Black Ink Pad

Chimera

2012-01-16T12:21:00.000-08:00

Because I feel like doing nothing but sharing a poem today....

Chimera

barkers hawk
shifting paradigms
change is good
and I've got a pocket full
drop a token
in the slot
and get
all the advice
any clown
made of nuts and bolts
can offer
a calliope jangles
the unsaid
a cacophony of slights
left with a sickly slick
(candy apple on a stick)
swirl and whirl
gone crazy
just another ride
just another chance
at the desperation
and acceptance
of the soul carnival
~BB~

Scoping It Out

2012-01-10T09:02:00.000-08:00

Clearly I've completely screwed any pretend New Year's resolution I had to be more devoted to this blog. I've been full of ideas. It's motivation that I've been lacking. Alas, here I am, and now I don't quite know where to begin. Or rather, what to begin with.

Let's start with this... it's been on my mind since a discussion I had with some friends the other day. We tend to compartmentalize our feelings. We barely acknowledge them, if at all, before we stuff them into a box and call it done. I'm talking about good and bad feelings here, both the light and the dark. When something makes us happy, we pretty much say, "Yay. I'm happy." We don't bother to put it under the microscope to find out what about it is making us happy, much less how we nurture it and keep it on a continuous loop.

When something dark rears its head, we get all squeamish, say, "Oh. Icky." And we stuff it away. For some reason we've been suckled on the notion that bad feelings are... well... bad. While the way we react to those feelings might be bad, the feelings themselves are not. It's all in how we choose to use them. Yes, that decision is ours. Let me tell you, some of the best work I've done has come from some of the darkest, "ickiest" feelings I've had.

Here's the thing. First and foremost, we have to acknowledge the feelings. We have to somehow find the bravery to say, "Hello. I see you." But there's more to it than just saying, "I feel sad," then pushing it away because for some totally fubar reason it's not acceptable in our society to have any feeling other than happy, positive thoughts. I say, fuck that noise. Embrace the sadness (or whatever so-called dark emotion is trying to claw its way to the top), find out what it's all about.

Take some time. Look at it from every angle. It's not always easy to pinpoint an emotion, and it often seems impossibly difficult to define it. When I get those inexplicable feelings, I try to write them out. It's just what works for me. I start a sentence that can be modified, such as, "I feel sad because..." Then, just like a little kid who won't give up until they have an answer, I ask, "Because why?" "I feel sad because I don't think my friends understand me." "Why do you think that? What can you do about it?" Keep asking yourself the why's and what's until you get an answer that you're satisfied with. Then you can put the shit in a box and file it away. Only then. Sometimes you don't even need to do that. Sometimes it dissipates, as if by magic. After all, once you've taken away its scary power it has no more weight.

Figuring out why something makes us feel good can lead to entirely different lives for us... which is why figuring out good stuff can be scary too. For example, the more I made cards, the more I realized I felt most at peace when I was doing that work. I felt happiest with ink on my hands. For a long time I didn't acknowledge that feeling because I knew that once I did, it would beg for change. Big change. Staring at that feeling of happiness led me to staring at some pretty sizable feelings of fear. Once I stared down the fear, I realized that I really had nothing to lose. I was giving all of it a lot more power than was warranted.

My point here is that if I had stuffed all of that away, I'd still be in a completely unrewarding, unfulfilling job as an accountant. Bleh.

We need to take the time to find out what makes us tick and why. Knowing ourselves well gives us better insight into others, and better ability to handle the differences. That kind of enlightenment is what makes a peaceful life all around.

No more boxes and no more boxing at shadows.

Ring It Out

2011-12-30T07:22:00.000-08:00

I can't end the year without re-posting one of my favorite posts. It's a list that I still use, still stand by.

To all of you, have a happy, healthy, successful 2012!

Here's my basic Life Toolkit - also known as Ten Things to Take With You on the Ride Through 2012. I promise, you'll be equipped to deal with pretty much everything if you keep these in mind.

Never mind that the word kindness is a noun - it is an action, and it requires action. No one was ever accused of being kind who sat in a corner doing nothing.
Contrary to popular belief, Time does not heal all wounds. Nature does. Surrounding oneself with natural beauty reminds one that everything shares an interconnectedness and that sometimes the big heavy stuff (while seeming to require a mental forklift on our individual parts) is but a grain of sand in the grand schema. That doesn't mean that we or our lives are in any way insignificant - keep in mind that a single grain of sand can change everything (ever get one caught in your eye?).
Laughter is a requirement, particularly the ability to use it while looking in the mirror.
Significant events in life will happen if you're ready or not. Keep these emergency supplies handy: observation, openness, at least one good friend (with two good ears), inventiveness and/or creativity, sense of humor, water, and chocolate.
Love, while a useful tool, is not a possession. Give it away. The one who dies with the emptiest toolbox wins.
Music is as essential to survival as food is. It can change an attitude. It can fix a mood. It just plain feels good to belt out a familiar tune, or dance (even if it's alone in the living room), or close your eyes and escape to whatever desert island awaits (I hear Bob Marley and I don't care how cold it is - I'm puttin' on a Hawaiian shirt!). And so, as the man sang, "Lively up yourself. Don't be no drag."
Physical Fitness, Mental Fitness, and Spiritual Fitness are a triad and require strength on all three sides. Therefore on a daily "nutritional" basis:
~Eat Well - We all know how to do that, I don't need to expound.
~Think (outside the box will give you the best workout) - Learn something, feed your head.
~Meditate - dream, pray, whatever you want to call it, so long as you take time to nurture your spirit.
~Get daily exercise - Walk, get outside and get outside yourself!
~Experience - give your heart a very long leash, remembering the words of Rilke: no feeling is final.
Connect with Innocence, whether it's a child or an animal. Seeing the world through unblemished, unjaded, non-judgmental, unconditionally loving eyes is a joyful thing. If you don't have a child or a pet, visit one - generally speaking, good parents and good pet owners are happy to share.
Sometimes the person you need most in your life is (still) a stranger. Sometimes the person they most need is YOU. Say hello (with a smile, dammit!) to people you don't know.
There's no rewind, there's no fast forward, there is no pause. There is only Play or Stop. Take care to keep it on Play - you're needed more than you know. (Oh, and there are no subtitles either, so speak up!)

Not So Silent Night

2011-12-21T08:13:00.000-08:00

Happy Solstice!

I had a post all ready and written in my head... something about how I love the darkest day of the year. How the dark speaks to the artist in me, how the shadows created stir my creativity. How that deep need to snuggle and drink warm beverages feeds my soul. It's all true.

I was going to talk about magic and how the darker days seem to make so much feel like magic, or beckon magic, or something like that. How I can understand why so many fairy tales take place in a dark forest. Or how much we need an apparition to take shape in the dark, even if only to know we're not alone in it.

It all fell apart this morning as I went searching on youtube for really amazing guitarists, doing really amazing renditions of Christmas songs. I found many, as I suspected I would... great rocking electric guitar talents like Joe Bonamassa, Steve Vai, and Silent Night as done by Joe Satriani.

Throw rotten eggs at me if you must, but I really don't like the tune a lot. For one thing, it's difficult to sing with any real success, given the octave leaps that tend to strain the average voice. Plus, I have a traumatically induced mental block against it from having to learn and sing the German version of it over and over and over and over again in my freshman German class. Nothing makes a tune sound more like you're trying to huck up a loogie than the German word for night... "nacht." All that is to say that Satriani takes one of my least favorite Christmas songs and turns it into something that leaves me breathless, and warm, and... and... alive.

This... wow... this is magic. Just close your eyes and listen.

All I Want For Christmas

2011-12-15T09:33:00.000-08:00

Now that I've had time to slow down, I've been a lot more reflective. Nothing new there.

This morning I was cleaning out my inbox and perusing old emails. I found an email that I'd sent Timothy four years ago - the first Christmas after John died. It reads: "The Gift of John... There are people who give presents, and then there are people who give gifts. John was a gift giver. He would agonize over what to give people that would be meaningful. Even in death, there are no exceptions to that rule. All of us loved John to our own extent, and were equally so loved by him. In leaving this earth, thoughtful as ever, he did not leave us empty-handed. John left us each other. What began as the camaraderie of shared grief has developed into deep, enduring friendships and relationships between all of us. So, this Christmas, here's to you John, to the gift of you in our lives. Here's to the beauty you brought us, the lessons you taught us, and the continuation, in us, of what was so great about your spirit."

It went right in line of something I was thinking about yesterday, which is always a clear sign that the Universe is tapping me on the shoulder and trying to get my attention.

Yesterday I met a "new" friend for coffee. We've actually been online friends for a couple of years, but earlier this year she moved from the Southwest to within about five miles of my house. We kept saying, "Let's do coffee." But, as often happens with such lines, life kept stepping usurping the actual event. Yesterday we made it happen.

Let me backtrack just a little. I should mention that this past Summer I discovered that I was a bit lonely. It's all Jessica's fault. When she came out to visit, I had so much fun with her that I realized I'd been missing that kind of friendship - someone to just hang around with and talk about everything and nothing. I mean... I'm not lonely lonely. I have Steve and he's my greatest friend (I won't say best, because all my friends are best), and I have friends all over. I just don't have friends that are close by. So, when Jessica left, there was an empty space that was tangible. Since then, I've been thinking that I really need to cultivate some new friends who live a little closer.

All that is to say that when I discovered that Tanya had moved so close by I saw it as an opportunity to turn my thoughts into action. Let me just say that it was an excellent choice. We sat and sipped coffee and talked until we realized that three hours had flown by. It didn't feel new, it felt comfortable. I felt like a five year old telling Steve when he came home, "I made a new friend today!" (I also fell down on the sidewalk, did arts and crafts, and took a nap. Perhaps this is my second childhood.)

As we were talking, we discovered a mutual tendency to keep people from getting too close, from being too important in our lives. And neither of us are good at letting other people take care of us. I told her (and reminded myself) what I discovered when John was sick, when I came to a point where I (we) couldn't make it much further on my rather stubborn brand of self-sufficiency. I had to let people help me in all sorts of ways. I had to let people in. When I did that, I realized that helping made them feel good, no matter the effect it had on me. It gave them purpose, and who was I to deny someone else from being who they needed to be in my life? Who was I to put constraints on their friendship in my life, to say "Your love can go this far, but no farther"?

It sounds silly, but the most difficult challenge I've had in my relationship with Steve is allowing him to do things for me. Slowly, I've realized that when I deny him doing those things, I'm denying him the chance to express his love for me the way he wants to... and needs to.

The people in my life are what I treasure in my life. They are the gifts that keep giving, and I need to graciously accept that... and let them give.

Major Generalization

2011-12-14T14:44:00.000-08:00

No single thing defines who we are. We are a conglomeration of all the things in our lives. I'm an artist, a lover, a writer, a female, a 50 year old, a cook, an atheist, a daughter, a heterosexual, a musician, a sister, a reader, a nature lover... the list goes on. This is why I get peeved whenever someone tries to generalize me into a tidy little box that falls in line with their thinking.

But here's a stinky little not-so-secret. I do the same thing, and I detest that quality in me. So, I'm sitting here confessing to you in hopes that I'll kick the shit out of that nasty little beast and it won't have the balls to come back.

I caught myself doing it just yesterday. I made a generalization about Christians. In fact, I have nothing against Christians. Some of my finest friends are Christians, and I respect their right to their belief. To me, preferring one religious belief over another (or none at all), is pretty much like preferring a certain flavor of ice cream. Whatever floats your boat, put it in a cone and have at it. Just don't try to make me eat it too and we'll get along fine. We all take comfort from something.

I'm off track... where was I. Ahh, yes. I made a generalization about Christians, and a fairly derogatory one at that. In fact, the offense had nothing to do with the fact that the person claimed to be a Christian, but more with the fact that they were blatantly rude and without compassion. Rather than simply call them on their disrespect, I called them on their Christianity. Yeah. Me. The chick who constantly tells people not to judge.

Mea maxima futuo culpa.

So, I am apologizing to you, to all of you. Because that is not who I choose to be, and I will hold myself accountable. How could I not? Many are the times that I've mentioned something about myself to another person and in return I get an assumption. I tell people I'm an artist and I get the look (if not a verbal response) that tells me they think all artists are insane - which I find ironic, because art is what keeps me sane. I tell people I'm an atheist and more often than not I get one of two looks - Look One is a mournful thing akin to the response expected upon telling someone your body is riddled with inoperable cancer; Look Two is a hardened, almost angry look that says, "By Jesus, don't you even think about trying to talk me over to the dark side!" Either of those looks drive me bonkers. Not only do I have a soul, but it's usually a fairly sensitive one at that.

That's why, when I feel the need to point out the flaws of others, I realize that there's probably something about me that's holding sway over the entire gig. And that's why I'm sitting here writing this. All too often the offense we take is the offense we give.

Can we all do each other and the world a little favor? Can we pare back on the generalizing and prejudging? No matter what the subject is?

We're all people, all hanging out on the same rock. That's all the generalizing we should do.

Can't Touch This

2011-12-13T10:34:00.000-08:00

We were driving around doing errands, which included a stop for lunch and a cup o' bean to go. It was an ordinary day, nothing special, and it was a moment that could have passed by, completely ignored.

But she said, "I'm happy. This is a perfect moment. My belly is full. I'm in good company. I'm warm, and I have a warm beverage. Nothing can touch me right now."

It took me by surprise just as much as it made me think.

How infrequently it is that we stop to pay homage to life's simple goodness. How very rare it is that we truly occupy a day rather than just wander through it. Our awareness is clouded by myriad tasks and distractions.

When Steve and I first got together, almost every night as we'd snuggle in and begin to drift off, I'd ask him, "Know what my favorite time of day is?" "Hmmm?" he'd query. And I would answer, "Right this very minute." I stopped doing that somewhere along the way, for no particular reason.

Still wrapped in my warm bathrobe, I watched a brilliant sunrise this morning, the sky turning shades of gold, salmon, fuchsia, and lavender. I took a sip of my hot coffee. I thought, "This is a perfect moment. Nothing can touch me right now." And it was true.

Maybe in a minute, a day, week, month or year... something out there in the Universe will rear its ugly head and reek havoc on my pastoral little life. But that's not now. Now is just right. Now is the dream fulfilled, and I appreciate the moment for what it is.

Why don't we do that more? We're quick to curse even the smallest offenses and claim an entire day has gone to shit by the mild nuisance of being stuck in traffic. We'll jump into the fray of an argument without even bothering to check for any valid, good points. We criticize every weakness without championing strengths.

It's all habit. It's what we've learned. We tend to go with what we know.

I've heard it said that it takes two weeks to break a habit and/or solidify a new one. So, what if we make an effort to rewire ourselves? What if we reach for the positive rather than leaping toward the negative?

Well, I'll tell you what if. We will see our worlds unfold. We will find the beauty that our lives were meant to be. We will know and foster peace. We will make dreams come true - our own, and those of others. We'll be better able to appreciate the good in our lives.

I'll tell you what else. We'll be happy and we won't even notice it until we realize how unhappy we were before. Happiness is a choice. Happiness is the ability to choose what we see in any given moment. It won't be Utopia - bad things will still happen, but we'll be better equipped to deal with them.

I know you're going to accuse me of being an overly idealistic soul. I can hear the Pollyanna remarks coming. But, you know what? I don't care. Because in this moment I'm writing and sipping some fine bean. This moment is perfect, and nothing can touch me.

Shining Through

2011-12-12T10:11:00.000-08:00

Yesterday I decorated our Christmas tree, and found therein what I hold sacred about Christmas.

As I unpacked the boxes of baubles that I've been collecting for at least 40 of my 50 years, I had opportunity to wander down memory lane. There was the set of frosted angels that my Dad bought for me during a trip to Frankenmuth, MI back in my pre-teen days. There was a hand-crafted, red ceramic pretty with my oldest nephew's picture on it, dating back 35 years. Nestled in the tissue paper were the three country mice that my sister stitched for me. I gently unpacked the shimmering swirly hand-blown glass balls that my nanny family gave me. With gentle respect and a bit of sadness, I hung the glass heart that John gave me for our first Christmas together. There are a few ornaments dating back to before I was born that my Aunt gave me along with ornaments that friends have given me over the years. Scattered amongst all of them are frosted silver balls that Steve has added to the collection.

As I looked at the completed tree and watched all the pretties dance and sparkle in the lights, I realized that I was looking at much more than pretties dancing and sparkling in the lights. What came shining through was the love that was given with each of those ornaments, and the light that was brought to my life by the givers.

That is my Christmas. This is what I hold sacred about the holiday... the love that's been shown me.

Christmas Presence

2011-12-09T08:07:00.000-08:00

I guess it's time for us to have that little talk again, huh? Time to lay out the facts so you're not all confused and bumping around in the dark. Fine then. Sit down, wipe that smirk off your face, and allow yourself to be educated and enlightened.

I've bit my tongue on this one for a few weeks now, mostly because I've been incredibly busy and haven't had time to properly write it out. But I haven't gotten over being ashamed of my fellow Americans. I watched, with a profound sense of disquiet in my soul, as my compatriots left their still warm turkey carcasses on Thanksgiving, ditched their sleeping families, and camped out to shop for Christmas presents. They jostled and punched each other, spit epithets with great vitriolic hostility, and yes, even pepper sprayed other shoppers to get what they wanted. To get what they wanted to give as a gift, no less! I caught a news report wherein a prepubescent child was interviewed. He said he was at the store to buy an Xbox, had one in his hand, and some adult walked by and snatched it from him.

For shame. For everlasting fucking shame. Who are you people?! I'll tell you who you are. You are people from all walks of life, varying religious and spiritual beliefs (including the one that worships a baby that was born on... wait... what? Christmas!). You are people with children, cousins, parents - you are family people. You're nobody special. You're some Schmoe who's brain is defective enough to think that this kind of behavior is acceptable because you're doing it in the spirit of... (*shakes head*)... giving.

Congratulations. You make the Borjias look like Mouseketeers.

It astounds me that I, an atheist, seem to have more Christmas spirit than the average person. Considering that the bulk of my profit comes from Christmas card sales, I have to "get my elf on" earlier than is warranted. I really should start in July, but I find it impossible to design a Christmas card when it's 75 degrees and sunny. So, I wait until the cooler, grayer days of September when my mad dash begins in earnest. However, as Dickens so aptly proclaimed, I keep Christmas in my heart all year long.

Think about it. Do you remember the gifts you received as a kid? All of them? No. The only one I remember was the Easy-bake Oven I got when I was six. My best Christmas memories are memories of ice skating in our back yard, or going to my Aunt's house, gathering around the piano, and singing Christmas carols.

I'm not a Grinch. I'm not anti-gift. I'm just saying, put aside the ridiculous spending and frantic behaviors and give gifts that count. Turn off the TV, the computer, the cell phone. Pop some popcorn and spend time reading a book to your children, or playing Parcheesi. They'll remember that long after they've forgotten what an Xbox is. Will your geriatric parent really care about yet another pair of slippers? No. But they'll be delighted if you take them to lunch, or for a stroll through some botanical gardens or some such thing. Pour your mate some delicious beverage, turn the lights down low, and rub his or her feet. The gift of your time is what will last.

Maybe you think I'm being overly idealistic but I don't concur. I believe that what we give of ourselves is what matters most. Always in all ways.

As Train sang, "In a world of what we want is only what we want until it's ours..." It's about presence, not presents.

As Good As It Gets

2011-12-08T09:31:00.000-08:00

We've all heard it before and I'll wager we've all said it before. "You did your best." Or, "I did my best."

It's a shabby consolation prize when your best isn't good enough.

I have a friend who is going through troubling times in her relationship, a relationship that she treasures. Her mate is questioning the validity of their union (through nobody's fault, I might add). It's just the way he's feeling. I know that she has given everything she has to that relationship. I know that there's not a more loving person on earth. She gives her best. Suddenly, for whatever reason, her best isn't good enough.

And my best isn't good enough either, because all I can do is say feeble things like, "I'm here for you. Let me know if there is anything I can do. I love you." All good things, albeit a bit over-used and mostly useless when it comes to facing down our worst fears and deepest sorrows.

It's not like the birthday cake is a little bit lopsided. It's not like you came in second in the marathon. It's not like you fell short of a fundraising goal. Those kinds of times are when doing your best is really pretty damned good. Those are times when anyone else will tell you, "Don't be silly. You're amazing."

That doesn't apply here. That doesn't apply when our best has no effect on something that is out of our control. I'm talking about those moments when life just feels... well... fucked. And it's nobody's fault. Doing my best didn't keep John from being in pain, nor did it cure his cancer. Doing my best meant nothing (to me, at least) in the face of what he suffered. It was like trying to put out dragon's fire with a thimble of water. Did that stop me from feeling guilty and useless and angry? Not at all. My best wasn't good enough and it ripped me apart.

So, where do we go when our best isn't good enough? What can we do? And I do believe that with holidays coming up and all of the bittersweet mélange of flavors that come with family dynamics, this is a timely question. I don't know that I have much of an answer, but I'll... give it my best.

What you can do for yourself when Your Best Isn't Good Enough...

Be gentle with you. Berating yourself for something you have no control over will send you spiralling.
Take some time to meditate. Five minutes of deep breathing and a quiet place does wonders.
Let other people in. Tell someone how you're feeling, what you're going through. Get the shit out.
Cry. Allow yourself to mourn.
Don't be afraid to ask for a hug from someone, anyone.

What you can do for others who are experiencing My Best Isn't Good Enough...

Be there. Just... be.
Give love. This isn't a time for judgment or questioning.
Listen. Don't placate. They're feeling what they're feeling and it's justified. Let them feel it.
If possible, touch. Hold their hand. Throw an arm around their shoulders. Hug them. Anything that will help them feel less alone.
Refer back to point No. 1 as often as needed.)

Consider It Given

2011-11-23T07:54:00.000-08:00

I was trying to avoid doing the usual "what I'm thankful for" posts that I've been seeing everywhere. It's not that I'm ungrateful, but I hate to be trite and really, I'm thankful every stinkin' day of the year.

But, here I am. Feeling thankful. Feeling doggone grateful and all squishy in my heart. So I'm letting it fly.

I have an amazingly wonderful life and I'm privileged to share it with an amazingly wonderful man. So much of what I am right now and where I am right now is because of him, and because of his love and support.

Yeah. I'm gonna be syrup-y about this.

Two and a half years ago my life was graced with this man. I've learned more about being loved in that time than I have my entire life.

I could list his attributes - he's kind, thoughtful, caring, generous, funny, intelligent, sexy. All of that is just who he is, he's completely unpretentious about it. He provides for me in a way that is completely supportive of allowing me to do work that I love doing; not just the brick and mortar stuff, but he makes sure I have the right tools and the time I need. He asks me about my day even though he knows that more often than not, I've just been here at home, dinking with artwork of some sort. After working long hours of his own in construction, he asks if there's anything he can help me with.

He's that kind of man.

Every day I wake up with this extraordinary beauty in my heart. Beauty that's there because of him, because of who he is to me and for me. Beauty that I've learned not to question, Beauty that I've accepted as something that is simply part of my life's grace. It blows me away. Every day.

So, while I'm thankful for all of the usual suspects - friends, family, health, and home - I am profoundly grateful for Steve and to him, for allowing me to give him all this love I have.

Now, all of you... please have a Happy Thanksgiving. Be safe. And when the turkeys start to get you down, put a little nugget in your mind that says, "What if this is the last time I'll ever see them?"

You get love when you give it.

It Happened One Night...

2011-11-17T05:40:00.000-08:00

I am 50 years old today. I'm saying that, rather I keep saying that, because I'm trying to get used to the flavor. In honor of my day, I'm rerunning one of my favorite posts. You've seen it a couple of times, but I like it. So, here it is again. Pass the cake and settle in...

************************************

And so, November comes

Here we are in November. It's a mixed bag for me.

Weather-wise, I always feel like I'm coming into my own. Nothing fuels my creative went more than a blustery, cold day. The starkness of the newly barren trees only makes me want to fill the world with my own color. All my favorite fabrics come into play (fleece, wool, flannel...). I get to enjoy the warm ambiance of a crackling fire, the rich inner glow of a hearty soup or stew on a dark evening, the beautifully acrid scent of rotting leaves.

It is, in the Catholic tradition (and you can take the girl out of the Catholicism, but you can't take the Catholicism out of the girl) the Month of the Dead. It's also the month that ostensibly involves Giving Thanks. Cue the introspection. For me, Thanksgiving isn't about the parades, the meal, the football games, or even the family gatherings. It's about tallying up the events of my life for the past year and recognizing the beauty and treasure that's come my way, and voicing a commitment to continue a search for more - mostly by striving to be the best Who that I can be. It's the month in which I was born. I can honestly say that I've never faced the It's a Wonderful Life syndrome of having wished I'd been otherwise dispatched. Sure, there have been a few times in my younger days when I wished I was dead, but never have I wished that I hadn't been placed on this huck of dirt to begin with. So, I celebrate my day - not with presents and cake and parties - but with the acknowledgment that I was put on this earth for a reason, and with a grateful nod to the Universe that my life was allowed at all. I'm not daunted by the aging process or by the numbers, because both aspects only mean that each November, I get to be thankful for being offered the opportunity to continue this strange and amazing journey.

It's also the month in which my Father was born. This always makes me feel more sorrow for him than the month in which he died. As turbulent as our relationship could be, Dad and I share a love for the cold, crisp days and a crackling fire; we share the ever-present, often sardonic, sense of humor that others either delight in or find offensive; we share a deep appreciation for any natural beauty; we share a certain level of artistic flair. I also have the female version of his face (thanks for the great eyes, Dad!), and his bone structure. It's been nearly 26 years since he left this earth, and I find I miss him more with each passing year. I wish I could sit down with him, and tell him how beautiful my life is, tell him I love him, let him know it's okay. Therein lies the sadness of my November.

And so, November it is. I will revel in it. In fact, I'll give myself to it with wild abandon. Come the 17th, should you spy a certain (self-perceived) gypsy girl dancing around a bonfire, tears streaming past a grin, hollering, "Thank you, thank you, thank you!" (and that could all happen literally or figuratively) That'd be me. Stop and say hi, give me a hug, wish me well.

49

2011-11-16T09:26:00.000-08:00

Dear Fifteen Year Old Self,

Today is the last day we'll spend in our forties. Tomorrow we move on to the big Five Oh. I thought I'd share with you some of the wisdom we've gained. Thought I'd let you know that it's not all as desperate and bleak as it can seem to a fifteen year old girl, as I know it seemed to you.

Right now there's a big campaign going on called "It Gets Better." It does. It also gets worse, it gets mediocre and mundane, it gets beautiful, ugly, sadder than you can imagine, happier than you dare to dream. Point is, it changes. Constantly. Remember that line from Pippin? "There's one thing to be sure of mate, there's nothing to be sure of." That's how life is. But that's a good thing, a very good thing.

You're going to go through all kinds of stuff, both the pretty and the pretty horrible. Keep in mind that the phrase "go through" implies just that... movement. Every ending has a new beginning. Every beginning has an ending.

Relationships of all kinds will come and go. Friendships will deteriorate as people grow and change within their own lives, just like you will. People will die. There will be a lot of hurt. That's all part of life too. It'll be tempting to turn your heart into a rock and not let anyone in, but you have to. It's all about balance. You don't get deep joy without also experiencing crushing sorrow. The joy is so worth it. Besides, others need you just as much as you need them.

Here's possibly the most important thing. It's your life which means it's your life to live. Don't let anyone else dictate it for you. Don't let anyone else make you feel like you're less than. You got it - it's yours to allow or disallow. When you live to please someone else - I don't care who it is or what the relationship is, you'll end up miserably repressed, and you'll end up doing a disservice to everyone. Including you.

Don't be afraid of shit. Don't let fear block you. Don't just say, "I can't. I'm scared." Find out why. Then bust it down. You'll feel foolish when you look back and say, "That wasn't so bad at all." But that's okay. You learned.

Learning. Yes. Gather it up, as much as you can. This is one of those gigs where there is no such thing as "too much." Never ever ever dumb yourself down. Teach instead.

Because, guess what? The happiness you're looking for? It's in you. It doesn't come from anywhere, anyone, or anything else. Really, it's already there. Problem is, when you waste your time tap dancing around what you perceive that others expect of you, you don't do the dance you were called to do. So, listen to that distant drummer and boogie on reggae child!

Love big. Yes, it sets you up for hurt, but when you let it all out, that space expands and you get twice as much back.

There's a lot of fun to be had. Good, harmless, crazy fun. Let your laughter be infectious, let your smile be genuine, let your imagination run along any path it wants to.

That's about it. All the other stuff is just dandelion fuzz blowing in the wind. It will shift, drift and disappear into memory.

It gets better, I'll grant that. At the very least, it changes. Oh, but every now and again....?

It gets damned good. Stick around.

Love you,
The Gypsy

Grimm Reality

2011-11-15T11:49:00.000-08:00

The Grimm boys were on to something. I'm not talking about the watered down version of fairy tales that your mother used to read to you. I'm talking about the real stories, the stories as they were written. The Grimms knew that you don't get to happy-ever-after without a lot of hard work, difficult times, gruesome events, people who manipulate, lie, and let you down. They also knew that happy-ever-after isn't really ever after - everything shifts eventually, everything comes to an end at some point. Their stories were bleak and dark, meant to be warnings. They were meant to say, "Hey, think about how you're living. Think about what you really want out of life. Think about how what you do impacts others, and don't expect someone else to do the work for you. Don't rely on someone else to make you happy. And for fuck's sake... be careful what you wish for."

I like that.

But I don't think they were dour, unhappy men. I think, in fact, that they did know happiness. They also had a great understanding of reality.

That's why I think I'm living a fairy tale.

If you can't stand to hear people talk about being in love, or if it bothers you to hear someone talk about how happy they are, you should probably stop reading now.

I am crazy, head-over-heals, heart and soul in love with my man, and I'm happier than I've ever been in my life, or ever even imagined was possible. However, (and this is for those of you who are rolling your eyeballs and saying, "Yeah, right... you get everything you want..."), however, this place in my life didn't just happen. I didn't just wish it and *poof.* I went through a lot of shit and I worked hard, mostly on myself. And I got lucky. Because he really is as amazing as I've always wanted a mate to be.

Here's the thing though, before I met him, I was going to be happy anyway. I was going to enjoy my life regardless. That I get to share it with him is a celebration of everything I've worked for. A celebration. Nothing more, nothing less.

I'm at the good point, the lovely point of the fairy tale right now. I'm at that place where the birds always sing and the meadows are green. I'm not so naïve as to think it's ever after. I know that eventually there will be a new page, there will be giants, curses, darkness. C'est la vie.

But for now, I get this chapter. It's mine and I won't forget it. It will stay with me, whatever comes.

I am loved. That is more than enough.

Fanning the Fire

2011-11-12T06:35:00.000-08:00

Today my blog is four years old. Yessiree... we've passed that pesky toddler stage and run full-on into constant curiosity and wide-eyed wonder.

Reading over the past four years, I'm impressed (again) at how fast and how much life can change. Four years ago, when I typed my first word here, I was in a dark place filled with ghosts and shadows. No one could have convinced me that in four short years I'd be where I am today - in a beautiful relationship and doing work that I love doing.

It wasn't where I pictured I'd be. I thought maybe I'd just hit the road and never land. Obviously my escapism voice was talking loudly then. Plus, the walls of the house that I'd shared with my late mate John were pushing in on me. I was suffocating and needed air. Badly. This space was where I came to breathe.

I didn't know what to expect from this blog. I just knew I needed a place to ramble, a place where friends and family could check in and see that I was... coping. Or not. I never thought I'd end up with readers who didn't know me. I never thought that if I didn't write for a week or two, people would contact me and not only ask if I was okay, but ask if I was ever going to write again. Because for whatever reason, they'd come to need that (almost) daily dose as much as I.

"Life sure has a funny way of working out, huh?"
"All the time."
~Lonesome Dove

You, My Wonderful Readers, have sat with me through tears, laughter, ranting, anger, banality, threats, cajoling, preaching, mundane, sarcasm, self-pity, self-loathing, self-love... all of the rocks and bits I've sifted through on my path. You've hung with me while I discovered my artistic path, while I (finally) acknowledged my aesthetic longings. You've watched while I auto-didacted my way into my own intelligence. I'll never understand what makes me such a fascinating specimen to you, and I don't need to. These days, I simply enjoy the company. It's nice to have both familiar and unfamiliar faces around the campfire.

You comfort me. And even content people like comfort.

I hope that my world continues to make you feel welcome, and curious, and inspired. I'll keep throwing logs on the fire, and I'll keep brewing the good dark bean.

Because while we may not be able to walk the exact same path together, ain't nothin' that says we can't pull up for a spell, warm our bones by a fire and share come good company. Right?

Right.

Parallel

2011-11-11T06:36:00.001-08:00

There was a time when the only news that came into any given home was via the 6 o'clock evening news, way back when news anchors were always men. Y'know... eons ago when Walter Cronkite ruled the airwaves. That was it - no CNN, no MSNBC, no internet and youtube and constant stream of information fed our lives. If something big happened, we found out about it at 6 pm. And that was okay. In fact, that was fine. I kind of miss those days.

For my father, the 6 o'clock evening news was gospel. It was as much a part of our daily lives as was supper.

Although I was still mostly a toddler, I clearly remember hearing about a strange, distant land called Vietnam. I remember when the combat troops were deployed, thus beginning the war that was not a war.

Right around that time my dad, who had been sober for nearly four years, began drinking again. Thus began the war that was not a war in my own home.

I'm not saying my experience was anything like that of those Vietnam vets. I'm only pointing out that there was a strange parallel in my universe. Both filled my formative years with turmoil and uncertainty.

The Vietnam war ended a few months before my fourteenth birthday. The Black war ended when my father passed away just after I turned twenty. The two are wrapped together in my mind.

Even as a kid, I fretted for the welfare of our troops. The nightly images of battle, of injured or dead men, left me with an aching heart. When "our boys" began coming home, I watched as shells of men returned, men who were scared, angry, confused, and lost. Broken men. Men who had become outsiders in their own home. I had my own experience-based understanding of those feelings. In my own limited way, I could relate.

My childhood was filled with such despair. I remember thinking... there is so much hurt everywhere. So much destruction in so many ways. Who will listen? Who will make any of it better?

As intelligent and, dare I say, even a bit fey as I was back then I was still unaware of the impact I could have on the world, or on anyone. I wasn't quite clued in that I could play a part in making life better for anybody, let alone for myself. It's forgivable now. I can recognize that I was just a kid. I was not an outspoken kid either. I feared retribution of any kind from any angle.

But that was then. This is now.

I hate fighting. I hate conflict of any kind. Still, I wouldn't change those years of my life for anything. They made me. No, they honed me. I think the reason I'm as tuned in as I am is because of those years - because at a very early age, I began absorbing the feelings of others, identifying the feelings and identifying with them.

I remember an afternoon, I was about counter top height, so I was probably about seven years old. I recall asking my mother, "Why do people have to fight? Why can't they just talk?" It was a bold question for me. Questioning The Way Things Are was not encouraged in my family. Even so, my mother sighed and paused in whatever task she was doing. She turned and looked me in the eyes for a moment. Then with a slight smile said, "My dear Barbara... you are wise beyond your years."

I don't have an easy resolution or conclusion for this post. The fact that I'm writing about this stuff is because I'm still haunted by... all of it.

But. I think this is my way of saying thank you to our veterans - especially to our Vietnam veterans. Years ago you made a huge difference in the life of a little girl growing up in Kentwood, Michigan. Years ago she worried about you and cried for you and hoped with all her heart that you'd be okay.

She still does.

Bought and Sold for Free

2011-11-02T07:04:00.000-07:00

It got away from me somehow. That's about as best as I can say it.

Lately not just a few readers have asked me if I'm ever going to post again. One dear soul even threatened self-injury (something to do with jumping out of a single-story home window) if I didn't post again soon. I thank you all for your support and your faithfulness to my blather.

I needed some time away from this space. Because it got away from me somehow. The reason for this space, I mean. When I started writing here, it was a selfish endeavor. It was my very "Horton Hears a Who" way of screaming out amidst the chaos my life had become, and a way of asserting that I didn't die along with John.

For some reason it worked, that selfish, self-indulgent slant. Those of you who read regularly seemed to identify with that voice - something that has never failed to astound me. Although I write (here in this space, at least) for others to read (I mean, duh... it's public), mostly why I write anything at all is because I need to get shit out. I need to cast off old, dusty garments. I need to sing like nobody is listening. I need to weep and laugh all at once until there's a snot-fest on my face and not care about who sees it.

And that got away from me.

I began to pay attention to stats, to who was "following" my blog. I worried if no one left a comment. I started writing with an eye toward what my readers would want to read. Ask any writer, that's the top wrong reason to write. I even went so far, on a few occasions, to go trolling amongst my readers for topic suggestions. I got greedy and I sold out.

Yeah, you can do that even when it's "for free."

Would Jackson Pollack have painted daisies in a vase just because someone told him that's what they wanted to see? Would Man Ray have contented himself with taking pictures of cute puppies just because others mentioned liking pictures of cute puppies? Would Hemingway have turned his pen to children's stories, or would Buddy Guy have strummed hymns without ever picking out a bluesy riff?

No real artist does what they do to satisfy others. They do it because... because shit needs to get out. Good shit and bad shit. For those of us who do creative stuff, there's a certain level of intensity to what we feel. And if that sounds snobby or selfish to those who haven't experienced it, I can't make any apologies. It's just what it is. Every gift comes with a dark twist.

Back in the day when buildings were heated by huge boilers (steam heat generators), they often had to be "dumped." Dumping meant opening a valve to let out the build-up of steam so that the boiler wouldn't rupture or erupt, thereby destroying anything in its path.

Writing, for me, is my way of dumping the boiler on my burbling mash of soul gunk. It keeps me even. So, yes, in that way it is a selfish venture. Selfish, yes, but there's no room for arrogance and ostentation. Humility, with respect to being gifted enough to create anything at all, is key.

So, I apologize. I am sorry that I lost the vision.

But I think I've got it back now.

Five By

2011-10-03T10:18:00.000-07:00

Five years will go by anyway...
~John P. Johnson

That was one of John's favorite sayings. He hauled it out whenever hard times hit, when someone wronged him, when life surprised him.

And so it has. Five years has gone by anyway. Five years ago it was obvious that he was becoming more ill by the day. Five years ago we heard two of the most vile words known to man. Cancer. Inoperable.

Five years ago, amid the deepest, darkest part of my life to date, I couldn't possibly have imagined that my life would become the shining thing that it is now. Five years ago I was certain that John's death would leave me emotionally crippled for life. Five years ago I saw a long line of boring desk jobs in my future, of coming home to an empty house, of basically riding it all out until it was my turn to die.

And five years went by anyway. Five years of self-discovery. Five years of doing what I had to in order to keep my promises to John - promises to be a woman of honor, to live well, and to find love again. Five years of not really planning anything in my life. Five years of just getting through.

Although I lived every minute of it, at this point in my life, it's almost difficult for me to relate to where I was five years ago. Remembering those days feels a bit like watching another person's home movies. I've done a lot of living since.

Five years later, I've thrived. Five years down the road, I've found love in an individual completely equal to my own love. I no longer sit in front of a desk wishing I felt good about my work. Instead I'm doing work that I feel good about, work that no longer defines who I am, but that allows me to define my world.

Five years went by anyway, as it would have no matter what I'd chosen to do with it. I've learned to not make plans, not make demands and wager expectations with my life. That sounds passive, but it's not that so much as knowing that no matter what I do, life will (regardless) surprise me, both in good ways and not so good ways. The best I can do is live it, enjoy it, appreciate it for what it is, and give myself over to each day.

Today I have love, freedom, happiness. Today I'm an artist. Today I have shelter, food, clothing, and lights. Today it's all good. It's beyond good. It's wonderful.

And I will grasp that in my hands and hold tight to it.

Because five years will go by anyway.

Color My World

2011-09-26T10:26:00.000-07:00

The other morning I sat listening to the clatter and hum of a train going by about a half mile away. I listened to the breeze whisper as it swirled cool around my bare feet. I watched purple-grey clouds scuttle across a deep blue sky, the remnants of a slivered moon just beginning to fade. The scent of good bean wound its way from my cup and up through the steam that circled my head, reminding me that the best part of waking up is taking a moment to appreciate a new day.

Ah, Autumn. I know you well. We are like kind. I was born to you. I was brought screaming into this world just before the last withered leaf let go of the tree to skitter and dance its final ballet.

I understand your grace and knowledge. I share the awareness that somethings have to die and fade in order for new things to come to life. Your colors are my colors - the deep cerulean of your sky, the ochre and crimson of your skirts, the gun-metal gray of your clouds, the deep sienna of your rain-drenched feet, and the startling evergreen that says, "Not everything must go."

You greet me with the sharp tenderness of a mother as I sigh in relief at the nearness of you. I revel before your dark eyes.

Oh, Autumn, my Autumn. Is it any wonder that seeing you come around the corner gives me a sense of coming home? After all, it is the sense of recognition I find in you that reawakens me, that makes me feel alive again.

*************************************

Thank you, Becky (who writes here) for suggesting the prompt, "The color of your thoughts..." Also, thank you John and Phyllis, who both suggested "seasons."

Verity

2011-09-16T08:03:00.000-07:00

It's not that I haven't been writing lately. I have. It's that I just haven't been sharing. Sometimes I have to give the stuff wings, watch it migrate, and not worry a whole lot about where it's going to end up.

It's like doing the dance in the middle of the woods when there's no one there to watch. It's like pulling over on a long, dark, deserted road and crying your eyes out without need or want of sympathy or advice. It's like raging against the empty walls when there's no one home. It's that secret smile when you first wake up because you know something wonderful.

It's like all of that, my selfish writing.

And I would encourage everyone to do it.

"Oh, but I can't write like you do!" You all like to say that.

Well. Yay. I'm glad you can't write like I do. Because then I'd cease to be unique and so would you.

So write like you do.

And then yesterday I gave myself some time to paint, and painted the scene I look at every day. Sometimes you have to take the overly familiar and give it a closer look in order to fully appreciate it. Sometimes you have to take a part of your life and dissect it to find out how it works and why it works... and what doesn't.

Sometimes you have to step back and let it all be. Only then does the verity stand out. And no matter what it looks like, no matter how it reads, you know it to be the truth.

Mt. Pilchuck

There Be Dragons

2011-09-13T09:18:00.000-07:00

Today I went trolling for topics among my facebook friends. There were many wonderful suggestions, and rest assured, a lot of them will be covered here in the next couple of weeks. However, today I'm picking the topic my mate's daughter, Alicia suggested. Anxiety.

I chose that one partly because it's something that we all mostly needlessly suffer from, and because I know much of the basis of her anxiety and I'd like to help her nudge it out of existence. Nah, strike that. I'd like to see her kick the fucker off the bus and run it over.

We're an anxious bunch, we humans. We huddle in fear even while hating that fear. We talk about facing fear, but we're hesitant to step out and confront it. The thing is, so often those fears are our own invention. Those fears are unreasonable reasons we birth, feed and nurture as excuses for not achieving what we want from our lives.

Because success is scary, that's why. Success changes everything, and change is scary, that's why. Success means responsibility to and for that success, and that's scary too. If I achieve what I'm after, what then? How do I maintain it? Where do I go from there? We see success as a good thing, yes, but the more timorous part of us also sees it as a looming thing, a thing that will make our lives different from what they are now. And that can be frightening.

Success demands effort on our part, not just in achieving it, but in keeping it alive. Competitive runners try to best their best time writers crank out books in hopes of breaking their previous records; the scientific and medical communities can't rest on one answer, but use that answer to launch other questions. Think they don't have anxiety issues? Think again.

Anxiety says, "Look at that huge mountain you have to climb! Even if you make it, you could get hurt. Your friends won't believe you can do it." And worst of all, "Just how many mountains do you have to climb before you feel like you've accomplished something?" So we stay in the muck of the river valley and stare at the mountain. Sure, the view is pretty, but it doesn't give us any real perspective.

I know what I'm talking about, folks. I have been there, done that, shattered it, rebuilt it... it's an endless thing. The first time I tried any art, I was shaking the entire time. Inside my head, my voice was screaming as if I was standing on a cliff about to jump, "What the hell are you doing?! Are you nuts?! Back away from there!!!!" The first time I decided to show anyone my art, same thing all over again. The first time someone asked to buy a piece of my art... my knees might as well have been made of jello, my heart beat at the rate of a hummingbird. And that damned voice just kept screaming. It took all my resolve to ignore it and take the step anyway. I still get anxious with every piece of art, with every card order. There's a litany inside my head, "They won't like it. They'll laugh. They won't get it. Who would want to pay for that?!"

The same thing happens every time I hit the "publish post" button on this blog. Every time.

How do I get past it? I don't. I go through it. I walk up to it, look it in the eye, and then I do it. Shaking or not, I do it. Because there's this other voice in my head. It's quieter, but it's steady. It says, "What have you got to lose?" I'm about to enter a writing contest hosted by NPR. I'm scared shitless. Not because I might lose, but because I might just win. But I'm doing it anyway. I'm doing it because I'm dedicated to writing, and that dedication is really good at flipping the bird at anxiety.

If you dedicate yourself to a goal, the little steps along the way are just steps. And it's all one baby step at a time. Even a journey of 1000 miles is just walking. One step at a time.

Hundreds of years ago it was thought that the earth was flat. Maps ended at the reach of sea that had yet to be explored, with the warning, "Beyond here, there be dragons." Go no further, you'll be eaten alive. Thankfully, a handful of intrepid souls said, "Well. Let's just see about that." They rowed out to the end of the world. Then they rowed a little more. And a little more. Until the thing they feared became an adventure. Until the thing they were anxious about became a shining reward. It was either that, or stay home and make huts out of mud and peat.

I was thinking all this anyway, and then my friend Emily posted the following quote:

The reinvention of daily life means marching off the edge of our maps.
~ Bob Black (no relation to me so far as I know)

Indeed! Sometimes we have to start in the middle of the map, facing that big ol' Dragon of Unknown. So it is, as it ever shall be. But, oh, the things you'll discover along the way. And, oh, the reward. Because there is tremendous success in being able to say, "I tried."

Black Out

2011-09-10T12:18:00.000-07:00

There are a couple of viral-ish things going around Facebook and Twitter. One is an "event" encouraging everyone to "black out" Facebook/Twitter for two hours Sunday morning in honor of the 10th anniversary of 9/11. The other is a repeated status post encouraging everyone to change their profile pictures to some 9/11 commemoration.

I refuse to do either. I'm all for commemorations. But a collective dwelling in the past will not move us toward a future that we desperately need. I'm sure I won't win any fans - in fact I may have lost a few already - but here is my reasoning.

Yes, the events of 9/11 were a great tragedy, not only for the USA, but worldwide. However, in the past decade, there have been other great tragedies. There have been earthquakes, tsunamis, hurricanes, tornadoes, floods, drug overdoses, and wars - all of which have lead to massive loss of life. In the last decade, I have lost three dear ones to various cancers.

I'm not saying it is wrong to grieve. I'd be the first to tell you that there is no time limit to grieving. I grieve daily. I grieve for the losses experienced by Native Americans. I grieve for losses experienced by Australian Aboriginals. I grieve for the father I lost nearly 30 years ago. I grieve for generations of intelligent, loving people lost to a Holocaust that happened a quarter of a century before I was put forth on this earth. I grieve for those who have been stereotyped and persecuted because of their skin color or beliefs. I have shed enough tears to replenish oceans.

However, there is a time to set mourning aside. And there are better ways to honor our dead than carrying their pictures around and remaining silent.

We honor our dead by continuing to live and by living well. We owe it to them to shout with every fiber of our being, "I'm still here and I am alive!" The very least we can do in the face of their tremendous sacrifices is to continue to make our world(s) better places to live. We do this by reaching out to others, not by staying silent. We do this by continuing to improve ourselves, not by sitting and doing nothing for two hours. We repay the debt in our laughter, in the meals we share, in a handshake or a hug, in loving, in holding open a door for someone else, in seeing beauty in the mundane.

We often hear Dylan Thomas's words that he wrote for his dying father:
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

For a long time I thought of those words as an imperative for the dying to fight death. But in the past few years, I've taken them on as a battle cry of my own. Not as a litany against my own death, but as a declaration that I still have living to do, that the deaths of those I've known are a command that I continue, that I move on, that I make my voice heard while I still have a voice. That I rage against the dying of their light.

We were born into death, every one of us. Death is no respecter of persons. We are, each of us, dying every single day and no amount of days will ever be enough. So, while we're still here, while we're still blessedly aware enough to have the beautiful burden of grieving for those who have gone on, we need to make exquisite noise.

Every moment we have is precious. Every single one.

So, if I'm awake during those hours tomorrow morning, and if I have opportunity, I will log on to facebook. My profile picture will be my face, as it always is, and I will say hello to the friends and family I love and hold so dearly.

I will also take a few minutes to look inside myself and check that I am honoring the dead in how I choose to live.

As my friend Kit so profoundly said, "It's 3 AM... time to close the door."

Slow Hand

2011-09-08T12:42:00.000-07:00

I'm back with a post for the IndieInk.org Writer's Challenge II. The folks at IndieInk.org are always welcome to new people joining the fun. You can sign up to do it just once, or you can keep coming back week after week - no pressure, no huge commitment. If you feel like giving it a whirl, click the link here.

This week my prompt comes from Kayla, who writes here. The prompt is, "You're a groupie for a very famous band. Tell me what it's like."

In turn, my prompt went out to Dafeenah who writes here.

And now, without further ado...

******************************

Gran's voice was barely above a rough whisper as I sat at her bedside and held her hand.

"Granddaughter, I want to talk to you about your inheritance..."
"Gran, you don't... you're not... this isn't..." The words choked on tears that I refused to shed in her presence.
"Shush. Listen to an old woman who loves you."
I managed a slight, weary smile, "Yes, Ma'am."
"I'm leaving you forty thousand dollars. Nuh!" She stopped my protest. "This is my wish. I get that much, don't I?"
"Yes... yes, you do."
"Well then. I'm leaving you forty thousand dollars, but I want you to promise me one thing."
"Anything, Gran. You know I'd do anything for you."
She waved her hand dismissively.
"It's not what I want you to do for me. It's what I want you to do for you. I want you to use the money for something wild, something irresponsible and fun. I want you to do something with it that your mother wouldn't approve of."
I laughed long and loudly. Gran nodded approval.
"Live." She said. "Go and live."

That was how I ended up buying a car and a summer's worth of front row tickets to all his concerts the year between graduating and starting my internship. See the USA and Party Like A Rock Star! I lived out of my Dad's old army duffel bag - a suitcase just seemed so wrong for this kind of adventure. I drove countless miles, slept odd hours, ate all kinds of questionable road food, and felt like I owned the whole fucking world.

I never got tired of going to his concerts. He wove absolute magic with his guitar. His ability to be simultaneously casual and energized was nothing short of brilliant. He clearly lived for what he was doing, loved it beyond the comprehension of what most of us could handle. I've always thought that it takes a special kind of strength when someone is in possession of a gift like that, a kind of courage to so completely give in to it. He made love to that guitar, right there in front of thousands, with all the naked, intimate, beautiful glory that lovemaking ought to be.

And the lyrics? Do I really need to mention it? He wove words with all the poetic genius of a noted laureate. His music, the totality of it, has always not only pulled me in, but has taken me somewhere other. It did that from the first song of his that I remember hearing when I was four years old; it hauled me around all that "go and live" summer; and it still has the ability to yank me sideways. He's that good. Really. That rocking bluesy growly sound... shit fire to save matches... he's just that fucking good.

That entire summer is an indelible etching in my mind. However, it was the night of July 10th that really stands out. It was the seventeenth concert on that tour, and I'd been to all seventeen. That night started as nothing different. I took my place in the center of the front row and watched the rest of the crowd meander in, the air slowly filling with the scents of well-alcoholed breath and cannabis. The pre-concert chatter in the room was nearly deafening, the buzz of a billion bees. Anticipation was electric and lent its own hum to the air.

It all stopped for loud applause as the band made their way on stage. Spotlights switched on and focused the band members. There was that all too pleasing cacophony of sound as they tuned their instruments. The big screen behind them lit up in a kaleidoscope of color as the house lights went dark. A local DJ walked out to the microphone in the middle of the stage, and hollered, "Ladies and Gentlemen... give it up for... Slowhand himself... Misterrrrr Errrrrrrric Clapton!"

The crowd went wild when Clapton sauntered out on stage as if he were merely crossing the street. He seemed to ignore the crowd as he threw the guitar strap over his shoulder and settled the stratocaster against his hip, his fingers already resting lightly against the fretboard. He strummed a chord, made a quick adjustment, then strummed again. Satisfied, he finally looked out at the crowd and gave a quick wave of acknowledgment. He moved closer to the microphone, gave a nod to set the beat, and with a slight hunch of his shoulders as if he was an animal readying for the pounce, he launched those visceral, whining first strains of White Room.

I was as mesmerized as ever. Just before his final encore song he changed my life forever. He looked right at me. He gave a slight nod and gestured stage left with a cock of his head. I put my hand over my chest, not only to still my madly beating heart, but as if to ask him, "Me?! You mean me?!" He nodded again. I made my way past the orchestra pit to where a redwood sized security guard was waiting. The guard took my elbow and guided me out a door next to the stage, to a waiting limo. He opened the door for me and said, "Just tell them Reginald sent you." Once the driver dropped me off at the hotel, I did as instructed and was escorted to the executive suite. The place was luxurious, complete with a separate living room filled with overstuffed furniture and a baby grand piano. I couldn't resist. I sat at the piano and played.

About an hour later the door opened and there he was. Clapton. I was in a hotel room with Eric Clapton. I couldn't help thinking, "How's this for 'go and live', Gran?" As I stood up, he quietly said hello and gestured me to sit back down, saying in that unmistakable Surrey accent, "Please, keep playing if you like. I need to take a quick shower." I gulped, offered a totally cheesy smile and trying to sound far more hip than I felt, replied, "Sure. Take your time."

It wasn't long before he walked back in, dressed in sweats and toweling his hair dry. He smelled like gingersnaps and oak. I swallowed back an embarrassing amount of saliva. I waited for him to speak, and after a moment he did.

"You've been to every single concert this summer." He said it like he was reading a police record.

"Yes, I have," I demurred, blushing furiously.

"Why?"

"Beyond the obvious, that I love your music? God, I sound like a fucking teenie-bopper."

He smiled and gestured for me to continue. So, I told him the story of that evening in the hospital with my Gran.

He laughed, "I think I like being the something that your mother wouldn't approve of."

I laughed too. "Well, don't be too flattered. There's a whole host of stuff my mother wouldn't approve of, up to and including spitting in public. But that doesn't cost a thing. I did this partly because I wanted to know that what I feel when I listen to your albums happens for real when you play. When it's live. And it does. I also did it because I know my Gran would love the idea of me doing something so utterly frivolous and hedonistic."

"I'll have you know... I'm honored."

"Are you kidding me? I'm sitting in your hotel room. I'm the one who's honored!"

He waved it away again, then as if noting that I was still sitting on the bench, pointed at the piano and said, "So, you play."

"I do. I have since I was five years old."

"Do you write?"

"I'm loathe to admit it, but I do. Sometimes I can't get the soul gunk out unless it's in the form of a song."
He smiled. "I'm familiar with the feeling."

"No doubt!" We both laughed.

"Play something you wrote," he said. He didn't ask it. He just said it, the same way he might have said, "Make me some toast." It didn't stop my protest any.

"But I can't... I mean... you wouldn't... I... you're... this is... shit! Why do I feel like an idiot school child?"

"Just play. Go where you hide your soul gunk - I love that, by the way - and play. Not for me, but because you love it."

So I did. I sat right there in Eric Clapton's hotel room and played a song I'd written. It was a simple song I'd written about a lover needing to make up his mind because I was getting to the don't-make-me-say-goodbye point. But, if I do say so, it wasn't a half-bad tune at all. It was a little bluesy and full of soul, clean without a lot of musical or lyrical clutter.

I finished the tune and sat without turning, staring at the keyboard. My mind was a blur. I'd just played a song I wrote for Eric Clapton. And I knew I wasn't dreaming.

He cleared his throat and said, "You've got a certain flare for that, you know. It stumbled out of you like a drunk looking for safe haven on a rainy night. Raw but... there. It's good that you listen to your instincts, good that you play and write."

"Thank you." I couldn't think of anything else to say.

I walked over and sat at the opposite end of the sofa from him. I was innocent enough to not know what to expect when a famous rock star asks you to his room.

He raised an eyebrow, "I'm impressed. Usually chicks throw themselves at me by now."

"Well, I didn't want to be presumptuous. Besides, as trite as it sounds, I'd really like to get to know you. Not that I wouldn't... ah, crap. I can't dig out of this one, can I?"

"Honestly? It's refreshing."

So we sat and talked until some god-forsaken early morning hour. Somewhere along the way we both stretched out at our opposite ends of the sofa and tangled our feet together. The conversation lagged and we dozed. We both woke up about mid-morning, still fully clothed. I yawned and stretched, having gotten over my giddy shyness at some point in the night.

He rubbed his eyes and said, "For fuck's sake. I've just slept with a journalist and I won't even get a byline about my amazing rock n' roll sexual prowess."

"Not to worry. If I ever take such liberty as to write about last night I will leave out explicit details, but demurely say that I wasn't a bit disappointed, and in fact, quite pleasantly surprised and utterly satisfied."

We had breakfast together. I had taken a shower and lounged about in one of the thick hotel bathrobes. We talked about everything and nothing. It was easy, relaxing. At some point in the early afternoon, I threw my clothes on. We hugged, he kissed my forehead (which endeared him to me forever), and we parted.

That's the story of how I got to sleep with Eric Clapton.

I went to the rest of his scheduled concerts that summer, just as I'd planned, always in the front row, always just as dazzled by his genius, but with one slight difference. After that night, he always gave me a nod and a smile, both perceptible, I'm sure, to no one but myself.

That was a quarter of a century ago. I figured that by now he'd long forgotten the night he spent with that girl, the night he spent not having sex with that girl. I was wrong. Just yesterday I received a package and a note from him. The note read, "Caught your piece in the post about insomnia. Thought you might like to have this. Might help you sleep... Fondly, E."

It was a bathrobe from the hotel where we'd spent that long ago night. I slept with the robe on last night. I couldn't resist the scent of ginger and oak that lingered on it.

******************************

PS: My Dear Mr. Clapton. If by some strange twist of fate you happen to read this, you have my sincerest apologies. That being said, feel free to call me any time. I don't write anything that doesn't have some intrinsic truth to it, and I do feel that way about your music.

What Not Why

2011-09-06T10:26:00.000-07:00

The number one age old question is "Why am I here?" I don't get it. It's a question that has gone unanswered for millennia because there is no answer, yet humans persist with it. Why ask why. Wouldn't the better question be, "What do I want while I'm here?" Yes. That one has an answer, a big answer, and it's not as individual as you might think.

See, I figured out the answer last week. Actually, it took no figuring. It merely took standing still and getting hit by a tremendous jolt of Ah-Hah!

It came to me in the midst of a quiet conversation and a rather electric pause. We all want the exact same thing. From the tiniest squalling infant to the wearily sighing geriatric, we want the same thing. From the most destitute soul to the wealthiest magnate, we want the same thing.

We want to be heard.

And it has nothing to do with conversation.

We want to be heard in the way we smile and nod, in the way we cook, the way we sweep the floor, in our creative ventures, in our number-crunching, in a touch, in hauling trash... in everything. Whether the sound we make is a whisper or a shout, we want to be heard.

Because in being heard, we signify. And that is exactly, exactly what the hokey pokey is all about.

So it perplexes me that we won't stop and listen to each other, that we opt for obtuse when it comes to understanding another person's point of view, that we're so damned quick to judge and condemn, and recapitulate how we feel. It is impossible for another's thoughts, feelings, beliefs, etc. to make us and our own ideals insignificant.

We don't need someone else to make us feel insignificant. We're pretty good at doing that to ourselves all by our lonesome. So cut people some slack. Shut up and listen. Really. Just.... shut up. Especially listen when they're not saying a thing, because that's when the really good shit is revealed.

Want to know what else is cool? When we shut up and listen to other people, we find out all kinds of interesting stuff about ourselves. But when we attempt to shut other people down (successfully or not), we're pretty much denying ourselves full use of all the crayons in the box. Think about it. People get all gushy over Thomas Kinkade paintings (which I happen to think are fairly pedestrian, but that's neither here nor there) and his use of light.... but it's not what he does with the light in his paintings that's so significant. Anyone can paint a picture window glowing with light. His depth comes in what he does with the shadows, with out which, the light would be a simple boring glow.

Shut up and listen. To everything. Forget what you think, what you know, and what you think you know. Just shut up and listen.

Shame On Me

2011-08-31T09:29:00.000-07:00

You probably thought I was never going to post again. I, too, was beginning to wonder. The thing is, I haven't wanted to write. I've been aware that I could. I've had plenty of ideas. I just haven't wanted to. I've been stubborn, as if daring The Muses to walk away in resignation. My reluctance has had me curious. Why the resistance? It's because I deplore being a slave to anything. Not that writing is slavery exactly. Still, I was beginning to feel that I was writing simply because I felt I had to and not because I wanted to. While there is some sense of innate imperative to what I do, my personality is such that I also have to want to do it.

Sadly, my artwork has been suffering much the same sort of demise. It's pretty much the same mental struggle I go through over wanting a clean house and actually doing the housework. Well, almost... but not quite.

And then I heard myself giving someone else hell for not using their abilities, for shrouding their amazing talent. Yeah, I'm a real piece of work.

Who am I to deny The Muses? Who am I to say, "Gee, thanks for the creativity and talent, but I'd rather not today." I mean, I've got all the toys I ever asked for and now I don't want to play?! Christ in a sidecar, but I can be insufferable sometimes.

I've been taking it all for granted when in fact, there is nothing that can't disappear at a moment's notice. Shame on me. I apologize.

We do ourselves and others a grave disservice when we deny whatever it is in us that sparks the fire. We rob the world of our essential selves, our own unique greatness when we refuse to do what we were born to do.

Shame. Shame, shame, shame.

Word Search

2011-08-18T09:54:00.000-07:00

I'm back in the saddle with the IndieInk.org Writer's Challenge II. I took a month or so off for various reasons, but I decided it was time to jump back in again. Yippee!

The folks at IndieInk.org are always welcome to new people joining the fun. You can sign up to do it just once, or you can keep coming back week after week - no pressure, no huge commitment. If you feel like giving it a whirl, click the link here. Pairings are randomly generated, but you never know, you just might be responsible for giving me my next prompt!

This week my prompt comes from Jules, who writes here. The prompt is, "There just weren't any words..."

***********************************

When I first read the prompt I felt my shoulders slump forward and heard myself emit a sigh that would make Napoleon Dynamite envious. Why? Because my first thought was, "Here comes another one of my posts about death." In truth, that would be a very easy post to write. I've been through way too many of those situations where someone I love has died and I end up without words to express my feelings.

But I'm not going there again. Not this time. I'm breaking the cycle. The dead can just leave me alone today, thankyouverymuch.

Okay, so maybe that's not entirely true, because I am going to talk about death. My death. My death lasted for over two years, from the time I was 33 until I was in the middle of 35. I almost didn't make it out alive. Because when you're not really living, alive seems like a very easy thing to shut off. In fact, it almost seems like the best possible solution.

Yeah, it was that bad.

It was that bad because there just weren't any words. I had stopped writing. Well, I don't know that I stopped so much as I couldn't. It wasn't there... at all. It wasn't that I had writer's block. To me, writers block is when you have at least some small idea or inspiration, but you can't get the thing to bloom properly. This was... this was death. Emptiness. Barrenness. As hellishly cold and uninhabitable as an ice field in Antarctica.

Something inside me had died, and it was killing me.

In retrospect, it's easy to see how and why it happened. One of my dearest friends had died of breast cancer and I never properly grieved the whole experience. I was stuck in a tepid attempt at a marriage and driving myself crazy trying to make him happy because I felt like a miserable failure for not making either of us happy. I was stuck in a job that was interesting enough, but where I couldn't really relate to the people around me (I was working in the theology department at a university... enough said). I felt like I was letting everyone down.

So, somewhere along the way I stopped writing because I felt that I didn't deserve to write. Writing made me feel good and feeling good was not something I had earned. Because I wasn't writing, I pushed my emotions and feelings and thoughts so far down that they became inaccessible even to me. It wasn't just numbness, it was deadness, as if I had severed some vital creative nerve. And for me, that nerve is so very vital.

And then a friend saved me from myself.

We were having a conversation about stuff, life in general, and I worked up the courage to say to him, "I feel dead inside. Lifeless. The wind blows through me and leaves nothing but dust." He asked me when was the last time I'd felt alive. I answered, "The only time I feel alive is when I dream that I can fly." He told me to hang on to that feeling next time I dreamed it. As The Universe would have it, I had a flying dream the very next night. I woke up, feeling that same old grayness start to seep in, but with trembling, unsure fingers, grabbed on to the remnants of the dream and held tight.

It was a spark, a tiny little spark. But it was enough to light a fire. I let it burn all day. When I went home that night, I lit candles and turned off the lights, got a blank notebook and a pen, and the following came gushing out...

Need

I don’t care
about the women
you’ve taken to your bed –
don’t care to know
if they were
blond, brunette, or redhead,
if this one
came on like a whore,
and that one a shy little girl,
if their skin
felt like dandelion fluff
or leather,
used whips
or whipped cream,
left you limp,
gobbled you whole,
screamed your name,
or prayed for mercy.
Don’t want to be
compared to,
or an amalgamation of
all the names you’ve
slept with.
Won’t be your
first girlfriend,
wife,
slut,
or mother.
What I do want –
to throw you down,
go down,
take you down,
turn you inside out,
make you forget.
I don’t dare say,
want to be god to you,
hold you to my breast
until you lose
what makes you a man,
helpless in my arms,
content to be breathing.
Want to unleash
every screaming rage,
bottomless sorrow,
overwhelming joy,
and take the same from you –
walk all over you `til you beg my name,
treat you with such tenderness
you weep my name,
touch every aching part of you –
make you laugh, make you cry,
make you know.

What I want most?
(and this stops me cold)
I want you
to need all of it
from me.

***********************************

I'm happy to say that the flood of words hasn't stopped since. In fact, it's only gotten stronger. Even though the desire to write can sometimes ebb a little more than I'd like, even though ideas sometimes lie around half-baked and inedible, the words are still there. Always. They keep me alive.

Loving the Alienated

2011-08-17T09:00:00.000-07:00

I once made the mistake of asking, "Why do you love me anyway?" He leveled me with a look and responded with a question, "Am I going to have to spank you?" And I knew he wasn't talking about any kind of fun spanking. He was irritated by the question. Annoyed that I would doubt his judgment, thereby doubting his love altogether. "Well..." I said, trying to buy time and possibly a way out of the hole I'd dug myself. "I'm just curious. I mean... I..." He rolled his eyes and said, "I love you because you like to hug me. There. Happy?" I dropped it.

But I was serious when I asked the question - not in a whiny, clingy, needy-woman way. I simply couldn't understand what it was about me that made him feel about me the way I feel about him. Because I'm a dork, that's why.

The thing is, I'm a dork like everyone else in the universe. This is not one of those Subject to Barb Only novelty ideas. We all harbor this... this ridiculous notion that we are, for so many reasons, unlovable by anyone who has a choice in the matter.

Yesterday Jessica and I got into a conversation (which I hope she won't mind me sharing some of here). We were talking about how we so clearly see our own faults. I said, "I wish I could hold up a mirror for you that shows you what a fantastic human being you are. Seriously... would I love you like I do if you weren't such an amazing person? Not bloody likely." The conversation went on and she revealed what I've heard from so many people, myself included, "I've just lived most of my life seeing everything that's wrong with myself, and thinking it far outweighs any good in me." At this point I assured her that part of why I love her is for her dark, twisty bits. I said, "Those of us who love you, love all of you."

Then I struck myself with a bit of profound wisdom that came shooting out my fingertips as I added, "Isn't it interesting that we love others unconditionally, yet we put so many conditions on ourselves."

Yes. Isn't that interesting.

A few years ago I heard lyrics to a song that struck me so hard it was as if someone had nailed me with a rock right between the eyes. The song is called Open Hearts and Doors by a (regrettably little known) group that goes by the name of Antigone Rising:

Once I was the big mistake
That one was hard to take
Forgiveness
Draws its first breath with hesitation

Such truth. You know the unfailingly astute, ubiquitous They will tell you that the most difficult person to love is the one who needs it most. Wouldn't that be our selves? Imagine the peace we'd have within if we'd cut ourselves the same slack that we give others, if we'd shrug off our mistakes and say, "Hey. So you're human, so what. I love you."

We see evidence of others blooming when they're well loved. Why are we so illogical to think that doesn't apply to how we feel about ourselves?

If we could learn to like ourselves, even a little, maybe our cruelties and angers might melt away.
~John Steinbeck

I'll take you one step further, Mr. Steinbeck, and wager that we'd also find ourselves in damned good company.

******************************

Unfortunately, I can't find Open Hearts and Doors anywhere, but this is a lovely new tune off of Antigone Rising's new album, 23 Red. Give it a listen - this group needs a lot more airplay and attention than they get!

Lost and Found

2011-08-16T10:09:00.000-07:00

You know how they, the annoyingly ubiquitous they, are always saying, "If you're trying to find something that's lost, stop looking."

Lately I've been searching desperately for my inspiration, particularly when it comes to writing. I had misplaced it somewhere and couldn't figure out where I'd left it. So, I've been digging everywhere. And coming up short. I know, you're going to say that you can't tell from my recent posts (except that maybe there's a waning in productivity). Trust me. It's been a bit of a trial for someone who is usually so overwhelmed with ideas that I have to tell my Muses to just shut up for a minute so I can concentrate.

The trouble is that sometimes I'm a lot like Dorothy when it comes to creative inspiration. I go looking for that other shiny dimension, the one fraught with oddities and interesting inhabitants. I forget the simplicity of sitting still on a bale of hay and appreciating my own back yard for the beauty that it possesses. More's the pity, because once I'm in that frame of mind, it all opens up. I can't look at a single dewy spider web without appreciating the movement and diligence of the spider or its colorful markings, or marvel at the frustrated boogie of the fly as it tries to escape.

When I stopped paying attention to my own back yard, I lost my inspiration. I lost my ability to see the extraordinary in the ordinary.

So, I gave up. I quit looking, quit trying. I decided that I wasn't going to search for inspiration any more.

Of course, that's when I found it. They are nearly always right, are they not? Rat Bastards.

I woke at 4:30 this morning (why is irrelevant, waking is good). I was just in time to see the sky begin to lighten behind the mountain. The stars were still out against a deep blue velvet sky. Slowly the sun pushed its way into the morning, first rimming the mountain in golden fire, then casting a brilliant pink glow on the feathery clouds as it outshone the stars and turned the sky the color of faded denim. The trees, wearing the low fog like swirling skirts, stood out as black silhouettes against that backdrop.

I could say it was gorgeous, but the word would fail to capture the entirety of the view. I could say it was a knock out, but that would make it sound like a cheap show. But I will say that it was breathtaking, and this is true.

Fully awake after that show and a couple cups of coffee, I had to make a run to the store. A couple of blocks from my house, I had to stop so a doe and her fawn could cross the road. They slowly made their way across, right in front of me. I spoke quietly and said, "Take your time. You're beautiful." Once to the grass on the other side, the doe turned to look at me. Through tears, I smiled and said, "Thank you."

Then I realized what was happening. I'd quit looking and found what I was looking for.

The same thing happened when I met Steve. I'd quit looking and found who I was looking for. Or he found me. Or we found each other. Regardless, the rightness of it came as naturally as watching a sunrise.

People often ask me how I found my seeming inner contentment. And I am fairly content. I found it when I stopped looking at everything that I felt was wrong with me, and everything that I felt I needed to fix (and fix now, because there's no such thing as patience when it comes to self-improvement, is there?!). I found it when I stopped looking at myself so harshly, when I stopped searching for perfection that wasn't ever going to be there. I found it when I noticed the good in me, when I got excited about the things I was doing right. I found it as naturally and suddenly and as surprisingly simple as coming upon a doe and her fawn crossing the road in front of me.

I only needed to slow down on the path and pay attention.

'Cause it's the journey, right? The journey and not the getting there.

Of course, right.

Perspective

2011-08-15T06:49:00.000-07:00

“I thought you were the glass half full kind of guy…?”
“There’s a glass?”
~LOST

I woke up at some uninhabited hour. I know this because it was deep dark and the world was quiet. I was parched. Evidently I’m a mouth-breather by night. I shambled into the bathroom and turned on the tap. As Murphy would have it, I’d forgotten to bring the cup back upstairs after washing it. So I did what mankind has done instinctively since the necessity for water was discovered. I cupped my hands under the flow, captured a good half cup full, and drank.

I stumbled back to bed thinking, “Screw the glass, who needs it anyway?” Of course, it was enough to get my brain gears tacking along. I wondered when it was we began to measure life (and all its little details) in a half full or half empty increment. Optimists will proclaim, “The glass is half full! And there‘s room for more!” Pessimists will dourly complain, “It’s half empty! We‘re running out!”

By now, fully awake, I thought about the movie Steve and I had watched the other night -a beautifully made film called, The Way Back. The movie is about a group of escapees who, after running from a Siberian prison camp in WWII, trek on foot into Tibet and then India. In one scene they barely made it across the Gobi desert when they stumbled upon the remnants of a puddle. Without second thought, they fell to their knees and began slurping up the muddy water.

They didn’t give a second thought to how much was there or where they’d find more. They only knew that for the moment, their needs were met. It was enough. Alive was enough.

Does it really matter who’s right? Does the whole half-full vs. half-empty argument hold any weight when we have what we need; when either way the equation ends up equaling life; when in truth, we really don’t even need the glass? The glass is simply a tool, invented somewhere along the way, no doubt, because some caveguy got tired of his cavewife bitching at him for slopping on his loin cloth. So, if we get rid of the glass altogether we lose the necessity to justify it as either half full or half empty. Because what we’re left with is water. What we’re left with is that regardless, we’re alive. What we’re left with is life.

Of course, I’m aware that the whole argument is a metaphor for attitude. And of course I’m aware of how important an optimistic attitude is. What I’m getting at is that there’s no need to push either attitude into or out of existence if we realize that what we have in front of us is enough. What we have will get us to the next step.

Would a dying man in the desert look at a half glass of water and say, “Is that all?” or perhaps, “Surely there’s more!” No. The man drinks it. The man walks on. The man is grateful for alive and the glass itself is an afterthought.

Mood du Jour

2011-08-12T10:04:00.000-07:00

It's another rerun Friday. You can thank the fact that my motivation seems to have gotten lost with a sock in the spin cycle (thank you my facebook friends for the help with that little snippet of metaphorical prattle). Why, I barely had the motivation to go searching through old posts, much less all the harrowing physical anguish of cutting and pasting. Blogging is no place for sissies.

Anyway, today you get to read (or maybe reread) one of my fun (and a little bit funny) favorites. It's from last year when I was doing the 30 Days of Truth gig. Day Twelve was an assignment to write about something that I never get compliments on. I had a blast writing this one... actually, it had more to do with listening to the voices in my head (along with their maniacal laughter) than actively writing. I merely transcribed.

************************************

Day Twelve - Something you never get compliments on.

Hah! Um. Sorry, but the topic is just making me laugh. So, okay. I'm ready for a good laugh... especially after 11 days of soul spelunking in this friggin' emotional 30 Day Roller Coaster Ride. Christ in a sidecar... enough already!

This reminds me of an incident a couple of decades ago. While my Mom was visiting me in Maryland she went out for a walk. Upon her return, she looked a little shook up. Concerned, I asked, "How was your walk, Mom?" "Oh... well... it was okay." "Really? You look a little upset..." "Well, as I was walking, a woman approached me from the opposite direction. I smiled at her like I do with everyone when I'm out. She got within a couple of feet of me and gave me a nasty look. Then she said, 'You've got skinny arms, lady! Skinny, ugly arms!' I just... I'm... I didn't think my arms were so bad..."

Oh! And another time. Someone once told me that I reminded him "of his cousin who died. In a good way." I've never bothered to parse that one out.

Something I never get compliments on. Too easy. I thought this was supposed to be a challenge. How about twelve somethings? One for each day of Day Twelve. Why not?! The Twelve Days of Somethings. Woo. That'll be quite enough caffeine for you, Barbara Ann!

Twelve Somethings I Never Get Compliments On

~OR~

How To Be As Sarcastic As Barb In 12 Easy Lessons:

1) My ass. I mean. C'mon. Like Rudolph's red nose, it's going to take an extreme circumstance. Songs will be written, movies will be made.

2) My moments of indecision. Can't someone just once say, "I love it when you can't make up your fuckin' mind! Do it again!"

3) I never hear, "Damn, woman! That is one righteous chin hair!" No. Instead you've got to absentmindedly do this niggly wiggly thing at your own chin while staring at mine. Okay. So I'm not a consistent plucker. Truth is, those little pluckees are sneaky.

4) "I know you don't get these mood swings often, but when you do, it is awesome to see! Watching you go from happy to pissed in 5 seconds flat is just cool!"

5) "You're an atheist? How absolutely admirable! You go, Girl!!!"

6) "Thank you for making me feel guilty. I'm so pleased you did that."

7) "Sweetheart, I love that you're such a somnambulantly amped monkey. I adore you all the time, but particularly when you manage to toss all the covers off of me during your middle of the night frenzies. Really, My Love, there is nothing that endears you to me more than when I wake up freezing my ass off."

8) This is not going to happen. Ever. "I love how artfully you've arranged all the dust in your house! It so finely coats everything. Just beautiful."

9) "Clearly menopause has done wonderful things for you, Barb. Bravo!"

10) "I love, love, LOVE your snoring! It completely drowns out the incessant, obnoxious noise of the leaves rustling on the breeze. And jets."

11) "Hey, I've got an idea! Let's watch a musical together! There's nothing so heartwarming and lovely as you singing along to... every... single... song."

12) "That's not part of a Hobbit costume for Halloween? Those really are your feet?! How cool is that?! Damn. I'm jealous."

************************************

If by chance this leaves you wanting to read other entries for the 30 Days of Truth challenge, feel free to dig them up over there on the sidebar under archives. They were all posted in October of last year.

Gathering Hoards

2011-08-11T12:28:00.000-07:00

Hi, my name is Barb, and I'm a hoarder. Oh, not like you think. I don't have stacks of old newspapers hanging around, or an obsession with clothing I never wear, or kitchen gadgets that don't get used. In fact, with the exception of cast off socks (his, not mine) you can pretty much walk through the entire house unhindered. No, my collection is a mental hoard. I accumulate pet peeves.

Well, I accumulate them for a while, until what's bugging me bothers me less than the fact that I'm bugged at all. Generally speaking, I'm not one of those people who gets enjoyment out of griping about useless shit. So, on a regular basis I cull through my peeve hoard and toss a bunch of them out. Why not toss all of them, you ask. Because a few of them are valid. A few of them keep the fire of dissatisfaction lit under my abnormally content demeanor.

Which ones? Fine. Here's a list of my keepers.

People who say "I love (my children, spouse, friend, etc.)" and then qualify it with the word "but." Love is to be unconditional. Unconditional love has no room for the word "but." If you have issue with the person you love, then it's necessary to discuss it and reconcile it, even if the discussion and reconciliation is only within yourself. Regardless, you're driving me nuts. So, please stop saying, "I love _______, but...."
Leafblowers. Sadly, there is no way around this one. The only remedy is a universal ban on the wretched, noise-making fuckers. Yesterday I sat through two hours of the noise while some dude blew pine needles off of the parking lot at the school next door. Really. Pine needles on a parking lot. Who gives a shit?!
Having the first sheet of toilet paper glued down so that you literally have to rip the thing apart and take a couple of turns around the roll before you get to a clean edge. No, it's not the worst thing in the world, but it's maddening. The fact that it happens, more often than not, at 3 a.m. when I'm barely awake and my hands are still numb from sleeping on them doesn't help matters any.
Rudeness... lack of common courtesy. It's just sad that common courtesy seems to have become an exception worthy of surprise. Is it really so hard to show some basic thoughtfulness? Do something nice for someone else. Say thank you when someone does something nice for you. Teach children that this is normal behavior.
Why has a second shift trash pick-up never been instituted? Who decided that trash pick-ups should be between the hours of 4-7 a.m.? Why not 6-9 p.m.? Seriously!
Clearly I don't like noisy stuff. So while were on the subject, how about we yank commercials that come on at 5 times the volume of the program we're watching. They still have to pay their sponsor fees, they just don't get the air time. That'll teach 'em. Since we're talking about commercials, let's just roll this peeve in with the other (you see how easy it is to amass them?), not every product needs a jingle, in fact, most products don't need a jingle. And quit stealing all my favorite classic rock n' roll tunes, ya skeevy rat bastards! Enough said.
Companies that over charge for shipping, just who do you think you are?! Thanks to the great promotional material put out by the USPS, we all know about those nifty flat rate boxes. You're not fooling anyone. Mostly you're pissing of some of us who land a little more on the astute side of things, thus losing sales. Sure, I'm in business too. I know it takes a bit of manpower to package things up and you have to compensate for that, but (for example) charging $10.00 to ship a $3.00 piece of rubber is silly.
Y'know what really curdles my cheese? People who don't or won't listen. There are so many sub-categories to that one that I could blog about that subject, and nothing else, for a year. What is the deal anyway? Are you simply afraid that you don't know everything? Or that someone else is going to know something you don't (thereby swiping the Nobel Peace Prize you feel you deserve)? Give it a rest already. Shut up and listen.

These are just a few of the things that rankle me. There are more of them, but they're currently stuffed under the sofa pillows.

You can lead a hoard to water, but you can't make it sink.

A Ghost Story

2011-08-09T13:08:00.000-07:00

Through the darkness on the heavily wooded path, the travelers can see the remnants of a once good-sized bonfire burning low. On the far side of the fire sits a woman wrapped in an old Indian blanket. “Hey… over here,” she beckons. “Come warm yourselves. Pull up a log and sit a spell.” So they do, casting off their heavy packs with relief.

She hands them each tin cups filled with dark, steaming coffee, merely nodding as they thank her. Settling back with her own cup, she muses aloud, “A wise man once told me that a campfire is useless unless there’s a story told by it. As the universe would have it, I am in possession of a story. A true story if you believe dreams have any power.” She pauses for effect. “And if you believe the dead still have something to say.”

*********************************

At first I didn‘t realize it was a dream. I was back in the old Kirkland house and my late mate, John was in the bedroom dying, just as he did in waking life a little over four years ago. I felt all the old dread and sorrow so clearly. I went into the living room where my friend Jessica was reading and told her it was time, that he wasn’t going to linger much longer. She followed me into the bedroom where he lay. Jessica went to one side of the bed, perched on the edge, and took his hand, I did the same on the other side. We sat there, silently, listening to his labored breathing as it slowed, slowed, slowed. His eyes fluttered open and he looked at me. His voice was a rusty whisper, but I heard him clearly. “Alchemy,” he said. “Make it golden.” I heard Jessica gasp, but I couldn’t tell if it was with wonder, surprise, sorrow, or what. I didn’t look at her to see which. My eyes were riveted on John as he took one last breath and then died. Again. I felt my heart once more shatter into a billion tiny shards. I began to sob as Jessica rushed to where I was sitting, held me and rocked me. “Why did he do this to me again?! Why? I could barely take it the first time.” “He needed you to hear that,” Jessica said calmly, although through tears of her own. “He needed you to hear.” And she kissed the top of my head the way one kisses a forlorn child.

I left the dream at that point. It was too painful. My chest felt heavy and I could barely breathe. The oppressive familiarity of those feelings were enough to give me the lucidity I needed to, although still soundly asleep, leave the dream. And fall right into the next.

I was in a very well appointed kitchen cooking with Laurence Fishburne. Yes, the Laurence Fishburne, he of Animatrix and CSI and what have you. We were cooking together. I was making chicken paprikas and potato dumplings, Laurence was making dinner rolls. The air was redolent with the scent of good food. We finished cooking dinner and served it up, taking our places at a small table at the side of the kitchen since it was just the two of us. “This is nice,” I said. “We work well together.” “That we do,” Laurence responded with one of those hooded-eye, enigmatic traces of a smile he’s so well known for. There was silence for a few moments as we ate. I groaned as one does when does when eating a particularly good meal. It’s almost an involuntary reflex, is it not? Laurence gave me one of those famous Fishburne smiles again, raised a gravy soaked dinner roll in my direction and said, “Alchemy. Make it gold.” I was startled. “What made you say that?” I asked. “I just had a dream that my mate who died said those exact words to me right before his last breath." “Huh,” Laurence replied, head cocked as he pondered my reaction. “Seems that I heard those words from a dying man myself. I don’t know what made me say that.” I left him there in the kitchen. I had to go upstairs and get ready. I had no idea what I was preparing for. That part of the dream was yet to be revealed. I only knew that it was to be a somewhat formal occasion.

I stood on stage, microphone and podium in front of me. I was wearing a simple light blue dress, adorned with a silver and sapphire necklace and matching earrings. I held a book in my hand. I recognized the artwork on the cover as my own. Upon closer inspection, I realized that I was the author. I quickly thumbed through the pages, trying not to look too stupidly lost in front of my audience. It was a book of my artwork and poetry. I blushed, feeling a little undeserving and completely put on the spot. I looked up from the book and out at the audience. I recognized many faces - all of them people who’ve passed on from this life, from my life. They sat, attentive, a copy of my book in one hand, and a cocktail in the other. I opened the book and quickly selected a poem, immediately realizing that I didn’t at all remember writing it. I began to read:

Autumn presses her lips
to the breast of Summer.
I will feed from you
‘til you are no more,
then shepherd you in death
to a crystalline shore.
The old man waits
as surely as you burn.
There is a time for everything
and in everything we return.
In light and in shadow
beyond woodlands, beyond sea,
there is no golden promise,
only alchemy.

The audience stomped their feet in applause. I saw my long dead father rise from the third row, holding his glass high over his head. He grinned at me like the proudest proud papa ever, and shouted, “To Alchemy. Make it golden!” The rest of the dead rose from their seats, all holding their glasses aloft, and echoed, “Alchemy. Make it golden!”

*********************************

The woman stirs the embers of the fire and throws another log on top of them. The log crackles as it settles and begins to burn. Aside from that and the wind rustling through the trees, there is no other sound. Everyone gathered around the fire is preoccupied, each with his or her own thoughts, and is mesmerized by the flickering campfire.

After many minutes the woman finally breaks the silence. “I wasn’t going to tell anyone. It was almost too big for me to absorb, much less share. But I believe it was meant to be shared. I believe the dead leave behind a bit of their soul energy, but only a little bit. So when they choose to expend it, it’s best to pay attention.”

She invites the hikers to roll out their gear and stay the night. They accept. None of them are ready to jump up and wander off just yet. As they drift off, they in their sleeping bags, she in her bedroll of blankets, like spokes around the hub of the dwindling fire, the wind whispers. “Alchemy,” it says in the hushed voice of a mother soothing a baby to sleep. “Make it golden,” the trees respond in the whisper of a father who loves his family.

Nonsense!

2011-08-08T09:17:00.000-07:00

It's been said that when L. Frank Baum was first telling the story of Dorothy and her special shoes, he was momentarily stumped when it came to naming the magical land. His eyes fell upon a filing cabinet across the room. The top drawer was marked "A-N" and the lower drawer was marked, you guessed it, "O-Z." I don't know how much efficacy there is to this story, but I've always liked it.

When Lewis Carroll penned "Jabberwocky," he wanted to prove that a writer could evoke emotion using nonsense words. In my opinion he did.
`Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.
One can't read that stanza without feeling something from it. For me it always brings up a feeling of something mystical and full of magic, but with a dark side just waiting to spring on the unsuspecting... a feeling of going for a walk on a beautiful, sunny summer day and stepping into something dead and rotting, but fascinating nevertheless.

Ever heard of the Voynich Manuscript? Anyone? Beuller? I've been aware of it for a number of years, but found a new fascination with it recently, sparked perhaps by the art journals of various friends. Anyway, the Voynich Manuscript is a handwritten book thought to have been written in the early 15th century and consists of about 240 vellum pages, filled with various illustrations and writing in an unknown language/text. No one knows who wrote it. No one knows exactly where it came from. Confounding scholars and codebreakers throughout the centuries, no one has ever been able to decipher it, much less interpret it.

I'm fascinated by it. As a writer and an artist, I can't help but be fascinated by it. Plus, I love a good mystery. And I love things that make people who think they know everything realize that they don't really know everything.

I'd like to think that the Voynich Manuscript is maybe the ramblings of some moderately insane, but ultimately brilliant soul who simply wanted to get the gunk out. I'd like to think that for some it was the art journal of it's day. To me, it's beautiful and should be taken just as it is - that the feel of it be interpreted rather than the meaning. In short, I believe that it is art and should be understood only to the extent that any art can be understood.

All that being said, I got myself in mild trouble today for questioning the syntax on someone's facebook post. Okay, truth be told, I did that on several posts. I can't help it. It's who I am. But I did stop myself for a moment and wonder if perhaps I was rather unceremoniously squelching the creative and/or philosophical fire in others - which is never ever my intention. And I never do it along with the claim that I'm perfect in any way.

*heavy sigh*

Perhaps I need to stop deciphering and simply catch the intent.

If only I were able to do so.

Be Prepared

2011-08-04T08:14:00.000-07:00

We always prepare ourselves for the worst. We brace ourselves for the bad that is surely coming our way. The motto seems to be "expect the worst, hope for the best."

I'm sure, back in the caveman days, some hirsute dude with an overly large forehead walked out of the cave, club in hand, and thought, "I'd really like to bring home some dino-chops for dinner and serve them up with a nice piquant berry reduction, but with my luck I'll be chomped to smithereens by a t-rex."

No doubt Moses looked out on his motley crew and thought, "There's no way these people will get it together and get it done. We're probably going to be stuck wandering the desert for a decade at least."

Looking for the worst is not a new concept to humanity. We're used to it, so it's no wonder that we're always peering under the dark edges of gloom and doom.

But.

What if we prepared ourselves for the best? What if we braced ourselves for good things? What if we stood in the doorway as dawn lightened the horizon and hollered, "Bring it! Bring on the good!! I can take it."

I know... you're reading this and already thinking, "Yeah, right. Take your Pollyanna shit and stuff it in the shady side of your sunshiny panacea." I get it. Sardonic looks are not lost on me... I practically invented them.

So just think about it, okay? Set aside the We're-Screwed-Before-We-Even-Start attitude for a day or two. Give it a try.

I dare you.

Size Matters

2011-08-03T11:40:00.000-07:00

First of all, I'm the featured artist today at Indie Ink!

I apologize for my absence yesterday. It wasn't intentional. You can thank our glitchy monitor for that. We now have a new one that is so huge it makes me feel like I'm typing up a Reader's Digest article for old people. Which is to say, my eyes are completely comfortable and I can see what I'm doing. *Sigh* I am aging. No denying it.

Yesterday I was watching a show on TV when the football team showed up for practice in the field behind our house. They started counting off push-ups and doing their team spirit rah-rah crap. I strained to hear Guy Fieri's secret to his beef brisket marinade while glowering in the general direction of the football team. Then in a moment of brilliance, I turned up the volume.

I'm slow, but I can be taught.

So, I'm thinking... sometimes it's good to see things bigger, sometimes it's good to hear things louder. I'm not denying the necessity of a microcosmic view. I know that if I get too close to a Seurat painting, I'll lose the focus. I'm not unaware that Chopin's Nocturnes require a soft, finessed touch.

But there's also a time when we need our socks knocked off by something grand, when we need our teeth rattled by some booming tunes, when we need to be immersed in the thing we're seeing, or hearing, or doing to the exclusion of all else.

Jumping and becoming one with the sun and the wind makes kissing the ground that much sweeter. Spending the day gazing at a huge mountain range makes roasting a marshmallow by the fire that much more luxurious.

There's a saying, "Go big or go home."

I say, "Go big and go home."

Bring Out Your Dead

2011-08-01T12:50:00.000-07:00

The other day a friend applauded me for using the phrase "deus ex machina," which translates to "god from the machine." Don't ask why I used the phrase - the content of the conversation is irrelevant here. The point here is that he applauded my use of a high-fallutin' foreign phrase. It always surprises me when people react to such things, either to applaud me or to sneer at me for showing intelligence. Really it does. To me, stuff like that is just standard. I don't expect everyone to know everything I know any more than I expect to know everything everyone else knows. But I'm not going to not use what I know, y'know? Yes, please pass the aspirin - that kind of cramped my brain too.

Many thousands of years ago as I was approaching my freshman year of high school, I met with my assigned guidance counselor. We reviewed my grades, talked about possible careers (as if the average 13 year old - I started school when I was 4 - knows exactly what she wants to be), and discussed the course work that I should plan on taking. There was never any question but that I would be taking some sort of language course. I wanted to take Latin. My guidance counselor said, "Don't be foolish. It's a dead language. No one speaks it. Take a language you can use."

So, I chose a three year course in German and a semester of French. I also chose to study Latin on my own.

Yeah, yeah, I'm a polyglot. So shoot me.

What I really learned in the process, besides the basics of three languages, was that my advisor was full of shit. Latin was hardly dead. Latin is used in legal terms, medical terms, scientific terms and is the basis for many other languages. Knowing Latin as a base language opens up all other kinds of other knowledge doors. An understanding of Latin almost always gives me at least a shot at understanding English words that I'm not familiar with.

Anyway, I got thinking about all of that last week when my friend did his little joy-joy dance over Deus ex Machina. That little bit of Latin is actually a phrase I learned way back in my drama class days. It comes from the days of Greek theater when the authors of plays would introduce a god to explain overblown and/or intricate plots. Point is, I've known that phrase for probably 35 years. I simply haven't forgotten it the way I've forgotten, to paraphrase what Paul and Art so aptly sang, all the other crap I learned in high school.

I'd really like to go back and have a conversation with that idiotic counselor, who at this point, if he's still alive, is well into his geriatric years. I'd like to tell him that I've used my autodidactic Latin far more than I've used the German and French that put A's on my report cards. I'd like to tell him that his thinking was likely deader than any language out there. Mostly what I'd like to do is reprimand him for ever telling any child that what they really wanted to learn was useless or pointless. Shame on him for saying, "Don't bother learning it unless you can use it."

I'm a fortunate kind of stubborn. I took his advice and went with his suggestions, but said to myself, "Oh yeah? I'm going to learn it anyway." And so I did. My knowledge of so many things is greater and richer because of that attitude. However, I can't help but wonder how many other kids he discouraged from learning something that would have enhanced their knowledge base, or at the very least, simply brought them joy in learning.

Learn and the use becomes known.

Or if you prefer it in a not-so-dead-after-all language:
Disceres atque usum innotescit.

Voices In The Rain

2011-07-29T09:26:00.000-07:00

For your Friday reading pleasure, here's a little rerun/rewrite from over three years ago. It's a post that sings very loudly in my mind.

*****************************

I grew up in this town, my poetry was born between the hill and the river, it took its voice from the rain, and like the timber, it steeped itself in the forests.
~Pablo Neruda

I love the rain, I do. No one will ever convince me that we in the Pacific Northwest get "too much rain." We merely get a lot of rain. Sometimes we even get enough. We had great rain the other day. I titled an email to a friend, "It's Rainin' Zen." That pretty much sums it up for me. Rain takes me to a calm place, a place where I can wander the corridors of my mind at leisure. None of this frantic, "OMG, I have to do, I want to, I gotta... oh, and there's that, and... wait, I just...time, time, time... thinking thinking thinking..." No, when it rains, the inside of my head has a much more stroll-through-an-art-museum feel to it. Granted, there's some funkalicious art danglin' from the walls. C'est moi.

The other day I was asked if I have a happy place I go to in my mind when things get tough. You bet I do - several, in fact. Upon thinking about the places I 'go', I discovered that most of them are somewhere in Hungary. One such place is a tiny room at the top of my Uncle Rudi's house in Budapest, 1978. He had turned the room into a mini library of sorts. There was a small sofa in there, a chair, an end table and a lamp, and a wall lined with a book-heavy shelf. There was one small window that was just big enough to add a lighter shade of gloom to the existing gloom. A well worn oriental rug graced the floor and was anchored by stacks and stacks of old Hungarian newspapers. The room smelled like old books, used blankets, tea and as with everywhere in Hungary, that deep sexy lingering paprika scent.

So many places in Hungary reside in my mind as being places that are deeply magical. I think that's partly because when I went there as a child, my knowledge of the language was somewhat limited. So, I never knew where I was going, or going to end up. Such was the case one rainy summer afternoon in 1978. It was pouring rain, torrential even. The power went out and I was sitting in Rudi and Juliska's kitchen wondering, "Well now what do I do...?" Rudi didn't give me much time to think about it. He quietly said, "Gyere ide." (Come here.) I followed him up past the second floor, and further up, up, up the narrow stairway that lead to the converted attic.

I'd never seen the room before that day because they always kept doors shut, and I wasn't the type to go prying. So, when he opened the door and gestured me in, I was completely unprepared. I'd thought it was a closet. Instead, I found myself falling back in time, into an old Dostoyevsky novel. I rather timidly sat on the edge of the sofa while Rudi rummaged around behind a stack of newspapers. Finally, he pulled out an antique phonograph. It was the kind that needed no electricity, just a deft hand to crank it into action now and then. He also had a stack of about a dozen 78's. (Anyone else out there in TV Land old enough to remember 78's?) He cranked up the phonograph, gently set a record spinning, and lowered the needle. What I heard next took the whole experience to a new surreal level. I expected classical music, or maybe Hungarian folks tunes. But no, out came the sounds of some old bluesy American jazz from the 20's & 30's.

So, we sat there for a couple of hours, my Uncle Rudi and I, listening to the fine sound of those scratchy records, the music playing against the hiss of the rain. We didn't speak the entire time, I think my grin said it all for him (and probably translated much better than my shabby Hungarian). It was an afternoon that was absolutely lush in all its texture. It has it's own special box in my memory warehouse and I go there often, paw through it, sniff the old books, smile at my memory of Rudi who is long gone (rest his soul), hang out on the lumpy loveseat, listen to the slow low whine of the blues...

...and keep my eyes on the rain streaming past the little window.

It Needs A Faucet

2011-07-28T11:02:00.000-07:00

When Jessica was here we made cards together. Well, separately, but we were in the same room, grooving to the same music, listening to each other ink stamps, tap them against paper, and sigh with either exasperation or contentment.

At one point Jess got up from her chair to look at what I was doing. I showed her the above card that I had just completed.

"Huh," she said. "I like it."

I shrugged, and as if to explain the inexplicable (which, as it happened, wasn't even in question), said, "Well. I don't know why... but it just needed a faucet."

As matter-of-factly as if I had told her that apples are delicious, Jessica nodded and agreed that, "Indeed. Some things just need a faucet."

And that's one of the things I love about Jessica - her perspective. She doesn't question my much abused artistic license. To her, a faucet hanging above a love seat while the Tweedle Twins look on is absolutely normal. Standard, in fact. We decided that "it needs a faucet" would become the catch phrase when we were feeling artistically stuck.

Why? Because that's how creative thinkers roll. We're often accused of being dreamers - as if the word dreamer is a pejorative used to describe someone who has no ambition. Fie! But, I get it, dreaming does imply a rather passive state. So, I prefer to say that we're Imaginers or Creatives. If we're stuck in the bottom of a pit, we'll imagine a faucet, flood the pit and float to the top.

I don't know about you, but I need the far-fetched to bring me back to real. After all, haven't some of the greatest inventions and ideas come from those who think up the impossible and/or improbable? You can bet those folks had an interloping faucet or two.

My life would be very boring if all I saw was the world exactly as it is. I like to fill in the gaps. I don't like blank spots. I'm one of those people who sits at the airport or in a restaurant and makes up a whole fictitious life for the stranger across the room. I like things that are juxtaposed against each other in an unlikely fashion.

I like a faucet in the middle of nowhere for no good reason. Because that kind of thing is a curiosity, and curiosities lead to imaginings, and imaginings lead to creativity, and creativity leads to doing, building, making. And that is never boring. That's what keeps us alive.

That's what keeps things real.

Beep Beep!

2011-07-27T08:38:00.000-07:00

Good or bad, Life doesn't issue a warning blat when it's about to send something big your way. You'd think we would learn not to be so surprised by the headlights when we continually stand in the middle of the road, but we stand there doe-eyed nonetheless. Understand, I'm neither against standing in the middle of the road (although forward motion is preferred), nor do I have a solution for being surprised by The Universe. It's who we are.

The difference between the evolved and unevolved is how we handle the unexpected. Do we stand there and let it run us over? Do we skip away and watch it zoom past? Do we grab on and see where it takes us? Granted, we often don't have a whole lot of choice. Sometimes we're simply swept up in the Great Street Sweeper and hauled along for the ride. Even then, do we acquiesce or kick and scream?

Two years ago last Saturday I met Steve. I remember the moment as clearly as if it was a scene from a movie I've watched a dozen times. I remember his blue truck pulling up to my house on the river. I remember peeking out the kitchen window at the tall guy who stepped out, two bags of dinner groceries in his right hand. I quickly opened the door and met him on the front porch where we immediately hugged each other. He smelled like sawdust, cigarette smoke, and something sweetly delicious that I've yet to be able to define.

I wasn't looking for love. I was looking for a friend. Life had other plans for me as we haven't been apart since. Life said, "Surprise! This is The One." And even though we were almost constantly together, I initially fought against the relationship, or at least the idea of it. It was all out of fear, considering that my last big life surprise before that was much darker - losing my late mate, John to cancer. I pretty much took a mental stand against Life and said, "Oh yeah? Fuck you if you think I'm going to set myself up so easily again." I didn't exactly kick and scream, but I definitely folded my arms across my chest and did my best to look stubborn.

Steve, on the other hand, seemed completely at ease with the surprise of our relationship. Kindhearted woman that I am, I saw no need to burst his bubble. I allowed myself to be swept up in the ride. It didn't take long before I saw the validity of who we were/are together. It didn't take long at all before I mentally nodded resignation and thought, "OK. I get it. This was meant. He's amazing. I'm crazyinlove."

By the way, The Universe thinks it's really funny when we accept what already is - good or bad. I mean, it totally cracks up The Universe.

What it comes down to, I think, is this:
Use your Life, or it will use you.

Either way, you're gonna be surprised along the way.

Long Distance Runaround

2011-07-25T09:25:00.000-07:00

You probably thought I was never coming back. You really didn't think I'd desert you forever, did you? Actually, I could go a little longer without writing (it's been a nice break), but my nephew said he needed something to read. Far be it from me to deprive him of his literary pursuit.

Truth is, I've been sort of on vacation. My friend Jessica was out here visiting for two weeks and we had a great time hanging around together. We did a bunch of eating, we wandered around some, we made some art, and we did a great deal of nothing. Both of us are unaccustomed to doing nothing, so it was actually pretty taxing. Watching movies all day long can be incredibly tiring.

One of the more fun things we did was taking a road trip to Yakima (well, that in itself is no joy ride) to meet up with two other online friends from a group that we're all in. That's a day and a half that will go on my own personal Days To Remember List as Most Fun Ever.

The thing is, until Jessica's trip out here, we had never met "in real life." Until our trip to Yakima, neither of us had met the other two "in real life." I put "in real life" in quotes, because in this marvelous age of electronics, what's real life anyway? Is a friendship that spans seven years online any less of a friendship? I submit no. From the moment Jessica got out of Steve's truck after he picked her up at the airport, we were comfortable and just as close as if we'd been meeting for coffee once a week for the past few years. There was no awkwardness, no feeling of "Oh crap... so that's what you're really like." Part of that is because we are both as real online as we are "in real life." But I also think that a lot of it is because there is a real connection there - and a real connection doesn't care how the connection is made. It just is.

The same was true of the big meet up in Yakima. The four of us hugged and began laughing from the very first moment. There was no distance, no sideways glances from any of us wondering if the others were just as accepting of the friendships. We had a blast. We had a blast and it was over with far too soon. I kept thinking, "Dammit. I want to hang around with these people every single day!" And I do. Online.

There's where the difference is. I don't get to hear their laughter. I don't get to see their eyes light up with humor or tear up when their hearts get tugged. I don't get to make goofy faces at them. We don't get to hug. That's the hardest part, because those are some damned fine hugs. But other than basic physical stuff, the heart of it is as real as it gets.

I've heard other people malign online relationships, claiming they're not real. Over the years I've had the pleasure of meeting quite a few online friends. When I tell others about such events, I often get a response of "Wow. Really?! Isn't that awkward?" Not at all. Granted there are some iffy people out there, but aren't there some iffy people "in real life" too? Who among us hasn't stumbled across someone "in real life" who later on turned out to be less than a friend? The trick in any walk you take with someone else is the old adage that, to have a friend you have to be a friend.

Friendships of any kind, no matter the distance, are about being there for the other person, are about making the other person's day or world a little brighter, a little better. When it all comes down, isn't that's what's real?

May the Fourth Be With You

2011-07-04T06:17:00.000-07:00

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Happy Independence Day USA!!!

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Please everyone, celebrate as you see fit, but stay safe.

Have fun, but take a moment to remember those

who weren't having fun when they defended your right

to watch the fireworks and eat good food off the grill.

Who's That Girl?

2011-07-01T09:59:00.000-07:00

Egads! Bring on the psychotropic medication!!! I've become a version of my mother.

When I was a kid, we often traveled from Grand Rapids, MI to Toledo, OH (my mother's birthplace, and still the residence of my Aunt and her family). Occasionally Mom would run into, or make arrangements to meet up with old high school friends. Invariably, as we were driving away, she'd say, "I never would have recognized her!" or "When she wrote to me, I vaguely remembered her name, but I just couldn't place her." At the time I thought how crazy... how could you not remember someone you spent four to twelve years of your life with nearly every day?!

Now, decades later, I can relate. I've had dozens of people from my school days "friend" me on facebook. Some I remember well, but many, eh, not so much. I find myself scouring the pictures they post and thinking that I don't recognize them at all. Sometimes their names have a ring of familiarity, but nothing that clangs loud enough to trigger a real memory. Yet, these people often drop me a line saying how nice it is to "see" me again, and how well they remember me, yadda yadda yadda. I demure and say thank you.

In truth, I almost feel sorry for them if they remember me. I can't help but think, "Oh, poor you... you are in for an awakening." Because, I am not that girl any more. I haven't been for a long time. And that girl wasn't all that pleasant back then. That girl was afraid of everything and everyone. That girl was even afraid of her own voice. Really, who'd want to be friends with that?! Seriously. I didn't even want to be my own friend back then. So, I'm always a little more than surprised when people look me up and "friend" me based solely on that connection. Surprised, but mostly glad. A gal can't have too many friends, y'know?

Well, actually, a gal can have too many friends. There are a few people who've "friended" me that I do remember well. Initially, I'm thrilled when I see the link requesting confirmation. Then I find out that the hellions who were a blast to hang out with back then have turned into mundane, faith-mired parents. They've turned into people who set my teeth on edge just by saying hello. They've turned into people of whom I want to ask, "What the fuck happened to you?! You used to be so much fun, and... you've lost your muchness. What happened?" But, it's not my place to judge. Not my place to question who they've decided to become.

I'm not being snobby. I have nothing against people who are mired in their faith (to each his own), nor do I hold any compunction for people who are parents. What does irritate me is when either of those life choices take away the essential who that those people used to be. Yes, I know. We all change - didn't I just say that I've changed?! I'm talking about people who have completely lost themselves by devoting themselves to something or someone else. Not that devoting ourselves to anything is a bad thing, just that... *sigh*... I'm not going to be able to dig myself out of this hole, am I? C'est la vie - that's what I get for sidetracking myself.

Next Wednesday I'm meeting an old friend for the first time. We've been online friends, living on opposite sides of the country, for years. If you've read my blog at all for any length of time, you'll recognize the name Jessica. Jess and I are kindred spirits. We share a wickedly quirky sense of humor and a keen sense of aesthetic (well, I think so), and place value in many of the same life-philosophies. We "met" online nearly seven years ago on a crafting forum, and the friendship quickly tied itself into an untangling knot. So much the better.

Steve and I discussed the logistics of him picking her up from the airport.
He said, "So, you've never actually met her?"
"Nope."
"But you're sure you'll get along?"
"Yep."

I know because sometimes a friend is just plain recognizable. It's not the history that matters, but the precedence.

Give Up the Funk

2011-06-30T12:43:00.000-07:00

Okay, I'll admit it. I'm in a funk. Not a state of depression, just... just a funk. When my head gets too full of too many things - all of which I tend to internalize - I get funked. My thinking and creative processes get all gummed up, gunky, funky. Add to that the fact that it feels like October here in the Pacific NW today. Not that that's such a big deal to me. I like the cold weather, and I'm all for the rest of the world not having to share the necessity of Barb Black in a tank top. It's just that I feel like I possibly slept through a few months and it's left me feeling like I've somehow lost time, lost opportunity, lost... I don't know what. Gunky. Funky.

I've been walking by and/or sitting at this computer most of the morning, waiting for words to come, waiting for some grand revelation. I've sifted through prompts on other blogs. Nada. Zip. Zilch. I took a shower. I wandered around in my studio. I had breakfast. Still nothing. And yet, for some reason I still feel the need to create, to write, to do something. Why is it so difficult for me to say, "Hey, this is how you are today. Give it all a rest. Read a book. Watch stupid crap on TV like the rest of the world does." Why is it so difficult for me to say, "Look, you don't need to be creative today." Why is that? Gunky. Funky.

Maybe because I'm afraid? Maybe I fear that if I'm not standing here, waving whatever banner I've got in my hands, that I'll be forgotten? Or maybe I'm afraid that if I step away for a day I'll find that it's all been an illusion, that my creative abilities were just daydreams? Maybe it's just that annoying, rather misguided work ethic that was drummed into my head from the first moment I breathed air. You know the one: "only lazy people sit still." Gunky. Funky.

Oh, and trust me. I know exactly how to trick myself out of this feeling. The thing is, I'd really like to know why it's there, mostly because it's such an unusual event for me to feel like this. If I trick myself out of it, I can't properly dissect it. It's good to feel things, as long as we allow ourselves to really feel them, and as long as we use the feeling as a tool toward finding balance. Really, you can't have balance if half of the teeter-totter is missing, y'know? Gunky. Funky.

So this is a good thing. Well, a goodish thing. 'Sides... ain't nothin' like a decent excuse to turn up the volume on some good bluesy funk music. Like we need an excuse.

I gotta give up the funk. Gotta turn this muthah out. Gotta tear the roof off the suckah...

Halt! Who Goes There?

2011-06-29T11:03:00.000-07:00

**********************************

*heavy sigh*

If I, in my very limited scope of knowledge, understand anything about the quadratic formula, it is that it's about balance. I could be all wrong, and if I am... la dee freekin' dah. Sure, I'm a math head. Sure, I came out of Algebra I with an A+, but that was back when I was a sophomore in high school. Which means, that was a very long time ago. Dirt was still relatively new. Dinosaurs still roamed the earth. Mankind had only recently learned to walk upright. So I'm just not going to worry about it a whole lot right now, m'kay?

Friend or foe, now that I can do. Oy vey, can I.

Here we go...

She whispers in my ear, pushing back a stray strand of hair with the gentle touch of a lover's fingers. She likes subtlety when it comes to praise. She knows I'll be embarrassed if she brags about me within earshot of anyone else. She says she likes me; she likes who I am; she likes my work; she likes the way I am and the quirkiness of the stuff that makes me laugh. She thinks my eyes are pretty. She takes me by the wrist and leads me, showing me beauty in the mundane. She delights in my wide-eyed wonder at things that most people take for granted. She paints bright color across my world. She loves; she's never petty; she embraces everything life has to offer and sends it all back out gift wrapped. Gift wrapped and tied in a shiny ribbon. She wants me to have everything I want, everything I've ever dreamed of - she always tells me that it's all right there at my fingertips. She's my best friend.

The other one whispers too - the sound is like the incessant drone of a wasp hive, that noise that makes me feel like I need to swallow twice just to keep everything down. That seems ridiculous, because she's all about shoving it down, and she is brutally unkind about it. She's always negative. She likes to stick out her figurative foot and then laugh when I've tripped and skinned my knee. She's not evil, not really, she just doesn't see why I should be deserving of so much good. Maybe she doesn't see why I deserve any good at all. She likes to ridicule; she likes to tell me I'm fat and worthless; she likes to tell me I have nothing worthwhile to say. She tells me that nobody cares. She'd be happy if my world was gray, gray cinder block, gray benches, gray imagination. She tells me to just give up. She's my worst enemy.

Alluring, encouraging gypsy or repugnant, pessimistic hag. Friend or foe.

I'm either my own best friend, or my own worst enemy.

This is my dichotomy.

Alive, Alive-O!

2011-06-28T09:37:00.000-07:00

Yes, I am alive and well. I do apologize for my uncharacteristic absence. Steve's been working from home - which gives me limited online time. Plus, I'm trying to get the hovel in shape for the impending visit from my friend Jessica next week. I can't wait! I suppose the cleaning is worth it.

Have no fear, I will be back in full force soon. I've been pondering several post ideas. Sometimes a haitus is good... clears things out, gets rid of clutter. Much like my process in dealing with my studio closet.

In the meantime, get your wonderful reading selves offline and go do something fun.

B.... out.

Interview with the Energy Vampires

2011-06-24T06:17:00.000-07:00

Yes, I took the day off from writing yesterday - mostly because Steve was working from home and needed the computer. However, it felt so good that I'm doing it again today and posting a "rerun." It's one of my favorites: An Interview with External Validation & Self Doubt.

*****************************************

(The Camera comes into focus on a somewhat dimly lit stage with three over-stuffed chairs. A rather ordinary woman sits in the middle chair. As the camera zooms in, it’s obvious that she is clearly focused.)

Barb: Welcome to the Church of the Wayward Gypsy. My name is Barb Black, and I’ll be your host today. Please, have a seat, grab a cup o’ bean, and get comfortable. Today, as previously promised, we’re foregoing the usual philosophical ramblings so that I can interview two of the most prolific entities in the known Universe, The Maligners of Morale, those guys you hate to love and love to hate… Señor Self Doubt and and Monsieur External Validation! Without further ado, let’s bring out Señor Self Doubt first…

(Camera and lights pan stage right as a small, rather bookish, but surly looking fellow enters the stage.)

Barb: Hello, Señor Self Doubt, and welcome!
Self Doubt: *slumps in chair* Uh… thank you. You can call me Sid… my middle initial is 'I', for Inflicted. That is, if you’re sure you want to do this at all. I mean, if you’re sure you’re up to it. You don’t look well… have you been getting enough sleep? Your clothes look a little tight… maybe you’re not eating right.
Barb: No, I’m fine, thanks Señor Sel… um… Sid.
Self Doubt: *heavy sigh* If you say so.

Barb: Sid, you seem to be able to be in several places at once - truly an admirable trait. How do you do it?
Self Doubt: It’s easy, really. It only appears that I’m in several places at once. But basically, I only make little visits throughout the day, plant my seeds, fertilize them well with BS, and then I’m off to squander my attention elsewhere. Does your hair always look like that?
Barb: *clears throat* I’ll ask the questions here. You say you plant some seeds. Expound on that, please.
Self Doubt: *scoffs* Right. Like you’d understand that. I didn’t say “some seeds,” I said “my seeds!” Seeds of Self Doubt. See, you people are so easy to manipulate that all I’ve got to do is plant one of my wiggly little nuggets, toss some BS in the mix, and you’ll incubate the thing until it grows completely out of proportion. Ta Da. I call ‘em Sid’s Little Tumor Babies, ‘cause they grow fast, take over everything, and all they do is eat, spew, poop, and whine.
Barb: I see. They don’t sleep?
Self Doubt: *rolls eyes* Never. You’ve got something stuck in your teeth.

Barb: Uh… Sid. Tell me where you grew up.
Self Doubt: *yawns* Oh, here and there. But mostly I spent my time in the Halls of Apathy. You’d think it would be boring there, but there’s so much mischief to get into. I had a blast.
Barb: Halls of Apathy?
Self Doubt: Duh. Huge place, lots of great hiding places, plenty of food. Been around pretty much since dirt was new.

Barb: Hmm. Who were some of your early influences?
Self Doubt: Oh, well… I’ve always looked up to my Dad, Cynicism. He’s an Expert. Goes around telling people that nothing’s ever gonna work, and most people actually buy it! Morons. My Mom, Pretention, is a great gal, but she’s kind of a show off. My Uncle Lan… uh, short for Pusillanimous, I think (his Dad was some old Greek guy… spent forever pushin’ a rock up a hill). Uncle Lan is a real kick in the pants.

Barb: Have any playmates as a kid? Have any friends?
Self Doubt: *snorts* Yeah, unlike you. My best buddy is your other guest. Me’n Val been runnin’ together since we was knee-high to foot fungus. Lotsa fun… he sets ‘em up, I knock ‘em down.
Barb: Well then, let’s bring him out. Please welcome Monsieur External Validation!

(Camera and lights pan stage left as a tall, dashing, self-assured looking man enters the stage.)

Barb: Hello, Monsieur External Validation. As always, it’s good to have you here.
External Validation: Hey, hey! Great to be here. Fantastic. Wow, you look great… beautiful eyes. Hey, call me Val.
Self Doubt: *shakes his head*
Barb: I… uh… thanks, Val.
External Validation: Sure, sure, sure. Really, so nice of you to have me here. Always thought you were a great gal.
Self Doubt: Geez… c’mon Val… you’re pandering.
External Validation: Of course, ya little imp. Go with what you’re good at, right?
Self Doubt: Ya make me sick, ya big Sugar Sack.

Barb: Okay guys. Okay. Val, unlike Sid who seems to be around all the time, you seem to show up only when you’re needed…
External Validation: Oh, well, don’t let that fool ya, Pretty Girl. I’m needed a lot, way more than it looks like, really. But I do sit back and monitor situations before I step in. Sid gets people feeling so lousy about themselves that they need a boost - hey, who doesn’t? That’s where I step in. I nudge other people to, truthfully or not, say nice things to that person. Then I give the person a good ego massage, get ‘em all relaxed and happy again, and send ‘em on their way.
Self Doubt: *chuckles* I can’t handly that sappy crappy craptastic crapola. I give it a few minutes and then, just like Jack Nicholson, I chop down the door and… “I’m baaaaaaaaaaaaaack!”
External Validation: *good naturedly tousles Sid’s hair* You do keep me busy, ya little booger.
Self Doubt: Hey, if it wasn’t for me, you wouldn‘t even have a job!
External Validation: True speech, my little friend. Little… hey… you getting’ taller? You look different. Better.
Self Doubt: BAH! That crap don’t work with me! Shovel it somewhere else.

Barb: Guys, guys, guys… Val, Sid mentioned earlier that you’re somewhat of a mentor to him…
Self Doubt: Hey! I never said… he ain’t no…
Barb: Shush. Val, who were some of the great influences in your life?
External Validation: Definitely my parents, Si (Self Importance) and Miss Guided… hi Mom and Dad! You’re my heroes! Love you, love you, love you!! Oh, and my Grandmother… wonderfully sweet lady… always handing out useless advice… making people feel all warm and fuzzy… dear old Granny Cloy. I miss her. My cousin, Perfidious… lots of fun, that guy.

Barb: Interesting. Alright guys. Lastly, I’m going to give you a phrase, and I want each of you to complete it. Val, Sid… I am worthy because…?
Self Doubt: Worthy? Who is really worthy of anything. Nothing you do really matters.
Barb: *raising an eyebrow* How about you, Val? I’m worthy because…?
External Validation: Easy, Gorgeous! Because everyone else says you are.
Barb: You’re both incorrect. I am worthy. End of sentence. The “because” does not signify.
Self Doubt: You’re so full of shi… hey, you cheated! *mutters in a whiny voice* “because does not signify“… pfft…
External Validation: As intelligent as you are, I disagree… “because” always signifies… who are you without the splendor of outside opinion? Who could exist that way?

Barb: I know who I am, and I am worthy. And, I’m most definitely done with the two of you. You can leave now.
External Validation: Sure, Dollface, we’ll wait for you in the wings while you wrap it up.
Barb: No, I mean leave for good. Go away. Hit the road. Be gone. Done listening to either of you... so done. Get out.
Self Doubt: You don’t have the strength to get rid of us.
Barb: Watch me. I know who I am. I am worthy. Bye guys.

(Camera and lights pan stage right as Señor Self Doubt and Monsieur External Validation exit hesitantly. Sid can be overheard whispering to Val, “Don‘t worry, Pal. Just yesterday I planted a whole bunch of my seeds… she ain‘t seen the last of us.” Val claps his hand on Sid’s shoulder and replies, “You da man!”)

(Camera and lights pan back to Barb as she sits, looking worn but satisfied, rubbing the back of her neck.)

Barb: Thank you all for joining us here today. Boy, I’m exhausted, but I‘ve never felt better. Oh, a word of caution… if you see those two, I recommend that you steer clear of them. Take care and be good to yourselves… happy wonderings.

(Camera and lights pan stage left as Barb exits purposefully.)

Scene From A Coffee Shop

2011-06-22T07:37:00.000-07:00

Welcome to another week of IndieInk.org Writer's Challenge II. The folks at IndieInk.org are always welcome to new people joining the fun. You can sign up to do it just once, or you can keep coming back week after week - no pressure, no huge commitment. If you feel like giving it a whirl, click the link here. Pairings are randomly generated, but you never know, you just might be responsible for giving me my next prompt!

This week my prompt comes from Evie, who writes here. The prompt is, "Go to a local watering hole or cafe, pick someone at random, watch them for 2 or 3 minutes and write about their "secret life." What you see isn't always what is under the surface..."

Here we go...

***********************************

I watched him watching her. He didn't know. Neither did she.

She didn't know that he'd been leaving for work an hour early every day this month, driving out of his way, just to stop in and order coffee from her. He was impressed with her ready smile, her energy, her ability to not just remember her regular customers' coffee orders, but their names too. Every morning she greeted him cheerfully, "Good morning, Mark. Triple shot latté?" He always answered back, "Mornin', Kate. You got it!"

He really couldn't afford the morning coffee - he still had student loans to pay off, his new apartment had cost him more than he'd anticipated, and moving expenses had taken up most of his savings, not to mention the added expense of the extra gas needed for his daily drive to the coffee shop. The new job was good, but he could have done better. Still, he'd taken it on a long shot, and decided to make do on the limited budget. With any luck, it would pay off in the long run.

Pretending to yawn and stretch, he looked around the coffee shop, casually glancing at her. It wouldn't do to stare. He adjusted his tie, one of ten that he'd purchased for a dollar at Value Village, against his clean, pressed white shirt. He sipped at the latté and hit the refresh button on his email. He should have said something to her weeks ago, but having been shuttled around from one foster parent to another during his childhood had given him a profound fear of rejection. So, he just sat every morning, checking emails on his laptop, and stealing glances at her whenever he got the chance.

She was beautiful, with her almond-shaped hazel colored eyes, light freckles and long, thick chestnut hair. He watched her move with the grace of a ballerina as she lined up coffee cups, steamed milk, and poured espresso shots. He knew the sound of her voice now, heard her tease a co-worker about spilling an entire sack of beans on the floor, her light laughter like music.

He really needed to just talk to her. He needed to tell her what was on his mind. Really, what was the worst that could happen? Well, the worst was that she'd tell him to go to hell. The worst was that she'd tell him to never come here again. That would be crushingly painful. Then again, he'd dealt with that kind of heartache before and survived it, right? Right. He ran a hand through hair too short to need smoothing. With a sweaty palm he ironed out an invisible wrinkle on his khakis.

He decided he'd had enough. Enough torture. Enough wondering. Enough acting like some skeevy perv of a stalker. He closed the laptop and gulped down the last swallow of his latté. He stood and adjusted his tie one more time, then ran his fingers through his hair again. He slowly moved toward the counter, as though each step was carefully considered.

She was scribbling something on a notepad, but looked up as he approached. She smiled at him. "Hey, Mark! Don't tell me you're back for seconds... that stuff will have you dancing the jitterbug all day!"

He looked down at the empty cup in his hand, then back at her. "No.. uh... no. I just. It's just that... I was, I mean... I wanted to talk to you for a minute."

She stood straight, hands in her apron pockets. Clearly he wasn't the first guy to approach her, to think that her coffee making skills and quick smile were the answers to his dreams. She said, "Oh. Okay. Well then, shoot. What's on your mind?"

He cleared his throat, trying to buy time. "Well, Kate. I. Um...." He sighed in exasperation. "Oh hell... Kate... I think you're my little sister."

In the Summertime

2011-06-21T09:08:00.000-07:00

First of all, I'm the featured writer today at Indie Ink! Huzzah!!!

Happy Summer Solstice!

Juliska néni, Me, Little Brother John

I remember that, as a child, summers seemed to stretch on forever. They were mostly sunny days that began with my mother throwing us out of the house. Mrs. Black was not one to allow a summer day to be wasted indoors. More often than not, we were kicked out with our swimsuits on and sent to the neighborhood swimming pool. We would play and splash and swim all day, wait through the endless "adult only swim" time-outs, and come home hours later, chlorine-scented, just in time for dinner.

It's a little ironic that my mother was afraid of water and never learned to swim, but that she loved that pool as much as we did. It saved her sanity during the months that she couldn't shuttle us off to school.

I have a favorite summer moment in time. I have no idea when it was, except that I was young. Maybe seven or eight at the most. My Dad had taken us up to the pool after dinner. This was a rarity, but it was a hot, sultry night by Michigan standards. We came back when it started to get dark. It was still hot and we sat at the picnic table in our swimsuits, damp towels wrapped around our waists. Mom gave us big, juicy slices of watermelon to eat. Dad finished his first and lit up a smoke. I remember watching his hands in the deepening twilight, impossibly big to my young eyes, one resting on the picnic table, the other bringing the cigarette back and forth to his mouth.

They were hands that could do anything. They made artwork appear, and changed light bulbs that were out of reach of anyone else, and they could fix things that were broken. And it wasn't just me in awe of my dad's hands. Many years later, at the very same picnic table, I sat with my dad and my nephew on a warm Spring day. My nephew was maybe four at the most. He was sitting next to my dad and gently tapping on Dad's wedding ring. He looked up and said, "Grampa... you got biiiig fwangers!" Dad roared with laughter.

When someone says the word summer, this is what comes back to me if I close my eyes, the scent of watermelon, chlorine, and cigarette smoke on warm, muggy air. The sound of crickets punctuated by my father exhaling smoke through his nose. It is the stillness of a moment of perfect childhood joy, a moment that was safe from everything else.

And I still love the scent of cigarette smoke on Summer air.

Slices of Randomness

2011-06-20T11:48:00.000-07:00

You know, Mondays are still Mondays even if you don't roll any further out of bed than your own front door. There's still a sort of schedule to things, an impetus to get things done. I find it odd that after this long, my natural tendency is still to get up early on Monday mornings and start working.

The other night he told me he doesn't like having the sheets tucked into hospital corners on the bed. I laughed and said, "So what else have I been doing for two years that you don't like?" He shrugged and said, "That's about it. For now." The next evening, he was annoyed because the jars of Black Bean Paste and Hoisin Sauce look exactly the same. He tried to throw out the jar of Black Bean Paste (I stopped him in time) because he was angry at it for existing in our refrigerator. Still later he tried talking to me while he was gargling, which made him drool blue Listerine down his chin. We both laughed like hyenas. The man amuses me even when he's not trying to.

This morning, on a break from reading through graduation announcements from kids that I swear were just potty-trained last week and wedding announcements from kids who shouldn't be (by my calculations) past puberty yet, I looked in the mirror. I saw a woman who is quickly approaching 50, but who, in my esteemed opinion, doesn't look a day over 40. Except for the new gray hairs. They fascinate me, they really do. How did they get there, and when did they show up? I don't remember aging - it's not something you feel or notice as it creeps in. But I like the gray... I've lived a little, y'know?

Give me a break here, people. I'm functioning (or not) on about 2 hours of sleep. Simple case of up too late and up too early. That's why. *tap tap tap* Is this thing on?!

And that is all you get for today. No breathtaking creativity, no deep philosophical revelation. Just me. Rambling away, in between loads of laundry, on 2 hours of sleep and half a pot of coffee.

I have miles to go before I sleep.

It Doesn't Go Unnoticed

2011-06-17T09:50:00.000-07:00

In spite of the six thousand manuals on child raising in the bookstores, child raising is still a dark continent and no one really knows anything. You just need a lot of love and luck and, of course, courage.
~Bill Cosby

The best fathers I know are the ones who worry that they'll fail their children. They're the best because they constantly try harder in an attempt to disprove their theory. They're never complacent when it comes to making sure their children are cared for and loved. And they never accept someone else telling them, "Hey, you're really doing a great job with your kids."

Because I've never been a parent, I am an expert on parenting. I'm kidding, people. However, the truth is, I'm something of an omniscient observer when it comes to relationships of all kinds. I pay attention to interaction and the subtleties therein.

So, here's the thing, dads:

Your kids probably won't truly appreciate your efforts until they are well into their twenties.
No relationship of any kind is perfect. So, just because your relationship with your kid(s) isn't perfect, that doesn't mean it's irrevocably flawed in some way.
Somebody is always going to find something you do annoying, and that's okay. We're all individuals, even your children, and we don't always see eye-to-eye.
You are loved, even if that love is unspoken.
You're admired. Just because a kid rolls his eyes, doesn't mean he doesn't see the bigger picture. Kids have to be cool, feel in control, and remain true to their species.
Eventually your kids will come back around to hugging you. In the meantime, it's okay to ask for a hug. Sometimes kids want and need to know that it matters to you.
Your kids will remember you teaching them how to ride a bike as well as your cheers of triumph when they finally "get it," and they will be forever grateful. The same holds true if you teach them to fish.
It's perfectly alright to swell with pride when your kid introduces you (granted, you may have to insist on said introduction), and says, "This is my Dad."
When you get tears in your eyes and your voice quavers a little as you speak of your childrens' accomplishments, you are, in that instant, the most beautiful man in the world.
Before you know it, your kids will be grown, intelligent, independent, interesting adults. You will scratch your bald and/or graying head and wonder how and when it all happened. Take some credit - it's because they have you for a dad.

Now, all of you... go read one of the most beautiful posts ever, written by my friend Rachel at Hands Free Mama (here).

Have a very Happy Father's Day!

Disce Aut Discede*

2011-06-16T11:43:00.000-07:00

A tooter who tooted a flute
tried to tutor two tooters to toot.
Said the two to the tutor
is it harder to toot,
or to tutor two tooters to toot?
~Anonymous

We've all heard the saying before. Those who can, do and those who can't, teach. Well, I call bullshit. For one thing, it pisses me off because it implies that teachers don't really know what they're talking about. Plus, the best teachers I've known have been people who excel at what they do. The big difference is that they are willing to help others excel at what they do.

Keeping knowledge to oneself is like enjoying a huge meal while starving people stare through the windows.

I recall a day several years ago when I was working as a legal assistant. It was an unusually "slow" day and my boss came into my office with a stack of folders. "I'm going to teach you everything I know," she said as she dropped the folders onto my desk. I laughed and asked, "Why would you want to do that?" She replied, "Because I can't do it all myself, and the more you know, the better able you'll be to assist me." She spent the next couple of days teaching me. She didn't just tell me how to do it, she made up dummy files and made me do the work while she explained (my favorite way of learning). By the time I left that job, I did know everything she knew and was able to move on to a better position.

Yesterday I was perusing my friend Jessica's blog (here). She's been posting tutorials on art journaling. Jessica's work is flat out brilliant. She does this thing with colors... makes them so vivid and real that I want to eat her work. I want to devour those colors and make them part of me. My point is, Jessica's work is good enough that it could stand on its own anywhere. She could easily spend all her time just making stuff and ignoring the rest of the world as she dances with her muses. But she chooses to share. She does this because she wants the rest of the world to experience the freedom and joy in creating art in the same way that she experiences it.

I wish I was a better teacher. Don't get me wrong, I'm happy to share my knowledge. I don't mind if people watch me. I don't mind if people ask questions. But to put together any kind of lesson plan, to limn out instructions, or worse, to stand in front of people and give a 'how to'? I get so scattered that you'd think I was on tranquilizers. I tend to start in the middle and forget beginning steps, lurch to the end and then start again until we're all so confused we can't decide whether to scratch our watches or wind our asses.

Education of any kind is such a tremendous gift to give someone. We grow by learning. Knowledge is power. It really is. I'm often accused of being intelligent, and I'll acknowledge that I do possess a bit of intelligence. However, when I think about how it feels, I don't feel intelligent. What I feel is a penchant for learning, a need to know things. Sitting in the dark is such a lonely experience.

One of the things that's so cool about my relationship with Steve is that our knowledge bases compliment each other. He's incredibly intelligent and adept at so many things. He's good with technical stuff and machinery and building and, y'know... manly man stuff. I have decent stocks of knowledge in all things culinary, art, literature, grammar, spelling.

I had to laugh the other day - Nascar was on the TV; I sat on the sofa half watching, half reading; Steve was at the computer. I squinted at one of the cars and asked him, "What's the roundish black thingy sticking off that other dealie?" He explained patiently. (Considering I can't even remember the names of the parts just four days later, it's obvious that when it comes to car stuff I have the mental capacity of a ferret on three espressos.) Moments later, he turned to me and asked, "How do you spell (I forget which word)...?" And I rattled off the spelling. I love that particular symbiosis in our relationship.

I've said it before... if I stop learning, I'll start dying. By the same token, if I can't in some way share what I've learned, that knowledge will fester and rot. Sharing knowledge is the way we keep it fresh. It's also a great way to learn because it leads to more questions. We are all teachers as equally as we are all students.

Those who can, teach as they ought to do.

Those who can't... should learn.

*By the way, Disce aut discede is Latin for learn or leave.

I Said, "Doctor!"

2011-06-15T09:41:00.000-07:00

*********************************

The choice is clear here... doctor. With apologies to dentists everywhere, you've just never earned any kind of reverence from me. But a doctor is what I'd want to be if I were to be something else. Specifically, I'd want to be a surgeon. Oogie bodily stuff doesn't faze me a bit. I can handle blood and guts without swooning. Added to that, I have a profound curiosity and admiration for the human body.

Think about it. These carcasses we're given to parade around in have some pretty impressive abilities and capabilities. We have blood and skin that regenerates, muscles that move and beat and even compensate if need be, bones that keep us upright and give us structure, organs that filter icky stuff, eyes, ears, noses, tongues, vocal chords. Our bodies are fallible, faulty vessels, yes. But awesome too.

Even when we're bereft of some of those things, we manage. For nine years I lived with a man who was a paraplegic and witnessed some truly amazing compensatory stuff. Sure, his legs looked like chicken drumsticks (his description) and were completely useless, but he had incredible, gravity defying upper body strength.

A few years back I had some extensive corrective surgery on my left leg. The surgery included taking the tissue on my calf all the way down to the muscle fascia, leaving it open for a week to granulate, then grafting over it with skin from my thigh. Painful, oh hell yes. Fascinating? Serious wow factor. A couple of days after the surgery, my doctor, her physicians assistant, and a nurse were in my room to change the dressing and check on progress. After they removed the dressing - which prompted me to make moaning and keening sounds that I never want to hear coming from myself again (it fucking hurt!) - they got close and surveyed the thing like they were looking for gold nuggets in a pan of muck.

I couldn't help myself. I had to look too. I saw the lower half of my left leg looking like something that should be hanging in a meat locker being wailed on by some broke Philadelphian boxing protégé. My doc pointed out various points of interest to the other two - nobody noticed that I was looking. She made note of a particularly lumpy looking bit and said, "That's the calf muscle." Really?! I was looking at the inner workings of my own calf muscle?! She said, "Flex your foot, Barb." I did and watched the raw muscle move. In chorus, the assistant, the nurse, and I all said, "Wowwww..." That's when they looked up to see me completely rapt by the same thing they were looking at - my filleted leg. I could tell they were kind of impressed that I was participating. That was when it dawned on me that I wasn't watching the Discovery Channel, but my own leg. That was when I lay back down and felt a little swoony after all, saying, "Alright... unless you want to pay me, show's over. I need meds!" But I can't lie. I'm really glad I looked.

A week later the same doctor took a big swatch of skin from my upper thigh and grafted it onto that slab of meat. Three months later I had a leg that was completely healed over. There's a lot of nerve damage - it's numb mostly and painful sometimes and gimpy all the time. Still, I can walk on it, and that blows my mind.

When John was in the depths of his illness, I changed catheters, emptied bags of fetid urine, swabbed bedsores, cleaned up shitty puke... whatever needed to be done. None of it bothered me a bit. The hospice nurses were surprised that I was so willing and capable in my care for him. However, as I saw it, stuff needed to be done and I simply did it. The morning after he died, I received a phone call from his oncologist. I remember his words ringing like a bell through the fog of my grief. He said, "I wish all my patients had someone to care for them the way you cared for John."

I would have been a good doctor. I would have been a good doctor because I would have loved being a doctor.

I'm Too Old For That

2011-06-14T08:58:00.000-07:00

Today I'm joining the fun over at Mama's Losin' It. She gives six prompts to choose from each week. I chose this one: "We're too old to be getting in trouble...aren't we? Write about a time you were scolded...as an adult."

Easy. This is a story I've told not just a few times in the past couple of years. It's a classic, especially in my family. Not only is it irreverently funny, but it captures so well the dynamics of mi familia loca.

It's no secret that my mother and I are about as opposing in our worldly views as... well... as a staunchly unyielding catholic and a free-range artist can be. We love each other dearly, but we will never see eye to eye on most subjects. Added to that, Mom is also the antithesis of me in the way she conducts herself. She is very proper and ladylike (yes, you may read 'uptight' into that, if you please), whereas I take a bull in the china shop approach to... damned near everything.

That being said, here's a story from two years ago - the story of how I got in deep shit with my mother. At Disney World, no less.

Here's how it all went down... Half of my family had met up at Disney World for the Disney marathon. My Mom, Aunt Irene, sister (Nancy), brother-in-law (Mikael), and my nephew (Jason) had traveled from Michigan and Ohio, and I traveled from Washington to meet up with my other nephew (Homer), his wife (Athena), and children. Nancy, Mikael, Homer, and Athena were all going to run in one (or more) of the Disney marathons. Me? I'm not a runner. I'm a watcher.

After the half marathon, we all went to lunch at one of Disney's fine dining establishments. The runners were discussing the marathon, their running abilities, how it felt to accomplish their feats. The subject came up about how intensely annoying it was for them to be two miles from the finish and have spectators yell, "You're almost there!" Totally understandable. They've still got two miles to go. Two miles isn't almost there! Sure, it seems lightweight up against 13 miles or 26, but having already run 11 or 24 miles, two more miles can be a bit daunting, the body being at a point of you-are-shitting-me-sit-down-already! Hell, I had merely walked at least two miles just trying to follow them from one check point to another, and I was more than ready for the pool and a beer.

Athena said she wanted to get a banner made with some statement on it like, "Do not tell me I'm almost there!" I said, "Heck, why bother hauling something like that around on your run? That's why God gave you middle fingers!" Cue uproarious laughter from the crew, quickly followed by dead silence as my mother cleared her throat. A simple throat clearing might not seem like much to you, but when my mother does it, it's like hearing someone lock n' load a gun in the dead of night. Inattention is not an option. I turned my head... Mom was giving me that bloody-dagger-about-to-puncture-both-lungs look as she said sternly, "Barbara Ann!" Ohgodohgodohgod... I got The Full Name Treatment. This was a sure sign that I was in big bad trouble.

You know those moments in movies when everything suddenly goes quiet and moves in slow motion? This was one of those moments.

I could hear chairs scrape across the floor as Homer and Jason, on either side of me, tried to scoot away and out of the range of fire. Athena suddenly had to wipe some recalcitrant sticky stuff off of one of the kids. Mikael paid inordinate attention to the food on his plate and discovered a renewed love for bread sticks. Nancy hid her face behind her hand, one eye peering out to watch the train wreck. I caught Aunt Irene's eye, and let me tell you, it was a saving grace to see the barely held in check smirk on her face.

Then it all came back in a rush of noise as Mom lit into me with a diatribe on vulgarity and obscenity and inappropriate behavior of all kinds and... *sigh* Everyone else at the table stayed quiet in a thank-the-gods-it's-not-me-this-time way. The jerks. They bailed on me! Left me under the bus without so much as a backward glance. I apologized to Mom for offending her sensibilities, which took a lot out of my stubborn ass, but I did, I apologized. It mattered not. I still got the red-headed step-child treatment for the rest of the day.

As we were leaving the restaurant, Aunt Irene leaned in close to me and said in a low voice, "Well... I thought it was funny."

Later that evening I sat at the pool with my sister, her husband, and my two nephews. The air was comfortably balmy. The drinks were tasty. One of my nephews bought me a drink, saying, "I thought for sure you were a dead woman." My brother-in-law said, "You were very brave." My sister said, "I was just glad it wasn't me for once!" The other nephew said, "It was pretty damned funny."

I felt vindicated. More than that, I felt masterful. They may have managed a marathon, but that's just running. I, on the other hand, had run headlong at the firing squad and lived to tell about it.

I Love You Beautiful

2011-06-13T11:10:00.000-07:00

The note said, "I love you beautiful."

At first I smiled at the missing grammar as much as I smiled at the thoughtfulness. I can't help it. I'm just that way. I knew he meant, "I love you, Beautiful."

But as I held onto the piece of paper in one hand, and my mug of coffee in the other, I thought that maybe it had been written exactly as it is, as it feels.

He loves me beautiful. His love turns my life into a thing of true beauty. His love lends a sparkle to my eyes that others pick up on. His love gives me a sense of peace and security - not just within my environment, but within myself - and that kind of grounding reflects outward. His love puts a confidence in my voice (both literally and figuratively) that wasn't there before I met him. His love makes me realize that it's not what's on the outside, but what presents outwardly that counts most. His love brings me to a place within myself where I can shine. His love gives me freedom to be exactly who I need to be...

... and that person is beautiful, because of that love, because of that freedom. He loves me beautiful.

And this isn't just some sappy post for you to say, "oh, isn't that precious." It's far greater than that. It's glorious. It is awesome in the truest sense of the word. It has made tangible for me that which I've long believed - that love is the greatest power we possess.

Love someone beautiful today. Let yourself be loved beautiful.

Bag of Tricks

2011-06-10T06:59:00.000-07:00

Hi Folks... It's rerun Friday, as I'm trying to keep up with artistic supply and demand (yay!). The following is a post I wrote back in December 2008. I thought it needed a little air and sunlight...

*************************************

Without Art we are but monkeys with car keys.
~Anonymous

Last night an acquaintance said, "Anyone can draw. Anyone can be artistic." I nodded in vehement agreement. It's the same thing I've often said about music or writing. Anyone can do it. It may take a bit of mental reprogramming, a tilt in perspective, but it's out there for anyone to claim. No, not everyone who picks up a purple crayon is going to be the next Degas; not everyone who plucks an old guitar string is going to be Clapton; and not everyone who puts pen to paper is going to be Shakespeare. C'est la vie, so flippin' what. Real artists do it because it feels good.

This morning (on the radio), as if following the thread of conversation from last night, the DJ said something to the effect of, "I've always thought that everyone should have something in their campfire basket; something they can pull out when things get too boring or serious... a magic trick, a guitar, a story... " Amen to that.

I feel fortunate. I've often said that I've rarely ever been bored because I know how to entertain myself. With any luck, I know how to entertain others as well (the paradox here is that I think myself a boring person because I'm such an introvert). I can shuffle and deal a deck of cards, make music, act, draw, paint, and I can even pull off telling a joke with some small measure of comedic timing.

Some of the best times in my life have been time spent with people who tell a good story... nothing but the sound of their voice and the scene they were painting with it. I love that. It's no great surprise that the men I've been highly attracted to, and even fallen for, are/were great story tellers. It's a trait for which I have huge admiration. Take me down your path... please!

A little over a year ago I went camping in California with Timothy and some friends. We were having a great time around the campfire. I was totally relaxed and feeling fairly uninhibited. What followed (to my complete amazement) was me basically doing a half hour long standup comedy routine ('cept I was sittin' on a log). I was in rare form - the jokes just started flowing and my timing was flawless - I don't think I could have stopped if I'd wanted to. Of course, it helped that I had a very cool audience which was under the influence of tequila, which was flowing like... uh... tequila. Point is, it just felt so good.

Years ago before TV and radio were invented, this is how people lived. Almost everyone had some kind of entertaining skill. The candles and fires were lit against the dark, maybe the jug was passed, the fiddle was hauled out, the yarn was spun (literally and figuratively), songs were sung, poems recited. My guess is that no one ever rolled their eyes and said, "I'm bored." I've been without TV reception for over three months now and I can honestly say that I don't miss it. Sure, I still have my DVD collection, which offsets the occasional need for boxed entertainment. But, I've created, sung, played, and read more than I have in years. And I listen to the quiet - there's volume in it.

What's in your campfire basket? You've got something - turn off the TV and turn off the lights - find out what it is. Get lost in the glow of a mood, rather than the glow from a box. You'll be amazed at the places you'll go.

To Make A Difference

2011-06-09T05:34:00.000-07:00

Fast post because today is a busy day.

One of my favorite things to do is to reach out and make a difference, for the better, in a stranger's life.

It's even more wonderful when that stranger becomes a friend.

I love to make a difference, because I believe that it's what we're here for - to make a difference in each other's lives.

Who are you going to reach out to today?

What difference will you make?

Because when you make a difference in another's life, you make a difference in your own.

Erika's Story

2011-06-08T09:41:00.000-07:00

***********************************

Erika stirred her drink with the little plastic straw, mesmerized by the light playing on the ice cubes. There had been a time when she didn't touch alcohol. Those were her long ago dancing days, back when she thought she had a shot at being the next Martha Graham. She still had the moves, well, sort of. At least she still put herself through the moves every day. It was her daily workout routine, first the stretching, then the five foot positions, followed by a series of pliés, relevés, jetés and whatever else took her feet by surprise as Wagner drowned out the noises in her head. Dancing was the only time that she felt complete freedom, the only time that she felt like she owned herself. Everything else was a simple matter of getting through the day with some kind of grace.

Erika sighed and took a sip of her drink. She grimaced. There was something about a whiskey sour that she both loved and loathed, and that was what kept her coming back to them. She caught a glimpse of herself amid the bottles that lined the mirror behind the bar. Even from here, even with the low lighting, she could see the wrinkles at the corners of her eyes and the edges of her mouth. Even from here she could see the resignation in her eyes and she hated it. She would never forgive her life for turning out the way it had, would never forgive herself her mistakes, would never forgive the one night that changed everything.

Twenty four years ago she had been the shining star of her dance troupe. Whispers on the street said that she was the one to watch. The ballet world was her oyster and she'd been poised in a perfect arabesque on its shimmering pearl. Then her mother had cajoled her into going to the senior class beach party. Erika hadn't wanted to go, she barely knew her classmates, but her mother had all but insisted. At some point in the evening around the bonfire, the beer was brought out. Two beers into it and feeling giddy and still mildly resentful toward her mother, she took the joint that was passed to her, choked on the first toke, and then took a second and held it in before she passed it along. She stood up from the log she'd been sitting on and wandered off down the beach. Lost in the whispering sound of the waves she had no idea how far she'd walked or how long she'd been gone. In fact, she'd almost forgotten about the gathering around the bonfire until she heard someone running up behind her. She turned to see Rob Gesko, one of the handsomest boys in her class.

"Hey," he said. "We were starting to worry that you'd gotten lost."

In return, Erika laughed a little shyly, trying not to notice how white his teeth were against the dark night, trying not to notice how the wind blew his curls around his head against the starlit sky.

"So... uh... you're a dancer, huh?"

"I am!" She declared with great inebriated confidence. She arced her right arm over her head, crossed her belly with the left, and attempted a pirouette that her drunken feet didn't quite remember. She stumbled slightly and Rob caught her in his arms.

Nine months later she'd given birth to Bobby. Nine months later she'd become Mrs. Robert Gesko. Nine months later her life as a promising ballet dancer had turned into a series of mistakes, regrets, and resentments. The guilt at resenting a helpless baby, her baby, had made her devote herself entirely to her son. Rob had almost immediately revealed himself to be the shithead version of dashing good looks, belittling her at any chance he got when he wasn't busy chasing other women. After ten years the trappings of an emotionally abusive marriage had ended in acrimony on both sides. Rob had taken everything and moved to Georgia with some bimbo who seemed to think the sun rose and set on his beer belly, leaving Erika to raise Bobby on her own. Erika had had to fight him for the child support payments that never came on time. Erika had had to soothe a son who'd been abandoned by his father. Everything had been, and still was, up to her. Early on, after the divorce, she had scrimped and saved her way through a grocery store job that was barely above minimum wage, and after two years, had opened a dance studio.

Erika sighed and signaled the bartender for a refill. The studio was on the third floor of a long defunct cannery in Everett. She had worked hard to make it the mild success that it was, all but begging children with dreams to come in and dance. She had regained some sense of her own definition, her own self-worth in working with them. She would hide smiles as she watched their awkward, gangly limbs try to mimic her own graceful moves. And always, she would save an hour for herself, an hour to be alone, an hour to dance. Then reality would set in when she went home and inevitably found Bobby, now twenty three years old, flopped on the sofa, surrounded by a litter of Mountain Dew cans and junk food wrappers, frantically clicking away at the controls for some over the top violent video game. She'd set her teeth in a false smile as he grunted a near hello in acknowledgment of her presence. She'd feel the resentment kick in again and hate herself for it. To compensate she would do his laundry and make him one of his favorites for dinner.

Her sister Ann had no idea how lucky she was - no children, no trail of wretched relationships, just the freedom to do what she wanted, travel wherever and whenever she felt like, take the time to write two fairly successful novels, and now she seemed to have landed in some fairytale romance. That last was the reason for them meeting up for dinner tonight. Erika wanted to hear all the details, wanted in on some vicarious pleasure. Speaking of which, where the hell was Ann anyway? Erika looked at her watch. Ah well, she was only fifteen minutes late and Rte. 2 could be a real bitch to navigate sometimes.

Uncharacteristically, Erika asked the bartender for a third drink and a basket of chips and salsa. "Health regime be damned tonight," she thought. She was walking home anyway, so a little tipsy wouldn't matter a bit. Ironically, she didn't resent Ann for her freedom and success, not one bit. Ann was the one person in her life that she felt she could rely upon, the one person in her life who was always there when she needed an ear or a shoulder, the one person who would shoot straight with her no matter what. She was, in fact, proud of her sister for laying such solid claim to the life she wanted. Erika bit down on a chip as her cell phone buzzed and tried to wriggle away. She grabbed it and flipped it open.

"Hey..."

"Hey, sis. I'm stuck on 2, but it's starting to move, so I should be there soon."

"Oh, good. I kind of figured that might be what had happened."

"Yeah, I would have been there in plenty of time, but I made the mistake of stopping at Ma's to pick up the clothing donation. You know how she can suck me into a pointless conversation about the unambitious life of a novelist." Erika heard her sister's sigh of exasperation.

"Oh, don't I know," Erika replied with a laugh. "Try being a dance instructor and then you can come and bitch to me!"

Ann laughed in return. "Touché. I'll see you in a few."

"Okay. I'm just sitting in the restaurant bar, waiting."

***********************************

To read more about Ann, Erika, their mother and others - all of which are exerpts from my upcoming novel - click here, here, and here.

The Busy B

2011-06-07T09:58:00.000-07:00

I have a very busy next few weeks coming up. You'll pardon me if some of my posts are a little bit brief. Although there's no telling with me... I get off on a tangent and it's anybody's bet. As I looked at my growing To Do list I had a moment of panic. Followed by a moment of giddiness. Careful what you wish for, it will come your way - whether you're ready or not.

I'm facing a full, and I do mean full, month of making cards, plus I have an art piece to get done within the next couple of weeks, plus I have some necessary sewing. Somehow I need to fit writing and housework into all that. Three guesses which of those things will take a back burner. Plus, I need to reorganize my studio a bit because I'm getting rid of a piece of furniture.

I have an old dresser in my studio that I've been using as a combination of storage and cutting table. But it really doesn't work within the space. I need to get rid of it. I've dreaded that decision as it really is a beautiful old dresser with cedar lined drawers. And it was given to me for free. But, it's just a thing and sometimes things need to get gone.

Evolution is necessary for anything that wants to grow.

Weed a garden and suddenly plants that were having to share sunlight and nutrients seem to jump right out of the ground. So it is with anything in our lives. We have to create space for the light to get through. We have to give a thing adequate nourishment. Yes, it would likely grow anyway, but not at a very fast rate, and not at a rate that would spur real production.

So, I need to get busy. I need to weed out and push everything else toward growth.

In the meantime, you could make it a little easier for me. You could go to the "Challenge Me" tab on my blog and leave a suggestion of something for me to write about. A lot of the time, the most difficult part of writing a daily post is coming up with a topic. So, a little help from my friends, please? Thank you.

Now, where did I leave that mug o' bean....

Fun With a Side of Freedom

2011-06-06T10:48:00.000-07:00

Somewhere along the way we forgot how. As children we knew how. We didn't even question it. We were all about fun. We were all about having fun. But somehow, in our rush to and through adulthood, we lost that ability. We got stuck in a minefield of seriousness. Sure, we know how to joke around. We know how to laugh. But few are completely at ease with it. We make apologies when we get down with the silliness.

Tragic. How did that happen? More importantly, how do we get it back?

Watch a group of kids. They laugh, play, dance, sing, make up outlandish stories and explore the far reaches of humor. All unabashedly. They don't stop and ask, "Too far? Too much? Is this going to bother or offend someone?" They just giggle and keep going.

That's freedom of the highest degree.

And I realized this weekend just how much of that kind of freedom I have in my life. Sure, accuse me of being a Pollyanna, just try. You know I can and will dive into the deeper issues without so much as a snorkel. And don't say I'm lucky. I don't buy the whole luck bucket. We make our own luck through our actions and our attitudes. To say I'm lucky is to ignore all of the impossibly difficult things that have happened in my life. To say I'm lucky is to disregard all the incredibly hard work I've done on my life. Fortunate, yes... but lucky? Fuck that.

Anyway.

This weekend I realized just how much freedom I have. I was talking to a friend about making cards and mentioned that it's like being in kindergarten every day. I get to color and cut and glue and play. The thing is, I've pushed myself and my life in that direction. I've taken steps to allow that in my life. I've made sacrifices in order to have that freedom.

Freedom doesn't just happen. You have to work for it.

It's no secret that I'm head-over-feet crazy in love with my mate. One of the reasons for that is that we laugh together. Note the subtlety there. It's not that he makes me laugh, it's that we laugh together. We know how to have fun with each other. I can hear it now, "You're so lucky," "I never meet guys/girls like that," "My mate just isn't/doesn't/won't..." You know what I say to those naysayers? Fuck that too.

For starters, where are you looking for your Laughin' Pal? In a bar? A laundromat? The produce section? Or maybe you're not actively looking (and weeding out the ass hats in the process). Maybe you're just hoping someone will land oh, so perfectly in your lap. Doesn't happen that way. You have to be an active participant with a positive attitude that the right person will be there. Don't settle for availability, hold out for quality. Because when the sex isn't there, the joy had better be.

For those of you already in a relationship who are rolling your eyes and saying, "Yeah right..." If you can't laugh together, you've got issues that you need to work on. And if you can't come back to the laughter, if you can't re-establish it, then it's time to cut the ties. Nope, no buts. Trust me on this, if laughter isn't there, nothing is there.

I searched for my mate and I went through heartache along the way. We both work hard to make it a worthy relationship in a lot of different ways. But what it comes down to is that we love each other because we laugh together.

Really. Once you've rolled around naked and giggling with someone, what's the point of hiding anything? Yeah. See? Freedom.

When was the last time you had fun? If you can pin-point it, then this post is for you.

Even The Losers

2011-06-03T09:44:00.000-07:00

I don't consider myself to be a loser by any stretch. However, yesterday I was a loser and I didn't mind a bit. I've been waiting and waiting to see if I was going to make it onto the new design team at Third Coast Rubber Stamps. Yesterday the list came out and I wasn't on it. "Bummer," I thought. "But, oh well." I know I'm not the only talent out there in the world. No big deal. I lost. Way it goes.

It put me in mind of the line from the movie Elizabethtown (not that I at all compare losing out on a design team slot to a 9 billion dollar shoe fiasco - hardly), "So you failed. Alright you really failed. You failed. You failed. You failed. You failed. You failed. You failed. You failed. You failed. You failed. You failed. You failed. You failed. You think I care about that? I do understand. You wanna be really great? Then have the courage to fail big and stick around. Make them wonder why you're still smiling."

I blew off the rejection faster than you can say rubber stamps.

I decided I had plenty of other stuff to occupy my time. A friend turned me on to a site that helps women who have cancer, The Lydia Project. So, I decided to make some cards to donate to them. Another friend let me know that she's hosting a benefit for someone in her circle who was just diagnosed with cancer. So, I offered to make cards for her benefit gig as well.

Then the day picked up speed and I got two new card orders and a commission for a painting-collage piece.

Losing was turning out to be pretty damned good!

Then an old friend emailed me and offered me airfare to come for a visit.

Losing was turning out to be fucking awesome!

But... wait for it...

Then I got an email from the owner of TCRS, saying that she had several positions to fill for Guest Designers. Would I be interested in that? Would I?! Oh, hell yes!

I love losing. You betchya.

I am one happy, busy loser.

Here's the deal... I think that when you don't get bent out of shape because something didn't turn out exactly as you planned it, the universe rewards you for that. I think when you don't sit around moping and pouting, and simply move along to the next indicated thing, you get bonus points on your Karma Awards Card.

Because no matter how miserably you might fail, no matter how big you lose, there is always, always the next indicated thing to do.

Let It All Hang Out

2011-06-02T10:01:00.000-07:00

I've been having some good conversation lately with my Tasmanian friend Kit (who posts here). We kind of suspected that we were kindred spirits from the start, but discovered much more commonality after I wrote my post, M is for Mourning (here).

Kit and I have had quite a few messages back and forth over that one. But one thing in particular that she said really stood out in my mind. It was, "People seem to want to sanitize the 'unseemly' emotions... How stupid is that?" I hollered at the computer screen, as if she'd be able to hear me all the way over-under there in Tasmania, "That's it!" Yeah, just like Charlie Brown when Linus lays it on the line.

We do sanitize our emotions and in so doing, our emotional responses. It's a behavior that we learned somewhere along the way, and for the most part it's a detriment. It makes us callous and callused - not only do we disregard and/or gloss over what others are feeling, but we stuff our own feelings down until they become a hard impregnable nugget. What a shame.

We have our emotions for a reason, just the same as we experience physical sensations for a reason. Emotions are triggers that tell us what's good and what's not, what's too far, what's just right, what's delightful, what's unbearable. Squelch that and you end up with all the sensibility and sensitivity of a popsicle. We need to allow ourselves to feel. We need to allow others to feel.

Now, I'm not saying that we all need to be running around, flying off the handle and either laughing hysterically or crying a river. I'm saying that we need to be aware of our emotions and emotional reactions. We need to accept that others will react to various stimuli differently than we might. Again, just like physical sensation, we each feel things differently on a mental and emotional level. Some people love being tickled, others find it uncomfortable and nearly excruciating. Some people can whack their shin on a coffee table and keep going like it was nothing, others need to sit down and have a moment of sorrow and pity for the entire limb.

Emotions are much the same. What makes me laugh like a loon might leave you yawning and searching for the nearest pillow. What brings tears to your eyes might annoy me by its very sappiness. What hurts some folks' feelings, others will easily brush off like pesky bread crumbs on a lapel.

We're all different. Surprise.

Stress is a huge factor in the physical ailments that plague mankind today. We're over worked, overly committed, and overwhelmed. I'm convinced that a lot of that stress comes from us holding it all in, waiting for an "appropriate opportunity" (read: time away from the eyes and ears of others) to let it out. There are two problems with that. One is that we rarely have, much less take, that kind of time. The other is that we need to bounce our emotions off of other people. We need to know that what we're feeling is okay, that we're not opening the door to a rubber room. We need to be able to talk about it. And we need to be able to hear about it. We need to allow others to voice their emotions without judgment, without immediately putting a cap on it and shutting it down.

So, can we all just agree to lend ourselves and others a bit of latitude when it comes to experiencing emotion? And for the love of cheese in a can... can we all just agree to let it out every now and then?

You Had Me At "Hi!"

2011-06-01T05:41:00.000-07:00

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Mitch was more nervous than he could ever remember being, and he found that irritating. He paced back and forth outside the restaurant, mentally belittling himself for opening his big mouth. Would it have been so wrong to just thank her and go on his merry way? Or even just an offer of a cup of coffee somewhere? But this? A dinner date? Stupid, stupid, stupid big damned mouth. He wanted to know her better - she was gorgeous and obviously intelligent. But this was his first date in almost five years, the first time he'd even asked someone out since he and Tash had met, way back when Regan had been in office. Tash. Tash, whom he had loved. Tash, who had slipped away one evil cancerous cell at a time. "Ah, Tash... look what you've left me too. I'm no good at this, baby." Mitch sighed and opened and closed his fists. She would be completely bored with him within minutes. Of that he was certain. Even so, here he was.

If this ended up as anything. "Yeah, right," he thought. If this ended up as anything, what an auspicious and strange beginning it had. There's one for the papers, one to throw the interviewer whenever his fifteen minutes of fame found him. "How'd you two meet?" "We met over a dead dog." Jesus. Mitch shook his head as if that would help clear it.

That damned dog. That would haunt him for a long time to come. Mitch had a few days off between construction gigs, so he decided to indulge in one of his passions. He'd made the twelve mile trip into town, enjoying the shafts of sun peeking through the trees, whistling along to an old Bruce Hornsby cd that he'd cranked to earsplitting volume. Every now and then he'd belt out an all too familiar line of song. "That's just the way it go-ooo-oh-ooo-oh-ooo-ohhhs..." He loved the woods, where no one could hear him howl like a demented American Idol wannabe. Once he got to town, Mitch picked up the obligatory bottle of Jack, then stopped at the grocery store for appropriate snacks - there wasn't going to be any cooking going on for the next few days - he needed cheese, salami, crackers, apples, pears, and some good coffee beans. He tossed in a couple of boxes of granola bars and fig newtons for good measure. Libation and nutrition in order, Mitch's next stop was the art supply store. There he spent more than an hour and an obscene amount of money buying canvases, brushes and paint. "What the hell," he thought. "It's not like I ever go away on vacation, and it's not like I have a drug habit to support." He much preferred to spend the time alone painting, with only the company of the screaming vocals and stellar guitar skills of Messieurs Plant and Page.

Mitch pushed the truck's accelerator a bit as he made his way up the winding hill that lead him back into the woods. His mind was whirling with possibilities that sprang from his new art supplies. He smiled and hummed along to the Bruce Springsteen cd that now graced the truck's stereo system. He rounded another curve and almost didn't see the dark lump at the edge of the road, but something drew his eyes. He slowed the truck, pulled over, and jumped out. The lump was a dog, what had recently been a beautiful black lab. From the glazed eyes to the limp way that the dog's tongue was hanging out, Mitch knew that the dog was gone. He crouched and picked up one of the dog's forepaws, holding it gently in his hand, noting the matted, bloody patch of fur between the dog's ribs and hind quarters. He felt a lump in his throat and a flurry of anger. What kind of heartless fucking bastard would hit a dog and just leave it there for dead? This was someone's pet, someone would soon be missing the beast. Someone's day just got trashed. He felt a tear slide down his cheek and didn't even notice the jeep that was slowing on the other side of the road, didn't even hear the footsteps approaching.

"Hey," the female voice startled him. "Hey... Hey, Mister... are you alri... oh god... is that your dog?"

Mitch let go of the dog's paw, stood and turned. He quickly wiped his face on his shirt sleeve. "No. I just came around the corner and saw him. What kind of douchebag leaves someone's pet like this? I... I just..."

The woman pushed a strand of thick auburn hair from her face and Mitch noticed that she, too, was fighting tears. "I can't imagine. I just can't. He's got an ID tag." They both crouched as Mitch lifted the tag and checked the address on it.

"That's just a half a mile from here," he said. "I suppose I'd better take him and knock on their door with the bad news."

"I could go with you...?" she offered. "I... you shouldn't... I mean..." The woman let out a heavy sigh. "I'm Ann. I'd be happy to keep you company and lend some support." She stuck out her hand rather awkwardly and Mitch shook it, feeling pretty awkward himself.

"You don't need to do that. It's nice of you to offer, but you don't need to."

"I know I don't need to. I want to." Mitch didn't miss the stubborn little frown on her face and knew that she was the type of woman with whom a guy would try very hard not to argue, because he'd lose every time. Ann saw his hesitation as acceptance and continued, "Look, I have an old army blanket in the jeep. Let me grab that and we can wrap him up in it." She walked away before he could protest.

"That was how it started, children," he thought as he paced in front of the restaurant. "A dead dog put the whole thing in motion. And I had to open my stupid, stupid, stupid big damned mouth. Instead of just thanking her, I asked her out. Shit fire to save matches." Mitch nervously scrubbed at his face with a shaky hand. Being a punctuality junkie had its price, as he'd arrived half an hour early. He would love to have a drink at the bar, but didn't want her to show up and get the impression that he needed a drink to have a good time. So, he chose to pace in front of the joint. Shit, did that make him look too eager? He wriggled a finger under the collar of his one good shirt and flexed his neck.

He stared at the cars going by on the street, letting his vision blur, trying in vain to relax. He snapped focus as her jeep turned into the parking lot. Saw her hand shoot out the window in a wave to him as she turned to park around the corner of the building. Mitch suddenly felt numb and cold. He stood, rooted to the concrete as if his shoes were nailed down. This was a mistake, all a mistake, a big mistake. He was sure of it. Then Ann rounded the corner. He was completely taken by the way the warm May breeze lifted her hair, by the way her blue eyes practically glowed in the soft dusk, by the bold way that she walked right up to him and clasped his hands, by the way her mouth turned up more at one corner than the other in a lopsided smile as she said, "Hi."

Mitch reminded himself to breathe. He used the pause to smile back at her, suddenly feeling thankful for his stupid, stupid, stupid big damned mouth. Letting his breath out slowly in an admiring whistle, he squeezed her hands and said, "Hi!"

***********************************

You can read more about Ann and Mitch here and here. To be continued...

Simple Gifts

2011-05-31T09:53:00.000-07:00

Pssst... I spent an entire day doing nothing. Seriously. I didn't allow myself to write, or make art, or do housework. Nothing. I read and watched movies and pretty much just lazed around. This is not an easy 'task' for me. It actually takes effort for me to do nothing.

On Saturday Steve and I spent the day getting errands done and even had the great pleasure of going to lunch together. It's been so long since he's had any kind of "free" time that we've been able to spend just hanging around together.

On Sunday, Steve worked on contracts and I got busy organizing my studio. I'd received so many new items within the past few months and I hadn't taken the time to arrange things so they made sense. Stuff just kind of got crammed wherever it would (barely) fit, and I was getting to the frustration breaking point. I'm not the most organized person in the world, but I can't stand not knowing where stuff is, much less what I have.

Yesterday I played in my newly reorganized studio while Steve did more contract work. Then we shared a dinner of popcorn while watching a movie.

It was what many would consider a boring holiday weekend. To me, it was perfect. Because it was exactly what I needed. I learned something from it.

I learned that it is imperative that I take time out to simply be. To stop, breathe, and... unfocus. It felt like when you stare off into the distance long enough that your vision goes blurry. When you bring your eyes back into focus, it seems like everything is sharper than it was before. It makes you appreciate clarity.

Mmm hmmm.

Once and Again

2011-05-27T06:16:00.000-07:00

During my self-imposed sabbatical from my blog, I don't wish to deprive others of my daily verbal fodder (like I did yesterday, so sorry). So, I'm re-running one of my old favorites. Following is a post that I wrote on November 23, 2007, shortly after I started writing this blog. It still sings.

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Indifference is a disease that kills. It kills the spirit; it kills marriages; it kills people; it kills Mother Nature; it kills the critical thinker that I try to believe dwells somewhere in all of us; it will take us down as a society faster than (*ahem*) Weapons of Mass Destruction. Indifference is a cancer that begins as a small, dull ache, and ignored, works its way through to destroy the entire body. Indifference fostered the Holocaust. Indifference pollutes the air we breathe, and turns babbling streams into wasteland. It's a big, bad, evil, "muthah" of a disease, and we all have it to some extent.

There is nothing harder than the softness of indifference.
~Clare Boothe Luce

Fortunately, there is a cure for indifference. It's a nifty new drug called Righteous Indignation. That's right... anger. While anger is normally seen as a bad emotion, or even as a useless emotion, when processed and used in an informed and constructive manner, it's often the only tool that works. It shakes up apathy; it's causal to reaction; it can't be ignored. Think about it: you're drinking your morning bean, perusing the sports section, mind wandering to mundane daily tasks, when suddenly you hear a loud, angry voice complaining that there's too much foam on their latte. Whether you agree with that person's anger or cause, they've got your attention - they've pulled you from your safe little newsprint world, at least for a moment.

Lately, I've been looking into the hollow eyes of people I meet, people who are only concerned with the next work day, the next bill to pay, the next meal, the next little league game, the next thing to come on TV. I've talked to people who shrug and say, "Ah, what can ya do? Oh well." I want to grab them by the nostrils, bowling ball style, and drag them kicking and screaming (because kicking and screaming would be better than that apathetic pallor, y'know?) into the sunlight. I want to do like Bud did to Lindsey in The Abyss - smack them hard across the face, and shout, "Fight! Right now! Do it! Fight goddammit! Fight!"

Recently, I had a friend let loose in an email rant about the shitty circumstances that are currently reigning o'er his life, and then apologize to me for ranting. I had to go alpha on him for apologizing. People - stop apologizing for feeling what you feel! We're all so caught up in our politically correct cocoons that we're afraid to say anything for fear of offending someone. I mean, are you kidding?! Even if it's directed right at me, I'd much rather hear someone screaming and cursing than to hear desultory resignation in their voice. For fuck's sake - yes, yes, yes! Thrash in the waves, don't just drown! While at first the thrashing might seem futile and fruitless, eventually, maybe, you thrash just the right way and learn to swim. Regardless, what's there to lose? Die trying.

Please, don't be indifferent about the events in your life, about the people in your life, about the crises of the world, about the dying of the land. Get indignant. Be a righteous dude (or dudette). Hey, I understand fully the feeling of, "who am I and what could I possibly do to change anything? After all, I can barely decide which socks to wear." Begin from within. Move your self, your perceptions, your reactions. Helen Keller said, “I am only one, but still I am one. I cannot do everything, but still I can do something; and because I cannot do everything, I will not refuse to do something that I can do.”

Exact Change Only. I challenge you.

Blank Canvas

2011-05-25T05:19:00.000-07:00

Welcome to another week of IndieInk.org Writer's Challenge II. The folks at IndieInk.org are always welcome to new people joining the fun. You can sign up to do it just once, or you can keep coming back week after week - no pressure, no huge commitment. If you feel like giving it a whirl, click the link here. Pairings are randomly generated, but you never know, you just might be responsible for giving me my next prompt!

This week my prompt comes from Sid, who writes here. The prompt is, "write a piece on how the world is but a canvas to the imagination."

While I wanted to add another bit to my novel, the prompt really rang the bells of my philosophical side. So, I'm going in that direction. However, to further challenge myself and to give my readers a little bonus, I've decided that tomorrow, using the same prompt, I will write a piece that fits in my novel. So, slap a bookmark on it, grab another cup o' bean and join me again in the morning.

***************************************

Every now and then I take a moment and realize just how fortunate I am. Not (only) because of the many and varied wondrous things that count, like friendships, family, love, home, food, clothing, and a solid sense of who I am. Yes, I'm incredibly fortunate and wealthy in those things. But when I realize just how fortunate I am, it's in the moments that I fully realize my ability to create, and create in so many venues.

I'm a writer, an artist, and a musician. That's the top of my list. I'm also a cook (chef sounds so stuffy, but I could throw down with the big boys if I had to), a baker, and a seamstress, and a few other things that don't make the papers.

I don't consider myself a master of any of them. To me, mastery implies that there's no more upward or forward motion. Mastery equals arriving. I don't want that. Ever. I always want to grow and change, in my life, in my art, in my perception of the world around me.

Besides, there are a lot of so-called masters that I don't agree with, whose work doesn't "do it" for me. I can admire their skill, but the work itself leaves me feeling... unquenched. Conversely, there are a lot of not-masters who produce work that leaves me dazzled and breathless.

Mastery is overrated. Honing is where it's at. Unleashing is where it counts. Living within a skill is... well, it's just magic. When you're crazy in love with what you're doing it's a lot like being crazy in love with a person. It sends you, it throws you ass-over-tea-kettle into realms you couldn't imagine, it makes you smile at oddball times for no apparent reason. And just like loving another person, it's a relationship that's never perfect. It's not meant to be. It's meant to rattle your sensibilities every now and then. It's meant to get you riled, angry even, because you know you're not going to give up on it, so it makes you focus and find a way into it and through it.

So, I'm thrilled to be a Jane of all trades and master of none. I'll take it. Humbly and gratefully and with trembling anticipation, I'll take it. I sing, I play, I do a bit of stand-up comedy, just a touch of drama to keep things real. I can emote and make it sincere. I'm not afraid of my own voice. I know how to use it to get applause. I'm fortunate that the world is my stage.

I'm a writer. The other day someone compared bloggers thinking they're writers, to people who sing karaoke thinking they're Pavarotti. Screw that. I may not have a best selling novel (yet), but I get up and write every day. I write whether anyone reads or not. I write because I love writing, because I love words. I can turn a phrase, stand back, and know it really says something. I'm fortunate that the world is my blank screen.

I'm an artist. I see a palette of color everywhere I look. I see points and vectors and pixels. I see faces in the trees and the clouds and the architecture. I see things differently. I can imagine (easily) things that are not, and are not as they should be. I'm hard pressed to get through a day without slapping some kind of color onto some kind of paper. It's not a great day unless I've got ink or paint on my fingers. I am fortunate that the world is my canvas.

Everything around me influences my creativity in some way. Everything finds a way into me and through me and back out in some creative way.

That's fortune. That's great wealth... to have the entire world be but a canvas to imagination...

...and to have the canvas to capture that imagination.

Shells For Change

2011-05-24T05:16:00.000-07:00

I know I said I wasn't going to post, but this is a special post, and is something dear to my heart.

The above is a special card that I've designed. The sales of these cards will go toward helping the victims of the tornados that ripped through Alabama in April. My friend Rachel's community was devastated by the storms, and I am working in conjunction with her to get needed funds and goods to the people in her neighborhood. So many of them lost absolutely everything! Half of the proceeds for each dozen of these cards sold will go toward helping Rachel's community. Purchase the cards here.

I have gotten to know Rachel, a fellow blogger, since I stumbled upon one of her posts right after the tornados struck her neighborhood (read her story here). I was so touched by her spirit and her willingness to do whatever she could to help her community recover (read that story here). Many times her posts have left me in tears - both from the beauty of her words, and from the helplessness I felt. So, this is me doing my part to help.

Neither of us is affiliated with any organization. We are simply two people who see needs and who want to make a difference. Isn't that what it's really all about?

If you don't wish to purchase the cards, but would like to make a donation, please contact me at blackinkpad@yahoo.com to find out how. 100% of outright donations will go toward helping Rachel's community.

Thank you!

Break It Down

2011-05-23T09:12:00.000-07:00

Y'know what? I'm taking a day off from this writing gig.

I'm taking some time away from spewing my every thought and wondering (worrying) where and how it's going to land.

I'm taking a break from diving into the deep end of the pool and hoping I have enough air for the journey back.

I'm adjourning from the need to metaphysically holler out to fellow crashers n' survivors.

I know writing is good therapy. I know getting the soul gunk out is necessary.

But I need a sabbatical from this blog.

I need big canvases and lots of paint. Really big canvases.

What I really need is the company of friends, of which I have very few who are available, and even fewer who I feel I can really talk to, open up to. I need to get out and have coffee and conversation. Even though I feel I have nothing to say.

What I really really need is to quit feeling like I need to be so strong all-the-fucking-time. And I'm well aware that the only person who makes me feel that way is me.

So, I'm stepping away for a day, going on hiatus until Wednesday. I have work to do.

Sometime when a thing is broken, the best thing you can do is take a break.

Fengshui Me

2011-05-20T05:55:00.000-07:00

Wow, I like what you've done with the place!

Thanks!

What's this?

Confidence.

Pretty cool. Where'd you get that?

Dunno, really. I found a little piece of it one day and really just liked the feel of it. Once I had that little bit of it though, it kind of went all Sorcerer's Apprentice on me and I started finding it all over the place.

Interesting. And what is this?

Self-esteem.

Where'd you get that?

Oh, it was just a little seedling for a long time. Almost died off once, but I started nurturing it and it really bloomed.

Wow. And this, over here?

Creativity.

When did you get that?

I've had it all along. But it was hidden away in a closet. I finally decided that it was useless unless I took it out of the box and used it.

That's really neat. And this, sitting next to the mirror?

Ah. That's my Sense of Humor. Nothing new there. I've carried it with me all my life and it's gotten me through everything. It works best when I hold it up to the mirror.

Wow, look at that thing... it's huge!

That's Love. I keep knitting at it and I'm hoping that eventually it will cover everything and everyone I come in contact with.

It's really cozy here. Mind if I hang around a while?

Not at all. Make yourself comfortable... that's what friends are for.

Kicking the Bucket

2011-05-19T05:41:00.000-07:00

Defying Gravity

The other day, someone asked me if writing a novel is on my Bucket List. I laughed and replied, "I don't have a bucket list. Bucket lists are for "someday"... I'm living my life now." And it's true. This is how I feel. Now, I have no problem with anyone having a bucket list. If that's what works for you... groovy. I just can't, and won't, do it.

I like to think my life is open to anything. By creating a list, I feel I'm limiting myself. Do I want to write a novel? Sure. Hell yes! But I don't want to work toward that accomplishment to the exclusion of everything else. If I say, "I'm going to finish my novel before I'm 50," then I'm spending the next 6 months doing little but writing. What will I miss in the process? What if a friend offers me the opportunity to travel to Machu Picchu for a couple of weeks? That's also one of my dreams. Do I go for it and push the novel aside for when I'm 51? Or do I say sorry, but I'm busy?

Yes, I want to write a novel - I probably want to write three or four novels. Yes, I am writing, and will be writing a novel. But, it will come as it comes. It won't be a forced race to some imaginary finish line. Because ultimately, everything I do is about the journey, not about arriving.

I could create a list a mile long, but in making that list, I'm wasting time that could be spent taking a walk on a brilliantly sunny spring day. And if I die tomorrow, I'd rather think that my last moments were spent in action, not merely thinking about "well maybe someday."

And what happens when I die a quarter of the way through the list? Does that mean I'll have regrets? That I'll feel I've somehow failed my own life? That it didn't measure up? That I won't feel I've accomplished everything I want to? Do I look at what remains on that list at the end of my life and just give it a passive shrug and a complacent, "Oh well..."?

Ultimately, I believe in being ready for my dreams to come true, but I don't believe in planning those dreams, I don't believe in putting them in neat little columns and rows and keeping a constant account of them. I don't believe that we can be truly prepared for anything in life... at best we can be ready when it comes.

I don't want my dreams-becoming-reality to be forced events. Prime example... I think it would be all kinds of hot, sexy, and romantic to make love on the side of a mountain in a field of wildflowers. I could plan that, sure. There are plenty of secluded places in the mountains here. I could pack a picnic and a blanket and plan a day for us to go. But for me, that would take the spontaneity out of it, that would ruin the actual moment. The expectation of it happening would make it somehow... less than.

Sometimes dreams come true after we've given up on them, after they've become nothing more than a faded wish. Sometimes we get what we don't even know we want until we have it. You can't plan for any of that. You can't add the intangible and ethereal to a list.

John Lennon nailed it, "Life is what happens while you're busy making other plans." And, brothers n' sisters, it happens fast. I won't say that I'd given up on love when I met Steve, but I sure wasn't looking for it. Hell, I wasn't even in the mood for it. So, when he asked to see me, my feeling was pretty much a half-hearted, "Yeah. Fine. Let's have some fun." And I proceeded to be blown out of my socks by something that I didn't see coming, by something greater than what I could have imagined or wished for, by something I certainly couldn't have ever planned for. A month later, dizzyingly head over heals, I moved in with him.

Make the bucket list if you must, people, but do yourselves a favor and keep it short and don't give it too much control. Life is for living right now. Life is for getting into the moment and riding it for all its worth.

Leave behind memories, not a list of what might have been.

My new theme song, and the song that inspired the above painting...

It's Just A Coincidence

2011-05-18T05:50:00.000-07:00

Defying Gravity (Prototype)

Welcome to my second week of participating in the IndieInk.org Writer's Challenge II. It seems, so far at least, that these prompts are serving to tug my novel out of me. So much the better. The poor tome has lain dormant and ignored for such a very long time.

By the way, the folks at IndieInk.org are always welcome to new people joining the fun. You can sign up to do it just once, or you can keep coming back week after week - no pressure, no huge commitment. If you feel like giving it a whirl, click the link here. Pairings are randomly generated, but you never know, you just might be responsible for giving me my next prompt!

This week my prompt comes from Chamindra, who writes here. The prompt is, "It's just a coincidence."

I like it. Read on...

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"Stop!"

"What?"

"I said, 'Stop!'"

"No, I know what you said. Stop what?"

"Stop selling yourself short."

"I'm not really... I just... it's that..."

"Yeah, see? Your thinking is so fucked up you can't even qualify your objections."

That last bit she said with a smirk, he knew. His back was to her, but he could hear it in her voice. Mitch sat at the table, contemplating his coffee cup as though it was going to sprout an oracle, a speaking coffee bean that would reveal all of life's answers to him. "Hell," he thought," At this point I'd settle for some heavily veiled clarity." He turned to Ann, who stood by the fridge, giving him that look, the you-know-I'm-right look, damn her, as she idly twisted and untwisted a dish towel in her hands.

"I know you're right."

"I always am!" She flicked the dish towel playfully in his direction. He loved that half smile of hers, loved that sense of play in her eyes even when she was getting her point across. He stood up from the table and in a single stride was across the room, stealing the towel from her hands. He wrapped it around the back of her neck and pulled her in for a kiss, noting that vague citrus scent in her hair.

Ann pulled back slightly, just far enough to look into his eyes, her arms wrapped around his waist. "You know I'm right."

He held her captive with the towel, and replied, "I know you are. I'm just... I don't know... not scared really, but overwhelmed by what it could mean, by possibilities. I don't want to leap and find out that the water isn't as deep as it looks."

"But how will you know if you don't leap? Do you know how rare it is for a new artist to be offered a gallery opening?"

"I know."

"Do you know how many people would sell their own mothers for a shot to do something that makes them feel good about their lives, that makes them feel like the dreams are there for a reason?"

"I know. I want it. I really do. But Build-In just offered me a bonus if I join them on the new project. What am I supposed to think?"

"It's just a coincidence. Baby, a gold-plated turd is still just a turd. How many more years can your knees take crawling around on concrete? And your back and shoulders are always in agony from hauling equipment around. You've got a chance to do something you love, something you love a lot. Watching you paint is like watching Clapton play guitar. You were meant for it. Besides, your truck is paid off. Worst case, we can live off of my book royalties and ramen. Lots of ramen."

He tried for an imperious look, "Madam, I shall not be a kept man!"

"Oh, yes. You shall be if I ever find the duct tape!" Her hands dropped from his waist and she wedged them into his back pockets.

"It's like that, is it?"

"It is. Seriously, go for it. I'm in this with you and I will stand with you every step of the way."

"I suppose I will."

"Of course you will!" Ann nipped at Mitch's left earlobe and in a whisper chanted, "I'm right, I'm right, I'm right..." Mitch dropped the towel and gave her a teasing swat on the ass.

"Were you this conflicted when you decided to give up teaching and write?"

"Not so much. I needed change. I was miserable and it was making my teaching ineffective. Besides, how could I pass up an opportunity to drive my mother completely insane? You know I live for her heavy sighs over my wretched bohemian lifestyle."

"Bohemian, huh? I've always thought of you as more of a gypsy. You wander around and take the bits and pieces you find, and you turn them into stuff that people like to read."

"Huh. I like that. You know, Grandma Erzsi tells a wonderful story about gypsies coming to her house when she was a girl..."

"You should write her story, Ms. Author. Really, you should. She's a fascinating woman and it'll help keep her memory close."

Ann smiled at him, a slight glint of tears in her eyes, "And you should paint, Mr. Artist. You have your own stories to tell." She ran her hands up and over Mitch's broad chest. She loved how solid he felt, how real, how there. "Interesting that you decided to take the morning off right when I'm having some killer writer's block..."

"It's just a coincidence. But let me see if I can help you with that," Mitch said as he took Ann's hand and led her to the bedroom.

Night & Day

2011-05-17T09:34:00.000-07:00

Last night I was sleepless and prowling the house due to the influence of the nearly full moon. I stood outside on the balcony, listening to the frogs and breathing the damp night air. The cloud cover was heavy with not a glimpse of the night sky to be had. But the clouds were bright, lit from behind by the moon, which in turn was lit by the sequestered sun.

The word that came to my mind was "luminous."

I thought that again this morning as I watched the sun slowly burn off the fog and push aside the marine layer.

Luminous. Subtlety. Lit from within. A gentle glow.

There are people who've burst into my life. Sudden and illuminating beacons. Warm, dazzling sun. They seem to make everything shine and sparkle for a short while. They make you want to run and laugh and dance and sing loudly.

There are others who are more like the glow of that moon behind the clouds. They shed a gentle, constant light. A softness. They don't dispel the dark - they recognize the importance of shadow, that without some inscrutable dark, there's no appreciation of light. They make you want to sit still, soak in a moment for all that it is, smile at the color that is revealed in their light, and revel in the quiet.

This is what I've been thinking...

and I could sure use some sleep.

Hungarian Dream

2011-05-16T09:49:00.000-07:00

Hungarian Dream

I recognized her instantly. It wasn't just that we shared some genetics and I could pick out various family resemblances. I knew her. I would have known her anywhere. She's been showing up in my dreams for the better part of two years now. Always she speaks to me in Hungarian, if she speaks at all. And I always respond in Hungarian, easily, fluidly. This is significant somehow, considering that in my waking life my knowledge of Hungarian is hardly what I'd call fluent.

But the thing is...

I've never seen her before in my life, not even a picture of her. She was dead decades before I came on the scene. And then... last Wednesday I trudged up to the mailbox and came back with a handful of mostly useless stuff - store circulars, bills, junk mail - among which was an envelope from my Mom. As soon as I got back to the house, I dropped everything on the coffee table, grabbed my cheater glasses (aging sucks swamp water!), and tore open the envelope from Mom. I pulled out the contents - a short note from Mom and two pictures. The pictures fell onto the table face down, so I read the note first.

"Dear Barbara Ann (Mom is the only one who gets away with calling me by my full given name), Here are the pictures I told you about. One is your Great great grandmother with your Great Uncle Kálmán. The other is Grandma Schmutzer as a baby with your Great Grandmother. I'll be anxious to hear what you think of them."

Mom knows I like family history(ies). I've always loved fitting pieces into puzzles. Plus, the old days and old ways always give me a sense of connection, of belonging, and an awareness that I owe those long gone generations of my antecedents a life extraordinary.

I picked up the first face-down picture. It was of my Great Great Grandmother and Great Uncle Kálmán (half brother to my Grandma Schmutzer). I smiled at the Hungarian-ness of them, at the obviousness that they were dressed in fancy clothes that they were normally unfamiliar with. Her skirt, while rather elegant and reserved, was wrinkled. Clearly it was kept in a trunk for only the very most special occasions. His little boy suit was a half size too small and the expression on his face was one of a boy wishing to kick off the pinching "good" shoes and change back into some worn knickers and to go play with the ball that he held in his hand. They both wore the solemn expressions seen in so many early 19th century photos. Family photos back then were serious, rare business.

Then I picked up the second picture, the picture of my Grandma and my Great Grandma Rozália. My eyes fell first on the baby, my Grandma. I delighted in seeing the baby who would become my Grandma. Even then, her eyes twinkled with kindness and love, and a sort of laid-back curiosity.

I moved my eyes from the baby's face to look at my Great Grandmother for the first time ever in my life. With a gasp, I nearly dropped the picture as I burst into tears. I recognized her, I knew her. I had seen her so many times in my dreams. I'm covered in goosebumps again just writing this. Some piece of my life, of understanding my life, suddenly fell into place. Something came full circle within me. I don't know any better way to describe it. It shook me to my core. I instantly knew her as the woman from my dreams - and this isn't some woowoo mind shift to try to validate the mystery woman in my dreams. It really was her. Why had she been haunting my dreams for so long? And how? Clearly she's been trying to reach out to me for a while now, and why just doesn't matter.

Picture in hand, I hauled ass up to my studio. I needed a deeper communion. I spent the better part of that afternoon with her, with that picture. I sketched her face, I made the above collage. The more I looked at her, the more familiar she became. Something inside me became whole.

I'm connected. I'm somebody. I am Teresa Pongrácz's great great granddaughter. I am Rozália Pongrácz's great granddaughter. I am Rose Nemes Schmutzer's granddaughter. I know the cadence of the songs these women sang. I know how their hands moved as they washed dishes and sewed. I know the nod of their heads as they spoke.

I'm looking at that picture now, and I can see myself in it. I'm standing just behind and in the middle of my grandma and great grandma. My right hand rests on Great Grandma Rozália's left shoulder, my left gently cradles Grandma Schmutzer's head.

I am following in some amazing footsteps.

Pause Ability

2011-05-13T15:34:00.000-07:00

For those of you who aren't aware, blogger - the ghost in my little machine from which comes these posts - was down for nearly two days. So, I apologize to the faithful who showed up here today expecting to find my usual brilliance... *cough, choke, sputter* It ain't my fault, I tell ya! I was all prepared to write a really cool thing this morning, but I couldn't get past the gate. It appears from my view of things here, that blogger is still having some glitchy issues. Ah, well... never fear. The cool thing is still safely in my head and will make an appearance on Monday.

To those of you who commented on my last two posts, even though they are not showing up on the posts themselves, I did get email notification of them, and I thank you for your kind words.

The good thing is that all that time I spent not writing, I instead spent playing with paint. It's been a great day and I had a fantastic breakthrough on a piece I've been contemplating.

So, my friends, that's it for now. I mostly wanted to check in and say hello and thank you. Have a great weekend!

Oh, and blogger, ol' buddy... please, please, please get well soon! M'kay?

Totally Screwed

2011-05-12T06:57:00.000-07:00

I write all these posts from Steve's computer (mine isn't hooked to the internet). He's a slob in a very cool, mostly adorable absent-minded professor-ish kind of way. Looking at his desk is like looking at one of those hidden objects games - all kinds of fascinating stuff is piled around. There's a belt, loose change, computery stuff, a tiny magnifying mirror, drafting pencils, paper work of all kinds, a wrench, pens, nail clippers, receipts for everything from drills to printer ink cartridges to cigarettes and gummy worms (I am always amused that a 56 year old man has a penchant for gummy worms), and screws and nails. All kinds of screws and nails.

The screws and nails get emptied out of his pockets every night when he comes home from his construction job. There's a pretty good collection of them going on and it fascinates me. There's a different screw and nail for every purpose. While it might work to occasionally substitute one for the other, if you want the job done right, you use the right equipment.

This is his credo, and one that I love.

On my birthday the first year that we were together, he bought me six different pairs of high end scissors, each one destined for a different application, each one sharp and ready for action. He seemed a little sheepish about giving such a gift, saying, "I wanted you to have the right tools to do the things you do." I had to take a very deep breath to keep from crying. I was touched. It showed me that he cared about me being happy and at ease with what I was doing, but more than that, it showed me that he cared about the integrity of what I was doing. In effect, he was saying, "If you're going to do what you do, do it right."

Sure, I'd made do with cheap, fairly dull scissors for years. I barely even realized just how bad they were. Then I made my first project using the new birthday scissors. They worked so well - I could do the job in less time with less hassle and my hand wasn't cramped up afterward.

How often do we sacrifice quality for the purpose of just getting the job done? I sometimes watch the show Chopped, where contestants are given a basket of four unrelated foods and expected to make a dish in 30 minutes. It's always funny watching the judges' faces. I keep waiting for one of them to be completely honest. As they're washing down with water a pea-sized bit of something repulsive, they tend to say things like, "Your use of cumin with the poptarts was brilliant!" I want them to say, "Yeah, it's edible and I'd be thankful for it keeping me alive if I was running out of food in my fallout shelter, but to be honest, it looks and tastes like shit!"

So, I'm sitting here admiring this pile of various screws and nails, and the man who knows why, where, when and how to use each and every one of them. When he builds stuff, it's a sure bet that it's not going to come apart without the help of explosives.

Screw adequacy. Screw mediocrity.

Do it right. Use the proper tools - metaphorically and literally speaking.

If you're going to do what you do, do it right.

On the 5:15

2011-05-11T12:41:00.000-07:00

I've always enjoyed a challenge, but yesterday I realized just how much I enjoy a challenge. Granted, I meet most of them with some trepidation, but once I quit with the timid tap dancing and get down with the boogy, I really get off on it. I'd forgotten that somehow. Or maybe I didn't fully realize it. But... damn.

At first I really didn't at all like the prompt for my post yesterday. (Read it here.) I could relate to it way too easily and I didn't want to just post my personal experience(s), which not only would have been all too easy, but also entirely too depressing. I wanted some fun. So, I sipped coffee and circled the damnable prompt for a couple of hours.

I even whined about it until my friend Dave hit me between the eyes with a well aimed bullet. "Just let it flow. You're at your best when you just let it flow."

So, I circled some more, poked at it a little to check for vital signs. Then I thought, "What the hell. It's supposed to be a challenge. So, take a possibly sad-inducing challenge, and bend it to make it fun and funny." Yeah, sure. Great idea. I kind of scoffed at myself, "You're outa your mind..."

Bingo. Out of my mind was exactly where I needed to be.

I needed to step away from the subject as it related to me. Cue huge sigh of relief. From there it was relatively easy. I closed my eyes and the first thing I saw was a cordless phone, a coffee pot, and a pack of cigarettes sitting on a counter. A still life. I looked at them for a few minutes, wondering what they were doing there, who they belonged to. While I was still pondering, a woman walked into the scene, cursing under her breath, grabbed the phone and said, obviously exasperated, "'Lo?"

I liked her instantly. I knew who she was and what she was all about.

And I could not wait to tell her story. (It's giving me goosebumps to write about this now.)

Afterward I caught myself wishing that people would challenge me every day. Then I realized how ridiculous that is. I have the power to challenge myself every day. I have everything I need to force myself to look at things from different angles, to not take for granted what I'm seeing, to take what I'm seeing and throw it into a different context. What kind of an artist or writer am I if I don't force myself to do that on a regular basis?

I'll tell you... a one-angled view leads to complacency, and complacency leads to trite output. I don't ever want that. I want the whole picture and I want to relay the whole picture.

This was all a huge Aha! moment for me. Expect some changes. Expect to see the view from askew.

Expect for me to step aside and let some 'other' do the talking on occasion. What good is having it if I don't use it?

All You Gotta Do Is Call

2011-05-10T09:56:00.000-07:00

Today I am writing as part of the Writer's Challenge II over at IndieInk.org. My challenge comes from Rachel, who writes here. The writing prompt she gave me is: "It was the kind of phone call she dreaded, that she prayed would never come. Yet when it finally came, she went numb. Her burden was lifted. Now she could breathe."

I have to admit, at first I felt a bit burdened by the prompt. I've been doing nothing but posting serious shit lately, and I'm really tired of doing that. I mean. C'mon. It's me. I've got a killer sense of humor. It's not that I can't easily "go there" on this prompt. I've both received and made that call. But this is supposed to be a challenge, right? Wriiiiite. So, I'm going to chuck my usual sensibilities in the wadi and treat all of us to a bit of fiction. Yowza.

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Fucking phone. Every time she got cozy and deep in a chapter, the thing dragged her back to reality. She'd unhook it, but she didn't want to miss any calls from her editor. With a long suffering sigh, she clicked the save button, then went into the kitchen where she'd left the handset.

"'Lo?"

"Ann? Honey? It's your mother."

She always felt it necessary to introduce herself, as if Ann wouldn't recognize her voice after 45 years.

"Hi Ma." Her mother hated being called that, said it was disrespectful. Ann never called her anything else. "Hey, hang on. I have to get this damned cat off the counter."

"Oh, but..."

"Hang on!"

The cat was nowhere around, but Ann needed a minute to disconnect her brain from the book and rewire to deal with her mother. She fished a cigarette out of the pack next to the coffee maker, thought about pouring another cup of coffee, then thought better of it. She dug the lighter out of her bathrobe pocket, suddenly aware that it was after 2 p.m. and she still hadn't bothered getting dressed. Ahh, the life of a writer. She lit the smoke, took a deep drag, and picked up the phone again.

"Sorry. Furball's being testy."

"It's okay. Ann. I." There was a long pause. "Ann. Honey."

"What is is, Ma? What's up?"

"Your father's gone."

"Gone? Already? I thought his fishing trip wasn't until next week."

"No. I mean... gone gone. Dead."

"Wha...? Ma! How? When? Christ on a taco..."

"Don't be vulgar. It was a heart attack. I found him in the garage. I think he fell over trying to lift his tackle box. There are fish hooks and bobbers all over the place. It's just a mess."

Ann realized that the ash on her cigarette was over an inch long. She flicked the ash into the sink and took another drag. This news was a real Charlie Foxtrot. She supposed she should be sad, but mostly she was annoyed. The old fart could have waited until she had the final copy of her book to the editor. It wasn't that Ann wasn't upset by the news, but in truth, there had never been much love lost between her and her father. He was a curmudgeon to the highest degree.

"Ann? Honey? Are you still there?"

"Yeah, Ma. Sorry. You want me to come over? Dumb question. I mean. I'll come over. Just give me a few minutes to get cleaned up. I was writing."

"Who are you writing to? Are you looking for a real job?"

Ann closed her eyes and clenched her jaw, biting her tongue slightly to keep from basting her mother with some vitriolic spew. Any self-defense on her part would be completely pointless. Her mother would never acknowledge writing as a "real job." Never mind that she'd had moderate success with her two published books. Without an appearance on Oprah, being an author didn't constitute a "real job."

"Nobody. Ma. I'm working on my book."

"Oh, you're just writing your... your things." Which was followed by the inevitable when-will-you-stop-being-a-disappointment sigh, a classic Ma-ism.

"Ma..."

"Oh. One other thing... uh. I haven't called your sister yet. She's been having such trouble with Bobby."

Bobby, Ann's nephew was both her sister Erika's bane and raison d'être. He was 23 years old, without formal education, still lived with her sister and worked part time in a video store (Ann suspected that was only because of unlimited access to the skin flicks) which cut into his full time stint playing video games. He did nothing to help out at home. Erika loved to complain about this, but catered to his every whim and want. She couldn't afford new pantyhose, but the kid always had a fresh bag of cheezedoodles and a sixer of cold mountain dew at the ready. Ann's mother doted on Bobby, her only grandchild.

"Don't worry about it. I'll stop by Erika's place on my way over to your house."

"Oh, thank you, Dear. I wonder if Bobby will want your father's fishing poles."

Ann barely suppressed a snort of laughter. Bobby wouldn't know a worm from his wiener. His idea of nature was letting his slovenly dog lick cheezedoodle dust from his fingers.

"I wouldn't worry about stuff like that just yet, Ma. Listen. I'm going to get off the phone, take a shower and dress. I'll stop by Erika's. That should put me at your house in about an hour? Is that okay? You're alright by yourself until then?"

"Of course, Dear. I'll see you then. B'bye."

"Bye, Ma."

Ann hung up. She looked down and realized that the cigarette had burned down to the butt. She tossed it into a cup that was a quarter of the way filled with cold coffee. She poured a fresh cup of coffee, considered adding a hefty hit of Jameson's to it, decided that was the best idea she'd had all day, and did so. Then she lit another cigarette and went out on the deck. The afternoon was balmy and the breeze soothing. She took a sip of coffee, feeling some sense of reality seep in as she swallowed the hot liquid with its whisky after burn. Then she took a drag from the cigarette and let the smoke out with a slow, even breath.

She shook her head, whispering to the air, "Fuck, Dad... life sure has a way of flicking boogers in your face, huh?"

She took another sip of the coffee. The warm sun enveloped her. She closed her eyes again and took a deep breath.

It felt good just to breathe.

All Together Now

2011-05-09T10:33:00.000-07:00

I should have known better. The other day I went trolling for blog topics. My friend Angela said, "You need to do a review, like a re-cap Blog post. I just joined your blog and I don’t want to go back and read all your past stuff so do a “for you who are just joining us” post."

That's like describing the history of the world: Time began, some shit happened, to be continued...

I mean... how the hell do I do that?! Today marks my 800th post. Huzzah!

Oy. Okay. For those of you who are just joining me...

I started this blog three and a half years ago under duress. Basically, I caved to peer pressure. The day I chose to start it, I was under the influence of hives and benadryl and desperate to do anything that would take my mind off of the maddening itch. Even so, I had this underlying hunch that it might be a good outlet for dealing with feelings I had after losing my late mate, John, to cancer. After all, it was only going to be read by a few close friends and family, and it was a good way of keeping them up to speed with my progress as a "widow."

It soon became apparent to me that I was writing my way out of a quagmire of emotion, that every time I wrote I was reaching toward something. And that stretch was helping me grow, was helping me become unstuck from what could just as easily overwhelm me. I wasn't an artist then, not really, not mentally. I thought I might just grow up to be a writer. I remembered something I'd read about writers and writing, it may have been something Stephen King said. It was something to the affect of how even the most far-fetched writing should be honest, should have elements of honesty in it.

I made it my goal to write with complete honesty. Besides, if I was going to use writing to get through my soul gunk, then it had to be honest. Right? Of course right. So I wrote about everything that hit me in any way. I realized that it wasn't just John's death that I needed to deal with, but all of me, everything I felt inside. If I was going to rebirth myself, if I was going to find the path, then I needed to hack away all of the briers. Added to that, my inner (feisty) gypsy had had quite enough of everyone's bullshit, including my own.

Somehow, somewhere along the way, people started following my blog. People I didn't know. I hope I never stop being amazed by that. I hope I never lose the feeling of, "Why? It's just me writing..." But all that writing opened me up, and for some reason people identified (identify) with it. I think the lack of sugar-coating and pussy-footing was a refreshing change.

But, the synopsis. I started by writing about itching. Along the way I wrote about anger, death, grief, sex, cheese, stew, Hungary and Hungarians, books, music, pie, humor, external validation, childhood, words, biscuits, passion, Maori, inspiration, fear, Santa Claus, languages, the journey, friends, strength, walking, dreams, laughter, art, family, travel, self-doubt, relationships, moving, love, animals, movies, nature, and being locked out on the deck. Not in that order.

How do I summate all that?! Five words: Bienvenido a mi vida loca.

It would be easy to storyboard my days, I lost a mate. I worked a going nowhere career. I got involved in a relationship that I knew would never work - and that was okay with me because the occasional sex was worth it. When the sex wasn't worth it, I ditched the asswipe. I met Steve, I fell head-over-heals truly, madly, deeply in love with him, as I still am. I now work as an artist.

But that storyboard doesn't capture the nuance.

Somewhere along the way, somehow in all that openness of writing it all out, an artist emerged. That artist wasn't born in a shuddering heap that took forever to get legs under it, it was a newborn colt, ready to leap and run at the first rush of fresh air. I was only waiting for my own permission to hold a paintbrush. It was part of the No Bullshit Policy in some way - that need to express everything I felt, through any means necessary, no holds barred.

You could say that although my life began in 1961, I didn't begin actively living my life until 2007.

So, for those of you who are just joining me... Some shit happened, time stopped, then time began again, then some other shit happened, and I wrote about it...

to be continued...