28 December 2009

Who I Am

There's this thing that sometimes happens. It's difficult to articulate. At least, until just recently.

For a good bit of time, I could feel it, sense its occurrence but not express it. It is a wonderful feeling for a few minutes, maybe more. But I had no name for it.

The first time I tried to explain it to someone, trying to find common ground, hoping for an "Oh yeah, that same things happens to me," type moment, I stumbled and struggled briefly in my explanation. Then the phrase 'rings true' came to me. Not that I invented the saying 'rings true,' although how sweet would that be?

It's a phrase that tends to be used quite literally. Rings true. An auditory phenomenon. Like when one hears something said that rings true. It just sounds 'right.' But I think you can get that 'ring' in a feeling as well. And this is more what I'm talking about. It's not something I hear in my ears but something I feel in my cells. A sense of truth. When something feels so right that it speaks to your soul. Your spirit emits a perfectly pitched tone within your self. Like radar set to pick up your universal truth.

A moment in time, an unexpected turn of phrase, a casual touch and suddenly there's perfect peace within you for a moment. And no one else in the area may even notice. Like a whistle that only a dog can hear.

I'm getting better at recognizing these moments. And I try to grab hold. A song will penetrate my everyday-life-induced coma and my heart will swell, my eyes will water. Someone will throw out a casual thought and an absolute tone rings in my head. I just know it's right. It's truth.



I know. My heart knows. My toes know.



A fine musical gossamer thread hums within. It resonates. 'Genius,' the tone says. Or 'Home,' it rings. Or 'Truth,' it sings. It can be a moment in a movie, a line from a book, a place, the look on a face.

I think when something ring true in my life, it's a part of me saying "This is who I am!" Something right here is who I am. In large part or in small part, "This is who I am!" When I am remotely near salt water, a small part of me sings "this is who I am." When I stand on the very edge of this continent with my bare feet in the sand and the Pacific ocean air against my face, seagulls calling above as they ride the wind, a very large part of me cries "THIS is who I am!"

When a chocolate truffle melts on my tongue, I know "This is who I am."
When my toddling grandson runs across the room toward me with his arms stretched wide, "This is who I am!"
When my eighteen year old daughter calls me from the middle of her day and wants to know what I think of this or that, I'm grateful that "This is who I am."
When someone says "Barbie, write a book!" I nod knowlingly and breathe deep, "Yes, this is who I am."


When something rings true for me, I experience a long moment of "all is right with my world." In a Barbie's Absolute Life Truth kind of way.

I love when that happens.

25 December 2009

Within My Head There Arose Such a Clatter

T'was the night before the day after Christmas and my daughter is getting a tattoo tomorrow. It's her second one in less than twelve months.


I'm sitting on the floor of a bathroom using the closed lid of the toilet for my writing surface. The notebook paper I scribble on is damp and soft from the humidity of the warm bath I just had.

When my three kids were growing up I tried to be careful about those boy/girl double standard things. The most glaring of which was the common cultural, yet old school thinking that girls should wait to have sex, but that for boys, having adolescent sex is a right of passage. The flaw of this thinking is so blatant that it's hard to state aloud with out chuckling. Such a laughable bias.

But I have an overt bias of my own, when it comes to tattoos. My sons can get as many tattoos as they wish and it doesn't seem to hurt my soul. It may perplex me but not in a sad way.

My oldest boy has three tattoos that I know of. I'm fine with this. In fact maybe part of me, appreciates his wanting to express himself in a relatively, kinda sorta artistic manner.

My middle offspring will probably never have a tattoo. Not because he feels strongly about the principle of the thing, but because he feels strongly about staying as far away from needles as possible. I'm good with that too. Do what's best for you, I say.

My daughter is my youngest. She will be nineteen in a few weeks. She got her first tattoo just a few hours after she turned eighteen. I went with her for the first thirty minutes or so. Then I left. Devastated might not be a strong enough word for what I felt.

The design of her first tattoo is pretty and I appreciate the symbolism it has for her. The thought she put behind it. But that doesn't mean I wanted it on her skin permanently...forever and ever and ever.

But over time I thought I had come to terms with it. Okay, she has a tattoo. Silently I hoped desperately that this one would be enough for her. A few months after her first one she started talking about another one. Where she would get it, what it would say or what it would look like. These details changed from one conversation to the next and so I just hoped, crossed my fingers and burned incense to the god of porcelain skin that it wouldn't happen. Please, please, please......

As the year went by it began to sound more certain. My stomach hurt more each time the topic came up. I told her on more than one occasion that in my opinion one tattoo for her was plenty. Something like "....IN THE NAME OF ALL THINGS HOLY...."

Tomorrow is the day. I don't like it. Before I crawled into my bed for the night, I went to her and said "Before you do this, would you do one thing for me?" "Yes, of course," she said. "DON'T DO IT!" I wailed.

Actually what I said is "Before you go to bed tonight, go stand in front of a mirror, pull your shirt off and look at the area of skin you're thinking of getting tattooed. Look at your beautiful perfect skin. Because if you do this, it will never be the same. Ever," I whimpered.

I began this post the night before....now we are a few days post tattoo. I was actually sick to my stomach about the whole thing. I thought if I started talking about it, I might throw up.

I can't figure this out. Why is this such a big deal to me? Why is there a difference between how I feel about my boys v. my girl getting a tattoo? I thought about this aloud and discovered maybe it's a vanity thing. I was so surprised by this possibility. Was I vain about her beauty? When I spoke of this, it felt like there might be something to it.

She is strikingly beautiful. Especially when she's not being a meany to her mom. She is tall and thin. Dark features, dark hair. Her skin is pale porcelain, like Nicole Kidman or Scarlett O'Hara. At a few different social functions over the years people have come up to me (and sadly her) and said that she should model. One woman tried to give her the card of someone who might know someone who might be an agent or something. I threw myself in front of that person, grabbed the card out of her hand and crammed it into my mouth, chewing furiously. (This is topic for another post, another day.)

I never thought of myself as a beautiful girl. I never carried myself as a beautiful girl. I was always the clever one, the witty, funny, smart (ass) one. I have always had a healthy capacity to make people laugh and smile and enjoy themselves. But I've never been the 'pretty' girl. I grew up wishing I were. Envying, hating those pretty girls. I always wanted to be a stunning beauty.

So when I had this gorgeous daughter born to me, I celebrated her beauty. I held it up in festive gratitude. Like somehow this beauty belonged to me, once removed.

I stood a little speechless as this concept occurred to me and as the words came out of my mouth, without premeditation. "Maybe," I said, "it's like the father who never got to finish high school because he had to go to work in the coal mines and his only dream is that his son graduate from college and become a doctor or lawyer. Anything but a coal miner." But instead of it being the son's dream, it's really only the father's.

Maybe this is me. Maybe I'm hanging onto a superficial, vain cosmetic rope where she's concerned. This feels terrible. I see her inner beauty, I see her magic side, her shiny heart. Why would I get so twisted up in her outward appearance?

Living vicariously. Not what it's cracked up to be.....

09 December 2009

I Beg to Dream and Differ*

Lyric from Green Day's Holiday.

I find it interesting that when I'm angry, I write better. Well 'better' is probably not the best word. When I am angry, I find it far easier to write freely, or as freely as I am capable of writing. It is not necessarily good writing, but it is more abundant writing. Longer words, thicker paragraphs. Weighty accusation. And to some, size indeed matters.

When I've posted a blog three days in a row, you can be sure that one of two things is true:
Either I'm being paid per word, or I'm pissed OFF!

This interesting phenomenon does not seem to be limited to my writing. My work, my play, my chores all seem to be stepped up in production, when I'm angry. Come to think of it, aside from the state of pure bliss, a state I rarely get to visit, anger and numbness are my two most high-functioning states.

As long as I am high on anger, or numb from numbness I can get a great deal accomplished.

I clean like crazy, I organize to a fault. I shop quick, drive quick, decide quick. Quick, intense. Move over.

Productivity-wise, it's when the D-words happen that I'm screwed:


  • Depressed,

  • Discouraged,

  • Deflated,

  • Despondent,

  • Dejected.

  • (Don't you love synonyms? The only book I'll ever need on a desert island is a good thesaurus.)


Yesterday I was humming along to Michael Buble. Today I'm screaming to Green Day and Nirvana. This can't be a good sign. Smells like post-pubescent Decomposition and Deterioration.

Righteous indignation energy is even better. The most stimulating anger is the justifiable type.
Can I get another Amen? AMEN! ~ Green Day

Since I'm not in the mood for Christmas music this year, do you think, if I listen to Green Day and Red Hot Chili Peppers instead, that would count?

07 December 2009

Stealing Stones

~ Bullet Points, my favorite ~


  • I'm changing my official blog font from Georgia to Times.
  • Everything written herein is relatively true. Give or take.


  • I last blog posted in September.
  • I blame Al Gore.
  • I no longer have Internet at home. Could someone please take care of this, pronto?!

  • I moderate book reviews for the organization for which I work.
  • Apparently some wanna-be book reviewers' keyboards didn't come with a shift key.
  • Nor the apostrophe key.
  • I spent a good deal of my morning correcting people's punctuation and basic grammar so that when their review shows up on our website, they will appear to be intelligent and literate.

  • I am having a crummy day. If that is not the way to spell 'crummy,' correct it yourself, I'm tapped out.
  • I'm afraid someone put my new, shiny used car under some magic spell so that it would appear to run well after it left the car lot until it crossed over some invisible force field and then began dropping mechanical parts essential to it's well running and my well being.
  • I blame all used car dealers. ALL!

  • I want credit for all the obscenities and swearing that you didn't have to read in this post. At least so far, huh? Shit.

  • What else, what else..... I know there's more. Hmmm.
  • I keep forgetting it's December. I ate two Thanksgiving dinners, I feel the chill, I see the twinkly lights, yet it still feels like September to me. Maybe no blogging makes one's time stand still.
  • I am without my Christmas spirit this year. This happens some years. I have previously been fine with this phenomenon but this year it just pisses me off.
  • My heart is not into the season: decorations, music, shopping, gifts, giving, cheer and goodwill to men. Not like I was ever leaning in that direction anyway.
  • God bless us, everyone. Some more than others.
  • Diane Keaton, Marg Helgenberger, Frances McDormand, Barbra Streisand: Some women grow into their beauty. Better year after year. I don't care if this post seems erratic to you. That's the whole point of bullet points.
  • "People call these things imperfections, but there not. That's the good stuff." ~ Good Will Hunting
  • Everything is wrong. I am not okay with this.
  • I had a dream last night that I was riding in a car with Kevin Kline. An old Rambler or Falcon. Kevin drove. I rode shot gun. We drove along a quiet residential road with quaint houses and pretty landscapes. Driving slow and easy down the street, he reached out his window and picked flowers for me. Sweet yellow ones with the roots still attached. I reached out of my window but there were no flowers. I reached out for a rock to give instead. But I didn't like the way the landscape looked without the rock. I put it back and grabbed a smaller rock. So instead of flowers I stole a rock to give him. The rock owners were not happy with me. Some folk seem to like their rocks exactly where they left them. I noticed that none of the flower owners seemed pissed. Stupid double standard. Men, they make all the rules. I am not okay with this.


27 September 2009

"Claudia, what have we told you?"

Okay, here’s the deal. I have a couple of very important projects I must work on. I get to work on. This is not negotiable. Period!


One is a long standing piece with a ‘working title.’ Doesn’t that sound like a real grown up writer? “Working title.” Say it with your chin dropped firm into your chest and with a bit of Walter Cronkite in your tone. "Working title." Like you mean business.


The other piece is my strong desire and intention to post a blog in the immediate future. It’s time. It’s been long enough and it helps to clear my mind when I post. All good.


Last night held the perfect opportunity.

Well okay, perfection is apparently relative. But given the distracting, cluttery, crowded, boarding house nature of my immediate vicinity, it was as perfect as I could force it to be. I left a few hurt feelings in my wake, but hell people, exactly what is it about the Do NOT Disturb sign on my bedroom door that do you not understand?


With my laptop cocked and loaded, appropriately positioned across my lap, with my hollow, pre-fab bedroom door closed tight, I’m armed with the complete confidence that these two overdue projects are as good as done. Whew, that feels good.


Let me share with you an insight into my heartfelt priorities.

FACTS:
  • I am not a Tom Cruise fan.

  • Nor Brad Pitt.

  • I have very successfully never seen any part of any Antonio Banderas film.

  • I do not do horror flicks.

  • And I am not infected with the highly contagious and common ‘vampire as entertainment’ virus.


That being said, the movie “Interview with a Vampire?” Holy cow. I have an involuntary, physical reaction to a man with long, flowing hair. Now let’s be clear, I am not speaking of just any guy who can grow his hair long. There are a frightening number of men who grow their sparse, thinning hair long, in denial of their receding hair line. And probably an equal quantity who attempt to cling to their heavy metal glory days with a pony tail and all his pre-sets on classic rock stations.



No. Not just any long hair can be the magic key to the kingdom. A man cannot coast in on his long hair alone. No, he must be a relatively fetching man to start. Like the perfect ribbon on a well wrapped package. The finishing touch on the original sweet substance. “All of this plus the added bonus of a long, powerful mane.”


I have not traced from where this attraction originates. Mostly because I don’t care. Is it a Jesus thing? A Fabio complex? Could be, I suppose. Who knows? Isn’t it a distraction to question such a pure reaction?

"Interview with a Vampire." Who knew? It came out way back in 1994, and all this time I had no idea.


This movie may be the Super Jackpot for my hair predilection. Tom, Brad & Antonio? These are admittedly pretty boys, although not my kind of pretty, still it’s a trip to bountiful for me, only with a really happy ending.


I’d never seen the movie before but as it was on my TV last night, I found that my very important ‘working title’ piece and my confident blog post intentions fell unceremoniously by the bedside. And an unexpected erotica piece happened to me instead. Huzzah!


Okay, well not truly erotica, I suppose. Since there was no actual sex written in anywhere. Will you quit taking things so literal?


So in hindsight, maybe “…not negotiable. Period!” is just a loose guideline.

PS: I do not know how old Kirsten Dunst is in this movie but I loved every bloody fanged frame she was in. I found her fascinating. Although her golden locks were a bit short.


30 August 2009

Out of the Blue

One day last week as I was beginning my drive to work, I came upon an unusual sight.

After I pull out of my driveway, I get to start my commute each day on a quiet, forest-lined, country road. A few minutes along and the trees fade off, the view opens up to homes with wide horse pastures on the left and a vista of the Cascades to my right. A few seconds later, I crest a small hill and come to a stop at the road that will lead me into traffic and commuter stress and the beginning of my work day.

On this particular day last week, I crested that slight hill and saw a hot air balloon in the clear sky ahead of me. It was about 7:30 in the morning. The cheerful aberration floated peacefully, lazily, colorfully out over the horizon.

I twice lived in Anchorage. Almost every evening of the two summers I lived there, I could look out into the dusky blue sky over the city and see numerous hot air balloons. Anchorage is surrounded by some of the most beautiful examples of nature I've ever seen and these smiling, joyful nightly balloons were jewels adorning her native beauty like sprinkles on the frosting of the landscape cupcake. It's hard to believe now but I probably grew quite used to seeing them above and may have taken them for granted after awhile. Shame.

Needless to say, seeing this single unexpected balloon was a great way to start my work day. Instead of driving along thinking about the idiot who just cut me off, I was wondering about the occasion for such a mode of travel so early in the morning on a day in the middle of the week. Was it a proposal? An anniversary celebration? A whim?

By the time I arrived at work, I'm sorry to say the balloon had left my mind. I sat in my car, on the phone, getting a few last seconds of an encouraging conversation before I went in the building to work. I was looking at nothing in particular when right in front of me a fluffy white feather floated down from the sky. This would not be an odd thing if there were any trees around, but in the middle of this particular parking lot there are none. This feather came floating straight down from the sky on a day without a breeze. It was like a bird sent it down to me. Again drawing my attention upward in an unexpected way.

I put in my five hours of work before beginning my quick trip to my second shift at a different location. On this trek each day, I pass along the end of a runway of an Air Force base in my area. On some days, I get to see huge, gray, cargo-type planes, that look like they should fall right out of the sky with their girth and weight, land or take off directly in front of me. It's a bit of a thrill when this happens. The rush of noise and power just over my head. On even less frequent days, I will see the fighters. This is my favorite. When I get to see the fighters, it feels like good luck. It might not be the safest example of driving that I do, but I crane my head this way and that trying to keep up with their speed and maneuvers. I love the fighter planes. Always have.

On this day, the fighters were soaring, turning, speeding in the sky over me. I stared up at them until they were out of my sight. It was at this point that I began to marvel at the sky's efforts to pull my gaze upward. Maybe I've been looking down or around me too much lately. I don't know. It gave me something to consider.

After passing the air force base, I turned south on the last little leg of my drive before getting to the library branch where I work, when in the sky I saw paratroopers. Half a dozen or more. Conducting their military exercises in the pale blue above an Army base directly south of the Air Force base. They were off in the distant sky but it was wonderful to watch them floating over the urban landscape aiming for targets unknown.

Michael J. Fox has a new book out. "Always looking up : the adventures of an incurable optimist"

That day when I arrived at my branch, this book was waiting for me.

Coincidence? I don't think so.

17 August 2009

Birthdays, Deathdays and Woodstock

Many varying years ago this weekend, monumental events occurred. Each momentous in their own way.

One hundred and two years ago, Seattle’s Pikes Place Market was born. I love the market. I am ignorant of the details of its inception. Did it begin as a community farmer’s market? On the first day were there three vendors? Thirty? Is it still in it’s original location? Contrary to the popular thought I hold dearly, that I know everything, there are apparently many things I do not know where the market is concerned. What I do know, is that I love the electric, organic, bohemian, colorful, peculiar, exotic, palpable current of energy that runs through it. I always feel comfortable and light hearted when I visit.

Happy Birthday, Seattle’s Pike Place Market and to all who share August 17th.


Thirty-two years ago this weekend, Elvis Presley died. This was probably my first “I remember where I was when I heard the news” kind of experience. It was the summer after my freshman year of high school. I was vacationing at my Aunt and Uncles home in Davis, California. I was a bit young to have a full Elvis awareness but as we watched the news, I thought of my mom. I know there was at least one Elvis album cover in the stack of dusty 33 records by the ‘record player.’ G.I. Blues.


Forty years ago this weekend? Woodstock. 1969. I was seven years old and living in a small town in Eastern Washington. Yakima. It’s easy to blame Yakima for the childhood I never knew. I grew up unaware of most of the world around me.

The only real Current Events kind of moment I remember having as a small girl is standing out on our front porch looking up at the night’s sky, heavy binoculars held to my brow with the purpose of trying to see little black specs walking on the moon in the early summer of 1969. Neil Armstrong and friends.

I was one year old when JFK was killed.
Six years old the year Bobby Kennedy and Martin Luther King, Jr were shot dead.

I have some vague and fuzzy memories of the 1972 presidential election. I was ten years old.

The Vietnam war started in 1959 and ended in 1975. My awareness of Vietnam came near the very end, when our solders were coming back in one condition or the other. Some saying it was safer to change clothes on the plane during the trip home, hoping to arrive in their local airport without meeting the hostility and ridicule our county insisted on greeting them with if it was known they served their country in that unpopular war. (This is another blog completely.)

I was seven the summer of 1969. Woodstock. I wish I'd known to know such a pivotal, monumental American music celebration was in the making. I wish.

At the age of forty-seven years old, I look back and I wish I’d been there. I wish somehow by some magical, mysterious, cosmic adoption process I’d have been in the care of the types of parents who would have driven their Volkswagen Bug across the country to attend. I’d have been one of those cool, tanned, blond haired hippie children with no shirt and no shoes on. Sleeping in the grass, safe and nestled in the energy of love, music and social tolerance that permeated the weekend.


Or in a different space and place maybe the kind of cool, enlightened parent who would have taken her children. I have often liked to think I'd make a great authentic hippie. The genuine, granola-toting article.

This is all so easy to say forty years later. But the fact is, even if I had been older and capable of appreciating Woodstock, I would probably not have been smart enough, evolved enough to do so. Yes, I'm afraid I would have turned it down.

In spite of its frightening resemblance to a glorified, musical, hallucinogenic camping trip, I wish I'd been there.
I wish I'd swam naked in the pond.
I wish I'd slept in the grass of Max yasgur's farm.
I wish I could say, "I saw Jimi Hendrix play the national anthem at Woodstock."
Or "I saw Santana's Soul Sacrifice. with Michael Shrieve's unbelievable drum solo.
"
Or "Woodstock, where I discovered my undying love for the harmony of Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young." I wish.

According to Wikipedia.com:

"After the concert, Max Yasgur, who owned the site of the event, saw it as a victory of peace and love. He spoke of how nearly half a million people filled with possibilities of disaster, riot, looting, and catastrophe spent the three days with music and peace on their minds. He states that "if we join them, we can turn those adversities that are the problems of America today into a hope for a brighter and more peaceful future.."

Max was born in 1919. Does this make him 50 years old the summer he welcomed Woodstock and 500,000 people to his farm? His community? His legacy?
Yes, I think I can safely say "You are my hero, Max. Thank you."

Shortly after the festival that weekend, Joni Mitchell would pen the lyrics to the song Woodstock:
I came upon a child of God
He was walking along the road
And I asked him where are you going
And this he told me: he said
I'm going on down to Yasgur's farm
I'm going to join in a rock 'n' roll band
I'm going to get back to the land
And set my soul free...
Because of Max, the festival organizers, the musicians, the attendees..."We are stardust, we are golden."




26 July 2009

Careful

I have conversation loops running in my head. Regularly.

I wonder if this is normal.

In fact, I have often (always) wondered if the various inner workings of my head are normal.

Do all people speak to themselves in their head?

Do they use "I" or "you" when they talk to themselves?

Do all justify their questionable behaviour over and over again until it sounds 'right' enough to live with?

Does everyone silently swear at themselves?

Do all people sing John Cougar Mellencamp Cougar in their head when they are feeling like a particularly conspicuous loser? If the answer is no, please don't tell me.

Quite naturally, most of the time, these internal conversations slash running dialogs slash virtual fist fights I have, are with those closest to me.

Mothers, Fathers, Sons, Daughters and Others.

But not always. Sometimes the 'talk' I have internally, is aimed at that individual who is driving his over-sized vehicle, in my immediate vicinity, as if he's trying to put as much distance between himself and the mental institution from which he quite obviously just escaped, where he was being unsuccessfully treated for Delusions of Grand Am, I mean Grandeur.

I win this argument every time, by the way. It usually ends with the words, "Just drive with grace, you intellectually challenged, inbred, bed wetting, bottom feeding, Bikini Barista patron, you!" That would be me talking, not the other guy.

But the solitary mental discussions I have with strangers are not as common as those I have with loved ones.

The two dominant and recurring mental conversations I've been having most recently are:

  • Take Care of What You Love
  • Shovel Your Own Shit.


For years, I've watched someone neglect the 'care and feeding' of all he loves, and then watched him lose those things. Then I stood stunned when he behaved as if he'd had no part in it, at all. It wasn't a complete void of care, but all care tended to be exactly what was required just to 'get by,' the very minimum maintenance needed and only then in a reactionary and obligatory fashion. I feel like I might not be speaking directly or specifically enough. Not like me, huh?

This is what I'm saying, in my head, a whole lot lately:
"Take care. Take care of what is precious to you. If you cherish it, if you want to keep it, care for it. Put your energy where your gratitude lies, whether it be a possession like a fountain pen once owned by John Steinbeck or Walt Whitman. Or a relationship with an amazing person whom you can never quite figure out. Take care."

You wouldn't use said fountain pen to clean the clog out of your kitchen sink. Or set it aside carelessly along with the ink blotch-leaving pens you've collected from doctors, insurance offices and bank tellers to collect dust until your relatives have to go through your belongings for the estate sale, unless of course you really don't care for the pen at all.

When you lose that magnetic, dynamic, crazy-magic girl who was completely devoted to you, until the day came when she'd had enough of your emotional indifference and apparent disinterest, it's because you did not take care. Or you were too cool to show it.

This brings me around to the part of the discussion where I start arguing with my own logic, which seems a little masturbatory in some 'queen of debate class' kind of way:

"You idiot. Do you hear yourself? If you have to remind someone to take care of something, it is already over. A reminder is of no use. We instinctively protect and care for those things important to us. If that instinct doesn't kick in naturally, we did not care to begin with. Although you might well be quite bummed when you are no longer in touch with that special friend, by then staying in touch was probably more of a principle kind of thing. You really didn't care enough to take care, so there you go. You get exactly what you get. Apathy begets apathy. Gratitude begets gratitude. Period."

I have some pretty involved internal conversations, no? Was it good for you too? My argument with the original 'offender' and then a conversation with my conversational self. Is that normal? Don't answer that, please. I have decided I no longer want to know what's normal.


It makes me sad to even write this. I think our society trains us very well to take things for granted. To behave with apathy and disassociation. We are discouraged from revealing our true joy and gratitude for that which we cherish. We are taught to dismiss. Treat the 'special' in our lives as if it is disposable and easily replaced. Somethings, some people, once lost, can never, ever be replaced. But we keep telling ourselves otherwise.

In the same vein yet on the other hand, I think we need to be honest with our self and others about what really doesn't matter to us. We feel like some things 'should' matter to us. If we are a good person, a good parent, a good citizen, then certain things should matter to us. Right? But sometimes they just don't, or they used to but they don't any more. Be honest.


Barbie's Digest Condensed version: If you are grateful for the person you're with, sing this. Sing it loud and sing it often. Besides simply being the 'right' thing to do, this is the way to give and receive gratitude. Everyone, I'm speculating, wants to be with someone who radiates "How did I get so lucky?" in their presence.

If you are not grateful for the person you're with, go. If you do not have a clear sense of your good fortune when you dine next to them, when you wake beside them, when you help them through their struggles, when they ask too much of you, then let them go. Someone else out there will feel lucky to have them but not if you refuse to let them go. Don't settle just because you are too lazy or terrified to try again. Hold out until you feel that 'how did I ever get so lucky?' feeling. And make sure you're with some one who cannot believe they got lucky enough to have you.

More on that 'shovel' conversation I mentioned earlier in the next episode......

19 June 2009

On the Other Hand . . . . . 'Fair Play'

In the name of equity......

  • Fly strip
  • Heat wave
  • Talking points
  • "Just kidding"
  • Bikini barrista
  • Dry spell
  • White chocolate
  • "What's up?"

Some word pairs that I'm not so crazy about.

I want full, honorary 'gradual' credit from an accredited gradual degree program for all the pairs I'm refraining from listing here.

You're welcome.

16 June 2009

I've Got Just Two Words For You

This morning on the news, that I was not at all watching, one newscaster introduced a story by saying "And now, two of the sweetest words in the English language," then held a moment's breathless pause. "Gone fishing," he said and before he could read another word from the teleprompter, his co-announcer kind of mumbled, "Not the two words I was thinking." Then she didn't say anything else and the story began with a 'throw' to a reporter in the field discussing some fishing crap that I don't care about. But in the few seconds transition time, I'm sure I was not the only non-news watcher wondering 'What two words was she thinking.'

The reporter, on the shore of some Pacific Northwest lake, delayed his banter for a moment and asked "Joyce, what were your two words?" Back at the studio, the friendly meteorologist sitting along side the two main newscasters speculated "Gone shopping." She sweetly replied "No. I don't know, 'love you' or something like that."

This led to some inevitable mental wonderment on my part.

"Hmmmm, two of the sweetest words in the English language.....hmmmm." I automatically began my list and semi-automatically started wondering what the list of others' might look like.

It didn't take long for the beginning of my list to overwhelm my note card. (Or in this case, the back of a library hold slip...) Word pairs, I love thinking about this. Words such as 'long,' 'you,' 'my,' 'full,' 'water,' 'five' don't have much punch standing alone in the world but paired correctly make all the difference

In no certain order, this is what my list of 'Two of the Sweetest Words' looks like:

  • Stormy weather
  • Deep breath
  • Cabernet Sauvignon
  • "Thank you"
  • Long bath
  • Extended vacation
  • "Good news"
  • My book
  • Porsche Carrera
  • Fore play (compound words totally count)
  • Cos Mopolitan (as do individual words said with a breath between syllables)
  • Ruby slippers
  • Pink peonies
  • Dark chocolate
  • "I agree"
  • Open mind
  • Barbie's bestseller
  • Barbie's bestsellerssssssssss
  • Beach house
  • Val Kilmer
  • "Allow me"
  • Clam chowder
  • Great sex
  • Deep sleep
  • Hot fudge
  • Royalty check
  • Lavender candles
  • Be wilderment (be flexible with me here...)
  • I vote
  • "That's genius"
  • French fries
  • Heart felt
  • Color crayons
  • Air conditioning
  • Word smith
  • Wet sand
  • Brownie sundae
  • Sleeping naked
  • Pacific Northwest
  • Zero balance
  • "Good thinking"
  • Bon Appetit
  • My grandson
  • Everlasting peace
  • White Christmas
  • Full Monty
  • "Feel free"
  • Early retirement
  • Good energy
  • Dark truffles
  • Made bed
  • "Can't wait"
  • Water colors
  • "Too thin"
  • Free gas
  • Writer's group
  • Give away
  • Fresh air
  • Five star
  • Multiple orgasm (yes, yes, yes)
  • More dessert (oh wait, isn't that the same thing?)
  • "Rest assured"
  • Tenth bestseller
  • "Dead sexy"
  • Snow day
  • Independent wealth
  • Dirty Mother
  • "I'll help"
  • Dark clouds
  • Letting go
  • All gratitude
  • Good news
  • The end

What would some of your favorite Sweetest Word pairs be? I wonder. (Oh, another great pair)

It's been fun thinking about all day.

I highly recommend it.




14 June 2009

Flaps?

Okay. Let's see here. . . . . are we ready for take off?

  • Time to write: CHECK

  • Solitude: CHECK

  • PC w/ keyboard & 'Word': CHECK

  • Ten Able Fingers: CHECK

  • Timer: CHECK

  • Opportunity: CHECK

  • Motivation: What?

  • Inspiration: Wait...let me look....it was here a second ago.....Let me get back to you on that.

15 May 2009

Dollars and Sensibility

Okay, I've tried to keep from writing about these next couple of topics for a while now and it just isn't working for me. The reason I put it off was because I sensed that once I began, it would become torrential. Oh well.

The Economy:

I refuse to grieve the world's current economic woes.

I was sitting in a coffee shop a few weeks ago when someone equated the process of grief she knows from volunteering for hospice, to the grief our country is feeling because of our economy. I love this person but completely disagree.

I believe that sometimes the universe gives us gentle reminders. Little nudges.

My philosophy about money is fluidity and gratitude. I believe that if we handle our money, however large or small an amount that might be, with a deep sense of gratitude and peace, we will always have all that we need. I believe if we treat our spending carelessly and in ways contrary to our true spirit, we will always feel as if we need more. More. MORE. MORE!

We will feel a sense of desperation for bigger and glossier and louder to hold up as evidence of our self-worth. There will always be enough if we do not treat it wastefully or with lack of gratitude. Since the economy has become the headlines for the past many months, there has been an emphasis to cut back, to be money smart, to determine the difference between need and want. (I am absolutely not suggesting that we not spend money on our wants, at times.) But isn't this the way it should always be no matter what the state of our economy? That we not be wasteful and extravagant as an every day occurrence? And if we had been proactive and deliberate with our money, would we be in the economic situation we our in now? I think the universe is reminding us of what was true all along.

Include your heart in your money decisions. Spend from your core. Always treat money with love and peace and gratitude. Money is like sand, the tighter we clench our fist (and gnash our teeth) the quicker it slips through our fingers. But if we hold sand in our open palm, it stays quietly and sweetly right in our hand.

I was born in the sixties but grew up in the seventies. Do you remember the seventies? Gas lines. Energy crisis. Back then it became socially unpopular to drive Lincoln Towncars, Cadillac DeVilles, Buick Electras (do you remember the Electra? And I do not mean Jennifer Garner). We paid attention to the price of gas. (One of my earliest memories was of my grandfather pulling up to a gas station then crossing the street because they were seventeen cents a gallon instead of nineteen.) We paid attention to the mileage a car would get.

Then time passed into the eighties, the nineties and we became myopic and complacent. We fell for the marketing of bigger, faster, bolder. We somehow believed we didn't need to treat currency with respect and appreciation. "I work hard for my money. I deserve to buy myself the new Leviathan 2000. Or better yet the Leviathan 2000 XL." We became spiritually lazy and careless and greedy. "Who lives in a two story house when you can afford three stories? Supersize my life, please. And make it a double." Enough was never enough. We just wanted more. You know the term, 'comfort' food? Filling a void with mashed potatoes and gravy because there's something missing in an area of our life that has nothing to do with nutrition? We've been 'comfort' spending, buying, accumulating, acquiring for some time now and look where it got us. Bank failure and stock market panic. Nudge, nudge.

The Flu Virus:
I think this nudge thing also applies to the recent flu energy. Besides our typical and somewhat predictable seasonal flu that we contend with each year, now we have a new flu strain of the 'swine' variety and we are to take all sorts of new precautions. BREAKING NEWS: NOW we are to wash our hands with soap and water. We are to sneeze and cough into our sleeves. We are to stay home and not subject our friends and co-workers to illness unnecessarily. Okay, good to know. "Important safety tip. Thanks, Egon." But shouldn't this have been the case already. Wasn't it? Apparently not. Pandemic headlines......Wash your hands, people. Nudge, nudge.

So what's next.....hmmmm.......I wonder. It really could be a lot of things. It has been a lot of things already. These two are just the latest..... The global warming thing. Our atmosphere is deteriorating and we need to be more careful and thoughtful of what and how we consumers consume. Wow, great idea. Why wasn't this just expected already? Why do we have to get the universe to use a documentary by Al Gore as a small nudge? I am not crazy about living in such a reactionary space and time in history. Shouldn't we live in a proactive way, to help protect that for which we are grateful (or should be).... our economy, our health, our home planet and so much more? Our peace of mind, for frickin' goodness sake!?!

We should take care of the earth because it's the right thing to do. She sustains us. Live in gratitude to her.

We should be thoughtful and genuine with our money regardless of the headlines or bottoms lines. Spend with grace, peace, generosity.

We should practice good hygiene and healthy personal habits because we are not complete idiots. (Hypothetically speaking.) Live as a considerate cohabitant. Share the best and shiniest of energy, this way.

Because, how else should we live? And where, may I ask, has that other way gotten us?

It is my prediction that the next nudge we get will have to do with entertainment and marketing. At some point the universe will give us a little nudge to let us know we've gone too far. That we have lost sight of peaceful images and energy. Of sweet and calm and inspiring. Instead of being inundated with edgy and dark. Pornographic and offensive as mainstream. Do you remember when not every song on the radio was about blow jobs and rape? I was explaining to my daughter the other day how the music videos in the eighties sometimes included fully clothed people who were not dry humping each other. She scoffed. Sometimes when I see billboards and commercials that are way over my line, I wonder what .... what envelope will we have to see pushed next? Probably coffee service with pasties. (Not pastries, PASTIES!) Oh wait, we already crossed that desert of rational thought.

I wonder what the nudge will look like.....

People! Just because we can, does not always mean that we should.

Breathe, rest, smile, laugh, share, live with grace. Nudge, nudge, nudge....

21 April 2009

Untitled

I am a sucker for titles. Book titles, sure. But also those catchy article titles on the front of magazines. You know the ones, they trick you into grabbing Iguana Lovers Weekly at the check out and tossing it atop your Twinkies and green tea. Even though you've never had a reptile, well except for your former spouse. Wow, where did that come from?

Anyway....

I am highly suggestible this way. I know this about myself. So, in an act of preventative self-defense, I learned to not look around during checkout. I try very hard and am almost always successful this way. My secret? Do not make eye contact. No matter who I think might be looking at me from the glossy front of that glossy GQ magazine. "Don't look!" Once I look, I'm done for. Although it's not the glossy boy with the glossy hairy chest that clinches the deal; it's the title teasers along the side:
  • "Seven Things Women Should Never Apologize For!" I definitely need to know what those are.
  • "Junk Food Diet To Melt The Pounds Away!" Hmmm, this information might come in handy.
  • "Periwinkle! The New Black." Well, duh.
  • "Two Hundred and Twelve Things Women Should Always Apologize For!" Pretty sure I already know these and am thinking "Just two hundred and twelve? That can't be right."
  • "Secrets to a beautiful, sexy, happy, quick, new, cheap, rich, organic, organized, orgasmic blah, blah, blah . . . ." I'll take it. If you really want to get my magazine buying attention, you'll use the word 'Secret' on the cover.

This 'Do Not make eye contact' thing worked very well for a long time. Until a few years ago, when my youngest child, my daughter, hit mid-puberty and became frighteningly interesting in celebrity gossip. (Don't worry she's clean and sober since the intervention.)

One day when she was fifteen or sixteen, we were standing in the grocery store check out line when she broadsided me. "Oh look, Britney shaved her head." I impulsively dropped my Snickers bar and pomegranates, stuck my fingers in my ears and started to hum "Girls Just Wanna Have Fun" as loud as I could to block any further assault. It worked. Whew! I didn't hear anything more but I did notice that my daughter edged toward the woman standing behind us in line and said to her "Mom, is that woman up there okay or should we stand in a different line?" And I think she might also have been pointing at me.

After I finally talked my daughter out of that other woman's car and into our own, we had a little talk and came to an agreement about magazines at the check out. Since then, it hasn't been a problem.

Even when I started working for the library. I'm quite proud of myself, for the last four or so years, I scan the library bar code on the back and never even look at the front. Except today I had a little stroke and accidentally looked at the front of a women's magazine. Vogue, Glamour, Allure, you know, something along those lines. And the top teaser said "Men's New Sexual Needs." Arrgh, there are new ones? What? Crap. Not that I was all wrapped up in their old ones but still.

In the grand scheme of things, I'd say men's sexual needs are not exactly unknown nor neglected last time I checked. (1991) So why there needs to be a magazine article about them, I'm not so sure. But whatever. That's a completely different blog for another day. (Now you've got that to look forward to.)

Once I'd made the magazine-Barbie eye contact, there was no going back. I had to look at the new needs. Okay, well I didn't have to, but still. I scanned the article and I have to say just one thing. I'm all good.

No, nothing to do with the sexual needs list but with another aspect all together.

You see, typically, when I read something of this nature, in any format: book, magazine, blog, cereal box, I tend to be all or nothing.

Somewhere along the line a long time ago, I decided that I was either all in or all out. That it was hypocritical otherwise. I had to agree wholeheartedly, or disagree vehemently. So for instance, just speaking hypothetically, you know for example sake, let's say that I read this list of sexual needs and the third one makes me very, VERY happy to read. That it solidly confirms a long held (yet strictly hypothetical) need of my own, thank you very much. (I KNEW it!)

Then, continuing that hypothetical, just-for-argument-sake path, let's just say I read 'need' number seven and this need flies straight in the face of everything I hold dear. Of all things holy. Previously, I'd have had a serious dilemma on my hands. Do I wholeheartedly agree, or vehemently disagree? All of this article or none of this article? What's it gonna be? Pick. Pick!

Something in my head says "You can't have it both ways." Although I did just read in this article that men think they need it both ways.

But then I decide, I will embrace the part that makes my heart nod knowingly and say, "Yeah BABY!"

And that I will very happily disregard the part that makes me growl and snarl, "Oh my goodness! Seriously? Give me a break!"

I love this new, 'not all in and not all out' option I'm allowing myself. Why on earth would I think I have to be so hard on myself? Where did that strict nature come from? (Well, I actually know the answer to this question, but that too, is another blog. Lucky!)

I can totally, TOTALLY, just take the part that I want and recycle bin the rest. With this new and revolutionary way of thinking, my mind is wandering down all kinds of potential avenues of future possibilities. This should be fun.

And by the way, I'm all over needs one through six. But need number seven? Yeah, good luck with that! Let me know how that goes.


16 April 2009

The Way of the World

Do you ever have the feeling that everything is just a little bit off? Everything. Off. Like not one part of your life is in perfect synchronization with the universe? And that the tiniest little adjustment or tweak is all it would take to set things right? But you have no idea what that little tweak might be? And that in fact the 'off' feeling itself feels wrong?

You know firmly that there is nothing blatantly wrong: no debilitating physical condition, no diagnosable mental illness, no offspring directly in harm's way (as far as you know), you're safely employed and there seems to be enough money until the next paycheck, car runs relatively well for its considerable age.

But still everything is just off. Your work, rest, health, peace, the number on the scale. Off. The tiniest sliver.

Does this ever happen to you?

Arriving just a little bit late, no matter where you go or how early you left? You turn on the radio just in time to catch the very end of your favorite song? You are two exits away from the drive up window you just left before you realize that they gave you Diet Coke instead of the real thing? Or they forgot the chicken part of your chicken sandwich? The weekend plans you were really looking forward to were cancelled because your friend can't make it, her cat has come down with bird flu?

Was there some unseen wrinkle in the fabric of time and you got caught on the wrong side of the crease and are now half a step behind the rest of creation?

Nothing earth shattering or space altering. Just a little something is off. And if you weren't blessed with such a keen sense of blasted self-awareness you probably wouldn't even notice?

Do you ever have the intuitive sense that on this particular day or during this entire moon cycle it would be a foolish thing to buy lottery tickets or take up base jumping?

Like no matter how much time you take or to what drastic measures you resort, your hair still looks just like you woke up from a long coma?

Is it simply a matter of stopping to breathe deeply for a few moments? Or that you just need to take a spare minute and play with a small child? Do you only need to go outside and lay in the rain? Wash away someone's sins? Could it be as basic as moving to another country, having a sex change operation and stealing someone's identity?

Do you sit wondering which goddess you pissed off, that she would knock you off your point of contact with the present moment?

Nothing sounds good: reading, eating, sleeping, freebasing? Does it seem confusing that you could to be apathetic and desperate at the same time?

Do you? Do you ever feel this way?

*sigh* Yeah, me either.

15 April 2009

Spring Fling

Today, while sitting at an intersection waiting for the light to change, I saw a car with a light dusting of fresh, white snow.

Next to it was a car with a light dusting of delicate pink petals fallen from a flowering cherry tree somewhere near by.

It's amazing what there is to see while waiting for the light to change.

14 April 2009

A Giant Leap For Mankind

Today I saw balloons crossing the street.

On my way to work, I sat at an intersection in a busy retail traffic area. Starbucks, Borders, Taco Del Mar and all other such mall satellite type stores surrounding me. Lost in thoughts of nothing important and waiting for my left lane arrow to turn green, bobbing color caught the edge of my eye.

On the sidewalk at the corner, near the little button to push when you want to cross the street, was a cluster of balloons. Floating and bobbing in place. Unmanned, unfettered, ungoverned.

All the fundamental colors: red, blue, green, yellow, orange. I didn’t count but it looked like eighteen or twenty balloon. Half of which looked a little sad, as balloons go. Maybe a few days past their prime. On the downhill side of full inflation. They dangled along the bottom of the balloon bunch. Grazing the ground occasionally. The other ten or so were clearly as healthy and lively as balloons get. The colorful cluster swayed playfully in their spot for a few seconds then began to cross the street. With the light.

Laughter took my breath. Audible joy echoed inside my car. Within the frame work of the crosswalk, the cluster of mysteriously liberated balloons began their trek across the intersection ahead of me, just like they knew what they were doing.

The lazier, helium-anemic balloons dragged along the ground lightly, giving the appearance of a slow, tumbling gait along the painted crosswalk. The sturdier, robust, helium-rich balloons buoyed and lifted the entire troupe, drawing them on and toward the opposite corner.

Unlike human crosswalk crossers, these balloons meandered and strolled across the street with the blasé sniff of nonchalance that only balloons can pull off. As if they were not late for a hot latex date, nor escaping a relentless balloon cluster stalker. As if time and destination were immaterial. Like an astronaut bouncing over the surface of the moon, gravity was of no consequence to this cheerful and happy-go-lucky clique of color.

What was the explanation behind these renegade balloons? Had they become disconnected from their small child's wrist? Had they escaped the vehicle that would transport them to a sixtieth birthday party? Disillusioned with the housing market, had they broken away in protest from a real estate open house sign they were assigned to proclaim?

The group hesitated mid-cross, seemed to look around at the view and then continued along their way. It was the happiest gaggle of balloons I have ever seen. Eventually they made it to the other side of the street, just as my arrow turned green. I've never been so disappointed to see my light change.

Today I saw balloons crossing the street.

13 April 2009

Barbie: The Blog Camel

According to bigsiteofamazingfacts.com, "Camels on the Sahara Desert can go all winter without water, and will even refuse to drink if water is given to them!"

Sadly, I can relate.

I'm telling you right up front, that I cannot vouch for the content nor quality of these following few words.

It has just been so long since my last sip of 'water' in the blog sense of the word, that the self-inflicted, internal pressure has become intense. And more than I can bear. Therefore...... I'm settling.

So much time had passed since I've last written here, that I began to raise the bar for my next but long overdue post. And with each passing day that I didn't write here that bar crept higher and higher until it now blends with the gray of the Puget Sound clouds and I really can't see it from way, way down here any more.

The pole I would need to clear this great height does not exist. So I'm cashing in my 'Get out of jail free' card. I've held it squirrelled away since fifth grade when I had hotels on Boardwalk and Park Place and owned all four railroads, which eventually sent my sister crying to her room.

In my defense, I feel compelled to say that it isn't as if I haven't had things to say. Things to share, to write here about. I have. I do. I will. It's just that I've had so much to write about. Whenever I'd start to cook up a little pot of blog post in my head early in a day, before noon it would overflow from sweltering and scorched emotion and opinion. It became too much and it was overwhelming to consider condensing such temper or passion into reader-friendly form and so I've fail to write entirely. At least here in my blog. In truth, this is no defense but I feel better having said it.

I appreciate the chance to get this ridiculous form of literary self-mutilation out of my system. I am grateful for your patience and your kind, listening ear.

11 February 2009


24 January 2009

ONE HAND TIED BEHIND MY BACK

IT'S JANUARY 24TH, 2009. I LAST WROTE PRE-CHRISTMAS, DECEMBER 22, 2008. I TYPED FREELY.

A LUXURY, APPARENTLY. (PLEASE FORGIVE THE CONFRONTATIONAL LOOKING CAPS. I'LL EXPLAIN BELOW.)



IT'S BEEN THIRTY-THREE DAYS OR SO. THERE IS SO MUCH OF WHICH TO WRITE.



SNOW:

SO VERY MUCH SNOW HERE. BEAUTIFUL, PURE, WHITE, COLD, INCONVENIENT SNOW THAT LINGERED AND LINGERED AND LINGERED.



CHRISTMAS:

THE NOBLE GOAL OF SETTING A DIFFERENT TONE ABOUT CHRISTMAS THIS YEAR. GIVING SIGNIFICANCE INSTEAD OF QUANTITY AND TRENDS. LITTLE FAMILY CHRISTMAS, LARGE FAMILY CHRISTMAS, PERSONAL PRIVATE CHRISTMAS.



MAIL:

TEN COPIES OF A BOOK ARRIVED AT MY DOORSTEP THE DAY AFTER CHRISTMAS CONTAINING ONE OF MY NON-FICTION PIECES. TITLE ~ SUFFER THE WOMEN. AVAILABLE AT http://www.wglippmann.com/ I BEGAN THE YEAR 2009 AS AN OFFICIALLY PUBLISHED AUTHOR. WHOA!



NEW YEAR CELEBRATION:

I STEPPED INTO THE NEW YEAR A RECENTLY DIVORCED WOMAN.



MAGAZINE:

ON JANUARY 5TH, SEATTLE BRIDE MAGAZINE CAME OUT WITH THE JAN/FEB 2009 ISSUE AND A STUNNING PICTURE OF MY SON AND HIS NEW WIFE APPEAR ON PAGE 117. A TESTAMENT AND TRIBUTE TO ALL THE LOVE AND PLANNING THAT WENT INTO A WEDDING AND CELEBRATION THAT FIT THEM PRECISELY.



JANUARY 19, 2009:

ON THE DAY AMERICA CELEBRATED THE BIRTHDAY OF MARTIN LUTHER KING JR THIS YEAR, MY FIRST GRANDCHILD WAS BORN. CONNOR ARRIVED AT 10:09 PM. SIMPLY BEAUTIFUL AND PERFECT IN HIS NEWNESS AND LIGHT. I'VE KNOWN FOR YEARS NOW THAT I WILL MAKE AN AMAZING GRANDPARENT. THIS IS A WONDERFUL TRUTH TO HOLD. IT'S A GREAT PEACE TO DWELL, IN THIS CONFIDENCE. AND I VENTURE TO SAY, AN UNUSUAL KNOWLEDGE TO HAVE. I FEEL SO COMPLETELY FORTUNATE TO HAVE THIS PERSON IN MY LIFE, AND TO FEEL IN EXACTLY THE SAME MEASURE HOW INCREDIBLY FORTUNATE HE IS AS WELL, TO HAVE ME IN HIS LIFE. AN UNUSUAL AND POSSIBLY ARROGANT SOUNDING CLAIM BUT I AM STANDING FIRM HERE. I GET TO WITNESS THE VERY EMERGENCE OF HIS SPIRIT, HIS PERSONALITY, HIS ENERGY CONTRIBUTION TO THE UNIVERSE. AND HE GETS TO GROW IN THE LIGHT OF MY SHINY, GENEROUS, WELL-CULTIVATED HEART. CONNOR AND I ARE MUTUALLY FORTUNATE. HOW RARE AND PRICELESS IS THIS.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~



THE WEEK OF JANUARY FIFTH, I DEVELOPED A MILDLY STIFF NECK. YOU KNOW THE KIND. SOMETIMES WE JUST WAKE UP KNOWING WE'VE SLEPT 'WRONG' AND OUR NECK REMINDS US ALL DAY, MAYBE EVEN FOR A FEW DAYS. IT STARTED AS A SUBTLE ANNOYANCE AND NOTHING MORE. BUT THEN IT HAS LINGERED. UNINVITED AND UNWELCOMED. . . .



NOW I'VE BEEN KNOWN TO SPEAK HERE OF MY WRITING. AND IT HAS HAPPENED AT TIMES THAT THIS TAKES THE FORM OF COMPLAINING AND/OR WHINING ABOUT IT. "I DON'T FEEL INSPIRED." "I DON'T FEEL LIKE WRITING." LACK OF ENERGY, LACK OF DRIVE, LACK OF RESOLVE. IF IT WERE IN THE FORM OF A 'TALKING BOOK' IT WOULD BE THE VOICE OF TINNY, WHINY AND LAZY WOMAN WALLOWING IN SOMETHING UNSAVORY AND UNPRODUCTIVE. IT'S HAPPENED MORE THAN ONCE AND EVEN ONCE IS TOO MANY.



SO HERE WE ARE MORE THAN TWO WEEKS SINCE MY NECK WENT SIDEWAYS AND STAYED THERE. IT HAS SINCE ESCALATED FROM A STIFF NECK TO AN ALMOST CONSTANT PIERCING PAIN RADIATING THROUGH OUT THE BACK AND FRONT OF MY RIGHT SHOULDER, DOWN MY RIGHT ARM THROUGH MY JOINTS AND MUSCLES TO MY FIVE RIGHT FINGERS.

I'M NOT WORRIED. I'M SURE IT'S NOTHING SERIOUS AND NOTHING PERMANENT BUT FOR NOW IT SEEMS TO HAVE TAKEN UP RESIDENCE ON MY RIGHT SIDE. MY HANDWRITING SIDE, MY TYPING SIDE, MY SENTENCE CONSTRUCTION SIDE, MY MOUSE CLICKING SIDE, MY CUTTING AND PASTING SIDE, MY COLORING BOOK COLORING SIDE, MY EDITING OF AFOREMENTIONED SENTENCES SIDE. IN OTHER WORDS MY LIFE HAS STOPPED AS I'VE KNOWN IT. AS I'VE KNOWN IT AND AS I HAVE LOVED IT.

I'M PRESCRIBED CONTROLLED SUBSTANCES AND WISHING I COULD WRITE.

I AM SENT FOR MRI, X-RAYS AND PHYSICAL THERAPY AND WISHING I COULD WRITE.

I'M TYPING THIS WITH MY LEFT HAND ONLY. IT'S SO SLOW AND UNCOMFORTABLE. AWKWARD. CAPS CAN SOMETIMES INDICATE SOME CYBER-SCREAMING. I, HOWEVER AM NOT SCREAMING. IT'S JUST THAT CAP SHIFTING IS GETTING ON MY NERVES SO I'M GIVING MYSELF A PASS.

I COULD ALSO HAVE CHOSEN TO GO ALL LOWER CASE BUT ONE OF MY PET PEEVES IN LIFE IS THE USE OF A LOWER CASE 'I' AS A PRONOUN. THIS IS A CRAZY WAY TO WRITE ABOUT ONE'S SELF, IN MY OPINION. I PERSONALLY AM AN UPPER CASE 'I.' MY 'I' IS CAPS. PERIOD. THIS IS TRUE OF YOU AS WELL, BUT UP TO YOU TO CLAIM IT. YOU CAN 'LOL' AND 'FYI' AND 'OMG' ALL YOU WANT TO BUT I CAN NOT ABIDE BY THE LOWER CASE 'I.' CLAIM YOUR CASE. NO MORE LOWERING OURSELVES.

I MISS WRITING. I MISS THE FREEDOM AND ABILITY TO WRITE EASILY AND PEACEFULLY. I MISS WRITING COMFORTABLY. I WANT THIS BACK RIGHT NOW! (OKAY, THAT 'RIGHT NOW' JUST NOW WAS TOTALLY ALL IN CAPS AND I MIGHT BE YELLING A LITTLE BIT.) I'VE LEARNED MY LESSON, WHOMEVER IS LISTENING. I WILL NEVER TAKE WRITING FOR GRANTED AGAIN. I HAVE COUNTLESS THINGS TO WRITE ABOUT. SHITTY FIRST DRAFTS AND PROFOUND, STUNNING, PIVOTAL, ELEGANT, BOOK AWARD WINNING, FINAL DRAFTS.

I'M SO SORRY. I AM SO SORRY THAT I EVER COMPLAINED ABOUT WRITING IN ANY WAY. I'M SORRY WHEN I'VE HAD ANY UNGRATEFUL THOUGHTS ABOUT WRITING. I AM ALL APOLOGY FOR EACH TIME I'VE EVER TAKEN WRITING FOR GRANTED.

I AM TRULY SORRY AND I WILL NEVER DO IT AGAIN. I PROMISE.

NOW PLEASE COME BACK AND PLAY WITH ME. PRETTY, PRETTY PLEASE. . . . . . .