Friday, August 31, 2007

doing that thing again

where I write posts but don't post them, none of them feel right (wrote 3).

And now it is time for me to be going, it will take quite a bit of effort to get the son and I out the door.

Issues at hand-

organizing my time, coming up with my new schedule. Me = productive. personal (writing) practical (housework)

Husband annoyed all the time, feels introverted and lazy wife and son are too involved in solitary projects. It is true, but we are both quite happy, except for Bob's carrying on.

I must start regulating my time in the blogosphere, as I spend too much time happily wandering around here.
(Like I should just stop in once a day, after I've done my story writing, housework, exercise..yada yada..)

Monday, August 27, 2007

last days of summer

what a blur.
Bob did manage to focus on us, a bit later.

Friday, August 24, 2007


it is a bummer, when I am excited about something in my writing, and I want to tell someone, share it. I vaguely babble on about it to family, without any details, and I know they have no idea what I am talking about. It is hard not to burst forth and just tell them parts of the story, but I can't, I will need them to read it later, fresh, not knowing where they are going. So they can tell me, what they did and didn't see, and feel, along the way.

Bob will be a bummer to share it (story) with no matter what. I might not even bother to have him read the draft and give me input. So why not tell him stuff now? Because, my excited," guess what I just found out?!" about my story wont interest him anyway. And his lack of seeing how great this new bit of info is, might zap some energy from me. And what would be the point.

I guess there is no one to tell. Do writers tell people such things, in their circle, group of friends, family, and hopefully other writers? I don't have lots of those (people), and of those that I have that would even have a millisecond of interest in such things, those are the ones, I will need to read through the draft and tell me general impressions. Name isn't clear, I think it was Elizabeth George in her book on writing that said she has 8 people read her draft, with an envelope of questions they don't open till after they have read it, and then answer. So even though I am not done with the draft, I think about this, and don't blurt out story parts, and developments to those I talk to. 8 people? I don't have 8 people. Two of the people I would have liked to have read it, have died. And it seems like it would be the hardest thing, opening oneself up in this way, making oneself vulnerable to the opinions of family, and such. Easy enough to blurt out pieces of story, lot less risk in that. But I should probably have a least a couple people read over it, when I think I am done, to tell me where I am unclear, or overlong.

So now I am wondering-
if the other would be writers out there, share their story ideas, and parts of story, with family and friends, and whether or not they plan on having any of these people read over their story when it is done?

writing. me

no really.
7 pages, with dialogue and everything. Two scenes fairly fully seen.
Oh, well yes, there is that, the fact that they weren't from Echo but from Fresh Oranges. I haven't worked on Fresh Oranges in many months. Which was/is intentional, as I am supposed to focus on Echo till it is done. Rather than forever flitting about from one thing to the next, never finishing anything. The scenes aren't new, I have written them before, but some new insight came to me this morning (why? I have no idea, as it had nothing to do with what I was thinking just before I thought of it), that makes things make more sense, so I can see motivations, actions, and scenes much clearer. A small piece that holds the puzzle together; that solved problems I was having, and gave me necessary transitions. So I sat and watched how this new insight flowed through the story, and wrote down what I saw. It is so cool how this one thing in this one scene helped me to flow into and see other scenes more clearly.

I would tell you what it was, but I like my ideas, yes I admit it (not all, but), I find some of them wistful and pretty, though they seem to cluster around things that I find hard, that make me sad (like loss, and death). It is my ability to write them, with any sort of competency, to share them in a way that they come across with feeling, meaning, et cetera, that is what I don't have faith in. So it is my fear, that others will take my ideas, (or just have similar ideas of their own), and do it so much better than I ever could. I am sure others have their own ideas and don't actually have any interest in mine. But I still have the fear, so I wont share story details. Even though, this post would make more sense and be more interesting to read, if I did. And I wont try and remove the fear from myself. I like it, for it is good for a person who is forever plagued by self doubts, to find something to feel of value, in something they are trying to do, and to huddle around and try to protect it. Plus, why else bother trying to write, and struggle through the areas where I know I lack strength (when I know there are others who are strong), if I don't believe there is reason, if I don't believe the ideas deserve better, deserve the struggle, are worth the time and effort to be brought forth on page. I have to believe in some part of what I am doing. That said, I will also admit, those ideas that I have, that I am quite fond of, I don't actually think of myself, they float by on the wind and I see and hear them. They come to me, not from me.

Maybe it is a smallness in me, surely the result of insecurities, that I choose to believe in the value of my ideas. I imagine a great painter, deft, full of skill and precision, who has no vision, his heart -mind-soul, empty, no ideas to paint. He can paint greatly, but without ideas creates no great works. I on page, (actually on canvas I do struggle with vision), on paper, have ideas, I lack the skills to realize them, but having the ideas gives me hope, that I have something to offer, that even I, who don't know how to use the tools, that even I am to write; too. Along with those who have it mastered. While I struggle to gain skill, I take mean comfort in knowing that somewhere in the world, some very talented person struggles for ideas. And I hold mine close, for they are all that I have, to hope on, to dream on, to believe in. To keep me walking toward my goal, through my fear. Thinking this way, makes me feel better about my silly ambitions, about wanting to be a writer. Whenever I say "Why bother? I suck. Why do I think I should, I can, be a writer?". I can always respond "why do the ideas come? Why do they come to me if I am not supposed to learn how to write them?". Like those books I have read, and movies I have seen, where the unlikely person is chosen (not the smartest, fastest, prettiest), for something of value, and they have to rise to the occasion, become something more than they thought they could be. Yeah, I like to think of it like that. What is more, I think I need to think of it like that.

okay, Bob's birthday today, and he is sitting beside me now, watching TV, and talking, so I can't focus, and today is to be his, so no complaining from me is allowed.

by the by, those are tangelos, not oranges
And I am not fully comfortable with admiting this, these negative aspects of my personality (both petty and over reaching in their attempts). But it is part of my writing struggle, so I do share it.

Thursday, August 23, 2007

yes, I am procrastinating, thank you for noticing.

I write this song for you
because you don't know me
and I need for one person,
just one person in the world
to truly know me

of course I am scared,
of what you will think of me,
when you are knowing me so
but I am more afraid of never being known at all

of being dust and dirt and memories
and never having anyone know me

I heard it whispered on the wind
ssshhhh, our lullaby begins

it's filled with people and places
we don't know
but within are written
the lines of my soul

the water smoothing the jagged edged stones
sunlight blown, flown, through my bones
whisper, whisper, whispered
in hush soft tones

you would think that feeling this way about a story, I would spend every spare moment working on it. But clearly I don't. I can't say if anyone will ever read it, ever like it. But I know I need to write it. I know I would be incomplete if I died without completing it. I don't like things mattering to me that much (except for my son). Still I lazily procrastinate around it, dawdling, doing this and that for it, not ever really leaving it, for I take it with me everywhere, whether I intend to or not, it lives within me, but lately I am never sitting down with it, with intention, to finish it, to truly take this joureny, not just look at slide show pictures of it, in some odd rickety, long brochure, my imagination likes to spread out for me. Shouldn't I get ready, gather everything I need, whack my fear over the head with a shovel, and steal courage from other people, and set out, begin, take this journey.
For then, I at least, would be one, one person in the world, who truly knows me.

Don't usually do these things, but what the heck

I was over at crazy dust (who has a blue brain), as directed to, by sognatrice

Your Brain is Purple

Of all the brain types, yours is the most idealistic.

You tend to think wild, amazing thoughts. Your dreams and fantasies are intense.

Your thoughts are creative, inventive, and without boundaries.

You tend to spend a lot of time thinking of fictional people and places - or a very different life for yourself.

Wednesday, August 22, 2007

feel like curling up in a ball

and sleeping. It has been raining for days.

I am sitting on the game room floor monitoring the internet activities of Cheese and his BFF. I don't know what they were just doing in his room. I came in, and he looked at me like "Oh no!" and we looked back and forth for a moment, then he lunged to turn of the TV, and I lunged to turn it back on, and at the same time he countered by turning off the video game. I saw nothing. I turned it back on, but it went to the intro, so I have no idea what they were looking at/listening to. Most of his games are rated for his age, but grandma buys a few outside of it. It was Tony Hawk 4, I took it out, and walked away. Cheese asked "Why? Why do you assume we were doing anything we shouldn't be?". How he managed to ask this with a straight face just amazes me, and scares me a little. He is all annoyed that I am here, sitting on the floor "It is like you are watching us!". Ya, baby time of my life too. I do have my ipod on, and am on my computer, so I'm not exactly hovering.

I have mixed feelings about fall breathing down my neck. School starts soon. Means getting up really early, being on a schedule, but also having time to myself. I'm not ready though, to give up summer. I can't believe I am already wearing a sweater jacket and jeans. What I love about back to school time, is I cue into (tap into) the energy ingrained into me over the years, of starting something new, of working on projects. Bright eyed, pencils all sharpened, new notebooks, ready to go. But I don't feel it. I should at least be getting it in waves, like a tide not yet in, but approaching. But I am blah. Not only not super motivated, but uninterested, who cares, has settled in, all over, movies, food, books, garden, writing, like a big wet heavy blanket, I am wrapped in, that is starting to get moldy. I've got to throw this thing off.

Tuesday, August 21, 2007

Did that work?

it felt like stealing
but it was kindly offered to me, from chic with a quill.

Saturday, August 18, 2007

ah the wonderful world of cat genetics

I finally found some useful information. Seems I needed to google male calico, instead of mi-ke, and bob tail. Very rare, but possible, with xxy, thus most likely sterile, which is fine for me and my imaginary cat purposes, might make him less likely to spray in Mik's house. Plus the mi-ke male rarity but still possiblity does add to the cat as being special and bringing special fortune with him. Which indeed he is, and does.

what should be a part, what should stay apart?

photo from book- Winged Migration

I haven't been directly working on my story.

But I found a book yesterday, at Marshals. I went to look for a rug, no good rugs. But the book, perfect, pictures of birds in flight, something I hadn't thought about before, paid attention to, until it appeared in my story, and now captivates me, groups of birds taking off into the air. I laughed out loud the other day, while driving, as a group of small brown birds took flight from a telephone wire. Cheese asked what I was laughing about. I considered for a moment, than opted for owning-up to crazy, and said the truth. I love watching the birds take flight, and it fills me with such joy that sometimes laughter spills out. It just bubbles up inside me and I can't help it. Like something tickling my soul.
I don't know why it does, but for over a year now, it does. Sometimes it is just nice, sometimes it makes me cry, sometimes it fills me with wonder and awe, and sometimes it makes me laugh out loud. I bought the book because it has pictures like that in it. While looking through it, I came across some Japanese cranes, they were originally supposed to have had a part in my story, but I took them out, and then while sitting there, suddenly I saw them in it again, but I don't know if the scene really happens or is a vision, and neither do the characters, which is actually all the better. Blurring the line, between what is and what isn't real, being unsure.
I am wondering whether or not I should add it though, a vision, is sort of like a dream, and the story has an important dream in it already (and also one minor one). I don't want to over do it, stuff it with too much of the same sorts of things. But of course having invisioned it, and its outcomes, I am already attached to it. I wont worry about it for now, I have written most of the scene, and I will finish writing it, and then later, I can see how it fits in, with the flow and meaning of the whole. And hopefully know if it belongs there or not.

At Barnes and Noble, looking for books and magazines of art, I found a decent picture for Koji (Japanese bobtail cat), who is, other main character (with Mikiyoshi) and/or narrator. I thought it a strange idea, and fought it for a long time, cat as narrator, but there is actually a Japanese classic with such, I haven't read it though, I am afraid it would impact me too much. Anyway, Koji is odd eyed, which is fine, but research says the other eye should be gold (yellow) not green. I will take creative license with it though, and make it a pale yellow green, like the first green of spring hit by sunlight. (like when you stand under a tree and look up, and the sunlight comes through them like stained glass). I also read that Mi-ke cats, tri colored pattern are all female, I have never read that before, anywhere. That is a bit of a problem, Koji is mi-ke in pattern and a male. So I guess if this is true, I will have to change something, either his sex, or his pattern. I can't think about either one now as it will just agitate me. And it is bedtime. I am writing this out, so as to get it out, so hopefully I will sleep. Sleep and I have not been getting on well together for several weeks now. (my son says" who cares, no one reading your story will know if mi-ke cats are all female or not". this is reassuring unless it means no one at all will ever be reading my story.) I like things to be plausibly true, and if I deviate from what is plausible, I need to have sufficient reason, valid reason, and to explain such in story).

Researching, or rather attempting to, to find more out about the mi-ke, tri-colored cats, lead me to other information. Information that only applies to a percentage of cats, information that I could, but also could easily not, use. No need to. But part of me has run off with it anyway, and applied it to the story, and is now looking at the whole of it, through this information, and though you wouldn't find out till near the end (so the writing wouldn't change too much) it would effect things quite a bit. And it really upset me, I wanted to have not picked this bit of information up, I wanted to put it back down, and walk away and say no, that wont be part of my story. It is sort of sad and beautiful and it hurts me when I think of it. I feel the weight of it like I swallowed piles of rocks. Except without the fullness, an empty heaviness. Walking around sighing, fighting the feeling of verging on tears. Saying to myself over and over "you don't have to use it, it is merely an option, if you don't like it, don't want it, don't do it. Go back to where you were". It does add something to the story though damn it. I'm not going to decide now, I am going to try and forget about it for now. I wrote it out in the notebook and I will have to type it up, (just like I will the above vision), and then I will see later on, read it with it, and with out, or feel it with it, and with out, invision it both ways.

I don't know yet, if these are integral parts, or just whatevers, one, one too many ribbons and bows (the one I want to add but fear I shouldn't), the other a path I perhaps don't need to take (just because it is poignant, is that any reason I should have to put us through it, when it is sunnier without it?). One charmed and amused me, the other made my heart ache. And I still don't know about the mi-ke cats and will have to do more research tomorrow.

Okay, all out, and my eyes are starting to hurt, now hopefully I will sleep, perhaps I shall borrow Mikiyoshi's vision and dream on it, and know I have fallen in love.

Thursday, August 16, 2007

sorta stealing?

Cheese and I gathered these from the trays and shelf around the plants at the store

Then we bring them home and plant them. Some root and grow, and some don't.
We have cacti as well, we bought all of those, but the succulents are about half and half.
I justify it with, I wouldn't buy the plants anyway, so they aren't losing a sale, and they just throw out these tiny little bits that have fallen off. And I do buy the special soil I plant them in, from this store.
It isn't the sort of thing I would normally do, but I have fallen to peer pressure, you should hear the 11yr old, who I know I should be setting a good example for, (who wont pick any of them up himself) trying to get me to take every last little bit of plant that has dropped off. (but I have rules, things I will and wont do, even a thief has standards and codes to live by.)

by the bye, they aren't usually clustered like that, I put some of them together to photo

Tuesday, August 14, 2007

Just a bit concerned that I was insensitive, too light hearted, using that format for my lost flower. I didn't mean to make light in any way of the serious tradgedy of missing children. I am of course upset about my flower, but of course there is, no comparison.

Missing Sharifa Asma Rose

Have you seen me?

Last known location

I was preparing the bed, feeding, cutting matting so I could mulch, when suddenly I realized Sharifa was gone.

Description (as I have made bad quality picture)- most delicate blush pink, paling almost to white at outer edges. Growth upright and comparatively short. Scent distinctive with fruity notes reminiscent of white grapes and mulberry. Eventual height expected to be around 4 feet. (he was only about 5-10 inches, leafy and green the last we saw him, a wee babe)

He leaves behind two others I adopted at the same time, late this spring, his sister Heritage, and his brother Geoff Hamilton. Both are doing about as well as can be expected (they grew, and continue to grow, faster and fuller than he did. They appear to be strong) but they are very concerned. He also leaves behind a vast extended family, we all miss him, and now there is an empty spot in the bed. If you have any information on the where abouts of Sharifa, or if I will ever see him again, please notify me. I just can't believe he would run away, wasn't he happy here? Or, I know this is extreme but I am distraught, has he been plantnapped!!?? If you have taken him, please bring him back. I am also quite concerned that he may have been eaten (I am guite certain rabbits ate my purple passion), or otherwise have perished.

Oh the guilt, the guilt. I never should have let all those cosmos plant themselves in, and run wild through, our roses home. I knew those plants were trouble. They are so huge, at least 3 feet, and are growing so wide (they resemble pine trees) crowding out all the space, and blocking sunlight from smaller plants. I kept telling myself it wasn't safe having them hanging around, they had to go, but then I would hesitate, because it seemed too late to transplant them, unfair to move them, how would they survive? And the birds loved them so. But yesterday, in all my distress, I pulled them out without reservation. Wishing I hadn't considered the cosmos at all, and had instead tended better to my intentional plantings. How long has Sharifa been missing? How could I not have known? Am I that distracted? I visit my roses everyday and pull the beetles off of them, but Sharifa was just little and had no blooms. I have planted the cosmos in other places. I don't know if they will or wont survive, but it had to be done, I shall not sacrifice anymore of my children to their whims.

Now I am just watering the dirt, where he was, in hopes that he is still there somewhere (though truth is, the soil seems empty), and that if I pay him the attention I should have been paying before, he will return to me. I guess I shall just have to leave an open space in the matting around where I think he is, and if he does not return next spring, I shall buy another one to plant in his place, and not lose sight of that one. (and not let the cosmos plant themselves in that bed, I'll take them out right away. I promise).
carbon monoxide alarm went off at 4 am. It is still going off. All windows are open. Cheese is freaking out. We bought another alarm and set it up, the new alarm (which is now right beside the older one) is not going off at all. I wish Bob had kept the third one, so we would have two alarms reading the same thing. We don't know what to do. We called the fire department, they are sending someone, we are waiting. Cheese feels sick with worry. I feel sick because I am so tired. Cheese is insisting that we go outside.

Just before 5:30 they left. We thought there would be one guy with some sort of monitor, but there were 4 car/trucks, and a huge fire engine. Plenty of lights a flashing. ( I am glad I had decided to get out of my pjs and put day clothes on before Cheese, the cat and I went outside to wait). They had on their fire gear. And the two guys who sweeped the house, had on gas masks, that made noises when they breathed, like in ET, and Star Wars. We had to shut the windows so they could try and get a reading (now we know this if this ever happens again). Anyway, in the end the house was all clear, no readings, so it seems we have a faulty monitor. We feel bad, waking up all those guys for nothing. They were very kind, made small talk with us, and told us, how much they prefer faulty alarms to carrying unconscious people out of their homes.

The first light is already spreading across the sky. Bob is back in bed, wishing the rest of us would do the same. I am on the computer. Cheese is walking around chatty and unsettled. The cat is running about crazy wild (having been outside in his carrier in the wee hours, an unusual experience for him). Now the cat is talking to me, soon Bob will yell at us both. I haven't slept at all. Birds just started. Even though they gave us the all clear, I don't think I can close the windows. We will buy two more alarms today, one to replace the faulty one, and one more, so we have three, so two will tell us the same thing at any given time. I guess I'll try to go to sleep.
I slept from 7-10 (when my mom called). Cheese didn't bother trying to sleep, got up and played with his Legos. Bob and the cat got enough sleep.

by the bye, changed the date, by several days, so it would drop further down the post list. wish to forget about it. Did sleep last night :)

Monday, August 13, 2007

Carbon monoxide

I couldn't sleep last night, the house felt stuffy and warm, I thought about turning on our new loud fan for more air, but it sounds like a small airplane, rather than being whisper quiet like our older one. It is however pretty and has a wood base, unlike the other, plastic one. (they sit side by side, at the top of my side of the bed.) I decided not to, just went downstairs and turned up, (or would that be down?) the air conditioning. I fell asleep around 3:30 am. Had weird dreams, (not as amusing as Anderson dream I had the night previous), the last part was some annoying man kept setting off the security alarm at a store, by moving merchandise back and forth through it. It was so annoying, over and over again, I wanted to beat him upside the head with something. But then I woke up, and realized the dream noise was in my house. Smoke alarm, I thought, batteries wore out. But after I found the proper one, located at the top of the basement steps, and took out the batteries, I still heard the noise, and moved my attention instead to the carbon monoxide monitor. The green light for batteries was fine, but the red light, next to the words "move to fresh air" was flashing. So I woke everyone up, and opened all the windows. Cheese got the cat on a leash (while I put day clothes on) and outside we went. (8 by then)

After an hour or so, which we spent doing yard work (I was going to say, well not Cheese or the cat, but the cat did trim the grass a bit), the guy arrived to check our furnace. Birds, two dead birds stuck in the flew? flu? flue? however it is spelled, that is where they were, and quite singed too I'm afraid. Oh now, Cheese says they were in the loft. Did someone also mention a shute. Shoot. At any rate, they were somewhere they shouldn't be, bad for them, bad for us. We do have a cap, to prevent this sort of thing, but still it happened.

Bob said he had sort of heard the alarm but thought it a cell phone or smoke alarm battery thing, so had just gone on sleeping. Cheese, like me, had the sound become part of his dream, something about Lego pieces scrapping across a table. It startles me that it wasn't more immediate. How long was the sound going on before it woke me up? What if, I had put that loud fan on, would we have heard the alarm at all? I don't think so. We are going to get another monitor for the top of the stairs near our bedrooms. But also, I think my pretty fan (which Bob had already wanted me to take back) will indeed be going back now. Though it does do a smashing job of blocking out Bob watching TV when he is downstairs, and snoring when he is beside me, it also blocks out other noises I really do need to hear.

So, if you have oil, furnace, please do get an alarm.
I thought of it merely as emotional security (peace of mind), I didn't think we would ever really need it to be there.
(oh yes, and please do resist the temptation of buying a rather pretty, but extremely loud, fan and sticking it a foot and half away from your head).

Sunday, August 12, 2007

it is pontentilla

but I'm sure you have found it out somewhere else by now.

Saturday, August 11, 2007

eyes exercise

Reading witnessing am I, today, David was talking about looking into people's eyes, and knowing their souls, feeling a connection, as David is apt to do. Which made me think about my characters and my writing, and how I am not, nor are my characters, likely to have such experiences.
His character was at an airport. The poem involved two people who never met. Well wait that doesn't sound right, for in a way they deeply met, but not physically, not verbally.
This gave me an idea. I started thinking it might be good for me to do a writing exercise, where I imagine I am sitting on a bus, no ipod, no book, nothing running through my mind, no plans, no daydreams, just me sitting there, physically and mentally idle. So for entertainment I look around at the people on the bus, I take them one at a time, and look into their eyes, they are bored too, so take it in turn to look into mine, and we pass the time reaching into, reading into, each others souls. Seeing what mere eyes can tell us. Of course it wouldn't be just anyone on this bus, it would be filled with the characters from the story I am working on. I haven't done it yet, but I do keep picturing us sitting on the bus together. I didn't know Mikiyoshi had a sort of brief case carry all, black with a strap that slung over his shoulder. But I saw it today.
This reminds me a bit of, The Weekend Novelist by Robert J. Ray, where he recommends, an exercise where you write out a dream sequence for your characters. Just sort of stream of consciousness. I started to do it, a long while back, but being me never finished.
Which brings my attention to, I have been creatively loafing.
But I like this idea, the bus ride, for of course we are all traveling together. I thought maybe a train, but that wouldn't be intimate enough. No, it is a bus, and it is bumpy...and we aren't sure, any one of us, that we will ever get there, and we look about at each other hopefully.

speaking of eyes, mine are not the same size, darn isight and blog, I never realized it before these past few months. Maybe I can forget, I forget a great many things.

Friday, August 10, 2007

An hour to oneself

Just got back from what was supposed to be an outing to the bookstore. But my time was severely limited, because this morning when I mentioned going to the bookstore alone, my husband reacted as though I had said I was off to Italy for a month or two, and would he mind watching our son and maintaining the house till I got back. He wanted to know: Why I should go by myself? Hadn't I been to a bookstore recently? You can't spend any money anyway. Aren't you going to make us breakfast? Why don't you go later with our son? He went on for a bit acting all betrayed by this notion of mine, that I would spend almost two hours alone in a bookstore, before having to come home, as he would be going to work. I sat there very quiet and angry. He actually moved towards me and rested his head on my chest. Which infuriated me. Doesn't he know I am pissed? Tenderness toward him, is not at all what I was feeling. I mentioned that I did have money left on my gift card, that I didn't intend to buy anything anyway, and that I hadn't been alone since school let out. Oh and also, that I had no intention of making them breakfast either way. Why don't they just eat fruit?

This all went on for a bit, with long silent parts. Finally he started to realize that I was indeed angry, and while no longer pleading my case, was forming a grudge that I would hold onto for a good long time. So he said "you better go". And I said "I don't think so". And then it went back and forth like that for a while. Yes, I still wanted to go, and no I wasn't just being obstinate. But now my fun little carefree jaunt, of freedom from whining and harassment, peacefully looking at books, had turned into one of emotional turmoil and burden. There would be guilt and anger. Lots of conflictimg feelings crashing into me as I scanned the titles and tried to sit and read. The price had become too high. I explained this to him, and he kept saying, you better just go, no you aren't betraying us. And then started pushing me out of bed. I got ready, but as I pulled down our driveway, I realized I only had an hour left. I wouldn't be able to sit and read, I wouldn't be relaxed. I decided to go to the library instead, maybe they had the book, and I could just come home with it. They did, but it is out till Aug. 30th. So I took out scads of dvds. When I got home I placed them in a great pile in Bob's eye line, so that his face contorted in all sorts of unpleasant ways (as he imagined I had rented them all from blockbuster which is very close to the bookstore, and hoped that I had rented them instead from the dollar movies which is totally in the opposite direction). "Umm....uh....where did you get those?" he said with forced casualness. I smiled and answered "the library". At which point his features relaxed.

After the library I stopped in Target to look at the book I had wanted to see about, Eat, Pray, Love (I have heard, an overheard several different people talking warmly of it lately). It was there. So was Saving Fish from Drowning, which intrigues me, though farce isn't usually something I enjoy. They both look like intersting journeys to take. I had to get home right away, so I had no time to even read several pages. I shouldn't buy either one, but I wanted both. I picked them up, I put them down. I picked them up, I put them down. Finally I made myself a promise, that if I finish reading the 3 books I am, to varying degrees, reading now, then I can buy these two. Sounds simple I know, but you don't know how i am with books. I don't buy for long periods (well it seems that way to me anyway), and then there is a buying binge, explosion. But this is right, a good decision, and it will help me follow through with the books. It makes no sense to buy more than I read. But I so love having them around, being surrounded by them, knowing they are there. Currently, I am reading Tuck Everlasting. I would say it is a bit young for me, but that doesn't really feel right, as death is the reason I am reading it.

The thing I noticed most about this little trip. It was wonderful to be alone in the car. Driving along through green fields, the radio on. No one talking. Just me. I forgot how much I like that. I came back home, and had to grab my writing notebook, as I had figured some things out that would help me with my story, and as I wrote those down (several times asking my son to be quiet, stop talking legos, et cetera, till I was done), I caught a few more lines, and a pretty way of viewing part of it, that let me understand a whole section of the story more clearly/deeply.

by the bye,
I'm about to rip my hair out over this letterboxing thing. I've figured out that it is because the video camera footage doesn't fit in right, so it is altered to fit. I hate it. I have to wait forever while it does it, then I have to go through all these hoops to get a photo, and undo it, and the new cropping, messes up the composition. I hate it.

Tuesday, August 7, 2007

what to reveal

Existing as words, through words. Creating ideas about oneself, an identity, purely with words, with the ones we pick, how we say them, with the topics we choose. I can choose only the pictures that create an image I am comfortabe with, I can show you the best parts of me, physically (using certain angles and lighting), mentally/emotionally (sharing only the good things), or I can show you the hard edges, and the ugly parts, the things I am not proud of, that which I wish wasn't there. I can show you it all, or I could show you nothing. I could present a different me, or the actual me, or work on creating, becoming a better version of me. Be ethereal, dreamy floaty. Be romantic. Be impatient, hard, cold, crude. Be practical. Be impractical.
Sliding across the page, slowly solidifying as I slide, forming, coming into being. Existing through words.

The truth is, while I try to be aware of the image I am creating of myself. I don't focus on the over-all impression. Each post is its own thing. Some are dreamy, some are confessional, some are silly, some are nutty, some are just keeping track of my day, of my garden, some keep track of whether I am or am not writing, some don't have real content. I am, my only known audience, so it doesn't really matter. Yet, there is something odd about it, this act, of creating oneself, in the blogosphere, both tucked away and hidden in the vastness of the world wide web, and out in the open, where anyone could happen by at any time. Regardless of anyone else, the picture I am creating, I am witnessing. I think that is why I don't stick to a theme, and my tone varies. I may wish to be other things, but I am not actually (actively) trying to be them, I am just being as I am, moment to moment. And since I am watching, aware of what I am blogging, I don't want to leave parts of me out, I don't want to say this is too harsh, and that too unflattering, to be known. I want to claim me to myself, as I am. Yet this is a blog, and it is still small pieces that I am sharing. I guess that is what this post is actually about, not what should a person show, but how much?

Monday, August 6, 2007

Tan lines

here a photo compromise, that doesn't leave me wondering if I'm compromising myself.

Photo removed on account of the fact that it kept getting hits. More hits than I ever personally got hit on.

Saturday, August 4, 2007

up to my neck in it

sunday now- did type in 2,000 words yesterday, goal today the same (except to do it early, rather than stay up til after 12)

I see her face in my face

An unflattering picture of me, most of them are, must be my funny face ( sadly not like Audrey's funnyface). But I like this one anyway. For some reason I see my Austrian grandmother's face in mine. She is my only grandparent who is still alive. She turns 89 this year. I have a large nose, and she has a little one, probably why I never saw her in my face before. It must be the angle, or the smile, or the amount of cheek. I like seeing her face in mine. I am surprised by just how much.
She has been known, in the past, for being strict (also strict catholic). The story of her chasing my mother (who was on a bike she wished not be on or riding), when she was a child, down the street with a wooden spoon, as incentive for her to learn how to ride the bike, she had to keep going and pedaling faster to avoid the spoon; is quintessential. In more recent times she is known more for her spunk and her spirit.

I am glad in recent years, we are getting to know each other better. Her husband, my grandfather died a couple of years ago, and I really didn't know him. Tall, northern Italian, quiet. Really all I know.

My other grandparents, my nana, and pop, I spent a lot of time with from the beginning.
My left shoulder is speckled with freckles (not so the right one. Odd, don't they go everywhere together?), they look just like the ones that my pop (German) had on his shoulders. So every summer I am happy to find myself breaking out in them, like carrying part of him, with me, in my skin.
On the other hand, I think he is partly responsible for this nose on my face (my other grandfather plays a part too), and I would love to love my nose, as I did him, and his face, and his nose, I however can not!

My English grandmother, had pale skin, reddish brown hair, and freckles. Not just cute little freckles but splotches and dots too, all over her face. How she complained, how she hated them. I do tan, and am not so prone to splotches, but in the summer on the top of my left check, there is a splattering of darker color, a network of dots and little splotches. When I see them I think of her, when I look at them on my face, I see her face. And I smile.

Friday, August 3, 2007



Two pink poppies are in bloom. Delicately they hold to stem.

Early last spring a rose bloomed in my pale pink bed. She was too bold for me, so I dug her up, and stuck her in a pot. All summer long I dragged her about the yard, trying to figure out where she would fit. But I never planted her, and soon forgot about her. Soon she was just brown twigs, burnt by sun. In late fall, I decided I should bring her inside. I watered her whenever it occurred to me, otherwise known as, not often. By mid-winter she had leaves. I was shocked, and felt compelled to keep her alive (remember to water her more than once a month). In spring I took her outside to plant in the yard. But I still had no idea where to put her. I set her in the backyard on a little step to a door we never use, I got distracted by my other projects, and a month or so later, she was dried out twigs. I took her around front, set her infront of the other garage door (the one no car goes through), I knew I would have to throw her out; but not yet. As I bought new plants to plant, I set them in front of this garage door, and I watered them every day until I planted them. I felt sort of bad watering them, right next to her, as she was all dead and dried out, so I watered her too. And then when I had planted all the plants and stopped buying new ones, I watered her when I watered the beds. In July I noticed greenery in her pot again. At first I thought maybe it was just a weed, but no, definitely rose leaves. So I decided to dig her a spot in the new bed (I was forced to make against Bob's wishes, because of a late season two roses for the price of one sale), the least I could do, as she has fought so to stay alive, has persevered despite my ongoing neglect. She has no buds yet, but gets bigger and fuller everyday. I look at her and smile. It doesn't matter what color her petals are, those deep vibrant pinks, I will tend to her, she has a place in my garden, she has earned it.

I was watering my plants the morning we were leaving for vacation, and I couldn't find the two lavender plants, I had transplanted from our backyard. They were just gone. I asked Bob, he pleaded no clue. I kept searching, and finally found them, one had been ripped out, and tossed several feet away, the other was still there, it was just that a huge rock had been placed on top of it. Bob apparently did both while burying the white electrical wire. I was so upset. I replanted the one, and took the rock off the other, and watered them both a lot. I thought they would just be brown death when we got back, but they look just fine, like the whole incident never happened.

I wish the beetles weren't so persistent. But I am happier now, anyway, because the roses are still coming, and I get to see and enjoy some of them before they are devoured.

Yesterday (and again today) on the butterfly bush, there was a black butterfly with white and blue markings, faded colors. I stood several inches away and watched. His wings were torn in places, and missing in places, like something took a bite out of him. He flew about from stem to stem, drinking in the nectar. I wondered if something had tried to eat him, or if he had battled for territory. He is not the prettiest butterfly to land on this bush, like the bigger yellow swallowtail, and the deep black butterfly with blue markings. But how can I not find him the most beautiful, hold him the most dear? The others touch my eyes, but he touches my heart.