’t know what is wrong with me, that I can’t be tied down to a schedule. I have to be able to see the light at the end of the tunnel. I can work for hours on end, day after day, if I know that it is a finite job. I’ve worked for thirty-two hours straight before. I’d rather do that than have a schedule?? Maybe it is the shining hope of possibility that keeps me from committing to a routine. Maybe it all boils down to my romantic spirit. That is what I'm going to tell myself, anyway.

A Good Day

I live in a place where moss grows on the pavement.
I live in a place where spiders spin their webs across the telephone wires.
Today the mountain rears up bold over miles of water
a scene from a postcard, glowing and unreal.
Morning glories tumble down the bank, still blooming in this late summer sun.
I smile from my Schwinn while a black truck spews exhaust in my face.


Just a little bit of my day...
I never found that list of things I like, so here's a new one:

riding my bike, yoga, candles, a fire at night, singing songs at the top of my lungs with no one around, dancing in the living room, thunder storms, sunshine, Dorsey, novels, friends, snorkeling, painting, Uncas the cat, feather beds, hot tubs, fluffy Adie, slate floors, frankinsence, birthdays, scarves, pajamas, people with opinions, honesty, beaches, going to foreign countries, coffee, chocolate, fresh flowers, cheese, a good cabernet, martini glasses, cherry chapstick, Salman Rushdie, opera, quiet,and my marble coffee tables that my husband hates. (not in that order)

You can see it in their eyes

Sunday Scribblings- Instructions
I’ve done well at my job not because I’m particularly brilliant, not because I’m a great technician, but because I am bossy. That’s what it boils down to. I can think five steps ahead and I like to tell people what to do. Inefficiency kills me. I’m a freelance stage manager and electrician. Every day at work I am handed eight to twelve men who look to me to give them instructions. It’s not the fantasy it sounds like, ladies. Most of these men are looking to prove something: either that they are more skilled, have done more gigs, have known more famous people, or something as simple as they are able to lift more than me. It’s not so bad now that I’m bit older and have the comfort of experience, but when I was in my twenties and I walked into an arena full of local stagehands all checking me out, thinking “this little girl is going to boss me around?”—let me tell you, there was a knot in my stomach the size of Montana. Scorn twisted their faces as they stood in groups and watched me approach.
And all I ever wanted was to get the job done, get the rig in the air, get the band on stage. “I don’t care who you’ve worked for, what tour you were on, or who you had lunch with in nineteen-seventy-six. Shut up and push the box down stage left where I told you to.” That’s what I’m thinking, but there’s years of bitterness behind those thoughts. What I actually do is smile and say, “This one here, yes, put it over there. Thank you.”
Every day at work is about being clear and precise in the instructions I give. What I’ve discovered is that I cannot say “hang the leko on the upstage side” and expect someone to do what I’ve said. I have to say “put that light in your hand right here where I am pointing. Don’t forget to plug it in.” That will usually do the job. You have to play to the weakest mind in the group and apologize to the bright ones. I’ve gotten so that I can tell by their squint if they understand me. If I have learned anything (and the jury is still out), it is that you have to be as completely clear as you can. That, and always, always double check the work.

Beautiful/Sad

I was just flipping through some old journal entries, looking to cheat really—I once made a nice little list of beautiful things in the world and I was going to copy it for today’s blog. Alas, I could not find that list, so I must make another. But I did find this:

I’ll paint this picture of loneliness, of isolation in red. I’ll send a message of pain by the stroke of my hand. Characters will come alive on this page, on this canvas. I will drink my wine and listen to Indian music—touch the past, the future, inside. When my fingers thaw the day will begin.

Now I’m steeped in melancholy from the waters of reminiscing. The list will have to wait.

Cut it Out!

There are a few things in life that just get under my skin, that get me going in a self-righteous voice about the unbelievable gall of others. I’m going to list them in the hopes that listing them will decrease the severity of my annoyance and thereby lower my blood pressure:

1. Biggest ever pet peeve: People crowding in towards the baggage carousel at the airport, cutting in front of you to wait for their bag. If everyone just took a couple of steps back and waited, you could see your bag coming and move forward to retrieve it.

2. Too much cologne. Come to think of it, any amount of cologne. It is no longer necessary to douse our bodies in scent; we don’t live in Victorian England where baths are hard to come by. Please don’t make me smell you coming from across the room, and don’t carry your wafting scent into the elevator, making the rest of us gasp for oxygen.

3. I do not need to hear what you are listening to on the car radio. I’m sure you enjoy it. I’m sure that whatever you are grooving to somehow defines who you are. Good for you. I don’t have a problem with your music if you are just passing by, maybe pausing at a stop light—I can live with that. But in a line for the ferry when we are all waiting, maybe up to an hour, your music is just plain obnoxious. Buy an ipod.

4. Stand on the right, pass on the left. They announce it over and over on those airport moving walkways. There are signs. Pay attention, people!

5. Get off your cell phone.

Next time on the Repeater:
Things I like (I’ll be home soon and out of the jostling airport and hotel crowds)

What Are You Talking About??

So hard to get going with it sometimes. Can’t think of a thing I’d want to blog about, mind so muttled, head so gaga with the floor fumes (we’ve tiled and sealed with a deadly concoction- the bottle didn’t say “don’t try to live in your house for a week because you won’t be able to breathe”. It said “dry enough to walk on in four hours”) I can’t manage a discussion about a dream or debate about a dongle. You know there’s actually a piece of equipment called a dongle? It’s a computer piece that you plug into a lighting board to make a certain program work. Who knows this kind of thing?

Apparently a lot of people- I’ve just discovered the American Heritage Dictionary defines dongle as:
A hardware device that serves as copy protection for certain software by rendering the software inoperable when the device is not plugged into a printer port.

I didn’t think it was a real word. The name makes me laugh—dongle. Sounds dirty. I am rambling today because I’m fried from working and slaving away on the house. Yesterday I bought a new pantry door on my lunch break. Some day I’m hoping we can afford to have someone else do the manual labor on our home improvements. But until then, I’m happy to come from sturdy New England Protestant stock that has afforded me a solid build and able hands.

Oh, coherency, please pay me a visit.

Swamp Thing

Just a little thought today about perspective. We all have times when we feel overwhelmed with the details of our lives, so immersed in the mire that we forget to look up. Yesterday I could barely raise my mucky chin (slime for hair, water-logged brain).
If you're feeling this way and you've got a couple of hours, check out a film called Favela Rising. Not only did the film reemphasize to me how fortunate I am, it made me realize that an individual can make a difference and that art can play a large part in change.
I've got at least one foot on solid ground today.

Sunday Scribblings....Take a Deep Breath

Okay Ladies, you've officially inspired me to write for Sunday Scribblings
I seriously never thought I'd share stories about my mother, oh, my throat is constricting...This is an excerpt from a story wherein my mother and father were fighting and my mother jumped out of the moving vehicle. My father went back to fetch her:

The fight wasn’t finished with my parents struggling on the side of the road. After what seemed like months Mom actually got back in the car with Dad. Everyone tense, adults staring straight ahead, children not daring to make a peep. We had only driven a few feet when Mom spoke up. Oh shit, hands feeling around her head, her pockets. She must have dropped her sunglasses, could Dad go get them? Dutiful husband, compliant man, he did. He stopped and walked down the road to the ditch finding the place where she rolled, scouring the grass for the missing glasses. Big brown plastic ones.
Her next actions I watched in slow motion, couldn’t believe were actually happening. Eyes wide, glancing back at my father, my sister and I stared in silence as my mother, chuckling cruelly, slid her body across the wide vinyl expanse and into the driver’s seat. No, she was not. No, she couldn’t be. But she did. She stepped on the accelerator as a whimper rose from my throat. “Please, Mom, please stop.” My sister pleaded, but she would not be stopped, would not halt in her maniacal escape. She did not even have it in her to pacify her frightened daughters, even once we got home. “Your father is fine!” is all she would say. Even when he did not show up that night Mom had no tools with which to mollify us. What justification could she give for leaving my father out in the middle of nowhere, hours from home? What excuse could she fabricate?
He did return eventually, if only to pack his bags and quietly tell his daughters that he loved them. Even a man who believes in family found it hard to take such humiliation. I found out years later that he had hitch-hiked to a friend’s house. I also learned that he only ever came back for us,my sister and I, because he knew he would never win custody, not in the nineteen seventies, no matter how good a father he was.

Bad Soldier!!

There are days like today when it catches up with me, when all my little soldiers step out of line, one by one, as if they have forgotten the rhythm. As I took them on, I whipped them into shape and each project fell into the march; I had been so confident of the one, two, one, two. We were well on our way.
But today all hell broke loose, today the projects that I had lined up: the school work, the journal, the stories, the wood chopping, the tile-laying, the emailing, the exercising, the socializing. It was too much. Something had to give. All of a sudden the beat we were marching to became sporadic, random; every soldier took off in its own direction.
I used to let it freak me out, paralyzing me, watching everything roll away. It used to send me to bed for a week. But I think I’m finally getting it—not everything can be controlled. I won’t lie, I still cry and yell and throw mini-tantrums. But it is very short-lived now, this behavior. I know all my soldiers will be back. We’ll get there; it may just take a little longer.

Inflammatory Comments

Yesterday I read an interview of Sam Harris in the Sun magazine. Sam is the author of the bestselling book, The End of Faith, who postulates that religion is at the root of many of the world’s issues, particularly war, and that we ought to have less tolerance for those who believe in what he calls ‘mythology’. I have to say I’m with him on breaking the mythology- it does seem a bit ridiculous to believe so literally in a virgin birth. But I’m not interested in fighting about that one today. I’m not even interested in discussing the idea of less tolerance, which seems like a questionable scheme. I am interested in how this mythology is related to a chain email that I received the other day entitled “Let’s Say I Break into Your House”.
I will admit that most of my friends are liberals, so I’m always shocked when people think to send me patriotic, god-fearing propaganda. I expect it from my Dad, but not my friends. This chain email compared someone breaking into your house and wanting to stay (even though they did the dishes and made your bed) to an illegal immigrant entering the country and taking a job as a maid. Granted, it was a clever analogy. They made very good points if you believe that Americans (note the capitol A for American- say it and be proud!) are the only ones entitled to a nice big house that uses way too much electricity, simply because they were born in this country. See, I’m getting all riled up here. That is not what I meant to do.
I meant to discuss our mythologies. Sam Harris says that we are more likely to fight over religion than even politics. Harris suggests we can be sensible when it comes to disagreeing about many things, but “discourse breaks down on the subject of God, because this is the nature of dogma: it’s the thing you’re certain about but refuse to talk about, because your certainty is ill-founded.” (p. 13)
It is this steadfast belief in our own mythologies that feed into our sense of entitlement. That is the biggest problem I see in America today: Entitlement. The world owes everyone in America something, and God is going to help them get it. I saw a gigantic red pickup truck yesterday with decorative running lights and scrolling letters appliquéd on the back windshield that said “Powered By God”. What does that mean? God came down and fueled your vehicle? God paid your car bill last month? There was also an American flag waving on the antenna.
What I’m wondering is, how does identification with a God make people feel that they deserve more than, say, a Mexican? Is it the old Protestant/Catholic debate rearing its ugly head? Every once in a while, just turn on TBN, the religious channel (yes, that is what we do around here for fun some nights) and listen to what they’re preaching. Listen to what they are selling to the public: the idea that God is on the side of America. God loves those that give themselves up to him- that is, the Christian God. No other God, just the Christian one.
I do understand people wanting to keep what they have worked really hard for, I do. I’ve worked hard all my life, but I think it would do us all some good to share. I try to imagine working as hard as I do and still going home with pennies at the end of the day. I don’t have the answer to immigration issues, but I do know that spreading hate emails is not going to help. I do know that holding on with all your might to the material objects that you own is not going to help anything (you know, at the end of the movie the greedy guy always buys the farm).
Here’s how the email ends:

“Why can't people see how ridiculous this is?! [allowing immigrants in]
Only in America....If you agree, pass it on (in English).
Share it if you see the value of it as a good simile.
If not blow it off along with your future Social Security funds.”

Oh, I’m beginning to think that Sam Harris is right. Maybe we shouldn’t be so tolerant.

Sing, Sing a Song

The photo isn't me, and it isn't the Northwest (A friend in Hawaii), but it is happy anyway


It's a beautiful sunny day out in the Northwest, so I'm going to start my morning with a happy song:

Oh, wait, I never wrote any happy songs, but here's one that isn't entirely gloom and doom:

AGE

The thing is, I didn’t see it coming
The truth is, it scares me to death
The thing is, I don’t think I can stop it
The truth is,
I’m intrigued by this process I can’t control
Exist in spite of it
And spit in the face of innocence

I’m not afraid of dying
I’m afraid of losing You aren’t scared
Of anything except me
I’m older than I look
Younger than I seem Hesitant
To continue in this vein
In need of nourishment or some master plan
A label to slap upon myself
Here’s to your health

Here’s to Birth
Here’s to Aging
Here’s to Wisdom
Here’s to Dying

Now I’m Breathing
Now I’m fading
Now I’m centered
Now I’m rising

....It has been a while since I've done any singing or lyric-writing (at least 3 years), but I am still fond of the rhythms you can create in songs vs. prose. It makes me think of the workshop we had at the last MFA residency- listening to tapes of famous authors reading their work. I guarantee if you heard this song it would be a completely different experience than reading it on the page. Hopefully you wouldn't fall asleep.

Hello, Darlings

So, for months I have been saying that I could not imagine why I would want to post my personal business online for just anyone to read--I have friends who show pictures of the inside of their house, for god's sake. But, with a mind to watch what I post, and a group of writerly friends that I know have my back out there, I've decided to give it a go. Here's why:

1. An artist must reflect the time she is living in
2. I need discipline
3. William Faulkner said "kill all your darlings", but I don't want to. I'm no murderer. Now I don't have to kill them, now they can have a life in posting form.

That's exciting.
Here's a little taste (you may see why it was heading for the guillotine)...Keep in mind, I am no poet, though I love the sounds. I call myself the Repeater.

We argue over furniture

when that is not what was meant

(They do not send their children out to play)

Stripes, strife

strictly stiff

it is perception that differs.

I begged for a straw broom

then bought one for myself

(Picture your perfect purring)

by the by time continues on.

Though not truly on, not straight

in a line.

You called me like my mother

and I slapped you for that

When what we meant to say

was I love you

What we meant to say

stopped short of being said.