meltdown day

I'm not sure what I expected, except more from myself. I hate endings, hate good-byes, avoid them whenever I can. There have been so many lately it seems.

Class is over, which means not only will I not see most of the people I came to care about again, most likely I'll never know what happened to the ones they created. In many ways, they are more real to me than my classmates. I knew what they were thinking, how they reacted to the world. All I really know about most of my classmates is how they wrote. I don't know if they are married or have children. I don't know if they ever had a broken heart, though how could you write at all if you hadn't? I don't know what their dreams are or their fears. But I learned those things about their characters. I have that sense of grief that goes with unfinished business.

Statistics show that most of them, us, won't ever publish the novels. My guess is that two of the twelve or so we were reading/writing are publishable, though there is a third I'd love to read. I say would love to read because my sense is that I'd never buy it unless I knew it was the novel it is… that doesn't make sense…. But what I mean is that the story was compelling to me, but I know I'd never buy it on a bookflap recommendation.

But then, there are so many books I like.

Mine? Hasn't enough been said about tragedy and pain? Do I really need to add to it? I'm not able to make this story have a happy ending, too much cynicism and the logical conclusion is even less attractive. So I will put it away. I opened my short story files last night, and tried to apply what I've learned to the one I've wanted to finish for three years... "Undertow." I have learned of some weaknesses that I can fix. What more could one ask of a class?

Flights of Fancy

posted by request, from my journal, feb 2002

The colors are muted today, a thick lint blanket cuddling the mountain in white, finally snow for them. The landscape has taken on the colors of a faded painting, the adobe beige of the city mirrored in a yellow fog clinging to the horizon. The charm of traveling is fading, too, and I feel a need to be productive. I wish I could see the sun once more before I leave here though.

Sunday morning found us out on the dessert....learning to crew for a hot air balloon. A little like crewing for a sailboat, but all we really did was help to "fill" the balloon, and then fold it into it's bag when the trip was over. It was cold, and interesting, not like flying up as much as it is like the earth slipping away... (plagiarized unabashedly from the literature) until we were aloft. Then it was more like being on top of a tall building... but floating with the gentle breezes. I expected to be nervous, but the only scary part was trying to figure out exactly who thought it was okay to give me a boost into the five foot high basket. No one I knew was still on the ground behind me.

The sun was already up by the time we got the thing filled and launched, and by the time we came down, folded the balloon and were back in the van, coffee would have been very nice. But tradition required champagne. It seems balloonists used to have problems landing on foreign soil and being considered... well... foreign, so they began carrying a bottle of wine with them on each trip. The theory was that sharing local vintage with the inhabitants would convince them of the friendly nature of the balloonists, even without being able to speak the language. A little wine goes a long way for friendliness.

It was Sunday morning, and we finished our little ceremony with this Irish prayer:

The winds have welcomed you with softness.
The sun has blessed you with his warm hands.
You have flown so high and so well that
God has joined us together in laughter and set us
gently back into the loving arms of Mother Earth.


I realized when I got to the airport that this trip had really been a flight of fancy for me. A recognition that I was not afraid of the mountain, or the sky, or the planes. It was a time to set free the anxiety that has hovered over my mind since September, and reclaim some of the spirit that I have grown into. As I wandered the airport waiting for my flight, I heard a man speaking to another passenger, and was enchanted by his voice. It was deep and resonant and overwhelmingly sensual. I took my book and sat a few rows from him, just so I could listen to him speak. I wasn't eavesdropping, couldn't even tell you the subject of his conversation, but his tones were lyrical, and magnetic. When it was time to board, I was among the first "thirty" passengers, so got on the plane first. I made eye contact with him because I wanted to see the eyes of that voice, and smiled. He was traveling with a woman, but carried a book titled Annulment, and his gestures indicated that it was the subject of their conversation.

Deep brown by the way. The color of polished walnut. Dark black hair, thick and straight, cut to frame his face. Features carved from the tinted palette of the southwest, clearly native American. He was tall, I would guess six foot four, though I confess that I am not tall enough for most men not to seem tall to me. He had an athletic build, and was dressed completely in black... turtleneck, slacks, shoes. Gorgeous. At least my age, perhaps a few years older. When he smiled back, I noticed his teeth were not quite straight, one of those little imperfections that makes a handsome man easy to like. I felt like it was a perfect ending to the trip, and promised myself to write him into a story.

I took my seat by the window, arranged my notebooks and paraphernalia, and was writing that description as I waited for the plane to take off.

Guess who sat next to me?

So much for reading. Or writing.

I tried for a while, as he was finishing his book on Annulment. Now I don't know about you, but I've never seen anyone read a book on annulment before, and couldn't resist the comment.

Turns out he studied to be a priest. Decided he wasn't cut out to be celibate (proof that there is a God) and married. Had two daughters and a son, in their twenties. But his wife died, 17 months, 29 days and 4 hours from the time we were speaking.

It also turned out that a lot of people wanted him to date. Them. (Imagine that.) (I quickly crumpled up the piece of paper with the names of all my single friends.) He is a devout Catholic, and didn't want to do anything "wrong." (shhh! I was good!) Seems there are a lot of women in "our age group" that are not quite as picky. He was glad to learn from his book that the church was even more liberal than he.

But the really fascinating part of this man was what he does for a living.

He is an Ethics Officer for a nuclear weapons facility.

I was surprised that there was such a thing.

I think I feel a little safer in the world knowing someone like him holds the position.

I'll try not to hold the fact that he wanted to know where to go Country Western dancing against him. Nobody's perfect.

The airport in Albuquerque has a beautiful bronze statue by Lincoln Fox of a Native American taking flight on the heels of an eagle. The inscription on the bronze Dream of Flight reminded me, once more, not to fear flying.

The dream of flight is born within the heart of
man, embracing the desire to be free from the
confines of the earth's surface.

Hopefully the dream includes the possibility
of freedom from limiting thought and action.

As our imagination is freed to receive greater
truths, the fears, closed thinking and poverty
of spirit will be left behind ... far below.

It was good to be close to the sun.

Dawn on the Sandia Mountains

Another day

relative lives

Finally a productive day…. Though not many people would find ten pages very productive, I'm satisfied with it. Especially since it took hours of research to get it and make it authentic.

I've been doing a lot of thinking about war, mostly because of what I'm reading, but also how sometimes I feel like we Americans are so clueless. One of the books I was reading, written by an immigrant from Viet Nam. The woman came here in 1970… married a middle aged "red neck" from San Diego and while happy to be safe from the war for the first time in her memory, was confronted with the callousness of culture shock. She cited the example of the news… how every night there were clips from the war, and she would watch them, knowing her aunt lived in one village, her brother was in another company, villages where there were only women and children left destroyed, etc… and she would weep. Her American Family ignored that segment of the news. In one poignant contrast, and some of you will remember this, there was extended coverage of a little girl who'd fallen down a well. That made her family weep. The author didn't understand why one life deserved so much more attention than all the others. I guess I don't either.

A few years ago Dustin Hoffman made a move… Wag the Dog I think was the name, that illustrated the actions of government to distract the attention of the public from the issues it should be examining up close with some sentimental headline grabbers that succeed. I am deeply disturbed that we are experiencing this today. What makes the life of Terry Schiavo so much more important than the lives of our men and women in Iraq, and the people for whom they are fighting? Why on earth does the most powerful man in the free world think he needs to have a say in such a heartbreaking but PERSONAL matter? When my mother had a breathing tube last year, the last thing our family could have handled was some stranger… ANY stranger, let alone the president, butting in to tell us who was right and who was wrong. One of my sisters would have kept her on the tube forever. The decisions are very hard, and not easy for anyone, least of all the person who knows the patient best. But maybe its just we are supposed to look there for awhile and not be so concerned about the 20 year olds who'll never get a chance to grow up.

Lest you misconstrue, while yes, I am liberal, democrat to a fault and anti Bush, I am not so sure I am anti Iraq War. I am anti lying. I believe we could have been told the truth about what was happening in Iraq and authorized troops with fact instead of scare tactics. I'm not one that would want to repeat the holocaust before we get involved militarily. But the lies and the misinformation…and the misdirection? All take away our presidents credibility not only with the world, but with us as well. I don't believe anything he says, and usually now if he says it, I can't even listen without bristling.

Hey, it's my blog, and I can say anything I want. I have it in writing from the experts!

I picked up Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close by Jonathan Safran Foer (kind of an interesting web site, not as much fun as J.K.Rowlings, but still has potential. I wonder if all the links work on a pc? I'm on a mac and have the urge to go validate the site for him, but wtf? I don't have time for that.) the other day, and like the voice, though I know it is disloyal (sorry Marcus) to enjoy anything from the McSweeneys crowd. It’s written, at least in part, from the pov of a boy who lost his father in the WTC tragedy. Like how I designated that as WTC instead of 9/11? Or 9/22 as my slipping fingers wanted to type.

on a tuesday night...

Where G(is that who i am here?) types under the influence of three glasses of wine…

Had my next to last class tonight. By the time I was called on I'd already started into the third glass (a definite no no) and so I had to speak very carefully and thoughtfully in that way in which you are aware of your own voice. NOT good. Tomorrow I will pull out one more segment from my book to send to the class for crucifixion, or not. Still wondering, given the negative response from the professor, why the material was accepted into the class at all. eh. The beauty of that third glass of wine is I really don't give a damn.

The cats are happy that the house is back to normal, in fact Tubby has been overly affectionate today. I indulged the weather and let it coax me out to the patio, fully clothed for a change, to finish my reading today, and he, Tubby the cat, named for his girth and rate of growth, and to contrast his twin sister Buffy, named for entirely different reasons which I am not going into right now… anyway he hated the sun so kept jumping up on the back of my chair and rubbing his head on the bottom which felt rather… strange... if you must know.

Scout, dear Scout, the devoted border collie, woke me from a bad dream last night at 2:30. I used to have bad dreams a lot, then didn't for a few years, mostly because I had a good friend who helped me with the issues that caused them. When he "moved on" they slowly crept back. I must have been pretty agitated to awaken Scout, but not my husband. That ought to raise an eyebrow or two.

I am going to Hawaii this summer with my family to celebrate my birthday. I need to find someone to house sit. Probably ten days. I'm afraid Scout will go mad... she doesn't eat when we leave her a day. sigh.

Ah, a funny story. When I lived in Michigan, I was pretty active in local politics. One of the candidates whose campaign I ran became a good friend. In reality, she liked me much more than I did her… ever notice that women do that? Do men with one another? There is almost always an imbalance in the relationship, who likes whom more…. Anyway, this friend decided to throw me a surprise birthday party. Now I was born on a national holiday, the one that caused my father to declare me a "firecracker without a fuse" at birth… so it's pretty hard both to confuse the date, and to plan a party for the actual date.

So she held the party in mid august. Like the 14th. A fortieth birthday party.

But I was 42.

Yeah it was a good surprise….

I'm avoiding email tonight because that old friend has been sending me off the wall things that I'm hoping he sobers up about and retracts by morning. I'm not in the mood for that shit.

I am sounding a bit harsh tonight huh?

Let's just blame the wine and not worry about it.

Just had to delete a paragraph of bitching that I have promised myself not to include here.

That was close.

I guess it's time to finish up.

I miss the words though. I don't expect that to make sense.

weekend

Finally, spring break is over, and it is back to business as usual tomorrow. It's been an interesting weekend…. I don't know why I can't do things in moderation. Started with Thursday night, when my spouse was advised of a long deserved promotion, and in celebration we consumed the better portion of two bottles of wine. That wouldn't have been so bad if I hadn't had a beer with my writing pals before going home… and he hadn't had scotch waiting for me. Oops. At least we weren't driving. Two glasses is my limit, and I've been trying to make up for the dehydration since then.

Friday night I sold food tickets at the intermediate school dance. Nothing makes you feel older though than having little girls hit on your child in your presence. I know my boys are hot, but this one is TWELVE. Have to admit the young lady who asked for his number (really, at 12!!) was gorgeous. Kids seem to bypass that ugly duckling stage now. I shudder to think of how I looked at 12, that was go-go boot year. Enough of that memory. Suppression is a wonderful thing.

Saturday… Opening day for Little League. In this phase of the weekend, we had the over achiever mothers, of which I am not a member, decorating a float for the parade and competing for the honor of being chosen the "best" float. There have been times that I wished I could fit in with the Barbie doll mom's whose lives depend on such things, but only when I'm going through some sort of insanity.

Then the art fair. From 1 to a little after five I stood in a wooden booth and sold tickets for $8 a person. The other person at my station was a twenty something very cute blond from Estonia…. Tough to keep up with.

I love to watch people at play… but the most interesting thing was watching the artists. Thousands of people walking by their work… the things they created from their imagination and their hands… and they seemed to be separated from the whole thing. Near the end of the fair, I stopped to by some tiny silver bells on chains. I wasn't looking for a bargain; I just thought they were unique and pretty. The artist kept telling me which ones had the best sound. I'm not sure if anyone who wore one around her neck would be concerned with the pitch of the bell. Perhaps that was his way of showing his nervousness. I bought two… just regular little bells. Pretty pendants. I was drawn to the lighthouse bell, but that is a little bit much, don't you think?

And now, now I am tired, but I am afraid of letting this journal go for too many days without writing. I have already lost the rhythm of my memory writing, and much like my own personality in the past two weeks, I feel like I am losing complete touch.

I hate how fast time is going.

Writing resources

I know if I were a great blogger I'd have all these links out there in those lovely rose-colored margins, and I'd quote from the New Yorker and give links to all the witty articles I find out there, and on and on. But I'm not a great blogger.

I had a great time yesterday critiquing some work of other writers though, and was pretty shocked at some of the basics they didn't know. So I thought maybe I'd pull out some of the links in my bookmarks lists. But I think though, rather than putting them all in one entry, I'll tease a bit. You like to be teased don't you? It is Friday after all….

My favorite place for writers on the web is Zoetrope. Go and join it. I mean it. Even if you don't want to critique or submit stories for critique, there is more information in that site that is easier to find than any other place I've found, and you'll see I've found a few. If you do, and you know my real name, which is how most of us are listed there, send me a zmail and I'll show you around. There is erotica in my private office right now, so you might not get in there, but there are places you want to know about.

If you don't read Writers Digest, or Poets and Writers you are missing a lot of real world info too. They send out email newsletters. One of those things I don't always read when it hits my email, but I always keep to read.

Angela Hoy spoke at a conference I went to once, and is wonderfully personable, energetic and knowledgeable. Writers Weekly is a good place to kill time. You might get perturbed at some of the promotional information for their products, but just work around it. Lots of free information, especially if you want to make money writing. This is where the addictive 24-hour short story contest is held quarterly. I've made Honorable Mention a few times, but more importantly, each time I write for one, I end up with the skeleton of something I eventually develop, usually for the. Horror Library (some of it is that horrible!) But really, it is fun. Why else would I write?

Allison Joseph at CROWPPS is a saint in my opinion, because if I ever feel like submitting something, all I have to do is open the email folder and there is always a contest or call for submissions. Once I even submitted an ...ahem… poem. It was summarily rejected, as it should have been (what the heck is a poem anyway?) But it was easy. You don't have to sign up for the emails, just get on the list.

Another list that is important if you take your writing seriously at all is Publishers Marketplace. The closer you get to wanting to see your novel bound and wearing those nifty "25% off Bestseller" stickers, the more you will want to pay attention there.

My current writing professor turned me onto The Writers Almanac … I'd listened to it on the radio whenever I was on the right side of town at the right time of day… I can't pick up NPR from home, sadly. I was thrilled to be able to get it online.

That is only a drop in the bucket I'm afraid, but I am out of time for now. This weekend I get to put my volunteer hat…er… t shirt I guess … on and sell tickets or something…. Here Bayou City Arts Festival . I suppose it would be appropriate to link one more organization, Texas Accountants and Lawyers for the Arts especially for the local readers, because it is with this group that I am volunteering.

It is 74 and sunny here right now, so it's definitely time to walk away from the computer. What was that we like to do on Friday again?

beware the ides...

The sun and I woke up together today, or rather got up, as I was awake long before the first light slithered under the blinds. It was peaceful to sense it there, I can't say watch as I didn't have my glasses on. It never got very bright; there is a storm out over the water today I think, so no color came along with dawn. I suppose that is fair after the splendid days we've had.

It is too quiet. There is already more work sitting on my desk than I have any hope of completing today, so I moved out of the office to sit with the laptop and the cats by a window where yes, the sun occasionally breaks through the clouds. And here I am writing nonsense, when there are contracts and critiques and opinions to complete.

I've been reflecting on ageism this morning. A friend wants to go to law school, mid life career change, and I can't help but want to discourage him.I think it takes five years, realistically, of training for a good lawyer AFTER law school. I'm not sure there are firms out there willing to invest that in someone who'll be in his sixties by the time the training is completed. I know all about the ADEA... age discrimination in employment act.... but I really can't say i think this is subterfuge. While I want the philosophy of the act to apply, professional services are so personal. So I'm stuck in the moderate world of confusion.

Another friend struggles with his PhD program, at the beginning of his professional career, and I wonder if he will wish he'd done something else when he reaches this magic age of confusion. Of course, I have to try to apply in to myself, and find that I'm okay, I've done what I wanted, for the most part, and now have freedom to play with words. Even if things stack up on my desk. (Now if only they'd cooperate and play back.)

Today is supposed to be the launch day for submissions for the summer issue of LSL. Truth is I've already bought one story and have an idea how the layout goes. I need to finish the site design so that I don't have to create more (ack) email names for subs. I found a format for online submissions that I like… NFG,(is it back yet?) Glimmer Train, Thirteen and some others, all use it so it must work okay. If only I could get my designer to code it for me. She has to wake up first. Spring break is not for sissies either.

On another note… with three women in the family, all still enjoying the hormonal delights of femininity, there is a clear need for chocolate from time to time in my house. During holidays, my mother always made homemade fudge… none of that marshmallow stuff for Peg… she was a real cook after all. It was a tradition I brought away from Indiana with me and the kids demanded it from the time they were old enough to say the words. My youngest daughter, when she was about two, christened it more appropriately, and now when we indulge we call it by its rightful name:"pudge."

Last night, after having had their fill of cucumbers and mushrooms and kumquats (yes!) and greens, which is all they've found in the fridge since stopping in for a few days before enjoying their respective spring break plans, the two girls went back to the mall. (I am on strike… three out of five days in a mall, especially with the weather we've had, is cruel and unusual punishment and I'm not THAT bad a mother!) Perhaps to appease the beast that emerges when I've been left to too many hats, they stopped by the store and brought home Bridge Mix. You know, that candy that is worse than a box of chocolates because some of them are nuts or jellies (yuck) or crème filled or raisins or caramels (pronounced with two syllables like any good Midwesterner will tell you) or... who knows what, covered in chocolate...

It is one of those things we use for mood control, or at least did when the girls were in high school and peace was more necessary. I guess maybe I've been a little short with them lately. They brought home a good pound (to share!) and said they'd come up with a new moniker for it, too: "Bitch Mix. Like Pudge without the innocence."

They ought to be in advertising.

The boys appropriately declined. Smart kids.

hats

The only sound I like better than the wind through the palms on a seventy-three degree tropical morning, complete with birdsong and tree frogs, are waves crashing on the beach. The quiet symphony that demands nothing, not that I analyze the chords and instruments or listen hard to the lyrics or try to adjust my major key ear to someone else's minor. It is most freeing at dawn, when really, who can ask anything of another beyond sleep? Or sex I suppose. There is that. But the wind in the palms this morning gives me permission to write. Finally.

Don't get me wrong. I'm not really complaining. I wear a lot of hats. I like to add new ones to the collection, trying them on, taking the persona that goes with them and letting her out to play. How else would I have found megg in her black fedora, tipped over an eye while slicking on her blood red lipstick, or lily with her ponytail through a baseball cap, a kiss of gloss and ready for anything, or god help us good old rose who doesn't care what hat she wears, so long as she can toss it off?

There are others, hats that stay out of the words, usually frowning on them. The proper spring-green-straw-with –silk-flowers, which instantly transforms the wearer to junior league proper complete with feeling naked without her white gloves. And the Practical Winter Felt, one simple silk band, black of course, designed to keep snow off the hair so that it stays straight and tidy and oh-so-corporate. The bonnets tied with pink ribbons to match the expectation of wide-eyed children who expect and deserve Donna Reed perfection. The lightweight beach straw, protection from too much sun, requiring the hair to be pulled back in a braid, only to escape into screwed up tendrils, And the southern belle picture hat, Nawhlins style, which must be accompanied by a smile that holds back more than it tells…..

But hats need to be worn separately, given time to let their personality take hold, let each part have its moment on the stage. But this week it is like some crazy vaudeville skit (or is that the effect of Wise Children, the book writing class is reading?) where someone has taken hold of all the hats, jammed them one on top of the other and required me to wear them all at once.

And you know what? All that dancing, marching, leading and following exhausts me. My feet hurt.

Ah well, as my mother used to say, I made my bed. But I think, rather than lie in it this morning, I'm going to go to the gym. Without a hat at all.

And I promise to change these terrible colors soon. Rose picked them out. What can I say?

wicker park, etc

I admit to having a thing for Josh Hartnett but even if he weren’t starring in this one I'd have liked Wicker Park, because it shows that a story doesn't have to be told in a linear fashion to succeed. And that you have to pay attention and stay present sometimes, or what you are looking for passes right by you.

It's a whole new class of films I think, Garden State, Sideways, some others where the story actually matters. I don't guess it is any big surprise that story is much more important to me than special effects, superstars or box office take… or that I'd rather read the book than see the movie. I know how hard it is to do the weaving and blending of characters and themes to make it work though, and I like seeing how others have tackled the job. Sometimes. Some storytellers lose the forest for the trees.

I also have a thing for IMDB the internet movie data base.

I've lost so many days the past two weeks. It makes no sense… yesterday was my youngest child's birthday so I know what day it is. It just doesn't register sometimes. I need to go to Michigan in April… it will just be turning spring there and I will get to talk to my friends in town about the space I want. Unless I've gambled wrong, this will be the third summer of vacancy and if I know the broker like I think I do, he'll be desperate for someone to occupy it. We'll see, he calls the project Phoenix, after all. I need to remember to take more risks.

Have you ever noticed how easy it is to jumble up the things you want to remember, like dates and times, but how old pain is always so close and clear and easy to dredge back up? What kind of plan is that anyway?

I wanted to write more, but found the need to wallow in it all and now I've lost time once again. The moon is nearly full after all, so I have an excuse for my lunacy.

Just what I need, more excuses.

remembering Charles

Charles Bukowski, as reported by Anthony Tedesco in his newsletter today:



"Keep your bones in good motion, kid, and quietly consume and digest
what is necessary. I think it is not so much important to build a
literary thing as it is not to hurt things. I think it is important to
be quiet and in love with park benches; solve whole areas of pain by
walking across a rug."

I do love park benches.

Ah Camelot.

Texas is a place that people who are from other places try to define, but mostly, we don't get it. We don't understand the bigger than life attitude or open spaces or vast expanses of everything, whether oil fields or ranches or the hills or the cities. Let me rephrase that: I don't get it. I don't feel the need to make sense of everything, however.

I spent the weekend in Dallas, looking over yet another college campus. (finally agreed on this one).

Last night we spent in The Dome, atop the Reunion tower. It's been a long time since I was in a revolving restaurant and the boys thought it was fun. The twelve year old thought it would be cool to have various food stationed on the two foot ledge that moved by the table as the floor rotated. Older son remarked that it would be more fun to leave notes for pretty girls at tables along the window behind us on the circuit. Funny the things your kids pick up from you, isn't it….

In the hallway of the hotel there was a bigger than life photograph of JFK. It was taken at the airport on November 22, 1963.

The kids had no idea the assassination occurred in Dallas.

I wanted to confirm the date, and to do so went here Kennedy Assassination Home page I was surprised that " In the three-year period which followed the murder of President Kennedy and Lee Harvey Oswald, 18 material witnesses died"… and remembered my mother's fascination with the whole thing. I was pretty young, so I'm not going to be too hard on myself for not paying attention to those details, after all there were so many things in the news that we needed to filter in those days.

Even more circular images. What will I do with these?

but are you fulfilled?

Early Sunday morning…. Light rain, no sunrise. Everything is beginning to look very green though, so the rain isn't bad.

I've been going through a lot of self doubt lately. A major problem of working alone is that there are so few people around that "know what you know"… whether it is writing or law or even the routine of the cats and dogs. We all specialize to an extent I suppose. I know that makes no sense, as the thoughts that support the statement are still in my head, and I'm not in the mood to go back and lay the foundation this morning.

My son's class is competing with MacLeish's J.B… his version of the book of Job from the Bible. Job (not to be confused with Jobs of Apple Computer fame) was the man so faithful to the Christian God of the Old Testament that God let Satan test him…. Taking first his wealth, his family and finally his health, to see if he would eventually curse God. Of course in the old testament story, he never did, his life was restored to him, his health wealth, wife and more children (interesting to me that the first round, stricken dead, were considered interchangeable with the new crop, but I suspect scholars can run away with that for pages, and as I've already pointed out, I'm not interested in being full and complete with the text and background today.)

In this version of the story as interpreted by the high school kids… who incidentally amaze me. These are the same boys and girls I see several times a week hanging out in the kitchen or stopping in the office to try to distract me, borrowing movies, or computer equipment of playing with the dog, yet onstage, they transform. They lose the baggage of their childhood and convince me to suspend my disbelief. They are no longer Matt and Daniel and Aleia, they ARE Job, Satan, and yes, God. What trick is this I wonder?

Back to the point, this version lets Job suffer, lets him be restored, but in the end, rather than praising or condemning God, he turns to his wife and says something to the effect of "this happens all the time. It's our choice how we choose to live this life." The synopsis of the play says this: "We are deep in the unanswered problems of man's relationship to God in an era of cruel injustices."

Well now, there is an understatement isn't it? Absent the deism, it is the question I most want to explore. I have been trying to for four years now in this silly novel I am writing, but I keep letting myself get sidetracked... write about the kids, or the strippers or make the plot move faster. Yes, yes, it is a novel and there are too many things I'm leaving out as I plod toward what I really want to say. Maybe I will put that on a stickie and leave it open on my computer as I write. "We are deep in the unanswered problem's of relationships in an era of cruel injustices."


I think of my sisters, the people who should have had the same background as I, the people whose lives should, to some extent, be mirroring mine. We suffered the same childhood, though I'll claim the worst, as the oldest, their protector if you will. But what I know is that if they had all the desires their minds contain right now fulfilled, their wishes would be to be "me." I look around my pretty rooms on this peaceful morning, and I see the things that make up the hopes and dreams of so many, and I have to say, acknowledging all the bourgeois irony, that there is no satisfaction.

When I was in the "home with little kids" phase of my life, there was a woman who was one of "those" people who you look back and understand that they were in your life for a specific purpose… no matter how much you liked them, once their message was delivered, the relationship ended, not dramatically or anything, just ended. What she said to me, when I tried to settle in and be complacent with the enormity of being "home" with young children was a very simple question. "But are you fulfilled?"

It was rhetorical of course. Children aren't an accomplishment or point of definition, they are more the corpus of a trust, the parents merely trustees; a child's accomplishments and failures belongs to him.

But fulfillment? Things don't do it. People don't do it. The quest? Perhaps. I suspect, like an algebra problem, it is more how you get to where you get, than the ultimate conclusion. What am I talking about? That silly self-actualization chart? Wasn't that used as a tool to organize and understand what has already occurred, and not a map to reach the destination? Or as one friend always reminds me, isn't the joy in the ride?

I've written journals all my life, typed them for the past five years into the computer, but never had anyone I knew outside my head read the words. It is a strange feeling, more like writing stories and reading them aloud. The acceptable blog format seems to be someplace between thought and reflections and commentary on life as reported or observed by others, and I'm not sure I'm comfortable with it at all. This, for those still reading and paying attention, is the loop back to the original self doubt thesis.

Anyway. Sunday morning. The paper waits for me on the front step, the coffee is strong and ready, the pool is warm, the spa is hot. The light rain only adds texture to the morning, and the back gate is unlocked. Always.

less fluff

And for you blog readers who want to read more than mind fluff, this in from Bookselling This Week. By way of explanation, I am putting together a small press to develop into something bigger in a few years when I have more freedom. The company, LakeShoreLit, has four phases: web presence, quarterly journals, publication of … say it with me… plot driven literary fiction… and ultimately writers workshops, possibly in conjunction with an independent bookstore, when I can get the financials figured out. The first phase starts whenever I get around to designing the site, or can convince my actually talented offspring to do it for me. The second phase begins as soon as I code the email into the site,(this weekend?) as I have decided to take a prototype of the journal to the appropriate arts council to see what kind of support I can get. I'll give you more details when I'm ready, but the RELEVANT information is that I've joined a myriad of organizations and get all kinds of interesting information in my email, most of which I don't keep up with (right now there are 117 pieces of unread email from the last three days alone, and none of it is spam. Ugh)(also why I love the distraction of personal mail … hint hint)

Patriot Act Battle Begins Anew
On Wednesday, March 9, Rep. Bernie Sanders (I-VT) is expected to hold a press conference in Washington, D.C., to announce that he is reintroducing the Freedom to Read Protection Act, legislation to amend Section 215 of the USA Patriot Act to protect the privacy of bookstore and library patrons. In advance of the reintroduction of Sanders' legislation, ABA is encouraging booksellers to send a letter to their members of Congress to urge them to support Sanders' legislation and to become a co-sponsor of the bill.
freedom to read

I think we all have an interest here, not just booksellers. Yes?

discouraged

That's how I was after class last night, more so today. I know all the reasons, I even know which ones are wrong, but there is that deep dark hole of depression and it's so damn cozy in there. I just wonder sometimes, if I'll ever leave it when I finally let go and just dive in. I don't know.

Today, today it rained. And I did the right thing and gave blood, though the tech was new and couldn't even get a sample for iron from my fingertip, and then missed the vein and it hurt the whole time. It never hurts and I've been giving blood a long long time. When she finally did get the needle into the vein, she left the tourniquet on and it filled the bag in 7 minutes... needless to say I was a bit light headed and had to crash for a while just to rebuild.

Ah well. I can make more.

I started working out with C the Trainer yesterday. Every time I do something I hurt my stupid knee again. P.T. taught me that I'd adapted to so much in the years it was hurt that I do a lot of things (like walk) wrong. I guess 12 weeks weren't enough to break the muscles of the old habits. C has decided to make me work. Consequently, my shoulders and back are hurting, but in that way that you know is good. I'll take it. It's the only feeling of accomplishment I've had in days.

Tonight, I saw Les Miz for the first time, and cried. (My twelve year old tried to prepare me. Something really wrong with the dynamics of that.) Even before the ending, which was a bit too... something.. for my taste. Dead boys on the barricade seemed legitimate to me. It was like the only passage in Ragtime that i was moved to mark, because it reminded me so much of what has been going on with the Al Queada; (pp 284 in my edition(

...he sat down with a sheet over his shoulders and permitted one of the young men to shave his head and his neat moustache. The change in him was striking. His shaven head seemed massive. Younger Brother understood that whatever it's practical justification, this was no less than a ritualistic grooming for the final battle.

No memory tonight. The last one made me feel like a pompous ass. Not sure what I was trying to do there.

But tomorrow, I get to try again.

busy

There is a great thunderstorm going on outside, I'll give this a few minutes and them I'm out there… I want to shower before I go to bed anyway and feeling cold rain against my skin is a carnal pleasure of mine. So I'm odd.

sue me.

Usually I like having a lot to do. I'm one of those people for whom the "task fits the time" so when I have more to do, I do more.

The last two weeks got to be a little overwhelming though. Family illness, travel, writing deadlines, work. Got to where the things I do for fun seemed like work. Then there was work. Thursday meetings with people to learn the ins and outs of outsourcing. Then a seminar on the business of filmmaking… pretty interesting. It is hard to go to classes that aren't either too basic or too detailed, yet it is a requirement and a way to network a bit.

The meeting Thursday was on the 21st floor of the Houston center, and I was pretty blown away by the view. It was a grim reminder of what can happen though, as I looked out at the oil fields and refineries. I wish I could tell you it was beautiful, but it wasn't. It had that dreary Houston pallor. The subject matter was pretty depressing too, but I don't want to talk about that.

The class on Saturday was more fun, at least in the things I learned. One of the things I do is pro bono work for artists, yes, including my beloved writers. I know, not like poverty law, but it is something I enjoy. I've already paid my dues on that other stuff. Anyway, I got to learn about rights negotiations and a few tax issues… what more could I ask? AND I got to watch some clips of films that will never be released, because the rights weren't properly secured. So I guess there is justification for lawyers sometimes!

I had a dozen things I wanted to write about, and now of course none of them are still here in my head. So I'll write up a memory from when I first started practicing, since this is a sort of law related entry.

A little scene setting first. I was always a tax wiz in law school, it was the way the numbers fit together and made loopholes that appealed to me. So it was natural that I was recruited by the IRS during my last year of school. They have an "honors" program, where they hire a certain number of law grads (I have no idea if they still do this) early in the 3rd year to be placed in the offices where there are openings somewhere in the country. You don't know when you accept the position where they will send you, kind of Northern Exposure-esque that way… though you get to list your top five locales.

That works fine for the people who are the only career to consider, but of course, I was married already then so didn't really have that luxury. The separated married couples you hear so much about were only the actors and celebs, I guarantee that the Midwesterners who made up my peer group didn't support arrangements like that. It would be considered the prelude to divorce.

Now you need to understand that the money was phenomenal then… the IRS was competing for the best and brightest, not just in Des Moines where I was, but also in Chicago, New York, etc. So the starting salary had to be competitive… I want to say it was $32,500. almost twice the rate for even the silk stocking firms in Des Moines at the time. It was a real coup. (by way of contrast, the starting salary for beginning lawyers from top schools in good firms in Houston TODAY is $120,000. The government hasn't kept up.)

When they finally gave me a location, it wasn't Des Moines, where I had requested. I took a job in a bank and nearly died of boredom. Six months later, the IRS let me know that they had an opening in St Louis. My husband was able to work out a deal with his company to transfer to Illinois… and by November, we were looking for houses half way between his office and the city. I know it was November, because the day after we had signed a contract to buy a house, and were headed back to Des Moines to close up my bank job… where I'd already given notice, we turned on the TV to hear the newly elected president, Ronald Reagan, declare a federal hiring freeze. And make it retroactive to the date of the election. My official offer had been signed on November 4… my start date was January 2. I was out of a job.

You want to know other reasons I've never voted for a republican? [smile]

That isn't the story I meant to tell, but this is too long. Another night I will write about TW. (Things turned out fine.)