A forbidden activity is so delicious. I think the exercise is asking for a specific forbidden activity, but I think it is more challenging to write about forbidden activity in general.
But I can't. I will probably have to put this off for another day as I sliced my left pinky scooping out dog food to make a meatball for my dog so she would not know that there was medicine in there. This makes it almost impossible to type so, I bid adieu for the time being. But only for a moment.
And not following through on a commitment to type every day is a forbidden activity. But I have a band aid on my pinky the size of a ducks' bill and I can't type very well. So I know you will forgive me, Ce.
Friday, January 30, 2009
January 29 The End of the Day
"At the end of the day" is one of those sayings that people like to say upon summing up an argument, presentation or point. They mean to make their point, but they have to put a lot of stuff in there first. Like "blah blah blah but at the end of the day, it's all the same."
So why not just say "It's all the same?" instead of putting that disclaimer in there? It is like, "when all is said and done" which to me would be self-evident and therefore stating the obvious. "At the end of the day, no matter what happens, we're still yada yada yada." It gets me thinking about some of the other sayings we have. Like "so, in wrapping up I just want to say" which means someone is not wrapping up at all, they are just getting started.
The thing is, I have not written my exercises for a few days because the weather has been so cool and beautiful and any spare time I have has been spent walking the dogs and playing with them outside. So I am trying to make up the time by writing inane things like this. But the thing is, I have spent more time with my dogs and, at the end of the day, isn't that what it's all about?
So why not just say "It's all the same?" instead of putting that disclaimer in there? It is like, "when all is said and done" which to me would be self-evident and therefore stating the obvious. "At the end of the day, no matter what happens, we're still yada yada yada." It gets me thinking about some of the other sayings we have. Like "so, in wrapping up I just want to say" which means someone is not wrapping up at all, they are just getting started.
The thing is, I have not written my exercises for a few days because the weather has been so cool and beautiful and any spare time I have has been spent walking the dogs and playing with them outside. So I am trying to make up the time by writing inane things like this. But the thing is, I have spent more time with my dogs and, at the end of the day, isn't that what it's all about?
January 28
Write about The sky you were born under:
I was born under a May sky
It was evening, the sun was just beginning to retire for the day
I was restless
it was
time for me to make my way into the world.
I was born under a May sky
I was ready, I had no more patience for floating about aimlessly day after day
I was cramped
it was
time for me to stop putting off the inevitable
I was born under a May sky
I was one of the children born to the Taurean sign
I was Taurus
I didn't
want any secrets or lies or betrayals, only honesty
Becasuse
I was born under a May sky.
I was born under a May sky
It was evening, the sun was just beginning to retire for the day
I was restless
it was
time for me to make my way into the world.
I was born under a May sky
I was ready, I had no more patience for floating about aimlessly day after day
I was cramped
it was
time for me to stop putting off the inevitable
I was born under a May sky
I was one of the children born to the Taurean sign
I was Taurus
I didn't
want any secrets or lies or betrayals, only honesty
Becasuse
I was born under a May sky.
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
January 27, Write About a Used Car
It was 1975 and I was about to purchase my second car. My first car was a 1962 Mercury Comet. It was remarkable because of its color, which was turquise. Honest to God turquise, a color not seen in a car before or since. And it had a white and chrome stripe down the sides.
I loved that car, but the time came when I wanted a convertible. So I got my Dad to help me sell it so I can buy a shiny black 1964 Ford Falcon convertible that I saw on the lawn of some gas station in Palm Beach Gardens. It was a manual transmission, but I wasn't afraid of that, I wanted the car and I had learned to drive a manual transmission on a friends' Toyota Corolla. So we bought the car and I brought it home and wow, did I make it shine!!! I loved that car with all my heart. It had a black interior, but in my youth I didn't care that I had a black car with black interior in South Florida. I can't imagine that today. The interior had red accents here and there. There was chrome strips along the sides of the car. I put some white pinstriping on it. Later, I purchased hood ornaments that were made to look as if you had to lock down the hood because the engine was too powerful! They were chrome locks which necessitated drilling holes in the hood of the car which Daddy was not crazy about but, to his credit, he did it anyway. I had my boyfriend at the time (who later became husband number 1 and the father of my kids) install a Thrush muffler to make it sound like a racecar and I even took it out to Moroso Speedway to see how fast it would go. In the vernacular of the time, it turned twelves in the quarter mile!
I named the car Diamond Girl and had a license plate on the front bearing the name. It was for the Seals and Crofts song by the same name because of the lyrics, "you sure do shine".
Later, when the CB craze hit, that was my 'handle'.
My Falcon died one day when I was trying to make a dramatic exit from Randy's house. We had just had a fight and I had stormed out the door of his house, gotten in my car and slammed the door, turned the key and the engine roared. I gunned the engine in neutral and heard this deafening BANG. The tranny had given out. So much for dramatic exits.
It turned out to be too expensive to fix the tranny on a ten-year-old car so we had it towed to a VW dealer and traded it in on a bug. I loved the bug too, but it was no Diamond Girl. I never felt that way about another car.
Until I got my Jeep, Jenny Girl.
Stay tuned.
I loved that car, but the time came when I wanted a convertible. So I got my Dad to help me sell it so I can buy a shiny black 1964 Ford Falcon convertible that I saw on the lawn of some gas station in Palm Beach Gardens. It was a manual transmission, but I wasn't afraid of that, I wanted the car and I had learned to drive a manual transmission on a friends' Toyota Corolla. So we bought the car and I brought it home and wow, did I make it shine!!! I loved that car with all my heart. It had a black interior, but in my youth I didn't care that I had a black car with black interior in South Florida. I can't imagine that today. The interior had red accents here and there. There was chrome strips along the sides of the car. I put some white pinstriping on it. Later, I purchased hood ornaments that were made to look as if you had to lock down the hood because the engine was too powerful! They were chrome locks which necessitated drilling holes in the hood of the car which Daddy was not crazy about but, to his credit, he did it anyway. I had my boyfriend at the time (who later became husband number 1 and the father of my kids) install a Thrush muffler to make it sound like a racecar and I even took it out to Moroso Speedway to see how fast it would go. In the vernacular of the time, it turned twelves in the quarter mile!
I named the car Diamond Girl and had a license plate on the front bearing the name. It was for the Seals and Crofts song by the same name because of the lyrics, "you sure do shine".
Later, when the CB craze hit, that was my 'handle'.
My Falcon died one day when I was trying to make a dramatic exit from Randy's house. We had just had a fight and I had stormed out the door of his house, gotten in my car and slammed the door, turned the key and the engine roared. I gunned the engine in neutral and heard this deafening BANG. The tranny had given out. So much for dramatic exits.
It turned out to be too expensive to fix the tranny on a ten-year-old car so we had it towed to a VW dealer and traded it in on a bug. I loved the bug too, but it was no Diamond Girl. I never felt that way about another car.
Until I got my Jeep, Jenny Girl.
Stay tuned.
Monday, January 26, 2009
January 26 2009 Write about a closet.
The topic this week is to write about someones closet. That's a great descriptive verse exercise, but I believe a metaphor is in the offing. So I will write about emotional closets.
Some people have a beautiful house, and most have a mediocre house. And you go inside, and you see their rooms, and you think, well, this is pretty ordinary. But people have a tendancy to shove things in their closet when having company. And when one opens the closet, evil lurks therein.
In their closet is rage, and anger, and dishonesty. In their closet, though they may have a perfectly normal coutenance, you will find deciet and hatred. Buddah says that hate never disappated hate, only love dissapates hate. So when it's present, it has nothing to do but build up, like layers of paint on a bedroom wall, unless love comes to replace it. But in some closets, there is no innocence, only guilt.
So why are there people in the world who have such demons in their closets? And why do they feel the need to unleash it on the rest of us?
Is it because they have deep hurts in their lives so they, in turn, have to turn around and hurt other people?
Buddah teaches that basic decency means treating people fairly, not hurting them when they are hurting already, being ethical and kind. It's the Golden Rule, to treat others how they want to be treated. Jesus told it on the Mount, Blessed are the pure of heart, for they shall see God...
Yet time and time again, I run into people who are not pure of heart, in fact, they are evil. Really evil. Maybe they are the unenlightened, those just beginning their journey and have many, many incarnations to go through before they reach Nirvana. My big challenge in life is to not judge others. I feel deeply that however harshly I judge my brothers and sisters, I will be judged thus in the afterlife. I worry about this often and so I make a conscious effort not to judge others.
But I cannot help but to ponder why people are the way they are. Why they have to be so evil. I am not judging, far be it from me, I am lowly myself. And, I do understand that we all, all of us, come from different backgrounds and we bring many crosses to bear. We bring the hurts and lessons and loves and losses from this lifetime and possibly others, and so one cannot possibly judge another unless she has walked a mile in his moccasins.
I have a sister. She's a spiritually small, meek, mouse who would never hurt a living thing (other than the cows and pigs she eats, but that's for another day). She is a victim of life. Life has been very hard on her, beaten her down, made her days a shambles. She has made some decisions that have shaped her life in ways that has brought unimaginable pain and heartache. And she has nobody to blame for these misfortunes but her own self. She freely admits this.
And yet I find, time and time again, that people go out of their way to hurt her. They bully her into submission until she is a crying, quivering mass of nerves. They tread on her and dig their claws into her flesh until she cannot bleed anymore, and still they keep coming. Someone says they will help her, but they have an agenda, they want only to hurt her. Someone says they will make a place for her at the table, but they only want to take, take, take what meager possessions she has. Someone says, "Come in from the storm and I will give you safe harbor" but they are the most vicious of them all.
How do you continue to be a good Christian and turn the other cheek when people knock you down? Is it possible to chalk it up to Life Lessons and understand that this is karma at work, and one day they will get theirs? And shame on us for even hoping that is the case?
I know a woman who has a dark heart, yet she wields great power and enjoys a good life, a full life. I know a man who was not deserving of the highest place in the world, and yet, for eight years he had just that. I know a lady who is selfish, and mean, and cruel to other people, yet she is living a life of luxury, working in a field she loves, employing being a puppeteer of human and animal lives. I don't understand.
Time and time again I have looked into their closets and I see that they are all the same. They are cut from the same cloth. The ones who took my dog, the ones who bully a poor soul who cannot defend herself for all the emotional and spiritual wounds she carries, and they create problems where none existed. They find fault with the slightest thing, and they don't forgive. They just pack every imagined slight into their closet, shut the door and smile. They accuse and they belittle and their souls are as dark as a rotting dead thing that does nothing for the world around it but suck the energy.
I never go out without my white light of protection. I meditate every morning so that I am steeled against the day and whatever it may bring. But sometimes, like the time they stole my dog, there is a crack in that white light, a chink in the armour, and they find their way in. I guess I need to keep something in my closet to defend against treachery.
So the question for today is not why they have these things in their closets, but what can I put in mine to defend myself from them? How how to deal with them?
The Desiderata says "As far as possible without surrender, be on good terms with all people" and I have tried to live by that, child of the sixties that I am. But how far is too far without surrender? Where is that fine line? And what do you do when people cross it?
I hear all the time about how people love their animals better than people because animals are so straightforward. I believe it. I know an woman, a person who has taken quarter in my life, though I offered no quarter there, who spends hours doing volunteer work at an animal shelter so that all will see what an angel she is. Then she goes home and abuses her own animals. The bible says that when you pray, you should go in your room and shut the door, and not stand on the street corner wailing loudly for all to see. I think that means, too, that when you do little acts of kindness, that you should not do it for show, but in quiet. Good character is doing something good when nobody is looking.
So why can't everyone just live by the Golden Rule and apply that not only to just people but to animals too?
I saw a few red flags when this woman was first on my radar. I disliked her immensely when I first met her, my hackles rose immediately. But then, she offered to help, and I figured, well, maybe I should get to know her, not pre judge her, ignore the red flags and give her a chance.
But you never know what's behind that closet door and so you should always trust your first instinct. It's God's way of giving you vital information. It's the Universe, your spirit Guide, your ascended masters, the saints, trying to get your attention.
That's the lesson.
Some people have a beautiful house, and most have a mediocre house. And you go inside, and you see their rooms, and you think, well, this is pretty ordinary. But people have a tendancy to shove things in their closet when having company. And when one opens the closet, evil lurks therein.
In their closet is rage, and anger, and dishonesty. In their closet, though they may have a perfectly normal coutenance, you will find deciet and hatred. Buddah says that hate never disappated hate, only love dissapates hate. So when it's present, it has nothing to do but build up, like layers of paint on a bedroom wall, unless love comes to replace it. But in some closets, there is no innocence, only guilt.
So why are there people in the world who have such demons in their closets? And why do they feel the need to unleash it on the rest of us?
Is it because they have deep hurts in their lives so they, in turn, have to turn around and hurt other people?
Buddah teaches that basic decency means treating people fairly, not hurting them when they are hurting already, being ethical and kind. It's the Golden Rule, to treat others how they want to be treated. Jesus told it on the Mount, Blessed are the pure of heart, for they shall see God...
Yet time and time again, I run into people who are not pure of heart, in fact, they are evil. Really evil. Maybe they are the unenlightened, those just beginning their journey and have many, many incarnations to go through before they reach Nirvana. My big challenge in life is to not judge others. I feel deeply that however harshly I judge my brothers and sisters, I will be judged thus in the afterlife. I worry about this often and so I make a conscious effort not to judge others.
But I cannot help but to ponder why people are the way they are. Why they have to be so evil. I am not judging, far be it from me, I am lowly myself. And, I do understand that we all, all of us, come from different backgrounds and we bring many crosses to bear. We bring the hurts and lessons and loves and losses from this lifetime and possibly others, and so one cannot possibly judge another unless she has walked a mile in his moccasins.
I have a sister. She's a spiritually small, meek, mouse who would never hurt a living thing (other than the cows and pigs she eats, but that's for another day). She is a victim of life. Life has been very hard on her, beaten her down, made her days a shambles. She has made some decisions that have shaped her life in ways that has brought unimaginable pain and heartache. And she has nobody to blame for these misfortunes but her own self. She freely admits this.
And yet I find, time and time again, that people go out of their way to hurt her. They bully her into submission until she is a crying, quivering mass of nerves. They tread on her and dig their claws into her flesh until she cannot bleed anymore, and still they keep coming. Someone says they will help her, but they have an agenda, they want only to hurt her. Someone says they will make a place for her at the table, but they only want to take, take, take what meager possessions she has. Someone says, "Come in from the storm and I will give you safe harbor" but they are the most vicious of them all.
How do you continue to be a good Christian and turn the other cheek when people knock you down? Is it possible to chalk it up to Life Lessons and understand that this is karma at work, and one day they will get theirs? And shame on us for even hoping that is the case?
I know a woman who has a dark heart, yet she wields great power and enjoys a good life, a full life. I know a man who was not deserving of the highest place in the world, and yet, for eight years he had just that. I know a lady who is selfish, and mean, and cruel to other people, yet she is living a life of luxury, working in a field she loves, employing being a puppeteer of human and animal lives. I don't understand.
Time and time again I have looked into their closets and I see that they are all the same. They are cut from the same cloth. The ones who took my dog, the ones who bully a poor soul who cannot defend herself for all the emotional and spiritual wounds she carries, and they create problems where none existed. They find fault with the slightest thing, and they don't forgive. They just pack every imagined slight into their closet, shut the door and smile. They accuse and they belittle and their souls are as dark as a rotting dead thing that does nothing for the world around it but suck the energy.
I never go out without my white light of protection. I meditate every morning so that I am steeled against the day and whatever it may bring. But sometimes, like the time they stole my dog, there is a crack in that white light, a chink in the armour, and they find their way in. I guess I need to keep something in my closet to defend against treachery.
So the question for today is not why they have these things in their closets, but what can I put in mine to defend myself from them? How how to deal with them?
The Desiderata says "As far as possible without surrender, be on good terms with all people" and I have tried to live by that, child of the sixties that I am. But how far is too far without surrender? Where is that fine line? And what do you do when people cross it?
I hear all the time about how people love their animals better than people because animals are so straightforward. I believe it. I know an woman, a person who has taken quarter in my life, though I offered no quarter there, who spends hours doing volunteer work at an animal shelter so that all will see what an angel she is. Then she goes home and abuses her own animals. The bible says that when you pray, you should go in your room and shut the door, and not stand on the street corner wailing loudly for all to see. I think that means, too, that when you do little acts of kindness, that you should not do it for show, but in quiet. Good character is doing something good when nobody is looking.
So why can't everyone just live by the Golden Rule and apply that not only to just people but to animals too?
I saw a few red flags when this woman was first on my radar. I disliked her immensely when I first met her, my hackles rose immediately. But then, she offered to help, and I figured, well, maybe I should get to know her, not pre judge her, ignore the red flags and give her a chance.
But you never know what's behind that closet door and so you should always trust your first instinct. It's God's way of giving you vital information. It's the Universe, your spirit Guide, your ascended masters, the saints, trying to get your attention.
That's the lesson.
Sunday, January 25, 2009
January 25, Shadows
Shadows.
I think that this is a subject about shadows, the kind of darkness that comes when something gets in front of the sun.
But when I hear the word Shadows, I think of something far different. I think of all the black cats and dogs who are named Shadow. It's so common a name that I can practically guess it when I see a black dog or cat. I wish people would put a little more effort into naming a soul. After all, Shadow is not a very unique or creative name. It's a very ordinary name.
Some people name their dog or cat shadow because they are black. Others name them Shadow because the animal follows them around all the time, like a shadow. The word Shadow itself is a pretty word, it is euphonious and lovely. But as a name, it's common as dirt.
And speaking of all those black dogs and cats, I hate to bring this up but, more dogs and cats named Shadow are put to sleep than any other name. I do not know this for a fact, it is an educated guess. Because people are inherently afraid of black dogs and cats, they are difficult to adopt out. And if they are so hard to adopt, then, well, I'm afraid that euthanasia is the only solution. It's better than living ones' life out in a cage, after all.
Like I said, I don't know this for sure, it's not a statistic or anything. But if we looked into it, I believe, beyond a SHADOW of a doubt, it to be true.
I think that this is a subject about shadows, the kind of darkness that comes when something gets in front of the sun.
But when I hear the word Shadows, I think of something far different. I think of all the black cats and dogs who are named Shadow. It's so common a name that I can practically guess it when I see a black dog or cat. I wish people would put a little more effort into naming a soul. After all, Shadow is not a very unique or creative name. It's a very ordinary name.
Some people name their dog or cat shadow because they are black. Others name them Shadow because the animal follows them around all the time, like a shadow. The word Shadow itself is a pretty word, it is euphonious and lovely. But as a name, it's common as dirt.
And speaking of all those black dogs and cats, I hate to bring this up but, more dogs and cats named Shadow are put to sleep than any other name. I do not know this for a fact, it is an educated guess. Because people are inherently afraid of black dogs and cats, they are difficult to adopt out. And if they are so hard to adopt, then, well, I'm afraid that euthanasia is the only solution. It's better than living ones' life out in a cage, after all.
Like I said, I don't know this for sure, it's not a statistic or anything. But if we looked into it, I believe, beyond a SHADOW of a doubt, it to be true.
January 24, Write About Leaving
This one is easy. I was just laid off from a job that I loved. It was hard leaving, but I have to make the best of it so I am trying to make it look as if it doesn't bother me.
But it does.
I guess I knew it was coming. I guess I knew that it was inevitable. With all the lay-offs in this economic down-turn, I had to be the next one to receive a pink slip. It wasn't an unpleasant experience, my boss made it as painless as possible. She said all the right things, was very nice, insisting that I will be back after a few months. But I know when I am being "handled" and sometimes, that's an insult. Better to rip the band-aid off quickly: "We have no more money, we gotta let you go for the moment." But instead, I get a lecture about the budget, the economy, the donors, blah, blah, blah. It's insulting. But I guess others would say they were nice about it. I know they were not so nice about it to others. They treated some of the others like criminals....escorting them off the property, making them feel so unwanted. From what I hear, it was pretty ugly. So I guess I have to count my lucky stars that this did not happen to me. But then again, after the last time I was LAID OFF without my beloved Murphy, anything would be a piece of cake. At least I got to take my dog with me this time.
Leaving. It is not as exciting as coming. But then again, it still represents a change. When you are coming, you kind of know a little about what to expect. You know what the job will be, you know where your office is, what your environment is all about. But leaving.... well, you don't know quite as much about what to expect. Will I get another job? Will I be ok? Will anyone else hire me?
Then again, maybe it's time I left the job market for good this time. Leave it to the next generation. Maybe I should simply write about all that I have been through and all that I have seen and done, for better or for worse. And maybe, just maybe, in the leaving, I will find my true self.
But it does.
I guess I knew it was coming. I guess I knew that it was inevitable. With all the lay-offs in this economic down-turn, I had to be the next one to receive a pink slip. It wasn't an unpleasant experience, my boss made it as painless as possible. She said all the right things, was very nice, insisting that I will be back after a few months. But I know when I am being "handled" and sometimes, that's an insult. Better to rip the band-aid off quickly: "We have no more money, we gotta let you go for the moment." But instead, I get a lecture about the budget, the economy, the donors, blah, blah, blah. It's insulting. But I guess others would say they were nice about it. I know they were not so nice about it to others. They treated some of the others like criminals....escorting them off the property, making them feel so unwanted. From what I hear, it was pretty ugly. So I guess I have to count my lucky stars that this did not happen to me. But then again, after the last time I was LAID OFF without my beloved Murphy, anything would be a piece of cake. At least I got to take my dog with me this time.
Leaving. It is not as exciting as coming. But then again, it still represents a change. When you are coming, you kind of know a little about what to expect. You know what the job will be, you know where your office is, what your environment is all about. But leaving.... well, you don't know quite as much about what to expect. Will I get another job? Will I be ok? Will anyone else hire me?
Then again, maybe it's time I left the job market for good this time. Leave it to the next generation. Maybe I should simply write about all that I have been through and all that I have seen and done, for better or for worse. And maybe, just maybe, in the leaving, I will find my true self.
Friday, January 23, 2009
January 23, 2009 Write a Love Letter..to anyone
My Dearest Grandchild:
I cannot even begin to tell you how much I love you. You are the manifest of everything that makes me a feminine spirit with boundless love for a child. You have no idea how much you have awakened my soul.
I loved your father when he was my little boy, and of course I wanted only the best for him. But there is something much different about having the-child-of-my-child to love. Maybe it's because I never had a grandmother to love me. I never knew what that was like. I always resented and envied the kids around me who had grandmothers. They were always going to Grandmom's house for holiday, or recieving presents from Grandmom, or talking about how, when their grandmother died, they were so very, very sad. I even envied them because they knew someone who had died! I wondered what that was like as well.
So when I saw you for the first time, I felt a sting of pride knowing that you will never know that envy, that longing for someone who loves you so unconditionally. Someone who gives you a little break from your daily routine but who loves you just as much as your own mother and father do. Maybe more. Believe me, it's possible, though your parents may not agree.
I knew I wanted to be that grandmother that I never had. I never knew I would love the role so much, in fact, I secretly thought I would resent it. But no, not for a moment. Never.
Alexander, you were my first. When you were little you cried and cried for so long and so hard that I felt that my very essence was being ripped out of my soul and flung to the far reaches of the world. You were in pain, we could see that. Your poor mother and father were besides themselves with exhaustion and worry. What could be hurting you so? My heart broke for you. In time, of course, the crying stopped and it turned out to be colic. It seems trivial, but if you have ever had a gas pain in your abdomen that brings you to your knees, and you think about a tiny baby having to undergo that pain, it almost takes your breath away.
And the first time I ever saw you smile, you did just that. You took my breath away. I remember the exact moment. You were in your Daddy's arms, sitting on his hip. I came in the front door and you regarded me seriously for a moment. Then, your eyes flew wide with recognition and you smiled at me. My heart leapt and I fell instantly, irretrievably, head over heels in love. Oh what a beautiful moment. And there has been one beautiful moment after the next ever since.
And Austin, I remember the first time I met you too. You had a shaggy haircut, and it made you look adorable. You stood just inside our doorway, with your finger to your mouth, eyes down, afraid to look at us. We tried to get you to talk to us but you were painfully shy. Of course, this brought out the PROTECTOR in John and he was smitten immediately. You became his project. He wanted to show you how much you were wanted and loved. We accepted you as our own just as my in-laws had accepted my boys before you. You sat on the steps, it was the fourth step from the bottom, and you put your chin in your hands, your elbows resting on your knees. Your big brown eyes took in everything that was going on below, and you reserved your judgement.
And then, one day, a while later, I read you a book. It was called "Hey Little Ant" and you couldn't believe that the story ended with you, the reader, having to make a humane decision about the ant. You cried out "I love this book" and my heart said "I love this little boy" and I did, Austin, I truly did. And as I watch you grow into a big boy, I cannot wait to see what you have in store for us because Austin, I truly believe you are a sensitive and caring soul who is destined for very great things. You will be president one day, if you want it. You will save lives, or make them better. You will be The One they look up to. You, and the "white man" you tell us about all the time. The man who, I suspect, is not a white man, but a man bathed in white light. I think he is your guardian angel, your spirit guide, and he will see to it that you do great things.
And Adrienne. I have waited a lifetime for a little girl and here you are. I saw you in the hospital when you were just hours old. We waited in that hospital for you all night and finally, finally, you were here! Your smile is radiant, your personality defiant. You, little lady, will never be well behaved and good for you! Well behaved women rarely make history! You are living life on your own terms at the age of two, and wow, I can scarcely believe how smart and intuitive you are. You are a beautiful little girl, and you are well loved. I know that the Irish mother who raised me, and the Irish mother who is raising you, and the Irish mother who raised your daddy will always be together, looking out for you, watching over you. And someday, you will be an Irish mother too, if you want that, and you will have a wee one of your own to raise. Good, strong Irish women..may we be them, may we raise them....may we love them. Adrienne, you are the little girl of my dreams. Do you know why you have a special bond with your Uncle Jay? Because the Blessed Mother showed you to him while you were in heaven. Ask him about it sometime, he'll tell you all about it. It's a fascinating, true story.
My heart bursts at the thought of spending even a few minutes of time with my grandchildren, and I am so blessed, and fortunate to be young enough to enjoy them for a time to come, God willing, and old enough, finally, to really know how to love.
I cannot even begin to tell you how much I love you. You are the manifest of everything that makes me a feminine spirit with boundless love for a child. You have no idea how much you have awakened my soul.
I loved your father when he was my little boy, and of course I wanted only the best for him. But there is something much different about having the-child-of-my-child to love. Maybe it's because I never had a grandmother to love me. I never knew what that was like. I always resented and envied the kids around me who had grandmothers. They were always going to Grandmom's house for holiday, or recieving presents from Grandmom, or talking about how, when their grandmother died, they were so very, very sad. I even envied them because they knew someone who had died! I wondered what that was like as well.
So when I saw you for the first time, I felt a sting of pride knowing that you will never know that envy, that longing for someone who loves you so unconditionally. Someone who gives you a little break from your daily routine but who loves you just as much as your own mother and father do. Maybe more. Believe me, it's possible, though your parents may not agree.
I knew I wanted to be that grandmother that I never had. I never knew I would love the role so much, in fact, I secretly thought I would resent it. But no, not for a moment. Never.
Alexander, you were my first. When you were little you cried and cried for so long and so hard that I felt that my very essence was being ripped out of my soul and flung to the far reaches of the world. You were in pain, we could see that. Your poor mother and father were besides themselves with exhaustion and worry. What could be hurting you so? My heart broke for you. In time, of course, the crying stopped and it turned out to be colic. It seems trivial, but if you have ever had a gas pain in your abdomen that brings you to your knees, and you think about a tiny baby having to undergo that pain, it almost takes your breath away.
And the first time I ever saw you smile, you did just that. You took my breath away. I remember the exact moment. You were in your Daddy's arms, sitting on his hip. I came in the front door and you regarded me seriously for a moment. Then, your eyes flew wide with recognition and you smiled at me. My heart leapt and I fell instantly, irretrievably, head over heels in love. Oh what a beautiful moment. And there has been one beautiful moment after the next ever since.
And Austin, I remember the first time I met you too. You had a shaggy haircut, and it made you look adorable. You stood just inside our doorway, with your finger to your mouth, eyes down, afraid to look at us. We tried to get you to talk to us but you were painfully shy. Of course, this brought out the PROTECTOR in John and he was smitten immediately. You became his project. He wanted to show you how much you were wanted and loved. We accepted you as our own just as my in-laws had accepted my boys before you. You sat on the steps, it was the fourth step from the bottom, and you put your chin in your hands, your elbows resting on your knees. Your big brown eyes took in everything that was going on below, and you reserved your judgement.
And then, one day, a while later, I read you a book. It was called "Hey Little Ant" and you couldn't believe that the story ended with you, the reader, having to make a humane decision about the ant. You cried out "I love this book" and my heart said "I love this little boy" and I did, Austin, I truly did. And as I watch you grow into a big boy, I cannot wait to see what you have in store for us because Austin, I truly believe you are a sensitive and caring soul who is destined for very great things. You will be president one day, if you want it. You will save lives, or make them better. You will be The One they look up to. You, and the "white man" you tell us about all the time. The man who, I suspect, is not a white man, but a man bathed in white light. I think he is your guardian angel, your spirit guide, and he will see to it that you do great things.
And Adrienne. I have waited a lifetime for a little girl and here you are. I saw you in the hospital when you were just hours old. We waited in that hospital for you all night and finally, finally, you were here! Your smile is radiant, your personality defiant. You, little lady, will never be well behaved and good for you! Well behaved women rarely make history! You are living life on your own terms at the age of two, and wow, I can scarcely believe how smart and intuitive you are. You are a beautiful little girl, and you are well loved. I know that the Irish mother who raised me, and the Irish mother who is raising you, and the Irish mother who raised your daddy will always be together, looking out for you, watching over you. And someday, you will be an Irish mother too, if you want that, and you will have a wee one of your own to raise. Good, strong Irish women..may we be them, may we raise them....may we love them. Adrienne, you are the little girl of my dreams. Do you know why you have a special bond with your Uncle Jay? Because the Blessed Mother showed you to him while you were in heaven. Ask him about it sometime, he'll tell you all about it. It's a fascinating, true story.
My heart bursts at the thought of spending even a few minutes of time with my grandchildren, and I am so blessed, and fortunate to be young enough to enjoy them for a time to come, God willing, and old enough, finally, to really know how to love.
Thursday, January 22, 2009
January 21, 2009 Write about something you bought mail order
I buy every thing on Ebay. I love mail order. I have been doing it ever since I first learned about it. I love shopping this way.
I have purchased so many things on Ebay that it would be hard to narrow it down to one thing.
But there was one thing, a "find." Being that John is a public defender, he is an unsung hero. You never hear of Public Defenders, only the flashy defense lawyers that catch the big cases. But Public Defenders are the best. They aren't in it for the money, they are in it for the love of justice. They believe in the rights of others. And they believe in our justice system.
So it was particularly fitting this past Christmas that, while searching for a gift for my husband who is The Most Difficult Man On Earth To Buy For, I found a television series from the 1950's about Public Defenders on DVD. I bought the entire series, and John seemed pleased, not only with his gift, but with my creativity in finding such a perfect and thoughtful gift.
Ebay rocks!
I have purchased so many things on Ebay that it would be hard to narrow it down to one thing.
But there was one thing, a "find." Being that John is a public defender, he is an unsung hero. You never hear of Public Defenders, only the flashy defense lawyers that catch the big cases. But Public Defenders are the best. They aren't in it for the money, they are in it for the love of justice. They believe in the rights of others. And they believe in our justice system.
So it was particularly fitting this past Christmas that, while searching for a gift for my husband who is The Most Difficult Man On Earth To Buy For, I found a television series from the 1950's about Public Defenders on DVD. I bought the entire series, and John seemed pleased, not only with his gift, but with my creativity in finding such a perfect and thoughtful gift.
Ebay rocks!
January 22, 2009 In the Meantime
I spend a lot of time "in the meantime." "In the meantime" is the time that you have while waiting for other things to happen, such as "You go to the store, and in the meantime I will start the vegetables," or, "I have to wait for this train to pass, so in the meantime I will read this passage in my book."
I spend a lot of time in the meantime because I am a multi-tasker. I like to do several things at once. But there is one thing that I refuse to do in the meantime, one thing that I refuse to clump in with other things, and that's write. I cannot write in the meantime. I must have quality time to write. And so I set aside a few minutes, and it can be as little as 10 minutes, or as much as several hours, to write.
I used to say, "well, unless I have a solid block of at least two hours to write I can't 'get into it' but since starting these writing exercises I have learned that even a few minutes is helpful.
Oh, I have a phone call, I will be back. In the meantime, I hope you have a great day!
I spend a lot of time in the meantime because I am a multi-tasker. I like to do several things at once. But there is one thing that I refuse to do in the meantime, one thing that I refuse to clump in with other things, and that's write. I cannot write in the meantime. I must have quality time to write. And so I set aside a few minutes, and it can be as little as 10 minutes, or as much as several hours, to write.
I used to say, "well, unless I have a solid block of at least two hours to write I can't 'get into it' but since starting these writing exercises I have learned that even a few minutes is helpful.
Oh, I have a phone call, I will be back. In the meantime, I hope you have a great day!
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
January 20, 2009
The topic for today is to "Look out your window, write what you see" which would be a great exercise in descriptive writing. But I will use my imagination today, and pretend I am in a hotel room high above the National Mall in Washington D.C. because today is a day like no other.
So from my hotel window, here is what I see, feel and hear.
There are tens of thousands of people lining the mall and the streets of our nation's capital. The celebratory sounds fill the air and rise high above the streets, making everywhere you go, anywhere you are, a party. Every once in a while, there will be a huge, collective noise of shouting as some dignitary, celebrity or event happens that awakens the crowd. And you just know that this is a moment in history that will never be forgotten. Like the time the lights went out on the entire eastern seaboard, or the Kennedy assassination, and of course, 9/11, we all will know exactly what we were doing when Barack Obama was sworn in as our first black president.
I asked John just yesterday, "Did we make this big a fuss for Bush? For Clinton? For Kennedy even?" "No, I don't think so," came the answer. So why are we making such a big fuss now? I think it's because our country has been through a terrible eight years. President Bush will go down as the worse president in U.S. history. We have suffered economic losses, military defeat, apathy, job losses, even our 'place in the world' as the best democracy ever has been compromised. People around the world hate us. But it's all different today. Today, we make a big change. I see thousands of police officers, secret service and military personnel from my window, all there with one goal in mind, to keep our new president safe. There are those who are unhappy about our president being black, and who will try to hurt or kill him. Those people are the unenlightened, the ignorant, and the evil. They refuse to give anyone a chance who looks different from themselves.
I see a country on the verge of a great change. And whether or not President Obama goes down in history as a good president, a great president or a bad president, one thing is for sure, he has brought this country, indeed, the world, together in a way that not one of his predecessors ever has. He made us all sit up and take notice. People who never voted before, never gave a rats' ass about politics before are paying attention, and eager to see what happens next.
I see a country that has been given a second chance. I hope we don't blow it. There are some, my own son included, who have bought into the fear that the far right has been forcing down their throats, telling them that this man is a Muslim (he's not, but so what if he was?), that he will bring our country down, that he will cause us great harm. But if we can look past all that and see what good he has done so far, maybe those people will be more open and wait to pass judgement. He hasn't done anything but good things so far, there is nothing to complain about, yet. Give peace a chance!
I remember the labels "whites only." I remember the lynchings and the segregation and the race riots. I remember Dr. King's "I have a dream" speech. That the media is calling us "Post Racial America" makes be believe that there has been a shift. The American people are ready to embrace tolerance. And that is no small feat.
From my imaginary hotel room I see a country on a quest to become great again. And I say "Yes we can!"
So from my hotel window, here is what I see, feel and hear.
There are tens of thousands of people lining the mall and the streets of our nation's capital. The celebratory sounds fill the air and rise high above the streets, making everywhere you go, anywhere you are, a party. Every once in a while, there will be a huge, collective noise of shouting as some dignitary, celebrity or event happens that awakens the crowd. And you just know that this is a moment in history that will never be forgotten. Like the time the lights went out on the entire eastern seaboard, or the Kennedy assassination, and of course, 9/11, we all will know exactly what we were doing when Barack Obama was sworn in as our first black president.
I asked John just yesterday, "Did we make this big a fuss for Bush? For Clinton? For Kennedy even?" "No, I don't think so," came the answer. So why are we making such a big fuss now? I think it's because our country has been through a terrible eight years. President Bush will go down as the worse president in U.S. history. We have suffered economic losses, military defeat, apathy, job losses, even our 'place in the world' as the best democracy ever has been compromised. People around the world hate us. But it's all different today. Today, we make a big change. I see thousands of police officers, secret service and military personnel from my window, all there with one goal in mind, to keep our new president safe. There are those who are unhappy about our president being black, and who will try to hurt or kill him. Those people are the unenlightened, the ignorant, and the evil. They refuse to give anyone a chance who looks different from themselves.
I see a country on the verge of a great change. And whether or not President Obama goes down in history as a good president, a great president or a bad president, one thing is for sure, he has brought this country, indeed, the world, together in a way that not one of his predecessors ever has. He made us all sit up and take notice. People who never voted before, never gave a rats' ass about politics before are paying attention, and eager to see what happens next.
I see a country that has been given a second chance. I hope we don't blow it. There are some, my own son included, who have bought into the fear that the far right has been forcing down their throats, telling them that this man is a Muslim (he's not, but so what if he was?), that he will bring our country down, that he will cause us great harm. But if we can look past all that and see what good he has done so far, maybe those people will be more open and wait to pass judgement. He hasn't done anything but good things so far, there is nothing to complain about, yet. Give peace a chance!
I remember the labels "whites only." I remember the lynchings and the segregation and the race riots. I remember Dr. King's "I have a dream" speech. That the media is calling us "Post Racial America" makes be believe that there has been a shift. The American people are ready to embrace tolerance. And that is no small feat.
From my imaginary hotel room I see a country on a quest to become great again. And I say "Yes we can!"
Monday, January 19, 2009
January 19, 2009 Remember A Sound
It was September 11, 2001. I was sitting in a workshop at an American Humane Association conference in Crystal City, Washington D.C., just eight blocks from the Pentagon.
The twin towers had just come down, and the attendees sat stunned, half-listening to a speaker who had no idea whether she should continue, or just give up.
Suddenly, there was a loud sound that seemed to be coming from the floor above us. We all jumped in our seats, startled, and looked at one another for reassurance. It sounded like someone had been carrying something really big and heavy, a Grand Piano, perhaps, and the workmen had dropped it. But how could that be? It would have to have been dropped from a great height to make such a loud THUD.
Unsure of what to do, the speaker began again. The workshop was on storytelling, how to keep your audience involved, how to tell a story, how to illustrate the things you want to say using word pictures. But she was having trouble keeping our attention that morning.
From the back of the room the doors burst open and someone rushed into the room. We turned in our seats, all 40 or 50 of us in unison. "They just bombed the Pentagon!" she screamed.
And then there was chaos.
It did not dawn on me until much later, when I was re-visiting the experience, that the sound I heard was, indeed, the sound of a plane hitting a building. Our nations' building, the one where we plan and carry out war. And just like that, I was in a war zone. Me. The middled-aged grandmother who works at an animal shelter. I was stuck in that Marriott for four days, unable to find a way home. The sounds of war were all around me. The sounds of urban warfare are: fire, ambulance and police sirens, car horns honking, people running and crying, non-stop television coverage, Blackhawks circling above, policemen on horseback, the horses hooves clop, clop, clopping in the streets, whistles being blown, men with bullhorns shouting, miltary aircraft zooming overhead, cell phones ringing. These are the sounds of urban warfare.
And it all began with a terrible, tragic THUD. I will never, ever forget that sound.
The twin towers had just come down, and the attendees sat stunned, half-listening to a speaker who had no idea whether she should continue, or just give up.
Suddenly, there was a loud sound that seemed to be coming from the floor above us. We all jumped in our seats, startled, and looked at one another for reassurance. It sounded like someone had been carrying something really big and heavy, a Grand Piano, perhaps, and the workmen had dropped it. But how could that be? It would have to have been dropped from a great height to make such a loud THUD.
Unsure of what to do, the speaker began again. The workshop was on storytelling, how to keep your audience involved, how to tell a story, how to illustrate the things you want to say using word pictures. But she was having trouble keeping our attention that morning.
From the back of the room the doors burst open and someone rushed into the room. We turned in our seats, all 40 or 50 of us in unison. "They just bombed the Pentagon!" she screamed.
And then there was chaos.
It did not dawn on me until much later, when I was re-visiting the experience, that the sound I heard was, indeed, the sound of a plane hitting a building. Our nations' building, the one where we plan and carry out war. And just like that, I was in a war zone. Me. The middled-aged grandmother who works at an animal shelter. I was stuck in that Marriott for four days, unable to find a way home. The sounds of war were all around me. The sounds of urban warfare are: fire, ambulance and police sirens, car horns honking, people running and crying, non-stop television coverage, Blackhawks circling above, policemen on horseback, the horses hooves clop, clop, clopping in the streets, whistles being blown, men with bullhorns shouting, miltary aircraft zooming overhead, cell phones ringing. These are the sounds of urban warfare.
And it all began with a terrible, tragic THUD. I will never, ever forget that sound.
January 18, 2009 "It was noon and nothing was concluded"
This is a line from a work by Donald Rawley and I have no idea what it means. But it brings to mind board meetings. It brings to mind all of the board meetings through which I have sat thinking, "It's noon and we have accomplished nothing, let's eat!" or worse, "It's 6:00 and nothing is near finished, let's eat!"
I have been on several boards. One in particular, a board for an organization made up of professional humane educators, had me as a member of their board for six years. It was a wonderful time and I spent it with wonderful people. We travelled around the country, visiting shelters and getting to know the other people in the humane movement. I hung out with people from the big four: The Humane Society of the U.S., Best Friends, American Humane Association and the ASPCA. Yes, Peta was not a part of this and that is a long story for another day.
I learned so much from this experience and I hope to be able to serve on many more boards before I am through.
Because it's noon,
and nothing is concluded.
Let's eat.
I have been on several boards. One in particular, a board for an organization made up of professional humane educators, had me as a member of their board for six years. It was a wonderful time and I spent it with wonderful people. We travelled around the country, visiting shelters and getting to know the other people in the humane movement. I hung out with people from the big four: The Humane Society of the U.S., Best Friends, American Humane Association and the ASPCA. Yes, Peta was not a part of this and that is a long story for another day.
I learned so much from this experience and I hope to be able to serve on many more boards before I am through.
Because it's noon,
and nothing is concluded.
Let's eat.
Saturday, January 17, 2009
January 17, 2009 About a time you learned something you were not supposed to know
I find out things I am not supposed to know all the time. For example, I was walking out of a room the other day and the door I was approaching was all glass. The people behind me, the ones I had just bid good-bye, were watching me. Not only could I feel their eyes on my back, but I could see them in the glass. They were appraising my looks, and gossiping about me, I could tell by their body language, which, again, I saw in the glass.
Then there is a family member who believes I am jealous of her. She does not think I know this, but I do. I could tell by the things she tells me, and the way she and her husband watch me closely for my reaction. I'm not jealous,but it's ok that she thinks I am.
There was the time I was not supposed to find out about an employee who was making a lot more money than I was for virtually the same job. That was not much fun.
I wish I could say that I found out about a surprise party but nobody has ever thrown one for me. I wish they would, but they won't. It's way too much trouble and nobody likes me that much.
I can read people and I can "tell" things by the things they say or don't say, or the way they look, or act. I read body language really well.
I am having trouble with this topic and that's ok. Because it's supposed to happen from time to time. I can always come back to this if I think of a time I learned something I was not supposed to know. I could write a fictional account of a sordid affair, or a deadly illness but let's keep it real for now.
Then there is a family member who believes I am jealous of her. She does not think I know this, but I do. I could tell by the things she tells me, and the way she and her husband watch me closely for my reaction. I'm not jealous,but it's ok that she thinks I am.
There was the time I was not supposed to find out about an employee who was making a lot more money than I was for virtually the same job. That was not much fun.
I wish I could say that I found out about a surprise party but nobody has ever thrown one for me. I wish they would, but they won't. It's way too much trouble and nobody likes me that much.
I can read people and I can "tell" things by the things they say or don't say, or the way they look, or act. I read body language really well.
I am having trouble with this topic and that's ok. Because it's supposed to happen from time to time. I can always come back to this if I think of a time I learned something I was not supposed to know. I could write a fictional account of a sordid affair, or a deadly illness but let's keep it real for now.
January 16, 2009 Write About A Bed
In a little po-dunk town in northeast Florida there is an American Treasure. It is a B & B called the Herlong Mansion. The mansion has 7 or 8 rooms, all decorated according to its own theme, and all a beautiful sight to behold. Legend has it that the Herlong Mansion is, in fact, a haunted house. The owner of the house had died, you see, way, way back in the early 1900’s. The mansion had been home to several siblings and when the mistress of the house died, she did so intestate. Since the decedent left virtually no instructions as to what would become of the house, that is, which of her daughters would succeed her as the mistress, there was a terrible fight. For nine long years the family was embattled in a lawsuit over who was the rightful owner of the beautiful mansion.
When one of the heirs finally prevailed, she was ecstatic. She moved into the home immediately but, alas, she died within a year and so never got the opportunity to fully enjoy the residency for which she had alienated her entire family. So angry was she at this very unfortunate turn of events that she vowed to never leave the mansion and she never did. To this day she haunts that beautiful home and the visitors who sleep there. And that, patient reader, brings us to the bed.
The room in which we stayed was the master suite. It has a four-poster bed that is so far off the floor that it necessitates a small ladder be placed nearby. It is wide as it was tall and elegant in its own, semi-Victorian way. The room was built in the 1800’s, the walls and doors are solid, heavy and wooden. Upon entering the room, the bed, which is to the left, beckons and you cannot help yourself, you must climb atop the heavy white quilt with the tiny blue violets. But should you resist the temptation you will notice across the room is an imposing fireplace. It has a heavy wooden mantel on which are carefully placed lace runners and lovely little knick knacks: a small blue Delft cat, a
Victorian lavender teacup and saucer, and two small votive candles.
On either side of the fireplace are windows, treated with lacy powder-blue curtains and old-time shades, the kind with the string and the little circle. The window sills are white-painted wood.
The walls are covered in white wainscoting halfway up, meeting white pin-striped wallpaper with tiny blue and purple African violets about. The ceiling is cantilevered with heavy wooden, unpainted beams, giving the room a semi-rustic feel it does not deserve.
To the right is a sitting area, with a dusty- blue upholstered rocking chair, a small side table, and a floor lamp with an eggshell shade trimmed in beige fringe. Atop the table are a leather-bound journal and a feather pen. The journal contains entries from previous guests and many of them reported seeing and hearing energy, spirits or unexplained phenomena. One such entry told of how the light by the table suddenly went on and the candles that were on the mantle were blown out as if synchronized. This entry was written by my own hand and I tell you to this day, it’s the truth.
Beyond the sitting room is the bathroom, tiled in pocked white tile. The tub is an old-fashioned claw foot, and it is enormous. There is a side table with a light blue and yellow porcelain bowl and pitcher, the kind they used before they had running water and sinks. The deep purple bath linens are rich and luxurious, and there are several baskets and bowls about which contain lavender- scented soaps, lotions and bath oils. These lovely accoutrements are responsible for the heady, sweet scent of lavender that fills the room.
But this is a story about the bed. The bed with the ruffled bed skirts that lightly dust the hardwood floor. The four posters stand ten feet high, the quilt is an antique and the shams are plump and decorated with the same tiny blue and purple violets that were on the wallpaper and the quilt itself. It was as if someone took a handful of African violets, blew into them as one blows a dandelion, and dispatched the flowers to float in the air and settle comfortably about.
Sleeping in the bed, I dreamed of feminine visages floating about in mists of lavender. I dreamed of Lady Herlong and her troubled soul that refused to vacate the home she loved. I dreamed I was in a snow globe surrounding a beautiful, ancient room and I was sitting on the bed. But instead of tiny white specks I saw miniature blue flowers floating lazily about. After one shakes a snow globe, the specks begin to settle and all is at peace.
When one of the heirs finally prevailed, she was ecstatic. She moved into the home immediately but, alas, she died within a year and so never got the opportunity to fully enjoy the residency for which she had alienated her entire family. So angry was she at this very unfortunate turn of events that she vowed to never leave the mansion and she never did. To this day she haunts that beautiful home and the visitors who sleep there. And that, patient reader, brings us to the bed.
The room in which we stayed was the master suite. It has a four-poster bed that is so far off the floor that it necessitates a small ladder be placed nearby. It is wide as it was tall and elegant in its own, semi-Victorian way. The room was built in the 1800’s, the walls and doors are solid, heavy and wooden. Upon entering the room, the bed, which is to the left, beckons and you cannot help yourself, you must climb atop the heavy white quilt with the tiny blue violets. But should you resist the temptation you will notice across the room is an imposing fireplace. It has a heavy wooden mantel on which are carefully placed lace runners and lovely little knick knacks: a small blue Delft cat, a
Victorian lavender teacup and saucer, and two small votive candles.
On either side of the fireplace are windows, treated with lacy powder-blue curtains and old-time shades, the kind with the string and the little circle. The window sills are white-painted wood.
The walls are covered in white wainscoting halfway up, meeting white pin-striped wallpaper with tiny blue and purple African violets about. The ceiling is cantilevered with heavy wooden, unpainted beams, giving the room a semi-rustic feel it does not deserve.
To the right is a sitting area, with a dusty- blue upholstered rocking chair, a small side table, and a floor lamp with an eggshell shade trimmed in beige fringe. Atop the table are a leather-bound journal and a feather pen. The journal contains entries from previous guests and many of them reported seeing and hearing energy, spirits or unexplained phenomena. One such entry told of how the light by the table suddenly went on and the candles that were on the mantle were blown out as if synchronized. This entry was written by my own hand and I tell you to this day, it’s the truth.
Beyond the sitting room is the bathroom, tiled in pocked white tile. The tub is an old-fashioned claw foot, and it is enormous. There is a side table with a light blue and yellow porcelain bowl and pitcher, the kind they used before they had running water and sinks. The deep purple bath linens are rich and luxurious, and there are several baskets and bowls about which contain lavender- scented soaps, lotions and bath oils. These lovely accoutrements are responsible for the heady, sweet scent of lavender that fills the room.
But this is a story about the bed. The bed with the ruffled bed skirts that lightly dust the hardwood floor. The four posters stand ten feet high, the quilt is an antique and the shams are plump and decorated with the same tiny blue and purple violets that were on the wallpaper and the quilt itself. It was as if someone took a handful of African violets, blew into them as one blows a dandelion, and dispatched the flowers to float in the air and settle comfortably about.
Sleeping in the bed, I dreamed of feminine visages floating about in mists of lavender. I dreamed of Lady Herlong and her troubled soul that refused to vacate the home she loved. I dreamed I was in a snow globe surrounding a beautiful, ancient room and I was sitting on the bed. But instead of tiny white specks I saw miniature blue flowers floating lazily about. After one shakes a snow globe, the specks begin to settle and all is at peace.
Thursday, January 15, 2009
January 15, 2009 It's Saturday Afternooon, You're not at home
It's Saturday afternoon, and I'm not home. I'm elsewhere, it matters not where.
I have left my Siamese cat in charge. As I was leaving the house, I lined up all my fur children and looked at them, one by one. Doing a tail count before I leave the house is imperative to my sanity. For if I don't see each one before I leave, I will imagine that one of my furchildren has somehow gotten out, or is caught somewhere, or is in dire need of a snack, and I am not there to appease.
So as I was leaving the house, my furchidren lined up (or lounging about, whichever) I looked from one set of brown eyes to the next, to the green eyes of my orange kitty, to the golden eyes of the white one, and finally into the blue, blue eyes of my Siamese. "Maggie" I pronounced, "You are in charge." And that was that.
The job description of The One In Charge is simple: the others must listen to him or her and acquiese to his or her every command. The catch is, each command must be to get along, stay out of eachothers way, and go lie down somewhere. Staying out of trouble is optional.
Maggie is the littlest, and so putting her in charge is truly an exercise in futility, were it be a "for real" assignment. But since it's only a token, it means very little. But make no mistake, though Maggie is the smallest, she is, without a doubt, the one with the most ATTITUDE. She has a Siamese voice, with a Siamese body, and a Siamese mind-set. This means that she can sound louder, meaner, braver, bigger and more ferocious than any tiger. When she is annnoyed, the whole house knows about it. If she doesn't want another cat on the bed, she lets everyone know it, and everyone runs for cover.
So it's Saturday afternoon, and I have left my Siamese in charge. I hope she doesn't kill everyone.
I have left my Siamese cat in charge. As I was leaving the house, I lined up all my fur children and looked at them, one by one. Doing a tail count before I leave the house is imperative to my sanity. For if I don't see each one before I leave, I will imagine that one of my furchildren has somehow gotten out, or is caught somewhere, or is in dire need of a snack, and I am not there to appease.
So as I was leaving the house, my furchidren lined up (or lounging about, whichever) I looked from one set of brown eyes to the next, to the green eyes of my orange kitty, to the golden eyes of the white one, and finally into the blue, blue eyes of my Siamese. "Maggie" I pronounced, "You are in charge." And that was that.
The job description of The One In Charge is simple: the others must listen to him or her and acquiese to his or her every command. The catch is, each command must be to get along, stay out of eachothers way, and go lie down somewhere. Staying out of trouble is optional.
Maggie is the littlest, and so putting her in charge is truly an exercise in futility, were it be a "for real" assignment. But since it's only a token, it means very little. But make no mistake, though Maggie is the smallest, she is, without a doubt, the one with the most ATTITUDE. She has a Siamese voice, with a Siamese body, and a Siamese mind-set. This means that she can sound louder, meaner, braver, bigger and more ferocious than any tiger. When she is annnoyed, the whole house knows about it. If she doesn't want another cat on the bed, she lets everyone know it, and everyone runs for cover.
So it's Saturday afternoon, and I have left my Siamese in charge. I hope she doesn't kill everyone.
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
January 14, 2009 Write about the Horizon
Sometimes, we cannot see our own horizons. But more often, and to our detriment, we can. For it is in seeing the horizon that we fail to see beyond it, and when we react accordingly, we tend to make very bad decisions.
There has been a lot of talk lately about "the Secret". Here's a better secret, The Secret is not such a secret. Think good thoughts, like Dorothy clicking her heels and thinking her way back home, and you will draw good things to you. I believe that. But I think that the good things we draw towards ourselves is not in the form of material things, but more important, long-lasting things. I think that the good things we draw towards ourselves are those things that will give us a long life, both in this life and the next. From the moment we are born, we edge toward our horizon, the end of our lives as we know it. We know not what is beyond that horizon, and so we act as if there is no 'beyond'. There is. There is a beyond and those who fail to see that are doomed to never see it. Those who fail to see that are forever seeing only the horizon and never past it. If we only see our horizon, next week, for example, or next year, or the NEXT BIG THING in our lives, if we live with "if only's" we won't be prepared for what comes next. If only I was thinner, if only I were richer, if only I had married that other guy, if only I had a bigger house, blah, blah, blah. Life is what happens when we're busy making other plans, said John Lennon. Look at him! He lived his life as if every day were his last, and we are all the better for it. I know he certainly was too.
I can write about the horizon because I know that there is a place past it, both in this life and in the next. Death is nothing but a beautiful experience into another dimension and it is as natural a part of life as breathing. I am not hoping my horizon will come soon, but I am not afraid of my horizon. I'm ready to see what is on the other side. I know it will be great. Really, really great.
There has been a lot of talk lately about "the Secret". Here's a better secret, The Secret is not such a secret. Think good thoughts, like Dorothy clicking her heels and thinking her way back home, and you will draw good things to you. I believe that. But I think that the good things we draw towards ourselves is not in the form of material things, but more important, long-lasting things. I think that the good things we draw towards ourselves are those things that will give us a long life, both in this life and the next. From the moment we are born, we edge toward our horizon, the end of our lives as we know it. We know not what is beyond that horizon, and so we act as if there is no 'beyond'. There is. There is a beyond and those who fail to see that are doomed to never see it. Those who fail to see that are forever seeing only the horizon and never past it. If we only see our horizon, next week, for example, or next year, or the NEXT BIG THING in our lives, if we live with "if only's" we won't be prepared for what comes next. If only I was thinner, if only I were richer, if only I had married that other guy, if only I had a bigger house, blah, blah, blah. Life is what happens when we're busy making other plans, said John Lennon. Look at him! He lived his life as if every day were his last, and we are all the better for it. I know he certainly was too.
I can write about the horizon because I know that there is a place past it, both in this life and in the next. Death is nothing but a beautiful experience into another dimension and it is as natural a part of life as breathing. I am not hoping my horizon will come soon, but I am not afraid of my horizon. I'm ready to see what is on the other side. I know it will be great. Really, really great.
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
January 13, 2009 After Midnight
Today's topic, After Midnight, brought to mind the old song from the sixties-After Midnight, we gonna let it all hang down.....After Midnight, we gonna shake the tambourine....
I always wondered what "it" was and why we need to wait to the stroke of midnight to shake the tambourine.
After midnight, if I'm still up, I feel as if I am being a rebel. If I am reading, I am likely to fall asleep if it's after midnight. I love to turn off all the lights in the living room, maybe light a candle or two, get my lava lamp going strong and settle in with a really good movie. I lie on the sofa with a light blanket, assorted cats tucked in here and there, a glass of red wine on the coffee table and become absorbed in somebody elses' life for two hours.
After midngiht is not the time to watch a musical. For some people, after midnight may be the time to watch a horror flick, but not for me. I don't watch them. Why invite more uglniness into my life? There's enough horror in my work and on the daily news to last me a lifetime. I certainly don't want to deliberately bring that stuff into my psyche.
No, for me the best After Midnight movie is a mystery. Fallen, with Denzel Washington and John Goodman, is kind of like that. It's a scary mystery with a demon and stuff, but it's not the same as a horror movie.
Or maybe a courtoom drama, a romantic comedy or a love story. I don't always like those romantic comedies, but some are not so bad. It depends on the actors. It just seems to me that they all follow the same plot line. Boy meets girl, girl pisses off boy (or the other way around) somehow they sort it all out and fall in love. Is there nothing new under the Midnight Moon?
After midnight.....my favorite time because I am a night owl, not a morning person. But it's not my favorite thing to write about. After midnight, there's mystery. Let's keep it that way!
I always wondered what "it" was and why we need to wait to the stroke of midnight to shake the tambourine.
After midnight, if I'm still up, I feel as if I am being a rebel. If I am reading, I am likely to fall asleep if it's after midnight. I love to turn off all the lights in the living room, maybe light a candle or two, get my lava lamp going strong and settle in with a really good movie. I lie on the sofa with a light blanket, assorted cats tucked in here and there, a glass of red wine on the coffee table and become absorbed in somebody elses' life for two hours.
After midngiht is not the time to watch a musical. For some people, after midnight may be the time to watch a horror flick, but not for me. I don't watch them. Why invite more uglniness into my life? There's enough horror in my work and on the daily news to last me a lifetime. I certainly don't want to deliberately bring that stuff into my psyche.
No, for me the best After Midnight movie is a mystery. Fallen, with Denzel Washington and John Goodman, is kind of like that. It's a scary mystery with a demon and stuff, but it's not the same as a horror movie.
Or maybe a courtoom drama, a romantic comedy or a love story. I don't always like those romantic comedies, but some are not so bad. It depends on the actors. It just seems to me that they all follow the same plot line. Boy meets girl, girl pisses off boy (or the other way around) somehow they sort it all out and fall in love. Is there nothing new under the Midnight Moon?
After midnight.....my favorite time because I am a night owl, not a morning person. But it's not my favorite thing to write about. After midnight, there's mystery. Let's keep it that way!
Monday, January 12, 2009
January 12, 2009 Write about an acceptable loss
I don't even know where to begin. This seems like an oxymoron to me. If it was acceptable, it wouldn't be considered a loss.
Unless we're talking about weight loss, it guess that's acceptable. Or maybe when a cruel, mean, horrible person dies. Hmm, I'm on a roll! it's time to make a list!
It's an acceptable loss when:
The cat that puked on your bedspread and pissed on your carpet for 15 years finally dies of natural causes....
When that rat bastard boyfriend who has been cheating on you for three months with his own secretary finally breaks up with you.....
When your well-insured house that is all broken down and in need of repairs catches fire (and nobody is inside)
When your boss who has been keeping you up all night stressing out and forces your working with assholes finally "lets you go"....
When the housekeeper that you were afraid to fire because little pieces of jewelry and whatnots go missing every time she comes finally moves away....
When your friend who is hypercritical and bossy and flirts with your husband moves away....
When we lose a president who was the worst president in American history....well, that's more than an acceptable loss....It's a win!
When you finally divorce the bastard.....
When you can't remember where you put that gi-nor-mous bag of M & M's (they are lost)...
When a misogynistic rap artist finally sees the light and turns the corner......
I guess there are some acceptable losses after all. And in the words of Forrest Gump, that's all I have to say about that.
Unless we're talking about weight loss, it guess that's acceptable. Or maybe when a cruel, mean, horrible person dies. Hmm, I'm on a roll! it's time to make a list!
It's an acceptable loss when:
The cat that puked on your bedspread and pissed on your carpet for 15 years finally dies of natural causes....
When that rat bastard boyfriend who has been cheating on you for three months with his own secretary finally breaks up with you.....
When your well-insured house that is all broken down and in need of repairs catches fire (and nobody is inside)
When your boss who has been keeping you up all night stressing out and forces your working with assholes finally "lets you go"....
When the housekeeper that you were afraid to fire because little pieces of jewelry and whatnots go missing every time she comes finally moves away....
When your friend who is hypercritical and bossy and flirts with your husband moves away....
When we lose a president who was the worst president in American history....well, that's more than an acceptable loss....It's a win!
When you finally divorce the bastard.....
When you can't remember where you put that gi-nor-mous bag of M & M's (they are lost)...
When a misogynistic rap artist finally sees the light and turns the corner......
I guess there are some acceptable losses after all. And in the words of Forrest Gump, that's all I have to say about that.
Sunday, January 11, 2009
January 11, 2009 You are in a motel room
I was in a hotel room standing at the window which overlooked the busy street. It was 3:00 am and there wasn't a car on the road. I was up on the fourth floor and was very much alone since I had been traveling on business.
Across the street from me was an empty post office. It was brightly lit, and I could see the rows of postal boxes. I stared out the window, unable to sleep. I had been up since 8:00 the previous morning, and was exhausted, but I couldn't sleep nonetheless.
From out of the darkness came a lone figure. He had parked his little red car in one of the parking spots in front of the post office, and was entering the building. I watched from my window, curious as to why someone would be checking his mailbox at 3:00 am. He had a backpack which he carried in front of him, both arms crossing his chest, the backpack snuggly between them. I couldn't see him at all, just a figure of a man. He was inside the building now, and he was acting strangely. He was pacing, back and forth, several times over the length of the small post office. My heart began to race, my anxiety rising with each breath I took. I became alarmed, frightened. He dropped his backpack on a chair in the lobby of the post office, and stood there for a few moments, just looking at it. Then he quickly exited the building, leaving his car right where he left it.
Oh my God! What should I do? Becoming hysterical now, I thought about calling the police. But that seemed a little like overkill. I mean, maybe he would be back in a few minutes. I was frantic and began to pace myself. He could come back, right? He just went to find a bathroom, right? He’ll be back, right? I picked up the phone to call the front desk, but what would I say? What would they do? So I waited, and watched over that car and that backpack for three hours, until the sun came up. I went to the coffeemaker and brewed myself a cup of coffee, and turned on the news. I heard the sirens on the television and on the street, making it all seem so surreal. Should I have called the police? Should I have sounded the alarm?
I went back over to the window and watched the street begin to come alive. Still no cars on the road but people were beginning to stir. An old woman pulling a cart behind her, a man out walking his dog, a jogger, a woman with a stroller. They all walked by the post office and the little red car, not giving either a second look.
Soon the police came. They seemed to be interested in the little red car. They found the backpack and more police came. A tow truck arrived and took the red car away. The police stayed for a long time. Were they looking for anyone? Should I tell them what I saw? Did I do a terrible thing by not calling them?
I sat on the bed to watch the news some more, still hearing the sirens in the distance as well as on my television. I saw the live streaming video on CNN of the smoke rising in the air, and I smelled its acrid, unmistakable odor. I could see it from my windwo, it looked smaller on tv. In fact, even the wounded Pentagon itself, from where I could see it, looked larger in real life.
It was September 12, 2001 and I was in a hotel room.
Across the street from me was an empty post office. It was brightly lit, and I could see the rows of postal boxes. I stared out the window, unable to sleep. I had been up since 8:00 the previous morning, and was exhausted, but I couldn't sleep nonetheless.
From out of the darkness came a lone figure. He had parked his little red car in one of the parking spots in front of the post office, and was entering the building. I watched from my window, curious as to why someone would be checking his mailbox at 3:00 am. He had a backpack which he carried in front of him, both arms crossing his chest, the backpack snuggly between them. I couldn't see him at all, just a figure of a man. He was inside the building now, and he was acting strangely. He was pacing, back and forth, several times over the length of the small post office. My heart began to race, my anxiety rising with each breath I took. I became alarmed, frightened. He dropped his backpack on a chair in the lobby of the post office, and stood there for a few moments, just looking at it. Then he quickly exited the building, leaving his car right where he left it.
Oh my God! What should I do? Becoming hysterical now, I thought about calling the police. But that seemed a little like overkill. I mean, maybe he would be back in a few minutes. I was frantic and began to pace myself. He could come back, right? He just went to find a bathroom, right? He’ll be back, right? I picked up the phone to call the front desk, but what would I say? What would they do? So I waited, and watched over that car and that backpack for three hours, until the sun came up. I went to the coffeemaker and brewed myself a cup of coffee, and turned on the news. I heard the sirens on the television and on the street, making it all seem so surreal. Should I have called the police? Should I have sounded the alarm?
I went back over to the window and watched the street begin to come alive. Still no cars on the road but people were beginning to stir. An old woman pulling a cart behind her, a man out walking his dog, a jogger, a woman with a stroller. They all walked by the post office and the little red car, not giving either a second look.
Soon the police came. They seemed to be interested in the little red car. They found the backpack and more police came. A tow truck arrived and took the red car away. The police stayed for a long time. Were they looking for anyone? Should I tell them what I saw? Did I do a terrible thing by not calling them?
I sat on the bed to watch the news some more, still hearing the sirens in the distance as well as on my television. I saw the live streaming video on CNN of the smoke rising in the air, and I smelled its acrid, unmistakable odor. I could see it from my windwo, it looked smaller on tv. In fact, even the wounded Pentagon itself, from where I could see it, looked larger in real life.
It was September 12, 2001 and I was in a hotel room.
Saturday, January 10, 2009
January 10. 2009 Write About a Wound
Something happened to me that left a scar. I have always felt that people were basically good. In my naivete' I thought that evil people, those with evil agendas and cruel intentions stand out in a crowd. You recognize them immediately. I believed with all my heart that karma would always win out.
But that was before what I now call "The Hanley Incident". They laid me off from my job as an animal-assisted therapist. I didn't care, I already had another job all lined up. But then, they took away my Murphy. To this day I don't know why I let them. I don't know how I could have allowed them to take away my power, my will, my determination, and then my Murphy. Why did I give up so easily? I was outnumbered, yes, but right was on my side and Mother always told me that Right Makes Might. I take full responsibility for not being stronger, more willful, more creative in my resistance. But how and why would a person deliberately separate a loving dog and his guardian? Why would someone do that? The only logical answer is that they are evil people. Dr. Barbara Krantz took away my dog with the support of security guards (did I see a gun? I think I saw a gun!) I lost before I even started to fight. I was in shock. And so I was terribly wounded. This was an open wound that would stay open and oozing and infected until I got my Murphy back. This wound, this psychic wound, may have healed up somewhat, but it left a scar. A big, deep, angry-looking scar. And I wear that scar proudly because it means I learned something. I learned that people are good, that's true, but that people, when given half a chance, will hurt you badly if they can. And they will. I learned that even doctors and other educated people will do evil things if they think they can get away with it. I learned not to trust anyone ever again. I always look for the veil and, upon seeing it, attempt to peer beneath it to see what's there. I need to know what is there because it may be a lie, or an evil intent.
I was a happy-go-lucky soul, full of whimsy and humor. And in some ways I still am. But it's all changed now. I am not so happy, not so lucky, and whimsy, well, there's no time for that. I still have my humor though, and no matter how evil the adversary, they can't take that away from me.
But that was before what I now call "The Hanley Incident". They laid me off from my job as an animal-assisted therapist. I didn't care, I already had another job all lined up. But then, they took away my Murphy. To this day I don't know why I let them. I don't know how I could have allowed them to take away my power, my will, my determination, and then my Murphy. Why did I give up so easily? I was outnumbered, yes, but right was on my side and Mother always told me that Right Makes Might. I take full responsibility for not being stronger, more willful, more creative in my resistance. But how and why would a person deliberately separate a loving dog and his guardian? Why would someone do that? The only logical answer is that they are evil people. Dr. Barbara Krantz took away my dog with the support of security guards (did I see a gun? I think I saw a gun!) I lost before I even started to fight. I was in shock. And so I was terribly wounded. This was an open wound that would stay open and oozing and infected until I got my Murphy back. This wound, this psychic wound, may have healed up somewhat, but it left a scar. A big, deep, angry-looking scar. And I wear that scar proudly because it means I learned something. I learned that people are good, that's true, but that people, when given half a chance, will hurt you badly if they can. And they will. I learned that even doctors and other educated people will do evil things if they think they can get away with it. I learned not to trust anyone ever again. I always look for the veil and, upon seeing it, attempt to peer beneath it to see what's there. I need to know what is there because it may be a lie, or an evil intent.
I was a happy-go-lucky soul, full of whimsy and humor. And in some ways I still am. But it's all changed now. I am not so happy, not so lucky, and whimsy, well, there's no time for that. I still have my humor though, and no matter how evil the adversary, they can't take that away from me.
Friday, January 9, 2009
January 9, 2009 Write About A Ceremony
It was a funeral for all the dogs and cats who were killed in our nation's shelters during the past year. I had organized these ceremonies before, but this was, by far, my most memorable one.
I was working at Safe Harbor, a lovely litttle shelter in Jupiter, and decided to take advantage of the fact that we were so close to the ocean. The distance was about two miles as the crow flies right to the beach. Safe Harbor has a distinctive van, brown with green writing on it, with a twirly green light on top. Organizing volunteers, one for each dog, and a driver for the van, we paraded our way, under police motorcyle escort, over the bridge that spans the intracoastal, down Indiantown Road, to A1A, the beach road. We walked a short distance to Carlin Park, where a minister awaited our little procession. Along with the minister was a contingent of lifeguards with an enormous surfboard. A small motorboat awaited us a little ways out in the ocean.
We placed the cremains of animals that had died, a small representation of the millions of animals that die every year because of overpopulation, at the feet of the minister who prayed over them, and then led our little group in a prayer. Beachgoers, unaffiliated with our group, assembled as well. We then handed the cremains, along with floral wreaths that had been donated by local florists, to the lifguards. Using their over-sized surfboards, they paddled out to the waiting boat, and handed over the cremains and the floral wreath. With a wave of his hand, the boat captain carried the cremains out to sea where they were scattered to the wind.
This was, by far, the most beautiful of all the Candlelight Vigils I ever organized on behalf of ISAR, the International Society of Animal Rights, a group that "sheds light on an American Tragedy" every year.
Besides my dedication to the animals, this ceremony was special for me in another way as well. Vikings were sent to sea in a flaming boat, so that their bodies were always reduced to ash and their remains became part of the sea. So in a way, this was, after a fashion, a modified Viking Funeral, the way my Viking ancestors did it so long ago.
I was working at Safe Harbor, a lovely litttle shelter in Jupiter, and decided to take advantage of the fact that we were so close to the ocean. The distance was about two miles as the crow flies right to the beach. Safe Harbor has a distinctive van, brown with green writing on it, with a twirly green light on top. Organizing volunteers, one for each dog, and a driver for the van, we paraded our way, under police motorcyle escort, over the bridge that spans the intracoastal, down Indiantown Road, to A1A, the beach road. We walked a short distance to Carlin Park, where a minister awaited our little procession. Along with the minister was a contingent of lifeguards with an enormous surfboard. A small motorboat awaited us a little ways out in the ocean.
We placed the cremains of animals that had died, a small representation of the millions of animals that die every year because of overpopulation, at the feet of the minister who prayed over them, and then led our little group in a prayer. Beachgoers, unaffiliated with our group, assembled as well. We then handed the cremains, along with floral wreaths that had been donated by local florists, to the lifguards. Using their over-sized surfboards, they paddled out to the waiting boat, and handed over the cremains and the floral wreath. With a wave of his hand, the boat captain carried the cremains out to sea where they were scattered to the wind.
This was, by far, the most beautiful of all the Candlelight Vigils I ever organized on behalf of ISAR, the International Society of Animal Rights, a group that "sheds light on an American Tragedy" every year.
Besides my dedication to the animals, this ceremony was special for me in another way as well. Vikings were sent to sea in a flaming boat, so that their bodies were always reduced to ash and their remains became part of the sea. So in a way, this was, after a fashion, a modified Viking Funeral, the way my Viking ancestors did it so long ago.
Thursday, January 8, 2009
Taking a Journey
I am making a New Year's Resolution. Just like athletes must practice every day, just like musicians must practice every day, so do writers. If I have nothing to write for publication, even if I am not on deadline or under contract, I must still write. And so I have committed myself to 15 minutes of writing every day. More if I have the time. But hopefully my muse will show up and keep me writing for hours.
In any event, I think I will post my writing exercises here for all the world to see when I die. I mean, eventually, when I die, someone somewhere will look for the things I have written and find this little blog. Maybe my grandchildren, maybe not.
I have purchased a book of writing exercises. Each day, I am given a topic on which to write. I can write a paragraph, or even a sentence, or I can go on for hours and hours.
Since it is already January 8, I have a lot to catch up on. So I have written on each topic so far and am placing the lot right here and now. But from this day forward, each topic will be a different blog.
You can choose to read it, or not. You can pass it along or pass it up. I am not writing for you, I am not even writing for me, I am writing simply for the sheer joy of doing so.
Oh sure, I could do it in a little WORD document and keep it all to myself. But if I have to put it on my blog, there are two benefits. First, I can do it from anywhere, any computer at all. And second, it makes me accountable. Like weighing in at Weight Watchers. I figure someone, somewhere knows I have made this commitment. So if I miss a day, feel free to e mail me and give me a little jab in the ribs to get me going again.
Here it is, and it brings us to today. The topic that I am given will appear just under the date, so you know what my assignment is.
If you are a writer too, feel free to use these excercises for yourself as well, they are very good and they are meant to get your muse up and about. Oh, and before I forget, some of this may be fictional, some not. It doesn't matter. It's the craft that matters, not the veracity.
January 1, 2009
A Sunday Afternoon
Sunday afternoons are best for sleeping. It’s a treat that one gives oneself, to get up on a Sunday morning, have coffee, read the paper, and then, when the clock strikes noon, go back to bed. It’s an easy thing to do because you have not taken off your pj’s yet, and so you just fall right back into bed as if you have never left. You know you won’t miss anything because, really, nothing ever happens on a Sunday afternoon. Others may think that Sunday afternoon is for sports. But not me. Sunday afternoon is for naps. And reading books. Curling up on the sofa, ice tea by my side, a cat or two tucked in the bits that can accommodate them, and diving headfirst into a good book. That is my idea of the best Sunday afternoon. And if you have to get up at 6:00 or so to turn on a light because you have been there all afternoon, well, so much the better.
January 2, 2009
A time someone said no
I don’t like the word no. It’s not easy for me to say but damn, it sure seems easy for others to say it to me. Have I ever asked for a raise and been told no? Not that I remember, but I think that would be a pretty disappointing no. Vacations. There are places I want to go. To Vermont. To Alaska. To Ireland. Ok that last one is a little off the charts but surely we can take a vacation to Vermont without breaking the bank. But I get told No about that over and over again. And usually, I don’t get the “no” in a verbal way. I get it in a silent, non-verbal way. I ask a question, I get a shrug. That means no. I don’t like being told no over little things that can be so easily turned into a yes. But when you make someone else responsible, you give up your freedom.
January 3, 2009
You’re Standing in a Doorway
So I was standing in the doorway of the new car dealership when I saw it. It was this years new Mustang and it was gorgeous. It looked so much like a ’65 that I just know that someone, somewhere, said, it’s time for a throwback! I wonder how Lee Iacocca feels about his Mustang being the car that all the people look at and say, Yes! That’s it! That is the car!!! I Hope someday that I, too will leave my mark on the world. The ’65 Mustang. Can you even imagine being the father of THAT? Others will be known for great works of art, literature and theater. But Lee Iacocsa, the father of the ’65 Mustang, he’ll be known as the inventor of cool. And that’s not bad at all.
January 4, 2009
A year after your death
A year after your death, I was still mourning your loss. Tabitha had come but she didn’t come to replace you. How could she? That would be impossible. Nobody could replace you. You were such a love in my life and I miss you my friend. A year after your death I still remember the moment I put my hand on your belly. “It’s the steroids” I said confidently, though inside I knew that your belly was much too swollen to be steroids. No, it was gastric torsion….bloat. I knew it and I knew what it meant but I couldn’t face it. A year after your death, I still remember rushing you to the hospital, going down a dark road at midnight, hoping you weren’t too uncomfortable, that I could deliver you into good hands. I wish I could have done more. A year after your death, I still wonder….could I have done more?
January 5, 2009
A day moon
Sometimes I look up into the clear blue sky and I spot you. “Are you still up, my friend?” I wonder how it is that you are still hanging around. You should have been to bed hours ago. And if I spot you late in the day, much later than usual, I marvel at your staying power. You, who are so brilliant and commanding of attention at night, you look so meek and washed out in the daytime. You don’t belong here, I think. But then again, neither do I.
January 6, 2009
Bathing
I love to take a bath. I know that some people can lounge around for hours in the tub. Well, maybe an hour. But not me. I want to, I want to lay there and bask in the scented hot water, releasing all my problems and issues and negativity into the water. I desperately want to do that. But I get bored. So that’s why I wonder if I would ever be able to meditate. I think so, but I’m not very sure. I just get so bored. And sometimes I get too hot too. I sweat in the tub. I hate the heat. I hate being hot and sweating. I hate being all red and hot. But I like the fragrances in the tub, and sometimes if I remember to put candlelight in the room that helps too. I like to take a bath instead of a shower. I think I get cleaner, but it has to be done right. You can’t lay there in a bacteria soup. You have to run the cool, clear, clean water over your whole body before you get out, because if you don’t, you will have sticky stuff all over you and that’s not good for anyone.
January 7, 2009
Once, When No One Was Looking…..
I made a U Turn at a red light at Northlake Blvd. and Alt. A1A. And now every time I go there, I think about that time I did that and wonder if I will ever summon up the nerve to do it again.
January 8, 2009
It’s what I do in the middle of the night…….
Sometimes when I have trouble sleeping, and I wake up with absolutely nothing nagging at me, I see if I can name all the states. I go through them first in alphabetical order, beginning with Alabama, Alaska, etc. But I seldom get all fifty. Then I forget, is there fifty or fifty two? But then I remember that we in the states are sometimes called “The lower forty-eight” and realize that Alaska and Hawaii make up fifty. So when I can’t remember all fifty by alphabetical order, I try by their place on the map. I go up the eastern seaboard: Florida, Georgia, North Carolina, South Carolina… but that is more difficult since some states encroach on others. I usually forget New Hampshire and sometimes I forget Minnesota but I never forget New York or New Jersey. I would like to say that it helps me to fall asleep, but it seldom does. I begin to think of the states I have visited, and that brings me to my reasons for being there, which conjure up even more memories and so on and so on and so on. Or I think about the states I have not visited, and get worried that maybe I never will. I have a heart wish to visit Vermont. I don’t know why, I just do. So if there is anyone in Vermont willing to have a houseguest for a few days in the dead of winter, I’m your girl. I would love to find a house-swapping gig with someone in Vermont, but I doubt the person swapping with me would want to deal with the husband, four foster kittens, one nice cat and two weirdos and two big dogs that live here. Oh, and there seems to be a gecko about.
Anyway, that’s what I do sometimes in the middle of the night. Sorry if I disappointed you.
In any event, I think I will post my writing exercises here for all the world to see when I die. I mean, eventually, when I die, someone somewhere will look for the things I have written and find this little blog. Maybe my grandchildren, maybe not.
I have purchased a book of writing exercises. Each day, I am given a topic on which to write. I can write a paragraph, or even a sentence, or I can go on for hours and hours.
Since it is already January 8, I have a lot to catch up on. So I have written on each topic so far and am placing the lot right here and now. But from this day forward, each topic will be a different blog.
You can choose to read it, or not. You can pass it along or pass it up. I am not writing for you, I am not even writing for me, I am writing simply for the sheer joy of doing so.
Oh sure, I could do it in a little WORD document and keep it all to myself. But if I have to put it on my blog, there are two benefits. First, I can do it from anywhere, any computer at all. And second, it makes me accountable. Like weighing in at Weight Watchers. I figure someone, somewhere knows I have made this commitment. So if I miss a day, feel free to e mail me and give me a little jab in the ribs to get me going again.
Here it is, and it brings us to today. The topic that I am given will appear just under the date, so you know what my assignment is.
If you are a writer too, feel free to use these excercises for yourself as well, they are very good and they are meant to get your muse up and about. Oh, and before I forget, some of this may be fictional, some not. It doesn't matter. It's the craft that matters, not the veracity.
January 1, 2009
A Sunday Afternoon
Sunday afternoons are best for sleeping. It’s a treat that one gives oneself, to get up on a Sunday morning, have coffee, read the paper, and then, when the clock strikes noon, go back to bed. It’s an easy thing to do because you have not taken off your pj’s yet, and so you just fall right back into bed as if you have never left. You know you won’t miss anything because, really, nothing ever happens on a Sunday afternoon. Others may think that Sunday afternoon is for sports. But not me. Sunday afternoon is for naps. And reading books. Curling up on the sofa, ice tea by my side, a cat or two tucked in the bits that can accommodate them, and diving headfirst into a good book. That is my idea of the best Sunday afternoon. And if you have to get up at 6:00 or so to turn on a light because you have been there all afternoon, well, so much the better.
January 2, 2009
A time someone said no
I don’t like the word no. It’s not easy for me to say but damn, it sure seems easy for others to say it to me. Have I ever asked for a raise and been told no? Not that I remember, but I think that would be a pretty disappointing no. Vacations. There are places I want to go. To Vermont. To Alaska. To Ireland. Ok that last one is a little off the charts but surely we can take a vacation to Vermont without breaking the bank. But I get told No about that over and over again. And usually, I don’t get the “no” in a verbal way. I get it in a silent, non-verbal way. I ask a question, I get a shrug. That means no. I don’t like being told no over little things that can be so easily turned into a yes. But when you make someone else responsible, you give up your freedom.
January 3, 2009
You’re Standing in a Doorway
So I was standing in the doorway of the new car dealership when I saw it. It was this years new Mustang and it was gorgeous. It looked so much like a ’65 that I just know that someone, somewhere, said, it’s time for a throwback! I wonder how Lee Iacocca feels about his Mustang being the car that all the people look at and say, Yes! That’s it! That is the car!!! I Hope someday that I, too will leave my mark on the world. The ’65 Mustang. Can you even imagine being the father of THAT? Others will be known for great works of art, literature and theater. But Lee Iacocsa, the father of the ’65 Mustang, he’ll be known as the inventor of cool. And that’s not bad at all.
January 4, 2009
A year after your death
A year after your death, I was still mourning your loss. Tabitha had come but she didn’t come to replace you. How could she? That would be impossible. Nobody could replace you. You were such a love in my life and I miss you my friend. A year after your death I still remember the moment I put my hand on your belly. “It’s the steroids” I said confidently, though inside I knew that your belly was much too swollen to be steroids. No, it was gastric torsion….bloat. I knew it and I knew what it meant but I couldn’t face it. A year after your death, I still remember rushing you to the hospital, going down a dark road at midnight, hoping you weren’t too uncomfortable, that I could deliver you into good hands. I wish I could have done more. A year after your death, I still wonder….could I have done more?
January 5, 2009
A day moon
Sometimes I look up into the clear blue sky and I spot you. “Are you still up, my friend?” I wonder how it is that you are still hanging around. You should have been to bed hours ago. And if I spot you late in the day, much later than usual, I marvel at your staying power. You, who are so brilliant and commanding of attention at night, you look so meek and washed out in the daytime. You don’t belong here, I think. But then again, neither do I.
January 6, 2009
Bathing
I love to take a bath. I know that some people can lounge around for hours in the tub. Well, maybe an hour. But not me. I want to, I want to lay there and bask in the scented hot water, releasing all my problems and issues and negativity into the water. I desperately want to do that. But I get bored. So that’s why I wonder if I would ever be able to meditate. I think so, but I’m not very sure. I just get so bored. And sometimes I get too hot too. I sweat in the tub. I hate the heat. I hate being hot and sweating. I hate being all red and hot. But I like the fragrances in the tub, and sometimes if I remember to put candlelight in the room that helps too. I like to take a bath instead of a shower. I think I get cleaner, but it has to be done right. You can’t lay there in a bacteria soup. You have to run the cool, clear, clean water over your whole body before you get out, because if you don’t, you will have sticky stuff all over you and that’s not good for anyone.
January 7, 2009
Once, When No One Was Looking…..
I made a U Turn at a red light at Northlake Blvd. and Alt. A1A. And now every time I go there, I think about that time I did that and wonder if I will ever summon up the nerve to do it again.
January 8, 2009
It’s what I do in the middle of the night…….
Sometimes when I have trouble sleeping, and I wake up with absolutely nothing nagging at me, I see if I can name all the states. I go through them first in alphabetical order, beginning with Alabama, Alaska, etc. But I seldom get all fifty. Then I forget, is there fifty or fifty two? But then I remember that we in the states are sometimes called “The lower forty-eight” and realize that Alaska and Hawaii make up fifty. So when I can’t remember all fifty by alphabetical order, I try by their place on the map. I go up the eastern seaboard: Florida, Georgia, North Carolina, South Carolina… but that is more difficult since some states encroach on others. I usually forget New Hampshire and sometimes I forget Minnesota but I never forget New York or New Jersey. I would like to say that it helps me to fall asleep, but it seldom does. I begin to think of the states I have visited, and that brings me to my reasons for being there, which conjure up even more memories and so on and so on and so on. Or I think about the states I have not visited, and get worried that maybe I never will. I have a heart wish to visit Vermont. I don’t know why, I just do. So if there is anyone in Vermont willing to have a houseguest for a few days in the dead of winter, I’m your girl. I would love to find a house-swapping gig with someone in Vermont, but I doubt the person swapping with me would want to deal with the husband, four foster kittens, one nice cat and two weirdos and two big dogs that live here. Oh, and there seems to be a gecko about.
Anyway, that’s what I do sometimes in the middle of the night. Sorry if I disappointed you.
Friday, January 2, 2009
It's a new day
2009 is here and it's a new day. I am filled with optimism and hope that this year will be a great one. I am so proud of our country for electing Barack Obama and I cannot wait to see what he will bring to our country. I am sure we will have growing pains but in the end I think we will have advanced the ball just a little further and that is always a good thing.
It's like when I clean my house. I look around and I think, "Well, does it look even a little better than it did when I started? It does? Well, that's an improvement and that's a step in the right direction."
I am about to bring this blog to a close for a while as I concentrate on my Peta Prime blog. I am happy to be a blogger for Peta Prime and I hope you will catch me there!
Until next time.
bye, Ce
It's like when I clean my house. I look around and I think, "Well, does it look even a little better than it did when I started? It does? Well, that's an improvement and that's a step in the right direction."
I am about to bring this blog to a close for a while as I concentrate on my Peta Prime blog. I am happy to be a blogger for Peta Prime and I hope you will catch me there!
Until next time.
bye, Ce
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