fyi…

09Oct09

Posted yesterday on Map of Me - feel free to visit!


I had to post this. Thanks, Shepherd’s Tale.

ad


hand_with_pen_and_rose

Hey – pssst. I’m still here.

It’s been QUITE sometime since I’ve posted, and I’m not sure anyone is even listening anymore. But in spite of this, and off the point entirely, is the wee little fact that I have FINISHED – yes, that’s right – FINISHED my book.

Wild dancing was performed. Good champagne was sipped. A sappy smile was plastered on a certain someone’s face for days.

Of course, it needs re-writing (quite desperately, in places), but it’s done! Complete! Fini! And also, it is written. You know – all the way. To the end.

I suppose you get my drift, at this point. (Aren’t you glad I’m back? Ha ha).

It’s been a long summer of holing away in my study, and lots of uninterrupted work.  I had to lock myself away in order to complete this project. I had to be completely and utterly focused. Or the thing would not have gotten done. I’m that easily distracted, you see.

I’ll likely fill in with the details soon, but now I feel that I must get to it, while my darling daughter naps. It’s my only time, besides the wee hours of the night, to get anything done. But I wanted to share my good fortune, and to bravely break the blogging silence. I’ve missed it, no doubt.

SO, the next steps:

  • Finish re-writing (fill in some details, inject more humor into the second half, check for consistency of character, dialect, plot, etc.)
  • Write query letter for agents.
  • Send said query letters to reputable, relevant agents who are looking for new manuscripts.
  • Wait.
  • Not sure what exactly is next – I’ll find out, is the assumption.

In the meantime, the house is a shambles, the yard is sadly neglected, and the laundry thumbs its nose at me from the corner. Wheeeee!


I’ve given myself the goal of finishing my book by the end of the summer. I hope beyond hope that it goes well.

To this end, I won’t be posting as often. Also, I must apologize for not commenting as much as I’d like, on all of your wonderful and interesting blogs. I do love to read them, and would love to leave thoughtful comments, but right now I’m finding myself spending all my free time (of which I have precious little) working on this blasted book. Which I will finish, you see.

Honestly, I’m falling back in love with it (our relationship being a sort of on-again, off-again one), but this editing and re-writing process is slow going. And, I still need to finish up the ending. There is a lot to do.

In any case, I am here. I haven’t fallen off a cliff, or anything. Just working, working, working.

xo


Atalanta_And_The_Sons_Of_Th

Atalanta and the Sons of the North Wind, Lancelot Speed

I’m doing a bit of running, and it’s actually been pretty fabulous. I wasn’t sure how I would feel about it, really, since the last time I ran any length was probably fifteen years ago or so.

The amount of time spent away from physical exertion didn’t sway me any, and I’ve forged ahead bravely upon the running trail. Actually, it’s been more like running/walking, and it’s not particularly a trail, but rather the pavement around my neighborhood. But, STILL. I’m forging ahead.

Realizing how delighted I was in pursuing this, I took myself out and bought some running togs. A running skirt, some running shoes, a pair of running shorts, and a new sports bra.

I have to tell you, though. The sports bra? Does something quite sneaky and decidedly unappealing to the chest area. Whereas before, I looked something like this:

melons

Upon donning the sports bra, I looked more like this:

pancakes_strawberries

(But, you know. Without the strawberries).

What’s happened to my knockers? I wondered with growing dismay, gazing at my squished reflection in the bedroom mirror. Not that I (should) care about my figure all that much, in this instance. I mean, really – I’m pounding the pavement with sweat dripping off my shoulders, panting wildly, red in the face, whilst flailing my arms about (as I haven’t gotten my sleek, quick-as-a-cat, lithe yet refined runner’s technique down quite yet).

No, I’m more like a crazed hen, looping and gaggling about, arms and legs akimbo as I try my hardest just to make it to that next mailbox before I pass out completely.

Well. Maybe it isn’t all bad. Sometimes I get a glance of my shadow, and think: Huh. I almost look like someone who sort of knows what she’s doing, somewhat. Put my running skirt on, a colorful top, my cool black shoes, socks that prevent the feet sweats, and a cap with a visor, and I look on top of my game. I look the part I am ready to play – if only my body would indulge me.

Another great thing about running, for me, is that while I’m doing it I tend to get lost in some pretty grandiose plans. And get motivated. And make lists.

  1. I will get a job. I will. A good one. I’ll be successful! And fulfilled! And sell my book, while I’m at it! And maybe even finish it, too!
  2. I’m going to begin to go to bed early – by 9:30! So that I’ll have plenty of rest, and wake up in the morning invigorated and ready to go. Maybe I’ll even start doing yoga in the morning! And meditate! I’ll be enlightened! Or at least, not so endarkened!
  3. I’ll begin to drink green tea again. Really! And my skin will shine with health and vitality! I’ll be healthy! And vital! And my skin will be good! And shiny!
  4. From all this running, my muscles will begin to take shape in ways I can only imagine. What’s more, my breasts will begin to look better in this sadistic top! If anyone cares! Which they most likely don’t! Plus, I’ll have more energy to write, what with using all these exclamation points and such!
  5. For crikey’s sake, stop making lists! Now you’re doing it in your head, you ass!

And etcetera…

I do think that running helps put life into perspective, to a degree. I find a good deal of clarity, after a run. And I have lots more energy, which feeds into all these ideas I have had in the first place, for which I could never quite get the follow-through together.

But running seems to have changed all that. I do feel I can conquer things. It all seems within reach, if I just work a little harder. And the working harder part feels viable, too, which somehow just didn’t before.

Maybe I’ll get better at it, technique-wise, and run a marathon. Most likely I won’t, but I’m not completely ruling it out. Anyway, I can certainly watch my shadow while I flail away, and dream big, of things I know I can do. If I only just try.


big sister

24Jun09

the_artists_daughter_at_the

The Artist’s Daughter at the Piano, Domingos Sequeira

The photo of her face
with the soft half smile
reminds me of when she played
the piano downstairs
in the half light
of the living room

and I sat
in a sturdy chair,
my hands turning in themselves,
my mouth open slightly,
wanting to feel the hard piano
keys on my fingertips

and then she turned her face
toward me,
unseeing to seeing,
and all I
wanted to be
was the
crescent curve of her
soft smile.


foreign-lands_jessie_wilcox

Night says, “Good night.”
Day says, “Hooray!”
Evening says, “Meaning…?”
Afternoon says, “Macaroon.”

-Jack Duquette
Age 7


vincent-van-gogh-irises-saint-remy-c-1889

Irises Saint Remy, Van Gogh

I’ve been alone quite a bit, lately. Alone, and in my head, around my thoughts, with no interaction, or new perspective, or another point of view.

It actually hasn’t been terrible – particularly for a person who is, by nature, extremely sociable. I’ve been able to meditate a bit easier about where things are, and about the direction in which I want to be headed. I actually like being by myself, much of the time.

Of course, a friendly face and a shared cup of tea WOULD be nice.

Many of my friends are far, far away, and so this unhappy circumstance leaves little room for conversation that goes beyond the small talk, in my daily meetings with people – you know, the librarian, the grocery store people, the kid behind the cash register at the little store down the street.

The small talk. The parler de la pluie et du beau temps. Ah, I am weary of the small talk. The very tiny talk. The talk that makes me want to run off and join a class in Plato’s Ethics and Epistemology, or Metaphysics, or something equally as reflective and random.

And as I sit here by myself – (well, with my children, so not precisely by myself) – and think and wonder and stare out at the rain, I think about how women (and men) used to be alone often, even one hundred years ago, living on the plains, or in the countryside, or the mountains. How isolated they must have felt, with no close neighbors, and no transport available to get them places. How women, attached to family and tending the house, must have looked to the sun, the sky, with a longing so great, it might have torn them in two. How their hearts must have burst with a craving so raw, that they might have been physically affected – might have sunken to their knees, might have laid their foreheads down on the cold earth and wept for something so foreign and unreal to them, that they could not begin to express or understand it.

jean-jacques-henner-solitude

Solitude, Jean-Jacques Henner

But my isolation is different. Not isolation at all, actually. And not so intense, or harshly rendered. Although, at times I feel as if I could sink to the earth in rich desperation – a desperation that is impenetrable, and real.

But, what would the neighbors think?

Yes. I do have neighbors. And I wonder – does this make it worse, having feelings of loneliness when there are people around everywhere? Perhaps the very fact that there are people around makes the loneliness greater.

Would I be better off surrounded exclusively by the natural world? I’m sure that it would be conducive to deeper thought, maybe more of a wild energy reflected and winding about, a philosophy stemming from nature at its core. Which always puts that extra wind in my spiritual sail. Inspiration coming from being alone with wind, trees, sky. And so, not being alone at all, really.

vincent-van-gogh-sunflowersWhy, then, am I lonesome, now? What am I actually missing? Why can I not be satisfied with this, this quiet existence of home, children, soft chaos, and unspoken rituals? Why must I always look away, to something else?

Because, well, for one thing, I am missing the deep connective relationships; the ones where I can make a phone call weeping about a missed opportunity, or laugh about silly nothings over a last-minute lunch, or walk and talk about existentialism and death while watching the sunset. I want to be present and full of capability for that person, or persons, who might help me in return, might guide and shoulder me when I’m lost and weak, who might allow me the various imperfections that are certainly present in me, and love me wholeheartedly, just the same.

An unconditional kind of love. Is it too much?

I don’t think so. But I’m not sure. Maybe it’s too much, right now. Maybe this particular phase of life is inherently lonely and creates much self-reflection and gnashing of teeth. Maybe within the noise and clatter, the heart becomes small and quiet, a tiny pumping in a soft rhythm that longs for an inexpressible contact and connection. Maybe this is what I am now, a small pumping heart searching for that essential connection, hot to the touch. Maybe I’m a speck of a dandelion floating in space that will settle for no less than an exceptional experience. Maybe I’m ready to open like a flower in dew, petals falling away in the rain to spread down in the grass like wildfire, ready to engulf myself in this true life; this vivid life; this life that is, if I am correct in my imaginings, without boundaries, and far from mediocre.

gustav-klimt-farm-garden-with-sunflowers

Farm Garden with Sunflowers, Gustav Klimt

green_apple_with_bite_smallJust posted over at Green Apple, if you’re interested in checking it out!

http://www.greenappleblog.wordpress.com


serendipity

12Jun09

There is a project I want to do with my children – one that involves bringing a large bedsheet (or sheet of paper) outside and going crazy with paint, using hands, feet, legs, knees, elbows, etc.

I thought it would be very freeing for them, as well as for me, since I’m constantly going around picking everything up like a madwoman, while my kids run around giggling and throwing various items around, making forts with all the pillows in the house, strewing costumes on the floor, leaving cracker crumbs and orange juice puddles in their wake. I find myself shrieking at them, “Don’t make a mess! Don’t spill that! Pick that up! Close that lid! That’s an OUTSIDE toy! Blah blah blah blah blah…”

I recently commented on this lovely woman’s blog, regarding mess and how I need to let go of my tidy self. I wrote about how urgent it is that I get a perspective on all of this, this need for order, this silly resolve of making the impermanent, permanent – like re-building a sand castle situated too close to the incoming waves, over and over again, on the brink of insanity. To let go of myself, and to just breathe and be in the moment, with the chaos, the mess.

And I wrote about my idea of letting Jack and Liv paint, paint, paint – of letting them FINALLY be able to make as much mess as they like, to color themselves with abandon, to be at one with self-expression and delight.

To just let go.

Then I found this.

Not a few days later. Not an hour later. DIRECTLY after I made the comment. I innocently clicked on a link, and there it was.

I know, I know. There are many who would tell me that this is just a coincidence. But, truly, I feel that when things like this happen, I need to pay attention. Because perhaps there is something for me to listen to. Perhaps there is a lesson in there, somewhere.

(Well, I guess there’s ALWAYS a lesson. But perhaps this lesson is pertinent to me, in this space, in this time).

Also, there’s been a lot of talk about creating one’s own happiness, controlling how one thinks, and letting go of the negative, to turn it around to the positive. My lovely friend Victoria talks about it here, I just read a book about it here, and have recently had conversations about it with people completely unrelated to one another.

What is all this?

At time, it’s like I’m beating my head against the proverbial brick wall. And other times, the path clears and suddenly I’m onto something, sliding down. Like a cosmic game of Chutes and Ladders, except that the chutes, in this case, are a good thing.

Life is so much like a winding fractal, one thing going into another, for all eternity. We make bad choices, certainly, but no matter what choice we make, we wind down to another set of circumstances, and from there another.

I know that this is all self-evident, and I’m not hitting on anything particularly novel. But I am reminded of how serendipity tends to lead me to the next phase, to a new insight – or one that needs to be looked at again. And how, in a very generous and tender way, leads me home.




Categories