tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-52189331698791426822024-03-13T22:36:25.295-07:00Jo's Creative UniverseHonoring the many ways that creativity shows up in our world.Johttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00689716364946108957noreply@blogger.comBlogger117125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5218933169879142682.post-17769428605814643592016-09-07T14:03:00.004-07:002016-09-07T14:03:59.502-07:00Time flies. I was scanning my list of Bookmarks this afternoon and noticed I still had this Blog address. If you're here, browsing, please enjoy. Also, please note that for several years now, my NEW website address is www.jolauer.com. Hope to see you there (you can still find most of the old posts transferred over).Johttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00689716364946108957noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5218933169879142682.post-45026358757728187122012-06-22T13:56:00.000-07:002012-06-22T13:56:57.226-07:00A Website of My OwnPulling on my big-girl pants, I step into a whole new adventure--my very own Word Press website! Thank you to web designer extraordinaire, Blake Webster (really, that's his last name) at Media Design. I'll be posting from the new site, so please join me over there: jolauer.com<br />
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Thank you for following me these last several years as I stumbled and splashed my way into the world of blogging. I hope I've provided you some moments of entertainment, inspiration, reflection, or just a short escape. There's a Comment feature on the website, so feel free to stay in touch that way.<br />
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Remember, I firmly believe that we are all unique expressions of the creative spirit. Shine on!<br />
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jolauer.comJohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00689716364946108957noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5218933169879142682.post-77591998822544340092012-06-19T13:48:00.001-07:002012-06-20T12:55:34.837-07:00Affirmations and Fortune Cookies<br />
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I’m an avid reader of a friend’s blog, Life in Z-D (check
out the link) <a href="http://lifeinzd.us2.list-manage.com/track/click?u=7aad8bd66d6cadc61138e1c73&id=077f087d9b&e=f8a9ab9ac2" target="_blank">http://lifeinzd.us2.list-manage.com/track/click?u=7aad8bd66d6cadc61138e1c73&id=077f087d9b&e=f8a9ab9ac2</a>
. This week she wrote about the use of affirmations. I’m a believer. My
refrigerator door sports slips of paper and magnets with phrases like, “You are
here for a reason,” “You can do it,” You are a magnet for peace,” and my
favorite, “You are a unique expression of the Divine.” On occasion, I been
known to avail myself of a Tarot reading, a Rune throw, or a Medicine Card
pull. I’ve worked with psychics and those who channel other entities. My belief
is, all roads lead to Mecca. I’m also a Virgo, which comes with a slice of
healthy skepticism which I prefer to think of as a tool for discernment.</div>
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Having finished a sumptuous dinner of dim sum, prepared
lovingly by my two friends and myself last Saturday, we succumbed to packaged
fortune cookies with our green tea ice cream for dessert. Now usually, I take
those fortunes with a grain of salt, and a big laugh. Like the one that read:
You’ll take an ocean liner cruise and meet the love of your life. I don’t think
so. After a brief boat ride in Belize
out to a prime snorkeling spot, I realized that I’m prone to seasickness. One
is unlikely to meet the love of one’s life while heaving over the railing.</div>
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This night, however, that little white piece of paper
contained the words: A big fortune will descend upon you this year. Well, okey
dokey, then. I can turn that into an affirmation, say it everyday, then just
get out of the way and let it happen, right? I mean, it has potential. I am
hoping to launch my first novel this summer. It could be a success. I taped the
slip of paper with those optimistic words I will now affirm on my refrigerator
door, along with the others. </div>
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Uh oh. Here comes that Virgo-thing, stirring up trouble.
“Yeah,” it says, “fortune landing upon you might also mean you could be hit by
a Brinks truck. Money descends in all sorts of odd ways upon people.” Geez.
“Or, what about an insurance settlement for totaling your car or getting
maimed?” Enough already.</div>
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Let me rephrase that: A big fortune will land upon me this
year, bringing joy, peace, and mental and physical well-being. Okay, Virgo—have
a go at that one. </div>
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<br /></div>Johttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00689716364946108957noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5218933169879142682.post-63027817290626400572012-05-12T22:08:00.000-07:002012-05-12T22:36:11.566-07:00Mayflowers and Bugs<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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April showers bring May flowers. What do Mayflowers bring? Pilgrims. This was my mother’s way of combating years of ridiculous knock-knock jokes when my siblings and I were young. As I look back, much of what she said contained embedded lessons. Who knew? I thought she was just being a dorky mom.<br />
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At the risk of seeming obsessed with weather (see last month’s blog), it’s raining—again. And what do May showers bring? Bugs. Bugs that usurp my living space. A turn around is fair play (another Mom-ism) I suppose, since I spend much of my time outdoors.<br />
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However, I don’t kill bugs outdoors—that’s their turf; I am but a visitor.
My spiritual path is one of unity of all things—except apparently, bugs. Well, some bugs. Diligently, I catch spiders, big moths, and other crawlies in a glass, slide a paper envelop underneath, and safely, gently transport the little creatures back outside (where they belong). I shoo flies back outdoors.<br />
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It was to my personal horror this morning that I reached over and whacked a tiny moth that had landed on my bathroom wall. First of all, I did it with some arcane impulse that had nothing to do with mindfulness. Whack! All of a sudden, this little life force that was doing no harm (except perhaps munching holes in my linens—but truthfully, I had no proof of that) was removed from the world of the living. No warning. No time to say its goodbyes or reflect on its life (okay, so I anthropomorphize here).<br />
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The point is I did it without even thinking. The evidence—a left-over smudge of gray powder from its wings—stared at me until guilt motivated me to wipe it quickly from the wall.
I did at least have the common courtesy to say a little blessing for its truncated life as another manifestation of creation with intrinsic worth. I still feel bad.<br />
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Mosquitoes are another matter altogetherJohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00689716364946108957noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5218933169879142682.post-65297742976529118162012-04-13T13:59:00.005-07:002012-04-13T14:11:15.509-07:00Start Where You Are Today<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Pr0exG1T1bc/T4iVh51JLCI/AAAAAAAAAVs/7ny3tbQSMv8/s1600/Blog%2Bshots%2BStart%2BWhere%2BYou%2BAre%2B001.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Pr0exG1T1bc/T4iVh51JLCI/AAAAAAAAAVs/7ny3tbQSMv8/s200/Blog%2Bshots%2BStart%2BWhere%2BYou%2BAre%2B001.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5730994935520898082" /></a><br /><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-lYL0ItE-eyI/T4iVS7r_alI/AAAAAAAAAVg/BFlLJ3L7iMg/s1600/Blog%2Bshots%2BStart%2BWhere%2BYou%2BAre%2B002.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-lYL0ItE-eyI/T4iVS7r_alI/AAAAAAAAAVg/BFlLJ3L7iMg/s200/Blog%2Bshots%2BStart%2BWhere%2BYou%2BAre%2B002.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5730994678321343058" /></a><br />Today, I’m feeling soggy—absolutely done-in by days of unrelenting rain. It’s the kind of weather that could bum me out if I let it There’s a very real condition called Seasonal Affective Disorder that actually does “do-in” those who suffer from too much meteorological gloom (and a lack of vitamin D). Those of us who are not biologically impaired by weeks of gray skies and saturating rain, however, stand a better chance of turning around those bummed out feelings.<br /><br />Still basking in the afterglow from the recent performance of my metaphysical blues song, Start Where You Are Today (if not from the “glow” of the sun), I’m reminded that by changing our thinking we can change our experience of life. Sounds simplistic, but is not for the faint of heart. Borrowing from the lyrics of the song, we perhaps can’t change our circumstances (or the torrential rain outside my window), but we can change the way we experience them. It also reminds us that we need to start somewhere—preferably today. Corny as it sounds, today really is the first day of the rest of our life. Just try changing yesterday. <br /><br />There are examples too numerous to site of people overcoming seemingly unendurable circumstances by shifting their perspective—Viktor Frankl comes to mind (Man’s Search for Meaning), a prisoner of war with no real prospects of survival who became an esteemed philosopher and inspirational teacher. But, that’s a really big example. What about us regular-folks?<br /><br />What about those of us who feel weighed down by an elongated season of rain? Day after day of no sunshine, temperatures that never rise above fifty degrees, ruts in the driveway that get deeper and deeper with the onslaught of water, potted plants that have drowned and hopefully gone on to a better place—we become morose, lethargic, eat more carbs than we know we should. We drag ourselves to work with a lack of enthusiasm and an attitude befitting Eyore. Can we just “snap out of it”? Possibly not—but perhaps we can think our way through it to a less stressful experience of it. <br /><br />To look at our thinking, we have to notice the stuck spots, the places of self-sabotage. Back to the song—a guy is sitting at a <span style="font-style:italic;">stop sign </span>waiting for the <span style="font-style:italic;">light</span> to change—talk about self defeating—with one foot on the gas and one foot on the brake, wondering why nothing is happening. Have you ever been there?<br /><br />His question of angst is “Why try, we’re all gonna die anyway.” Well, yes, it’s true—we are all going to die. A whole generation of kids who grew up in the era of the bomb shelter in the back yard held the same question. I guess the focus should be on what would you like your quality of life to be between right now, and then? The guy in the song rails about the role of fate, and the admonishment to not push the river—it flows by itself. Again, this is not about controlling the outcome, but rather influencing the process by which we get there. The journey—not the destination is our focus.<br /><br />So, what are the good things that can come out of all this rain? Even though the ground water is backed up like a bad sewer right now, over time it will seep deeper and deeper into the earth, reaching those tree roots and dormant plants that have been waiting for this miracle of nature to kick-start their growth cycle. My lilac bush has burst into bloom, despite the torrential rain weighing down it’s branches. Trees and plants are good. Imagine a world without them. They need rain.<br /><br />On rainy days, I’m less likely to busy myself out in the world. I become more introspective; I move at a slower pace; I rest my body more deeply than when I’m running about “getting things done.” Slowing down is actually good for our health.<br /><br />Natural beauty is its own reward. The dusty greens and musty yellows of the dry season are pretty in their own subdued way. But, the vivid colors that emerge after spring rains are enough to make me dizzy. The neighbor’s plum tree glows with pink flowers snuggling close to its formerly bare branches. The lavender color of my lilac along the back fence soothes my senses. The dust-free green of the vines that will soon spout clusters of purple wisteria, glisten as they gracefully drape from the tree boughs. The deep rust of the redwoods, saturated with water, are not seen anywhere else in nature’s colors.<br /><br />I’m sure you can make your own list that will help add some balance to the scale of coping. For me, I’m still looking forward to sunshine—which I know will arrive, eventually. In the meantime, I feel a little less hostile as I pop an extra vitamin D, grab my umbrella, and head out into my day. Hmm. The air actually smells pretty good.Johttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00689716364946108957noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5218933169879142682.post-26663456041931000542012-03-04T09:08:00.010-08:002012-03-18T14:53:15.259-07:00Play Time<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-PRcQ_fMmbf8/T1OmyiKXu-I/AAAAAAAAAVU/lPo15osrB0w/s1600/10%2Bminute%2Bplay%2B001.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-PRcQ_fMmbf8/T1OmyiKXu-I/AAAAAAAAAVU/lPo15osrB0w/s200/10%2Bminute%2Bplay%2B001.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5716095739157265378" /></a><br />Tension mounts as my editor and I make final decisions about layout and design. So many little details required to bring a manuscript into publishing form. What kind of font do I want, and should it be consistent throughout? What do I want the first letter of each new chapter to look like? How about point size? Will my target audience (many of us in bifocals now) be able to comfortably read a 12 point? What about the size of the book? Can it be easily stashed in a bag or purse to be carted about for moments of leisure reading, or stress-reduction reading while waiting in a long line at the bank? Will the cover convey enough to grab the reader’s attention? What about the colors? Do they catch the eye? On and on.<br /><br />As exciting as all this is, I find it stresses my body. My shoulders inch up toward my earlobes; my breathing is shallow; my hands are clammy. There’s a lot of hurry-up-and-wait after each decision. I need a distraction. Ah, I’ve got just the thing. I’ve always wanted to learn to write a 10-minute play—they’re big out here at the moment.<br /><br />I send an e-mail to my writer’s group list-serve: Anyone have any pointers on how to write a 10-minute play? In a day or two, I’m bombarded with all sorts of wonderful tips and information, resources and leads. Okay, now I’m engaged. Book? What book? For better or worse, here’s my first attempt. Disregard formatting; the translation was lost in the cut/paste process to my blog. Hope you enjoy:<br /><br /><br />PERSPECTIVE<br /><br /><br />CHARACTERS<br />Jen/Blaire (same actor)<br />Martin/Stanley (same actor) <br />Beautiful Woman<br /><br />PLACE<br />The couple’s kitchen<br /><br />TIME<br />Early morning<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">(MARTIN is dressed in a business suit, briefcase in hand, and is ready to leave for work. JEN wears a tattered housecoat and slippers. She sits at the table. Her hair is in rollers and she holds a mug of coffee.)<br /></span><br />JEN: I’m sorry about last night, okay? I’m just not feeling it. <span style="font-style:italic;">(Pause)</span> I’m trying . . .really, I am, but—<br /><br />MARTIN: <span style="font-style:italic;">(He turns to her.)</span> I know you are. I think it might be time to get professional help.<br /><br />JEN: Therapy? <span style="font-style:italic;">(Beat.)</span> You think I need to see a therapist? We can’t afford that . . .unless I get a job, that is.<br /><br />MARTIN: Jen, we’ve talked about this. The last time you tried to work, you fell into a pit of depression. <br /><br />JEN: I was working at K-Mart, for God’s sake.<br /><br />MARTIN: We’ll figure something out. <span style="font-style:italic;">(He bends, kisses her on top of her head.)</span> I’ll see you this evening.<br /><span style="font-style:italic;"><br />(MARTIN exits. JEN blows her nose, wipes at her eyes. JEN extracts a phone book from a nearby table and thumbs through the Yellow Pages. She lifts the receiver on the phone and dials.)</span><br /> <br />JEN: Hello, my name is Jennifer Walsh, and I’m looking for a part-time position. <span style="font-style:italic;">(Pause)</span> Yes, I have hostess experience. <span style="font-style:italic;">(Pause)</span> A Masters Degree. I studied and lived abroad for several years. <span style="font-style:italic;">(Pause)</span> Currently? <span style="font-style:italic;">(JEN sighs.)</span> I’m a housewife. I’d really like to do something a little more meaningful. <span style="font-style:italic;">(Pause)</span> You are? That’s wonderful. Yes, I’d like very much to come in for an interview. <span style="font-style:italic;">(Pause)</span> Would it be terribly rude of me to ask what this job pays? <span style="font-style:italic;">(Pause)</span> It does? <span style="font-style:italic;">(She flashes a big Victory sign in the air.)</span> Thank you so much. I’ll see you tomorrow. <span style="font-style:italic;">(Stage goes dark.)<br /></span><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">(The next morning, MARTIN and JEN sit at the breakfast table. MARTIN reads the paper. JEN is dressed and her hair is brushed. She quietly eats a bowl of cereal. MARTIN puts down the newspaper and looks at her. JEN averts her eyes.)</span><br /><br />MARTIN: I have a meeting I expect will run late tonight. I’ll catch a bite at the office. No need to wait up.<br /><br />JEN: Okay.<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">(MARTIN scoots his chair back, grabs his coat and briefcase, kisses JEN on the top of her head and leaves. JEN quickly clears the table and dashes out of the room.)<br /><br />(Stage goes dark. Next scene is at MARTIN’s office. He’s at his desk, and turns to the audience.)</span><br /><br />MARTIN: I don’t know what’s gotten into her lately. I swear, she’s just turned into a cold fish in bed. <span style="font-style:italic;">(Pause.)</span> A co-worker of mine suggested I start seeing an escort. He did that when his marriage started to slump, and it helped him through. <span style="font-style:italic;">(Pause)</span> I don’t know . . .I’ve never been unfaithful to Jen. <span style="font-style:italic;">(Pause)</span> Although, he said it didn’t involve sex, just some affection. I mean, is that too much to ask? A little affection and understanding?<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">(Stage goes dark. The next scene is an upscale parlor. A BEAUTIFUL WOMAN welcomes MARTIN into the room.)</span><br /> <br />BEAUTIFUL WOMAN: Good evening, Stanley. I’m so glad you’re here. <br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">(BEAUTIFUL WOMAN leads STANLEY to a plush couch and hands him a glass of champagne. She takes his credit card. Soft music plays in the background.)<br /></span><br />BEAUTIFUL WOMAN: Please make yourself comfortable. I’ll send Blaire right out.<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">(BEAUTIFUL WOMAN exits from a door behind MARTIN.) <br /><br />(Moments later, JEN, dressed to the nines, wearing evening make-up, and a fancy coiffed wig, enters, approaches MARTIN from behind,slides her hands sensually down his neck and over his shoulders,nuzzles the back of his head.)</span><br /><br />JEN: <span style="font-style:italic;">(Whispers seductively.)</span> Good evening, Stanley. My name is Blaire, and I look forward to spending the evening with you.<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">(MARTIN turns to face her and recognizes JEN immediately. Both face the audience in a moment of shock. Turning toward each other, neither registers recognition on their face.)</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">(BLAIRE slithers around in front of STANLEY, sits on his lap, and gazes lovingly into his eyes.)</span><br /><br />BLAIRE: Tell me something about yourself, Stanley.<br /><br />STANLEY: I know it sounds like a cliché, but I don’t think my wife understands me. I don’t feel like she finds me attractive anymore.<br /><br />BLAIRE: <span style="font-style:italic;">(Strokes STANLEY’S cheek as he speaks.) </span>A handsome, well-built man as yourself? What’s not to find attractive? <span style="font-style:italic;">(BLAIRE leans back and makes a slow, visual assessment of STANLEY.)</span> You’re obviously a man of means and good taste. Why, any woman would find you desirable, Stanley.<br /><br />STANLEY: The only woman I really care about is my wife, and she no longer wants to make love with me. <span style="font-style:italic;">(STANLEY looks suddenly abashed.)</span> Oh, no offense. I mean, you’re absolutely beautiful—stunning, in fact.<br /><br />BLAIRE: We women are temperamental creatures, Stanley. We need to feel valued and appreciated, for more than just our abilities to manage a household, or put food on the table.<br /><br />STANLEY: Oh, I do appreciate her. She’s brilliant—much more educated than I am, really. She’s a great conversationalist. And funny—we used to laugh so hard over the smallest things. <span style="font-style:italic;">(STANLEY looks away, lost in thought for a moment.)</span> She’s detail oriented, excellent with money management, can multi-task like nobody’s business, and she’s beautiful.<br /><br />BLAIRE: She sounds rather amazing.<br /><br />STANLEY: She is rather amazing, now that I think about it.<br /><br />BLAIRE: Have you told her that lately? <span style="font-style:italic;">(BLAIRE now straddles STANLEY and moves suggestively closer.)</span><br /><br />STANLEY: <span style="font-style:italic;">(STANLEY runs his hands slowly up her sides and over BLAIRE’S breasts, and draws her even closer.)</span> No, but I will. I promise, I will. <span style="font-style:italic;">(They kiss.)<br /></span><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">(Stage goes dark. Next scene is in the couple’s kitchen the next morning. MARTIN is in robe and slippers, and JEN is in a sexy robe and slippers. Her hair is brushed. They hold hands over the breakfast table, gaze into each others eyes.)<br /></span><br />MARTIN: Last night was wonderful, sweetheart. I can’t tell you how much I’ve missed making love to you.<br /><br />JEN: It was, wasn’t it? I’ve missed you too. I don’t know what changed. All of a sudden, whatever was blocking me seemed to just drift away. <br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">(They smile, lean over the table to kiss. They sit back down to finish their coffee.)<br /></span><br />The EndJohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00689716364946108957noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5218933169879142682.post-1734604322662606512012-02-10T14:27:00.000-08:002012-02-10T14:31:12.878-08:00Some Thoughts on Bicycling<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ZFBTpCVaEoA/TzWapga2QeI/AAAAAAAAAVI/yCjXXzeLuT0/s1600/Bicycling.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ZFBTpCVaEoA/TzWapga2QeI/AAAAAAAAAVI/yCjXXzeLuT0/s200/Bicycling.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5707638140629828066" /></a><br /><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-S2hKYq7gj5c/TzWaeOOqAdI/AAAAAAAAAU8/Wb5uQR9Gsmg/s1600/Bicycle%2B4.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 81px; height: 200px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-S2hKYq7gj5c/TzWaeOOqAdI/AAAAAAAAAU8/Wb5uQR9Gsmg/s200/Bicycle%2B4.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5707637946768294354" /></a><br />It wasn’t a lie, exactly. When my physician asked me how much exercise I get a day, I said I usually bicycle or walk daily, for twenty minutes to half an hour. For a “senior” that doesn’t sound so bad. Then again, my friends are out on the tennis courts, or whacking balls on the golf course, or long-distance bike riding, or hiking up mountains . . .<br /><br />So let me explain myself. I do actually prefer biking over driving when I can. No gas to buy, no pesky parking places to look for, and I can navigate through traffic quickly on bike. It takes longer to get somewhere, yes—actually, it takes MUCH longer the way I do it.<br /><br />I bike much like I walk. And I meander, or lollygag, more than walk. So in twenty minutes or half an hour, though it seems like a good commitment to physical exercise, I don’t really get all that far, and I doubt if my heart rate would reflect “aerobic.” BUT . . . <br /><br />Let me tell you about the sensual joys of moving slowly through the world—particularly at night when the drier, warmer smells of day are done, and evening moisture awakens subtle aromas. As much as I dread winter, when it’s dark before I even leave work, I’ve found that I treasure those slow night rides home on my bike.<br /><br />In the evening, the settling-in smells carry on the moist night air—a roast in someone’s oven activates my salivary glands; the green smell of wood shavings from a neighbor’s remodel project reminds me of the houses my grandpa used to build when I was a child; the boughs of a cedar tree I pass under are reminiscent of my grandmothers hope chest at the end of her bed; the smell of burning logs in a fireplace is a quintessential expression of hearth and home coziness. The earth takes on a mushroomy aroma at night, and the scent of fog as it moves inland reminds me of cooked rice.<br /><br />Also, in the evening you can see cars coming a whole lot easier. And the stars—oh my; on bike it’s like riding under a sparkling canopy. One evening I was so mesmerized by all the twinkling, I risked a prolonged look at the night sky and whammed right into a dark blue recycling bin left sitting a couple feet from the curb. Lesson learned—now I stop to star gaze.<br /><br />The scents of day have their own imprint as I lazily ride the distance between work and home. In the morning, I catch a whiff of bacon as I pass by a neighbor’s home. There’s a collective smell of “traffic” during the commute hours. Dryer sheets scent the air from someone doing an early load of laundry. Narcissus, reminiscent of kindergarten paste, wafts up from the borders of the sidewalk.<br /><br />Then there’s the sheer joy of being on my bike, a fifty-eight year old Schwinn that I got when I was seven. At that time, the bicycle weighed more than I did. Somehow, it survived decades of cousins learning to ride, and returned to me via my parent’s shed when I was an adult. <br /><br />Originally mint green and lavender, it has undergone a couple of repaints—including Pepto Bismo-pink—and is currently a lovely sea-green. There’s a synergy that happens when I climb onto the seat now (how did I ever reach the pedals when my legs were child-length?). I become a slightly zany old woman chuckling with delight at having her old friend back in her life, and at the same time, I am that innocent child given her first taste of freedom that only a bicycle can provide. Ah, the memories we’ve shared.<br /><br />There’s something good to be said about relics—the human and the mechanical kind. We’re living pieces of history moving through the world. I’ve been stopped many times at the grocery, or the laundromat, or just on a street corner by adults who with a smile of reminiscence say, “I used to have one of those when I was a kid,” or teenagers who muse, “Wow, they don’t make those anymore, do they?”<br /><br />No gears, no fancy hand brakes. Just life at a slower, easier pace, the way it was meant to be lived.Johttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00689716364946108957noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5218933169879142682.post-5450004263388609912012-01-26T14:27:00.000-08:002012-01-29T19:36:27.732-08:00Only Child<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-UcFZG2YQymo/TyHUaCZks4I/AAAAAAAAAUk/9NulvGWP8HQ/s1600/Only%2BChild%2B001.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-UcFZG2YQymo/TyHUaCZks4I/AAAAAAAAAUk/9NulvGWP8HQ/s200/Only%2BChild%2B001.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5702072147013579650" /></a><br />I’m beginning to see the value in having been an only child for the first five years of my life. I learned how to entertain myself.<br /><br />I’m no longer an only child, but as an adult, although I live by myself, I’m never lonely. If I’m bored, or have extra time on my hands, I pull out my box of collage materials (discreetly ripped from magazines at the laundromat, or waiting rooms, or used calendars, or old greeting cards—there’s no end, really, to the sources of art).<br /><br />I’d just finished trimming into a neat rectangle a piece of Victoriana from a magazine, all in shades of pink and peach, with roses, antique teapot and cups, lace—you know, real girly stuff. <br /><br />I remembered a friend who used to refer to herself as a “bull in a china shop,” due to her ample size and questionable coordination. <br /><br />A grin spread across my face as I dug deeper into the box and extracted just the right clipping—a little brown mouse in a crash helmet—and glued it to the background of delicate breakables. That was good for several minutes of chuckles. Actually, it still makes me smile, and it’s days later.Johttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00689716364946108957noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5218933169879142682.post-75772369205659030052012-01-12T12:47:00.000-08:002012-01-13T09:04:00.622-08:00Keepin’ Those Plates in the Air<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-8uYOJiWYHJA/Tw9Hbbs5LBI/AAAAAAAAATo/pn1lqW9-Al4/s1600/6%2Bferrari%2B-%2BMarsh.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-8uYOJiWYHJA/Tw9Hbbs5LBI/AAAAAAAAATo/pn1lqW9-Al4/s200/6%2Bferrari%2B-%2BMarsh.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5696850590265060370" /></a><br /> <br />It’s January already, and I’m feeling the pressure of writing a new blog entry when my mind is in a zillion different places. A friend sent this picture of the beautiful area we live in here in California. It reminds me of Part 2 of my novel, Best Laid Plans(see Nov. 10, 2011 post), that I’ll be publishing this year—the setting is on two acres of unproductive vineyard land. Imagine you’re on another hill in front of this picture looking down. Great location for a recovery house for female ex-felons, right? How could a bunch of creepy things happen in such a beautiful place? Stay tuned. <br /><br />So, that’s one excuse for not attending to the blog more regularly—I’m waiting for the edits on Part 2, and working with a cover artist to capture just the right imagery for a cozy mystery that doesn’t want to take itself too very seriously. We’re awfully, awfully close.<br /><br />Excuse No. 2 is pulling together a band to perform my metaphysical blues piece, Start Where You Are Today, which will be performed in concert March 17. It’s thrilling to hear a bunch of notes I’ve put on a page, along with some lyrics underneath, transform themselves into a real song with the help of some amazingly talented musicians. I get all kid-in-candy-shop excited listening to them grapple with chord progressions and rhythm shifts.<br /><br />And then, there’s learning new music for choir, staying in touch with friends and family, spending time with the greatest little grandtwins in the world. . .oh, yeah, and work—we can’t forget work.<br /><br />One day soon, I’ll get back on track. Until then, please follow whatever creative inspiration speaks to you. I can’t think of a better use of time.Johttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00689716364946108957noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5218933169879142682.post-75119722815785993942011-12-24T10:15:00.000-08:002011-12-24T10:26:11.762-08:00Second Bloom<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-AUEgOGKPScI/TvYXx8JEx7I/AAAAAAAAATc/xdsmgHNEcog/s1600/Second%2BBloom%2B002.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-AUEgOGKPScI/TvYXx8JEx7I/AAAAAAAAATc/xdsmgHNEcog/s200/Second%2BBloom%2B002.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5689761325954418610" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-pdiuipRoWIM/TvYXlHNAG4I/AAAAAAAAATQ/KKI6oXvVc-c/s1600/Second%2BBloom%2B001.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-pdiuipRoWIM/TvYXlHNAG4I/AAAAAAAAATQ/KKI6oXvVc-c/s200/Second%2BBloom%2B001.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5689761105585380226" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-XXJEnjOYPzs/TvYXa0_JWUI/AAAAAAAAATE/fUuUq52EsbM/s1600/Calendar%2Bpages%2B001.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-XXJEnjOYPzs/TvYXa0_JWUI/AAAAAAAAATE/fUuUq52EsbM/s200/Calendar%2Bpages%2B001.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5689760928896735554" /></a><br />It’s December, the month I sit down with my current calendar and transfer notes, birthdays, reminders onto the pages of the new year’s calendar. The space heater is on, the steam rises from a cup of ginger tea that sits next to a warmed-up biscuit on an antique plate from my grandmother—the one with tiny pink roses circling the edge. The sky is blue, and deceptively sunny. No warmth reaches the ground.<br /><br />I’m on July, 2012 now, and in careful lettering with my special blue-ink pen, I write “Wisteria, 2nd bloom,” on the calendar page. I smile in anticipation as I mark this reminder that summer will come again, regardless of the weather at the moment. I feel excitement knowing that next July I will inhale the scent of these beautiful clusters of fragrant purple blossoms that will drip from the greenery overhead, just outside my window. <br /><br />I have two azalea plants. One blooms in the spring, big, bright, beautiful red blossoms. This I’ve marked in May. The other, with smaller, perfect pink petals, blooms mid-September. Why? I haven’t a clue. I planted them the same time in celebration of a novella I had just published, Waltzing With the Azaleas. The flowers continue to bloom—the book has stopped selling. Such is life. <br /><br />The days, months, years go so much faster now than once they did. Babies are born, friends and family die, the cycle of life spins along as it did before I arrived, and as it will after I’m gone. I’ve buried both parents, an event I spent the better part of a lifetime dreading. From the vantage point of being old(er) myself now, it wasn’t as bad as I had anticipated. There’s an order to life, and death is part of it.<br /><br />The leaves have mostly all dropped like deflated parachutes from the trees that border my cottage. With sadness, I remember a story about someone waiting to die until the last leaf falls from the tree. I can’t remember how it ends, but the poignancy stays with me—I keep thinking that someone glued the last leaf, but the person died anyway. Some things are unavoidable, despite our best attempts at controlling circumstances.<br /><br />And, as the leaves drop, turn brown, and become mulch, the new pale green buds on my lilac bush dare to raise their heads in careless optimism. As the last of my basil blackens in the early morning frost, the primary colors of the primrose defiantly beam their radiance up at me from their terra cotta pots, undaunted by the winter wind and rain, or the expectations of the season.Johttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00689716364946108957noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5218933169879142682.post-3627402196469399972011-12-14T13:45:00.000-08:002011-12-14T13:50:42.272-08:00At The Whim of the Muses<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-MaiTLn8Z_d4/TukaIu1kPPI/AAAAAAAAAS4/xvSthPZuOsk/s1600/Muses.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 169px; height: 200px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-MaiTLn8Z_d4/TukaIu1kPPI/AAAAAAAAAS4/xvSthPZuOsk/s200/Muses.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5686104741845941490" /></a><br />Some writer friends and I were talking about what drives us to write. We agreed that for whatever reason, we cannot <span style="font-style:italic;">not</span> write, but the motivations were varied. For one writer, there are definite stories she wants to tell. Crafting the storyline, inter-weaving the plots is ultimately satisfying for her. For another, he wishes to create an income doing something he loves—something he’s proud of. He searches for stories that have not been told, many times the behind the scene stories of a headline news article.<br /><br />We agreed that there were probably as many reasons to write, as writers. “And you?” they ask me.<br /><br />It seems that I am at the whim of the muses. I write stories out of the universal consciousness as the characters call to me. For one of my novellas, I was shown a mental picture of a small boy standing in front of a mirror, drizzling strands of Christmas tinsel over his head to make him a beautiful woman. He needed me to help him through a sex change later in his life. Before that, the word <span style="font-style:italic;">reincarnation </span>wrapped itself around my brain and wouldn’t let go until I finished a book about an unrequited lesbian love affair in the1700s, England. In a short story, a woman with multiple personalities needed a hand it getting out of an abusive relationship, and begged me to write her an escape route. In a collection of short stories, the theme of returning home kept emerging. In one of those, a young girl from the bayou hitchhiked across country to “find herself” in San Francisco so she could return home to take over the business she was to inherit. Without that quest, she would have lived a quietly miserable life, trapped in a go-nowhere existence. In another, a young Miwok girl beckoned me with mental picture of herself and her younger brother picking blueberries in a field. The girl is stolen and raised in another tribe, and fights for her life to return to her people. It amazed me how many versions of returning home there actually were when I began listening to the characters.<br /><br />There appears to be no rhyme or reason to what I write—I just show up when I’m called.Johttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00689716364946108957noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5218933169879142682.post-69383729254933018772011-12-04T09:19:00.000-08:002011-12-04T10:36:25.567-08:00Creative Manifestation<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-WJWpiV9VmZU/TtusoGCuXdI/AAAAAAAAASs/pH9jT7Htn2I/s1600/The%2BScent%2BShoppe.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-WJWpiV9VmZU/TtusoGCuXdI/AAAAAAAAASs/pH9jT7Htn2I/s200/The%2BScent%2BShoppe.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5682325159674797522" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-GNasvMQy7WM/TtusYoA0rzI/AAAAAAAAASg/RHTD1sEqGoE/s1600/The%2BScent%2BShoppe%2Bessentials.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-GNasvMQy7WM/TtusYoA0rzI/AAAAAAAAASg/RHTD1sEqGoE/s200/The%2BScent%2BShoppe%2Bessentials.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5682324893915721522" /></a><br /> <br />There was a time in my life when I was faced with quitting a particularly physical job for the sake of my pregnancy. Everything about my life was about to change with the birth of my daughter, so it seemed like a good time to re-evaluate the space into which I was bringing this new life-form. In hindsight, I think of this as my hedonist period.<br /><br />It started with bag balm. For those of you who’ve been pregnant, you know the relief this can bring to stretching skin. For those of you who haven’t, imagine cow udders massaged in a balm that would relieve the pressure and swelling of constant milk production and extraction. Yeow. Bag balm spawned the desire for other body pleasure/necessity products: soothing oils, lotions, gentle soaps, herbal toothpaste, scented shampoo. . . <br /><br />One of my favorite spots on earth was the Berkeley Body Shop. I had moved up from Berkeley a couple years earlier, and when homesick for the chaos of city living (at that time, we were living on the side of a mountain, miles from anything, next to a burbling creek, surrounded by trees), I’d drive a couple hours south and spend the day in my old Berkeley haunts. The Body Shop was a place that met the needs of all my senses (yes, there were even edible massage oils). I used to dream of having a life surrounded by this sort of luxury, as I would pay for one bar of exquisite smelling hand-milled soap, or one carefully chosen bottle of scented lotion.<br /><br />Pregnancy for me was a hugely inspired, creatively filled endeavor. When I quit my job, I decided to open my own retail business, selling all those scrumptious products I was driving to Berkeley to buy, one at a time. I’ve always been a learn-by-doing sorta gal, so with the help of my then-husband, I launched into a mad information gathering quest, learned how to do business proposals, a fictitious business statement, advertising, how to deal with wholesalers, keep records, price and display products. <br /><br />We were putting the final coat of stain on the double Dutch shop door the day before I went into labor. Three days after my daughter was born, we opened up shop. My daughter had a special place on top of the counter, and a small quiet room for uninterrupted naps as needed. We were surrounded by luxury. In good weather, the top doors were open, allowing scents to waft seductively onto the street. New Age music welcomed people into the shop. Incense, music, scented soap, thirty different fragrances in bulk that could be used to scent lotions, shampoos, massage oils, shaving lotions, bubble bath, individual essential oils, jewelry, East Indian clothing, baskets, gift packages, lip balms, natural make up, hair brushes, foot massage products, Reflexology charts—virtually everything to soothe or stimulate the senses—could be found in this little haven of hedonism. <br /><br />It became a hub, a center, a gathering point for like-minded people, breaking the isolation that often comes with new motherhood. Local artists displayed their work. It became an information distribution center for events in the community. It became a drop-in, safe and welcoming haven for patients from the nearby state hospital who were on day pass. It became “that place where the baby is growing up.” By the time my daughter was two, I was known about town as, “the Scent Shoppe baby’s mother.”<br /><br />Fast forward a few decades. I sold the shop when my daughter was five, and returned to the university to finish my education. My life reinvented itself, as life does, although I didn’t lose touch completely with the word of scents. I went through a period of fascination with medicinal essential oils for healing. I’m partial to using Frankincense for removing skin tags. You want to know what you’re doing before you try this, or you’ll damage your skin. Geranium oil is good for those pesky fungal conditions and antibacterial needs. My favorite is an oil (blend) that reportedly was used back in the days of the Black Plague to boost the immune system.<br /><br />Life moved on, and I got distracted with a host of other interests. I gave away my collection of oils and books on healing. <br /><br />Recently, a friend passed along a recipe for foaming hand soap using essential oils, and I found myself returning to this old passion, the desire to bring a little luxury into my life. If you’re feeling particularly hedonistic and adventurous, here’s what you’ll need:<br /><br />A foaming pump bottle. The only place I could find these where you didn’t have to order in lots of 1,000 was BottlesandFoamers.com on-line. They’re very reasonable—a little over a dollar each. Into this bottle, fill ½ your container with Dr. Bronner’s unscented liquid soap (most health stores carry this, some in bulk); ¼ your container with filtered water, and 1/8 your container with an oil of your choice (jojoba, olive, almond, etc.). Add your favorite essential oil—a few drops or more, your choice. Shake gently to blend. The pump will do the rest. It creates a luxurious, scented, foaming soap worthy of anyone on your Christmas gift list. Or, perhaps, just for yourself.Johttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00689716364946108957noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5218933169879142682.post-59363231799102290072011-11-10T09:27:00.000-08:002011-11-13T10:46:24.230-08:00The Next Step<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-jTFQYohfRFc/TrwKFedhXQI/AAAAAAAAASU/tOsBYmZXhrA/s1600/Rat%2Bin%2Bpool.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 134px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-jTFQYohfRFc/TrwKFedhXQI/AAAAAAAAASU/tOsBYmZXhrA/s200/Rat%2Bin%2Bpool.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5673420719772491010" /></a><br />In my post dated Aug 26, 2011, I mentioned a sequel I was working on, The Next Step, the follow-up story to the novel I’m STILL shopping, Best Laid Plans. <br /><br />In The Next Step, the residents of a recovery house for female ex-felons have relocated their digs from San Francisco to the rolling vineyards of Santa Rosa, CA. As much as they are moving away from a lot of bad karma and potentially dangerous legal entanglements in the city, they are moving to the peaceful, slower country life that intuitively seems to lend itself to deeper healing. They’re off to a rough start, however. Let me share a little of their journey(and, yes, I have wi fi in the cave):<br /><br />Madigan, all two-hundred and eighty pounds of her, was stuffed into a red and white polka-dot swimsuit. It was mid-afternoon, the day after the women of The Next Step recovery house for female ex-felons, of which Madigan was one, had moved into their newly built digs in Santa Rosa. Their two-story farmhouse, on two acres of non-productive vineyard land, had been gifted to them as a tax write-off—a win/win for the vineyard owner and the women as well.<br /> <br /> “Hey there, old woman,” Madigan turned her pudgy brown face downward, in the general direction of hell, to address the memory of their former benefactress, Florence, a wealthy octogenarian, who had run off with their bank account, gone into hiding, and put their original recovery house in San Francisco at risk. “Turns out your crazy old self is responsible for me havin’ a new swimmin’ pool. Hah!” she slapped her thigh for good measure. She stood at the edge of the lap pool and dipped her toes in. The California summer had warmed the water to a pleasant enough temperature, if you didn’t lollygag. Temperatures could reach the high nineties mid-day, and then drop to forty-six overnight.<br /> <br />Madigan tossed her beach towel onto a nearby lounge chair and lowered herself step by step, into the water. Squinting against the sun, she noticed a mass on the bottom, at the far end of the pool. She back-stepped herself quickly out of the water and glanced around frantically. “Hey! Help! Somebody. . .” she shouted back toward the main house.<br /> <br />Alarmed by the pitch of her voice, Shalese, the director of the recovery house, and Chandra, a street-wise resident with a bad-ass mouth, who’d been raking up construction debris, came charging around the corner of the house. “Effin’-A, girl, you better be drowning or something, yelling like that,” Chandra admonished. <br /> <br />Shalese, seeing that Madigan was safe, cut her pace back to a walk, and stopped where the two women stood, poolside. She followed Madigan’s finger which jabbed frantically toward the other end of the pool. “Come on, let’s go take a look,” Shalese said.<br /> <br />“Right behind ya—w-a-y behind ya,” Madigan muttered. Chandra jogged to the end of the pool, knelt down, and peered into the water. “Looks like rats, three of them,” she said.<br /> <br />“Rats? I almost went swimmin’ with rats?” Madigan crossed her hands over her ample breast, holding her heart. Madigan grew up in the Tenderloin area of San Francisco—she knew rats. It didn’t mean she wanted to swim with them.<br /> <br />“No problem,” Chandra commented, “they’re dead.”<br /> <br />“That’s strange,” Shalese said, squatting next to Chandra. “If they just fell in, you’d think they’d be farther apart. They seem almost tied together.”<br /> <br />“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” Madigan called out plaintively as she crossed herself.<br /> <br />“You’re not Catholic,” Chandra said over her shoulder.<br /> <br />“Can’t hurt,” Madigan said.<br /> <br />“I’ll go get the net and scoop them out, unless either of you has a better idea,” Shalese said to the women.<br /> <br />“I ain’t jumpin’ in to haul their sorry asses out of the pool,” Madigan said. “You could get the plague or something. We gonna have to drain the water out. . .” She rocked herself from foot to foot.<br /> <br />That evening, even though it was a weekend, and their regular house schedule was suspended, the ten residents and three staff met in the group room to process the afternoon’s events. Jenny, Shalese’s partner and second in command at the house, spoke quietly with Mab, Shalese’s ex-girlfriend and current staff member.<br /> <br />“We’ve been here a grand total of a day-and-a-half, and already something creepy happens. I thought we left all that behind us in San Francisco,” Jenny said.<br /> <br />“Along with our hearts,” Gabriella, who had overheard her, commented with a smile at her own cleverness. She spoke for all of them—no one had wanted to leave the city.<br /> <br />The suspicious deaths of several men who were coincidentally the ex-husbands of women in the recovery house, was one reason The Next Step had relocated. It seemed likely, but still not proven, that Florence and a band of her wealthy sociopath compatriots—with an agenda of righting perceived wrongs according to their own twisted form of urban justice—may have been responsible for those deaths. Florence’s vanishing act had brought the unwanted attention of law enforcement to the recovery house. The residents, as a group of formerly battered women, did not believe that <span style="font-style:italic;">the policeman is your friend</span>.<br /> <br />“Baby girl, let’s not jump the gun,” Mab addressed Jenny’s concern. “We don’t really know what happened yet.”<br /> <br />“There were three rats, tied together by their tail, tossed into our swimming pool!” Jenny’s voice rose a notch on the panic register. “This was no accident.”<br /> <br />“No, not an accident,” Mab agreed. “Could be a nasty prank though. All the vineyard workers are guys. Maybe they just wanted to see if they could get a rise out of a houseful of women. You know, sort of like a hazing or something.”<br /> <br />“If this is their welcoming ritual, I’d hate to see what they’d do if they wanted to get rid of us,” Jenny said.Johttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00689716364946108957noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5218933169879142682.post-4677425218395630952011-10-27T12:13:00.000-07:002011-10-27T12:30:15.875-07:00Ponderings From the Cave: On Tortillas and Toothbrushes<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-qsJqr0q4yl0/TqmwohsoSAI/AAAAAAAAASI/r9NyGP8UcZo/s1600/Toothbrushes%2Band%2BTortillas.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-qsJqr0q4yl0/TqmwohsoSAI/AAAAAAAAASI/r9NyGP8UcZo/s200/Toothbrushes%2Band%2BTortillas.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5668255816309295106" /></a><br /><br /><br />I had a tortilla the other day that stuck to my teeth like a bat to a cave. Got me to thinking about toothbrushes—I know, the mind is a terrible thing to waste. Nevertheless, I wondered just how long we as a species have been obsessed with removing food from our teeth. This created another Ask Jeeves moment (see post dated 8/6/11).<br /><br />Apparently, excavations done all over the world since before recorded history point to some kind of oral hygiene. The chew stick, the first toothbrush made in 3000 BC, was the frayed and splayed ends of twigs from the Banyan tree, and the Arak tree, which has antiseptic properties.<br /><br />In 1223, monks in China cleaned their teeth with brushes made of horse-tail hairs attached to an ox-bone handle. How do you spell <span style="font-style:italic;">pteuw</span>? <br /><br />William Addis of England is believed to have produced the first mass-produced toothbrush in 1780. He was in prison at the time, and this had something to do with bribing a guard. <br /><br />Natural animal bristles were replaced by synthetic fibers, usually nylon, by DuPont in 1938. The first electric toothbrush was invented in Switzerland in 1954.<br /><br />Just in case you wondered. Now, you can go enjoy a tortilla. I’m going back in my cave (and I’m takin’ my toothbrush with me).Johttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00689716364946108957noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5218933169879142682.post-72733251331853137612011-10-17T20:35:00.000-07:002011-10-17T20:39:48.461-07:00Still in my cave. . .<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-OpoCm6kWkDQ/Tpz0n8OyYfI/AAAAAAAAAR0/0BvR9rR3LhY/s1600/Rest%2BYour%2BBones.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-OpoCm6kWkDQ/Tpz0n8OyYfI/AAAAAAAAAR0/0BvR9rR3LhY/s200/Rest%2BYour%2BBones.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5664671398345466354" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-WfgHx_kO_ac/Tpz0XRN4r0I/AAAAAAAAARo/DDDp273igTU/s1600/Save%2Bthe%2BLast%2BDance%2Bfor%2BMe.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-WfgHx_kO_ac/Tpz0XRN4r0I/AAAAAAAAARo/DDDp273igTU/s200/Save%2Bthe%2BLast%2BDance%2Bfor%2BMe.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5664671111921053506" /></a><br />Still in my cave, waiting for motivation to rejoin the world. I slipped out long enough to photograph the new neighbor’s Halloween decorations. I haven’t met them yet, but I like their taste. The one I labeled “Save the Last Dance for Me” makes me terribly sad in a lovely, nostalgic way. Reminds me of the 50th wedding anniversary parties for my grandparents back in Iowa, and then later my parents in Colorado, where each couple had their special moment on the dance floor. All four of them are gone now.<br /><br />Going to crawl back in my cave now and rest my bones. Don’t give up on me, I’m bound to emerge at some point.Johttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00689716364946108957noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5218933169879142682.post-80234575960499137372011-09-29T13:55:00.000-07:002011-09-29T14:05:55.247-07:00It’s That Time Again. . .<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-AbzQkDB_BrQ/ToTdFsZhgpI/AAAAAAAAARg/Yy3onjAXrBk/s1600/bear-cave.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-AbzQkDB_BrQ/ToTdFsZhgpI/AAAAAAAAARg/Yy3onjAXrBk/s200/bear-cave.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5657890121771483794" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-_rEd7r5Myq8/ToTdAfoTRcI/AAAAAAAAARY/4mnh9cgLPIE/s1600/cave-bear.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 151px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-_rEd7r5Myq8/ToTdAfoTRcI/AAAAAAAAARY/4mnh9cgLPIE/s200/cave-bear.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5657890032444458434" /></a><br /><br />As autumn sneaks in the back door to the summer I didn't get, and winter looms dark and heavy just beyond the fence, doing nothing for long periods of time feels easier than doing something. My bear-self is preparing for hibernation—I can feel it in my bones. <br /><br />Most people run about ridiculously happy to be done with the hot, sticky, summer weather. They ooo and aah about the change of seasons, the touch of crispness in the air, the leaves shifting from green to the red-gold spectrum. They use words like invigorating. They’re out and about—they exercise and stretch those muscles that went dormant with lazy summer days. They even jog, for heaven sake. Dinners are laden with root vegetables and stews, pastas and breads. Pumpkins are popping up everywhere. I even saw an artificial Christmas tree at Costco over the weekend. I mean, really?<br /><br />I have an atavistic response to autumn—maybe because I grew up in the Midwest, where autumn is short-lived, and is followed by months of bleak, colorless days of unbelievably cold weather. My bear cells begin to multiply as I take on extra weight, experience a bleary-eyed lethargy that comes with the change of seasons. I eat more than I’m hungry for in preparation for the next five months of hibernation when I lose my appetite. I move less, and lumber when movement is required. It wouldn’t surprise me if one day I sprouted a full body of thick fur.<br /><br />My human experience is one of losing my words. My brain slows down, and word retrieval is sketchy at best. New ideas have to wait until spring, when the blood flows more smoothly to my brain. My heart takes up a hypnotic thump-pause, thump-pause rhythm. My extremities are always cold. I crave the quiet, solitude of my little cave-cottage, and get cranky at a life that yanks me out of my comfort zone daily. I would be blissfully happy sitting in one spot, wrapped in a blanket—just point me toward a blank wall. And, turn up the heat, please.<br /><br />Fortunately, this response lasts only a matter of days. I can feel it creeping about the perimeter of my psyche, like an old bear sniffing out a warm, dry cave to hole up in. If you need to reach me, and phone, e-mail, and snail-mail haven’t been effective, perhaps you could leave a note under a rock just outside my cave. I’ll get to it.Johttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00689716364946108957noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5218933169879142682.post-24050430936373062032011-09-18T21:08:00.000-07:002011-09-18T21:12:47.977-07:00Door to the Center of the Earth<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-YOYeHQqmJrc/TnbAzU-KwhI/AAAAAAAAARQ/dRc11c5-oa8/s1600/Door%2Bin%2BTree.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-YOYeHQqmJrc/TnbAzU-KwhI/AAAAAAAAARQ/dRc11c5-oa8/s200/Door%2Bin%2BTree.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5653918370245558802" /></a><br /><br />Ever since childhood, I’ve been fascinated by the thought of finding a door in the trunk of a tree. I imagined coming upon a tree in the woods with a small door that only I noticed. There would be a brass doorknob or latch, and once inside, I would follow a path down to a magical world in the bowels of the earth.<br /><br />I’m not sure where I got that idea, as most of the timberland trees in my small Iowa hometown were no more than eight-to-ten inches in diameter. But I remember looking, when we’d take Sunday afternoon walks through the woods.<br /><br />In my 40ies, a friend took me to visit a camp, nestled in a redwood forest above the coast of the Pacific ocean, where she spent summers. We wound our way through the camp to the far edge of the property where there was a huge redwood tree. To my delight, there was a door in the hollowed-out trunk. Stepping through the door, I found myself in a tiny room, with a small bed, a chair, and a table with a oil lamp. I had visions of a Hobbit coming to reclaim the space. But for the moment, I was able to live at least part of my childhood fantasy—minus the bowels of the earth adventure.<br /><br />Little did I know that fifteen years later, I would revisit the idea of the hollow tree, through shamanic journeying, to find a spirit guide.<br /><br /><br />Shamanic journeying is a spiritual practice prevalent in many indigenous earth-based cultures, of entering into an altered state of consciousness, or trance, with the purpose of finding guidance in the spirit realm. In trance, we search for a totem animal or guide to bring back with us to our daily reality. <br /> <br />The ritual lasts close to an hour and is usually done in a darkened room with closed eyes to the beat of a drum. The drum cadence guides us deeper and then returns us to our normal realm. Minimal verbal instructions are given at the beginning of the journey.<br /> <br />I lay on my back listening to the quiet of the high-beamed room in the lodge. Huge glass windows reflected darkness, broken only by an occasional star peeping through the redwood trees surrounding us. The only sound was an occasional pop or crackle from the glowing fireplace and the rustle of shifting bodies. Our guide, barely illuminated by the glowing embers, gave us our instructions. To the sound of a drumbeat, she asked us to go to a place in nature where we could enter the earth—a pond, an animal burrow, or a hollowed tree. We would descend that tunnel until we came to the underworld where we would step out, experience this new place, and ask its inhabitants who among them would be our guide. When we made contact, we were to ask them to return in the palm of our hand to the middle world. When the drum beat quickened, we should re-enter the tunnel and return quickly with our guides.<br /> <br />I remembered the hollow tree image from childhood. This evening I knew it would be my entrance to below. In my mind I traveled into the woods, found the magic tree with the secret door, and entered the hollowed trunk. I let go, and fell gently down, down, down. The earthen tunnel was quiet and strangely warm. Roots twisted and turned to define the tunnel through which I fell deeper into the earth. At last, I felt my feet touched the bottom and I got my footing again. <br /> <br />The tunnel continued, dimly lit by some unknown source. Following it, I saw that it opened into a shimmering, silver-gray luminous light, which reminded me of headlights back-lighting a fog bank. <br /> <br />As my eyes grew accustomed to the strange light, I stepped from the tunnel onto a beach of finely grained, oatmeal-colored sand, which was soft and cool to my bare feet. This beach was unlike any I had ever seen. I was in awe of the vast stillness, broken only by the gentle lapping of ocean waves, when I became aware of nearby life. I saw amazing animals, amphibian-like, ancient and puzzling—a huge turtle creature that was part bird, a crocodile-like snake without legs. I wandered among them, feeling strangely safe in their presence.<br /> <br />I told them that I had come to find my totem, a guide to take back with me, to escort me through the middle world where I lived. I sensed disinterest, a turning away, a “no” in another language that I was somehow able to understand. Confused, I stood pondering this strange land and its inhabitants, resting my hand against something dusty-green, leathery, dry, and scaly to the touch. I felt a ripple of muscle, an increment of movement beneath my hand. I withdrew it quickly and realized I had been resting against one very large talon belonging to an enormous creature.<br /> <br />I jumped back, my eyes moving upward, following the contours of a gigantic body that resembled a dragon. Grayish-brown bat-like wings seemed to stretch out forever and a long, pointed tail swept into the distance. Amazingly, I felt no fear. <br /><br />“Are you my guide?” I asked, my Virgo mind already grappling with the improbable detail of carrying this creature back in the palm of my hand. <br /> <br />“Yes,” the creature answered in a disarmingly gentle voice, “but you know me in a shape-shifted form; look at me carefully.” <br /> <br />For a stunned moment, I considered where I might have met a flying dragon creature such as this before. As I studied it, I was aware of something slightly familiar about the legs, the tail, perhaps without the wings. My inner sight shifted and I suddenly saw my salamander guide from the creek banks. <br /> <br />The humor and irony of this washed over me. The salamander is small, not physically imposing, even fragile appearing, and can be seen as weak and easily intimidated. What I saw in my trance, however, was the heart and soul of the dragon inside, fierce, protective, courageous, and definitely not to be messed with. <br /> <br />I asked my guide to shape-shift into my hand so that we might return together to the middle world. I felt the small, dry, leathery figure of the salamander in my palm. Her eyes were bright; her head bobbed up and down in anticipation.<br /> <br />As if from another world, I heard the cadence of the drum increase, calling us back. Moments later I opened my eyes in the safety of the lodge, the drum silent, my journey ended, but the gift of my guide just begun. <br /><br /><br />Fifteen years have passed since that time. I live in the middle of the city now, in a neighborhood—still among the redwoods, cedars, oaks, and maples, but the more genteel version of nature, the urbanized version. Imagine my delight and surprise as I took a stroll at sunset down one of the oldest streets in town, lined with turn-of-the-century estates and formal gardens—it was one of those warm, cross-over nights where late summer elbows its way into autumn—only to find an ancient tree just off the sidewalk, the bark peeled away, revealing what appeared to be a door carved into the trunk, with a brass knob that beckoned to be turned.<br /><br />Would I? I’m now 65, old enough to have outgrown thoughts of magical worlds, right? Of course I tried to turn the knob. It was someone’s idea of a joke. On closer inspection the knob had been nailed to the exposed bark, giving the illusion—to those of us with old eyes, young hearts, and a belief in magic—of an actual door. I’m still not convinced. I think maybe there is a secret passage word that would open the door. The next time I pass that tree, I’ll try a couple of them out, and let you know.Johttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00689716364946108957noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5218933169879142682.post-4033339774075527052011-09-08T14:18:00.000-07:002011-09-10T08:40:34.751-07:00Thinking Out Loud<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-gcelxjFVB0Y/TmkzzX238aI/AAAAAAAAARI/8xhlGdsZSXw/s1600/pink%2Btutu.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 183px; height: 200px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-gcelxjFVB0Y/TmkzzX238aI/AAAAAAAAARI/8xhlGdsZSXw/s200/pink%2Btutu.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5650104165183517090" /></a><br />On Choosing A Cover For My Book (the picture won't make sense until you reach the end of this post)<br /><br />I thought just writing the darned thing was the hard part, but noooo. It’s only the beginning. Of course, there’s finding the right editor to work with, a million hours of edits and revisions, locating the right publisher and following their submission guidelines to the “T,” playing the hurry-up-and-wait game for months at a time. Should I be fortunate enough to land a publishing contract, there’s the marketing aspect to deal with. How do I market my work out there in a world where books fill the shelves of bookstores, swamp the internet distribution sites, line the walls of coffee houses, even have their own nook in grocery stores—millions and millions of glorious books (not to mention the e-books that require no shelf space and are available at the click of a mouse).<br /><br />You’ve heard the adage, You can’t tell a book by its cover? First appearances, however, speak volumes. If I’m not looking for a particular book, when faced with row upon row of books on a shelf, the first thing that catches my eye IS the cover—the color, texture, artwork, size of font are all absorbed by my book-hungry brain. When something catches my eye, I’ll read the first sentence. If that goes well, I’ll read the first paragraph. If that goes well, I’ll scan the rest of the first page. After that, if it’s priced properly, it’s a sale. If my eye isn’t caught, that precious first sentence we writers sweat over, lose sleep over, use up ink cartridges over, is lost on me.<br /><br />I can’t be the only one who is visually seduced into choosing a book. With that thought in mind, I grapple with the imagery for the cover of my novel. Okay, so it hasn’t found a publisher yet, but as soon as it does, we’ll need a cover for the little sucker, pronto. Working title is, Best Laid Plans, inspired by Scottish poet Robert Burns who wrote, “The best-laid schemes o’ mice an’ men gang aft agley.” I remember my mother quoting this on a number of occasions throughout my childhood to address my frustration when things just didn’t turn out the way I’d hoped. <br /><br />In my novel, there are points of frustration when things just don’t turn out as planned, by either the protagonist or the antagonist (or the author). So how do I “show” that? I wanted an image that I could use again, something recognizable, familiar, for a sequel perhaps, that would say, “Oh, I know that (fill in the blank image), it was on her other book.” I’ve always had a penchant for icons. My mind began its own brainstorming session while I was washing the dishes. Paper dolls, it said. Remember when we used to get hours of pleasure as a kid putting different outfits on the same paper doll? She wouldn’t wear the same outfit to the football game as she would to a tea party, right? Hmm. Different outfits, same “doll.”<br /><br />My brain goes to funny places when left unfocused. A gray mouse, dressed in a pink tutu, holding a parasol overhead in one hand, and in the other a large wedge of cheese. Behind her, an obviously unsnapped mousetrap, minus the cheese. Someone’s best laid plan has gone agley. Suddenly, the gray mouse has become my paper doll, and I see a whole new outfit for the sequel, The Next Step. Picture Ms. Mousie dressed to the nines, high heels, fishnet stockings, maybe a little hat with a net, taking the first step as she descends a flight of stairs only to find that it ends at a brick wall. Very film noir. <br /><br />But, I get ahead of myself (way ahead). Back to the first (still unpublished) book. Why a pink tutu? It’s sort of an inside joke. Consider it paying homage to a former lover. This woman fought tirelessly to obtain shared custody of her child after the break-up of her partnership with another woman (the biological mother of the child). The legal battles were unbelievably expensive. One of the fundraisers to finance yet another appeal, was a Dance Along Nutcracker Suite. My ex and two other extraordinarily brave butches donned pink tutus (how unlikely is that?) and danced across stage to the music for the Sugar Plum Fairy. Needless to say, the fundraiser was a smash and brought in all sorts of cash. That was a memorable example of someone dedicated to accomplishing something that was so important to her, she was willing to step out of her comfort zone—way out. The same is true for the protagonists in the book.<br /><br />I wish I could share the image of Ms. Mousie with you, but you’ll just have to wait. There’s also the very real possibility that a publisher would put the kibosh on the whole idea—but it is a swell idea, nonetheless. I’d love to hear from other writers about their process of choosing a cover. If you are such a person, please leave me a comment.Johttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00689716364946108957noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5218933169879142682.post-20900075695564170272011-08-26T20:14:00.000-07:002011-08-26T20:19:53.830-07:00Best Laid Plans<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-s3CI2YUeYgE/TlhiQWLkSTI/AAAAAAAAARA/jYUgtvqmEYM/s1600/Best%2BLaid%2BPlans.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-s3CI2YUeYgE/TlhiQWLkSTI/AAAAAAAAARA/jYUgtvqmEYM/s200/Best%2BLaid%2BPlans.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5645370165880441138" /></a>
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<br />Chuckled at myself this morning as I hit the “Save” button on my sequel, The Next Step. It will follow my current novel being shopped around, Best Laid Plans. How cheeky of me to assume that 1) the first novel will find a publisher, and that 2) when it does, surely they’ll want the second installation. Maybe it’s just my Virgo-osity at work—I’m compulsively early, and not easily discouraged.
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<br />You’ll be the first to know when Best Laid Plans gets published—even if I have to do it myself. Here’s the synopsis:
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<br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Set in current-day San Francisco, Shalese is a thirty-ish, earnest, blue-collar social worker bent on establishing a recovery halfway house for female ex-felons. While writing her grant proposal, she meets and interviews Jenny, just released from prison. Shalese quickly realizes she’s interested in a lot more than Jenny’s story.
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<br />Jenny is a trust-fund baby from Ohio, who got herself in a peck of trouble when she accidentally murdered a neo-Nazi with the heel of her shoe. She turns to Shalese for help getting her life back on track, and finds her life on a track she hadn’t even imagined.
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<br />Florence, a wealthy octogenarian with a nefarious past and dirty motives, befriends them, the way a spider befriends a fly caught in its web, and offers to fund the halfway house.
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<br />The three work together to make The First Step recovery house a reality.
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<br />Things begin to unravel for the women in The First Step when Mab, a three-hundred pound lesbian bartender by night, PI by day, and Shalese’s ex-lover, looks into Florence’s past.
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<br />Murder, arson, betrayal, buried treasure, and secrets spice up the plot, along with the colorful cast of residents of The First Step. A cliff-hanger ending not only leaves the reader wondering about the role of fate in life, but leaves room for a sequel, working title, The Next Step.
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<br />See how I just sort of slipped that sequel thing in there? Stay tuned.
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<br />Johttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00689716364946108957noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5218933169879142682.post-19129225514872121872011-08-17T13:35:00.000-07:002011-08-17T13:43:23.532-07:00Visual Feast from the Techno/Dino<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-hxOBBcK3Q3Y/TkwnBkOidjI/AAAAAAAAAQ4/AlVmJoLPFQI/s1600/unknown%2B3.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-hxOBBcK3Q3Y/TkwnBkOidjI/AAAAAAAAAQ4/AlVmJoLPFQI/s200/unknown%2B3.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5641927341046396466" /></a>
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<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-aHPxV0DEEjE/Tkwm0oRK31I/AAAAAAAAAQo/sy29Ql2PiSM/s1600/unknown%2B1.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 169px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-aHPxV0DEEjE/Tkwm0oRK31I/AAAAAAAAAQo/sy29Ql2PiSM/s200/unknown%2B1.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5641927118792875858" /></a>
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<br />My last Post spoke of a culinary feast. This one speaks of a visual feast.
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<br />My stodgy old dinosaur-self, (who thinks that perhaps computers are just a fad that will surely pass soon—hopefully soon enough that I won’t have to learn all the bells and whistles on my already-outdated Dell), occasionally collides with my present-day in the real world self who is in awe at having the universe at the tip of my fingers through cyberspace.
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<br />The above photographs came to me via a friend who downloaded them from the Internet. I don’t know how to find the artist(s) to thank them and credit their work. I do know that the images moved me, and isn’t that, after all, the purpose of art? There’s something timeless about the castle reflected in the palm of the hand, the lightning in the desert, and the sheep trudging up the mountain trail. Anyone from any culture could find meaning in those images. They’re familiar and at the same time strange and intriguing, powerful and stimulating—the stuff from which dreams are made and inspiration is taken.
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<br />This is a creative universe, and these photos are proof. I would never have seen them had it not been for an e-mail, and it is my pleasure to share them with you. Even my dinosaur-self can’t argue with that.
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<br />Johttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00689716364946108957noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5218933169879142682.post-30259568881097070572011-08-06T09:40:00.000-07:002011-08-06T09:49:06.762-07:00Ask Jeeves<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Geyq7H3UMaI/Tj1vf1F1IeI/AAAAAAAAAQg/4Drpv04yusA/s1600/ethiopian-food%2BAug.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 160px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Geyq7H3UMaI/Tj1vf1F1IeI/AAAAAAAAAQg/4Drpv04yusA/s200/ethiopian-food%2BAug.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5637784901155889634" /></a><br />I remember watching a TV show in childhood where a little redheaded boy and a girl with short blond pigtails lived in a mansion with their uncle and spent most of their time with their English butler. I always thought it would be cool to have an English butler, but back in Iowa, we didn’t have such things.<br /><br />If you’re a regular blog follower of mine (thank you!), you’ll note that I’ve been processing a lot of “Mom material” since her death three years ago. In so many ways, she was the hub of the family wheel. She had her kids, nieces, nephews, grandchildren, even great-grandchildren believing she had an answer for every question. It’s true, she did. I don’t know if they were always accurate, but she had answers. I was married to a guy once who had a similar propensity for supplying answers to any question and citing the Readers Digest as his source.<br /><br />Back to Jeeves. Since Mom is no longer around, to whom do I ask questions like, “does eating spicy food make you dream?” I treated myself to dinner at a local Ethiopian restaurant last night after a long work week. I tried the honey wine—truly a different taste sensation, sort of like beer and rubbing alcohol infused with honey, served at room temperature. Not as bad as it sounds. I know nothing about Ethiopian food, but love Moroccan cuisine, and figured it would be similar. I’ve always been an adventurous eater. Bravely, I ordered the combination plate with three different lamb stew tastes, one beef contribution, and a mini chicken (?) leg, along with an amazing stewed cabbage something-or-other, all eaten by scooping the food onto pieces of flatbread. Like with Moroccan food, they bring a warm fragrant towel for hand cleansing before the meal. I like eating with my fingers—it puts me in touch with my more primitive side. <br /><br />After dinner I commented to the very solicitous waitperson that the food, while delicious, was much spicier than Moroccan. “Really?” he said, with arched eyebrows. “This is our very toned-down version, to please the local palate.” His smile said, “Lady, you think that’s hot, you’re just a plain old sissy.” Although I’ve never been prone to dyspepsia, I had some concerns about whether or not my digestive tract would survive unimpeded throughout the night. I did, of course, expect (and receive) an increase of hot flashes.<br /><br />My stomach survived just fine, but OMG the dreams . . .<br /><br />The whole night was filled with dreams of confusion, being at the wrong place at the wrong time, not finding what I was looking for, coming in at the end of an event that I was supposed to host, losing my direction, forgetting my script for a performance—on and on, until I woke up feeling more exhausted than when I’d treated myself to dinner after the long week.<br /><br />Back to Jeeves. Since I couldn’t call Mom and ask her if this was a direct result of having eaten spicy food at night, I turned to Jeeves—the perfect (in my imagination) English butler with all the answers, even if I don’t have cute little blond pigtails.<br /><br />“Hey Jeeves,” I typed in, “does spicy food at night make you dream?” And just like my mom, and just like my ex-husband, Jeeves had an answer for me:<br /><br />“When and what we eat may affect our nighttime rest, if not our tendency toward bad dreams. A small study published in the International Journal of Psychophysiology had a group of healthy men eat spicy meals before bed on some evenings and compared their quality of sleep on nights where they had non-spiced meals. On the spicy nights, the subjects spent more time awake and had poorer quality sleep. The explanation is that spicy food can elevate body temperatures and thus disrupt sleep. This may also be the reason why some people report bad dreams when they eat too close to bedtime. Though few studies have looked at it, eating close to bedtime increases metabolism and brain activity and may prompt bad dreams or nightmares.”<br />Via http://www.divinecaroline.com/22201/62493-six-reasons-dreams#ixzz1UGRSPBXv<br /><br />That’s probably more than Mom would have said. Her answer might have been more along the line of, “Sure does.”<br /><br />So, if you have any burning questions and no one to answer them for you, I’ll lend you my English butler. He knows stuff. Just type in Ask Jeeves.Johttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00689716364946108957noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5218933169879142682.post-56715156248651460982011-07-31T21:52:00.000-07:002011-07-31T21:57:11.396-07:00I’m Sorry<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-SgQ7f8aBpsw/TjYx3n48jBI/AAAAAAAAAQY/lY8ldW9zG5k/s1600/Rustic%2BCabin.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 153px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-SgQ7f8aBpsw/TjYx3n48jBI/AAAAAAAAAQY/lY8ldW9zG5k/s200/Rustic%2BCabin.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5635746815371152402" /></a><br />You know the moment, the one when something is over, but you won’t accept it. You say it was because the person had one too many bad things happen that day, or the stars were misaligned in the heavens (that darned Mercury has gone retrograde again), that this too shall pass if you just hang in there long enough—but you know, you know it’s really over. You know, when you look back, that was the moment it was over, even though it may have hung on with a death rattle for some period of time.<br /> <br />It was to have been a vacation, a time to relax, re-group, find each other in the solitude of the mountains, sequestered away in a tiny cabin lit by kerosene lantern and heated by a wood-burning stove. Nothing for miles around but the red-tailed hawks and ravens soaring overhead, ancient redwood trees piercing the sky, the breeze sighing through their boughs. Or the onyx sky at night studded with shining chips of light million of miles away.<br /><br />She’d been bearish from problems at work. I’d been snappish and irritable trying to make our meager incomes stretch to cover our more opulent out-go. She refused to compromise. I stopped talking. We both knew we were being stupid, but mulishly held our ground. This might have been the moment, but it wasn’t.<br /><br />Having that sixth sense about each other, I looked over my shoulder toward to kitchen doorway, sensing her presence. What I saw was an olive, impaled on a toothpick, being waved slowly back and forth. I giggled. “Are you extending an olive branch?” She nodded sheepishly, walked over, stood behind me, and wrapped her arms about me in her version of an apology. I melted into the familiarness of her. “Me too,” I whispered.<br /><br />We agreed on a weekend away, to close up the cabin for the on-coming winter. It would be our last trip up for the summer. She had inherited the cabin when her parents died two years prior. It was full of childhood memories that made her eyes moisten with nostalgia. It was full of young adult memories of girlfriends brought there to be wooed, which made her smile rakishly. It was full of memories of three springs ago when she proposed to me in a sleeping bag on the deck under the redwood canopy.<br /><br />The drive up the twisting mountain road was excruciating. She would tell you it was exhilarating. With the windows open and the radio blaring, she sang along in her off-key sort of way to whatever was “pop” at the time. My stomach lurched with each hairpin curve. I checked in the mirror on the flip side of the visor to see if I looked as green as I felt. <br /><br />“Could we pull off for a moment? I feel ill,” I said.<br /><br />“Nowhere to pull off, sweetie. Mountain on my side, steep cliff to the ocean on yours. C’mon, join me on the chorus.” She turned the volume up a notch. This might have been the moment, but it wasn’t.<br /><br />We arrived at the cabin as the sun set between mountain peaks. It would be light enough for the next half hour to see our way clearly into the cabin, light the lanterns, gather bedding and reassemble it on the deck. A perfect night for sleeping under the stars.<br /><br />She was quiet, perhaps lost in memories, as we moved about in concert with one another, opening windows, shaking out quilts, flicking at cobwebs with the feather duster. I fed crumpled paper into the belly of the stove and added handfuls of kindling while she brought in an armload of well-seasoned oak for the fire. I made several trips to the car bringing in pre-packed food for our dinner and breakfast. She dragged the old double-sized mattress out onto the deck. We did “domestic” rather well, I thought.<br /><br />“I’m famished,” I said as she stoked the fire. I poured a Tupperware container of chicken vegetable soup into the big pot on top of the stove, and while it heated, sliced a loaf of French bread. She parceled out two helpings of tossed green salad into bowls, sliced and squeezed a lemon over the greens.<br /><br />“Anything wrong?” I asked. She still hadn’t spoken.<br /><br />“Hmm? Oh, no. No, just settling in,” she smiled warmly. “Soup’s on,” she said, ladling the fragrant concoction into pottery bowls liberated from the kitchen cupboard. I opened a bottle of Chardonnay, and poured us each a glass. “Love you,” she said, as we clicked glasses.<br /><br />We ate in companionable silence while outside the frogs and crickets provided mood music for a dreamless sleep. After dinner, we wash, dried, and replaced the dishes. By the light of two lanterns we each claimed our favorite overstuffed chair and sunk into the reading material we’d brought along—a novel with a truly twisted plot for me, and for her, an instruction pamphlet for assembling the battery-operated tot car she’d purchased for her niece’s birthday the next week.<br /><br />“Hunh,” I muttered. We often shared comments while reading, turning a singular activity into something resembling parallel play.<br /><br />“What’s that?” she asked.<br /><br />“I didn’t see that coming,” I said. “This author is a master of plot twist.” I smiled appreciatively and continued reading.<br /><br />“What the . . .” she sighed with frustration. I glanced over at her, raised my eyebrows in question. “Half of these directions are in Japanese. Why would they think I could read Japanese?” she huffed. “I give up.” She tossed the pamphlet onto the floor. “I’ll get the bedding for the mattress. You ready to turn in?” I nodded, placed a marker in my book, grabbed one of the lanterns, and took it out to the deck.<br /><br />Elbows on the deck railing, I listened to the step-crunch of a deer making its way down the path toward the creek, and peered out into the darkness. I could see nothing beyond the small circle of light cast by the lantern. The world could have stopped just beyond that perimeter. The thought was both frightening and cozy.<br /><br />I turned when I heard her step through the door, her arms loaded with blankets and pillows. Her chin held the top pillow in place, a disembodied head. Within the circumference of light, our eyes locked. Time stopped. The distance between us, not more than three yards, became a chasm. We neither smiled, nor frowned at this awareness. This was that moment.<br /><br />“I’m never coming back here with you, am I?” I asked, although it was a statement. A chill that had nothing to do with the balmy night, passed through me.<br /><br />“No,” she said, quietly, resignedly. “I’m sorry.”Johttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00689716364946108957noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5218933169879142682.post-59942817111567243342011-07-21T09:05:00.000-07:002011-07-21T09:15:17.571-07:00I Am My Mother’s Daughter After All<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Zp5u5_CFzWE/TihQg-SiiBI/AAAAAAAAAQQ/8-S3eLrVhBI/s1600/My%2BMother%2527s%2BDaughter%2BJuly%2B2011.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Zp5u5_CFzWE/TihQg-SiiBI/AAAAAAAAAQQ/8-S3eLrVhBI/s200/My%2BMother%2527s%2BDaughter%2BJuly%2B2011.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5631839861433600018" /></a><br />Do you remember when you first heard those words slip out of your mouth? You know the ones—the ones you swore you’d never say, the ones that would define you as “just like your mother.” Or gestures, manners of speech, inflections of voice, stride—anything that would cause you to say, “Oh my God, I’m channeling my mother.”<br /><br />As a child, it was funny, endearing. As a teenager, nothing could be worse. As a young adult, it was cause for mirth and the raise of an eyebrow. As an oldster, missing my mother who died almost three years ago now, it brings nostalgia and a wish that I could share these musings with her.<br /><br />After her death, my siblings and I had the task of going through her personal items, sorting, keeping, tossing, donating. If you’ve lost a parent, you know just what this is like. Mom collected things—Hummel statues, plastic containers, cards and letters (according to the boxes, I don’t think she ever threw any of them away). And she made notes in journals—cryptic entries that left us scratching our heads, furrowing our eyebrows, casting furtive looks at one another as we would read aloud from the pages. Long lists of names, not people she knew, just names. The temperature on different days. Words and phrases that caught her fancy. Numbers. Medical terms, without definition.<br /><br />I was in my office the other day, between clients—someone had canceled with short notice, leaving me time to file a nail that had chipped earlier when I banged it on the bathroom counter—rifling through my bag to find an nail file, when I dislodged a miniature journal made of rice paper, bound with raffia, that has been a constant companion in my bag for however long I’ve had that bag. I keep the journal handy to jot down ideas for writing, capture snippets of conversations that amuse me, and to my astonishment, lists of words or phrases that I didn’t want to forget. Here’s a sampling:<br /><br />There’s acute depression, and then not so cute depression; death, as a period to your life sentence; there’s no bottom to dumb; just a raggedy-ass guess; the smell of extinguished Jack-o-lanterns; she sat still as a slab of alabaster; and from a Facebook entry, “You used to be muchier. You’ve lost much of your muchiness.”<br /><br />And lists of words:<br /><br />Enwombed, oblique, lugubrious, transubstantiation, sartorial, oubliette, malodiferous, overmuch, pugugly.<br /><br />And on one page, just sitting there all by itself:<br /><br />Cucumber and ginger facial peal.<br /><br />These are the sort of things I can “write off” as practical tools of a writer’s life, right? Defensible, right? You never know when one of those words or phrases will wind up in a story.<br /><br />Or perhaps, I am, indeed, just my mother’s daughter after all.Johttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00689716364946108957noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5218933169879142682.post-42141897283508165232011-07-10T17:44:00.000-07:002011-08-19T15:07:27.122-07:00Surprise!<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-jnj-yxh1LGg/ThpJ9wjFXKI/AAAAAAAAAQI/8oY4qBCcinE/s1600/Surprise%2BJuly%252C%2B2011.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-jnj-yxh1LGg/ThpJ9wjFXKI/AAAAAAAAAQI/8oY4qBCcinE/s200/Surprise%2BJuly%252C%2B2011.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5627892009705757858" /></a>
<br />I woke in a cold sweat from a dream not long ago. When I'd worked my way back to consciousness, and was able to replay the dream in my head, I got a bad case of giggles. Bargaining with myself so I could get back to sleep, I promised to turn it into a short story in the morning. Hope you enjoy.
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<br />Jill turns off her printer and extracts the seven pages of her novel in progress, Live Wire, a story loosely based on growing up in a family of schizophrenics. Fiction allows her some emotional distance in a way that memoir doesn’t. She’s been working on the manuscript since the writer’s group, Friday Night Live—a collection of characters fit for a novel, all striving to be writers—began a year ago, and has promised herself she will have it ready to send to an editor before she turns sixty, which gives her exactly three weeks.
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<br />She stuffs the pages in her book bag, grabs her keys, wallet, and a bottle of Champagne that has been chilling in the refrigerator, and is out the door when Jonathan honks the horn of his Toyota in front of her house. She turns the key in the lock, and pats the door with affection. “Back soon,” she says. Jill has an odd relationship with her dilapidated little cottage. They are like an old married couple, used to each others ways, each becoming slightly more decrepit with age. Jill has never married and has no interest in partnering up just because she is getting old.
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<br />Jonathan is a forty-year-old bachelor who, if he had been born a woman, would have been described as <span style="font-style:italic;">Zaftig</span>. As it is, <span style="font-style:italic;">pasty</span> will have to suffice. He avoids the sun, as do many redheads, and avoids exercise, as do many men with mid-life paunch. He is the sole representative of the male gender in the writer’s group, and considers it an honor and a responsibility. Jonathan is working on a book called, “The Feminist Male.”
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<br />Every Friday, they rotate homes so no one will be overly burdened by the task of hosting. This week, they are on their way to April’s house. The last meeting was at Catherine’s, an upscale artisan cottage with skylights that allowed the light of the full moon to drench the dark walnut floors. Catherine is fifty, and writes Haiku, a style of poetry that leaves Jill scratching her head at the complexity of this simple form. Last week, Catherine’s butch lesbian lover, Hanna, served them grilled oysters on the half-shell, a cheese and fruit platter, and French bread.
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<br />Two weeks before that, they had met at Margie’s, a tract home in a noisy neighborhood. Margie’s husband, Tom, had failed miserably at keeping their four children contained upstairs for the two hour writer’s meeting, and they’d been interrupted frequently by requests for snacks, lost puzzles, books to be read, and questions that apparently only a mom could answer. Margie, forty, stocky, with curly brown hair that defied capture in the clip she continually adjusts, swore this was the last time they’d meet in her home, and apologized profusely on her way through the room to meet yet another child’s request. Margie writes children’s stories in her spare time.
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<br />“You have the address, right?” Jonathan says by way of greeting, as Jill slides into the passenger’s seat.
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<br />“Yeah, I spoke with April this afternoon. I can’t wait to see her new apartment.”
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<br />“God, I hope she’s not depressed,” Jonathan mumbles. “I never know what to say to women who are depressed—or who are having cramps,” he adds.
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<br />“Maybe that could be a chapter in you book,” Jill suggests.
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<br />Jonathan pulls up in front of a non-descript townhouse, in a non-descript segment of the city—neither old, nor new—and turns off the ignition. He shoots Jill a baleful look and says, “Well, let’s get this over with.”
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<br />April, in her mid-forties, recently divorced from a prominent orthodontist, has downsized from a multi-level, Frank Lloyd Wright home—with water features—in the hills, to a shared rental in the flatlands. She writes memoir, and has plenty of material, having lived the last ten years with an alcoholic sex addict. It is her new-found freedom and safe living space the writer’s group is celebrating this evening.
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<br />They knock on the door. Jill plasters a smile on her face and holds the Champagne in front of the peephole.
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<br />A stunning woman, sixty-ish, in a flowing hostess gown answers the door. Her quizzical expression is answered by Jonathan in a fit of over-gregariousness.
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<br />“Ah, you must be the roommate,” he smiles, and introduces himself and Jill. “We’re here for the . . . ” his voice trails off, as he notices a large gathering of people in the living room, none of whom appear to be Friday Night Live members.
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<br />“Surprise birthday party,” the woman completes his sentence. “I’m Francesca, please come in,” she says, and motions in them into the throng. “She isn’t here yet, but she’s due any minute.”
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<br />“Oh dear, we had no way of knowing,” Jill says. “There are two more of us coming. I hope we don’t ruin the surprise. I thought her birthday was in January,” Jill stammers, handing the hostess the Champagne.
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<br />“No, I’m pretty sure it’s tonight,” Francesca says. “Go on in and introduce yourselves around.” She takes the Champagne to the kitchen.
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<br />“It’s not so bad,” Jonathan says, looking around. “A little cramped, but do-able.”
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<br />“Good heavens, they’re all unpacked,” Jill notes. “It takes me weeks when I move. I wonder where Catherine and Margie are,” she says, glancing over her shoulder.
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<br />Francesca comes back over to them and says, “I’m a terrible hostess. I’m sorry, I don’t even know how you know her,” she smiles.
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<br />“We’re in her writer’s group, the one that meets every Friday night,” Jonathan explains.
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<br />“Oh, I didn’t even know she wrote. Just when you think you know someone . . .” she laughs merrily. “Excuse me,” she says, and leaves to answer another knock at the door.
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<br />Jill and Jonathan wander into the dining room. “Wow, look at this spread,” Jonathan says. He dips a jumbo shrimp into a tangy sauce and takes a bite. A parenthesis of catsup attaches itself to the corner of his mouth.
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<br />“Do you think we ought to call Catherine and Margie and see what’s holding them up?” Jill glances at her watch. Without waiting for a response, she opens her cell and dials Catherine’s number.
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<br />“Hey, where are you?” Catherine answers.
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<br />“We’re here,” Jill says, “where are you?”
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<br />“Out back,” Catherine replies. “We’ve been waiting for you. Did you remember the Champagne?”
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<br />Jill motions to Jonathan to follow her, and moves through the crowd toward the back patio. “Yes, I handed it to Francesca when we came in.”
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<br />“Who’s Francesca?” Catherine asks.
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<br />“April’s roommate. Didn’t you meet her?” Jill says, sliding the plate-glass door open and stepping onto the patio. “I don’t see you,” she says, scanning the outdoors crowd.
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<br />“I don’t see you either,” Catherine says, “and her roommate’s name is Fred. Where are you?”
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<br />Just then a cacophonous cry rises up from inside the condo. “Surprise!” People are yelling and clapping, noisemakers are being twirled about. Confetti is tossed in the air and rains down soundlessly.
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<br />“Happy Birthday,” Jonathan yells, carried away by the infectious energy of the crowd.
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<br />“Is that Jonathan?” Catherine asks. “Whose birthday is it?”
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<br />“April’s?” Jill says, suddenly unsure of anything. A fine layer of sweat breaks out over her skin and chills quickly in the night air.
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<br />“April, is it your birthday?” Catherine asks on the other end of the phone. The muffled answer is “No. Why?”
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<br />“Oh my God, Jonathan,” Jill says, poking him in the arm, “we’re in the wrong house.”Johttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00689716364946108957noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5218933169879142682.post-85514262653026562662011-07-02T14:18:00.000-07:002011-07-02T14:32:48.443-07:00Jesus Gets The Good China<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-V5M6atBBEEU/Tg-NZZzijcI/AAAAAAAAAQA/85pUya8GZYk/s1600/Jesus%2BGets%2Bthe%2BGood%2BChina.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-V5M6atBBEEU/Tg-NZZzijcI/AAAAAAAAAQA/85pUya8GZYk/s200/Jesus%2BGets%2Bthe%2BGood%2BChina.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5624869927172345282" /></a><br />Having returned from a summer trip back to my homeland of Iowa, my mind is awash with memories of family, the culture I grew up in--the values, the manners of speech. We visited the Amish General Store, resplendent with kerosene lanterns, washboards,handmade china cabinets,carved wooden clothespins, antique stoneware. We visited the cemetery where my ancestors are buried. Out of all these memories and touchstones, has come the following short story.<br /><br /><br />Granny talks to Jesus. They have lengthy conversations as if His Holy Presence was sittin’ his butt right down at the old kitchen table by the window.<br /><br />“Lord, what am I going to do with that child?”<br /> <br />That child would be me, constructing a bypass through the white, fluffy serving of mashed potatoes so the rich, golden gravy meanders artfully through the mound before circling like a moat on the Melmac.<br /><br />“I’ve tried ‘till I was blue in the face,” she answers. <br /><br />I no longer look around for the source of sage advice. It’s at the place setting across from me, where the good china with the dainty blue flowers around the edges is laid, where the silverware all matches, where the only un-chipped glass in the house rests. Granny has taken, “Set a place at the table for our Lord,” to a whole new level. She’s concrete like that.<br /><br />I was in diapers when I came to live with her. My Momma overtook her medication one time too many, and ‘Daddy’ is a word with no face attached. Grandpa Bean, named ‘cause he was long and narrow, fell over one day while picking up walnuts from the tree out front, and never woke up. Just Granny and I were left among the upright.<br /><br />I guess Granny couldn’t see herself as a single parent at sixty, so she partnered up with Jesus. It wasn’t so bad, mostly. When I hit elementary school, Back to School Night was somewhat awkward.<br /><br />“Jesus, will you just look at that science project!” Granny exclaimed as she strolled through my fifth grade classroom. Mrs. Tiddle raised her eyebrows like she does when one of the kids uses profanity in front of her, but she didn’t follow it by the extended throat-clearing noise she usually makes.<br /><br />“Lord, let’s move on to the next room,” Granny muttered as she took my hand and pulled me along behind her. A long sigh, like a tire slowly going flat, escaped from Mrs. Tiddle's nose.<br /><br />“Holy Mother of God,” she addressed Our Lady of the Cross, who was, I guess, sort of like a step-great-grandmother to me, if you’re following the lineage. We’d just approached my project, all laid out nice and neat, each collection of multi-colored, fuzzy bacteria and deathly looking mold in its own little Petri dish. There was one dish in which nothing had grown, next to a bottle of Lysol. My point was that the stuff works.<br /><br />“You got all those germs from our house?” Granny asked, squinting low over the containers, wrinkling her nose at the explosion of spores. “Jesus, we’ve got some cleaning up to do.” I smiled at the thought of Grandpa Jesus with a mop and a pail of water sloshing around on the kitchen floor.<br /><br />“If that don’t beat all,” Granny said, seemingly pleased. I guess she was referring to the little white ribbon stuck with tape to the summary of my project. I didn’t have the heart to tell her that it was the blue ribbons that beat all. Didn’t want to ruin her day.Johttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00689716364946108957noreply@blogger.com1