tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-61936275569920770072024-03-13T14:40:58.059-04:00Lake E"The night air was warm and heavy, weighed down by recent rains and the proximity of the lake. I could hear it, my lake, heaving away, down across the lawns in the darkness, and smell its mossy perfume. I wanted to go stand on its shore, raise my arms and invoke its power to protect me. That’s how I feel about Lake Erie. Like it is the earthly deputy of God."
~ Somebody's Bound to Wind Up DeadUnknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger65125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6193627556992077007.post-11398645918853287622015-11-04T13:39:00.002-05:002015-11-04T13:40:52.407-05:00Dear LCC: Welcome To My Secret Garden<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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My Best Conference Buddy (BCB), Tina Whittle, and I have just shared the writing of a post about our first Left Coast Crime which happened in Sacramento in 2012.<br />
<br />
As part of that project, Tina says I should include a Bio, a Photo, and a link to my blog.<br />
<br />
AKA, The Trio of Death & Shame.<br />
<br />
Okey, dokey.<br />
<br />
Bio, I've got. Photo I could mainly handle — with some carefully applied special effects. But the blog, the blog!<br />
<br />
C'mon. You know how how it can go with a blog. Starts off with impeccable intentions, proceeds through the first burst of enthusiasm, loses momentum, and, at last, occupies the seat of baleful rebuke, wrapped in a black cloak, hood obscuring the visage. One bony finger skewering your worthless, careless, lazy little soul.<br />
<br />
The worst part — or maybe it's the best — is that almost nobody knows how neglected and bare, how wintery and sad, your blog has become. Because almost no one ever goes there. It becomes your Secret Garden of Despair because the children don't play here anymore. Mostly never did.<br />
<br />
But I tell you what: It's still a fine little garden. I planted some nice bits of my life in here. When I thought I had an idea to pursue or a scrap of something fun and no place to put it, I put it here. Thoughts about looking for an agent and not getting one (I've got one now!), thoughts about my life and my parents, stuff about books I read or didn't read, a poem or two, one spooky Halloween story, reports on presentations by writers I admire, and some encouraging words for my fellow-travelers. We all need those keep on, keepin' on encouragements sometimes. They help us fend off the big bad wolves of doubt.<br />
<br />
So welcome to you, any LCC-ers who may open the gate to my quiet little corner of the Interweb. And anyone else who stumbles in here, out of the rainy dark…ether…cloud. Now I have two — count 'em TWO — brand new posts, especially for you. (And for the lovely fellow traveler who just left a comment? Wow! Thanks! I thought I was all alone in here.)<br />
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Perhaps my Secret Garden may yet bloom anew. See y'all in Phoenix! <br />
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xoAnnie Hogsett<br />
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6193627556992077007.post-9651804933794354792015-11-04T11:32:00.001-05:002015-11-04T11:54:47.166-05:00Where does it come from?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
One of the things that happens to us writers when people
find out we’re writers is we get The Questions:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
1) “Would I have read anything you’ve written?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Answer: Well, I wrote a lot of ads. Did you ever feel
compelled to buy something you didn’t need and couldn’t afford? That could have
been me. I have a blog, but it's a big Internet ….<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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2) “When will I be able to buy your book in a store?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Answer: Not yet. Probably not for a while. Possibly when
pigs fly. Keep watching the sky. I sure do.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
3) “Where do you get your ideas?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Answer:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This is the
one I love. (And I’m not being bitter or sarcastic or anything.) <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The truth is as follows: I got <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">A Parsnip Universe</i> one day when I was not finding some item I was
looking for and muttered, “Dang. It must have gone into another universe.” I
got <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Motes</i> because the woman who
cleaned for us was resolute about turning everything cattycornered. I drove by a Bratenahl gatehouse and suddenly just knew there
was an ex-CIA agent living there. Shortly after that, he told me he was in love with the lady of the
mansion who’d been married to his best friend and that the best friend was now<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“Twice As Dead.”</i> <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Most recently, I was driving back from the – now demolished – McDonalds on Lake Shore and I heard a voice that was not my own
saying, “You know you live in a rough neighborhood when someone honks at a blind
man in the crosswalk.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Hello, Allie
Harper. Go grab that blind man. He’s kind, smart, handsome, and hot – and about
to be very, very – very to the 10<sup>th</sup> power – rich. Be careful, though. With money like that, <i>Somebody's Bound To Wind Up Dead</i>.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Of course, the magical whatever-that-was did not stay around
to dictate the whole book in any of those instances, but the spark was powerful
enough to get me going and, over time, I began to trust that I could keep on
going long enough to find out what those folks were up to. I swear to you that
for me this is pure, irresistible magic. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Now. Listen up. The “Story Idea Fairy” doesn’t visit only
the “real writers.” She/He comes to us all. She came to my mother every time
she said to me, “Look at that couple over there. Do you think they’re happily
married?” (I always said, “Shhh! They’ll hear you.” And no doubt scared the
magical muse away.) We see things and imagine things and remember things and if
we can tell our rational self to just shut up, sit down, and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">type something</i>, they spin and turn and weave themselves into
stories.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
They can’t really do it all by themselves, of course. The
work, the doubt, the dejection & rejection, the pain in your neck, and the
delight of your heart are in your keeping. Yours alone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But it doesn't matter if you sell a million copies or you only read the one
tattered copy you have to the people at the rest home who can’t get up and walk
away. Your work in the service of your characters and their stories will be a blessing
to your creative self. For sure, you have one of those. I promise that you got one.
It’s standard issue.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So here’s where stories come from:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Us. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
P.S. And if you scroll down to the next post, you'll discover that sometimes a bit of a story can get delivered by the UPS man. Who knew? </div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6193627556992077007.post-73589038772855827002015-02-04T11:54:00.000-05:002015-02-04T11:59:05.618-05:00Where Writers Get Their Ideas. And Their Paranoia.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhre3V8cgKIqPjBWjqhcfQRKy_EJbZgSDfSpKwtNXJwHG1b0Ny916cLWiCKLxpLTHauRjb6Jn1f83AeKGPiGbCUYBEoElKqBI4ykTXEYs0R7D7YjNrPdXZTVoqD-MuE6ZSmiEGdTzy8CCu5/s1600/61kkPpClBEL._SL1500_.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhre3V8cgKIqPjBWjqhcfQRKy_EJbZgSDfSpKwtNXJwHG1b0Ny916cLWiCKLxpLTHauRjb6Jn1f83AeKGPiGbCUYBEoElKqBI4ykTXEYs0R7D7YjNrPdXZTVoqD-MuE6ZSmiEGdTzy8CCu5/s1600/61kkPpClBEL._SL1500_.jpg" height="320" width="117" /></a></div>
Okay. It's winter. What one might call "The Dead" of this season. Lake E is locked down under an unknowable number of inches of ice and about ten inches of snow. The quiet presses in. The sky is sulking. Even the wind is sleeping. The writer is frozen in place. Stir crazy. Cabin feverish. <br />
<br />
That might explain it. <br />
<br />
This object arrived last night. Shipped by Amazon. Delivered along with another package ordered from Amazon.<br />
<br />
"What is this?" <br />
"I ordered the other thing, but nothing else. Did you order something?"<br />
"No." <br />
"What IS this?"<br />
<br />
Well, there it was. A largish manilla envelope, very heavy for its size. Sent to Ann Hogsett by the vast, intricate, rapacious, behemoth from its vast, intricate, rapacious, behemoth "Fulfillment Center" in Lexington, Kentucky.<br />
<br />
Sent to me. Not ordered by me. Very. Heavy. For. Its. Size. <br />
<br />
So I am a writer. I write mysteries. I watch Castle and The Blacklist -- lately a very, very heavy binge diet of Red Reddington. <br />
<br />
So. OMG. Here's what you should do when you get a package you didn't order that weighs more than a manila envelope should reasonably be expected to hold. You put it down. Gently. You grab your spouse and the cat, not necessarily in that order -- especially since Spouse is chortling, "Oh, yeah. It's a bomb all right. No question about it. Yuck, yuck, yuck." <br />
<br />
You should sprint from your house through the snow to a "safe distance" and then you should think "BLEVE!" because a thriller writer/explosives expert guy, named John Gilstrap, has recently acquainted you with the Boiling Liquid Expanding Vapor Explosion which you've planned for Book 2 of the current series and which you like to think of as the Big Loud Extra Very Explosive explosion. And realize you should run at least to the front gate. For starters.<br />
<br />
And what did I myself do? I unleashed some swearing at the Spouse and ignored the involuntary increase in heart rate.<br />
<br />
Then I opened the envelope. <br />
<br />
And found that thing. It looked kind of like a bottle of balsamic vinegar. That weighed about 2 pounds. Sealed in a heavy plastic bag. Smooth. Slick. Cold It had a yellow cap that said, "Remove yellow cap before installation."<br />
<br />
Balsamic Death Bomb. Obviously.<br />
<br />
I did the next best thing to the run-to-the-gate maneuver. I put it in the garage. Ha.<br />
<br />
I took the (radioactive, I was pretty sure) envelope to the laptop, checked to make certain I had not somehow zoned out and ordered a Black Vinegar Bomb of Extinction. (BVBE.) And then used my extraordinary sleuthing/hacker skills to find Amazon's phone number. (I'm good. I'm really good.) <br />
<br />
I got the sweetest guy on the phone. So helpful and kind. He explained after considerable searching that the item I had a tracking number for "does not exist."<br />
<br />
Oh, man<br />
<br />
He assured me that since the item did not exist, I did not need either to pay for it or return it. The BVBE was mine all mine. <br />
<br />
Cool. So, I did the sensible thing. I reviewed in my mind everyone at Amazon who might have cause to want to blow me up. Starting with Jeff Bezos and working my way through the folks who are sick to death of sealing up another smiley box on my behalf. I decided that this number was unimaginably large and therefore I should forget the whole thing. Have dinner. Watch an Elementary. Start speaking to the spouse again. <br />
<br />
So what IS that thing? I'll tell you what. This morning -- both calmer and dumber at the same time -- I went out and looked at the sealed plastic bag and read the teeny little label: "Replacement Short Office E.../Adjustment Range - S6103. New."<br />
<br />
It's an Office Chair Lift Cylinder Pneumatic Thingie. Worth $27.00. And not, apparently, lethal at all. It just makes a chair go up and down. <br />
<br />
Somewhere out there this morning is a guy whose chin is resting on his desk. Poor thing.<br />
<br />
And how about me? Am I older? Wiser? Less paranoid? <br />
<br />
Nope.<br />
<br />
I am in possession of a thing from Amazon.com that doesn't exist.<br />
<br />
There's got to be a story in there somewhere. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6193627556992077007.post-173611250877138122014-02-05T12:51:00.000-05:002015-06-28T08:33:13.824-04:00When a No Is a Yes. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjesNXjIrAj0XMnkr_mmmfJHKHCisOOxOhEPFztoNoyEupSRgMNmBn1ktuVd3JEvPFfhRuPflXrWPBoLTWES5UjqwDGAsYfUboWD3EYditaZ4d6_CM6-Udsop7xv7iu9fPzZnNoPlgJ4RAX/s1600/IMG_0524.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjesNXjIrAj0XMnkr_mmmfJHKHCisOOxOhEPFztoNoyEupSRgMNmBn1ktuVd3JEvPFfhRuPflXrWPBoLTWES5UjqwDGAsYfUboWD3EYditaZ4d6_CM6-Udsop7xv7iu9fPzZnNoPlgJ4RAX/s1600/IMG_0524.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
"It may be when we no longer know what to do,</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
we have come to our real work,</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
and that when we no longer know which way to go,</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
we have begun our real journey."</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
~ Wendell Berry</div>
<br />
In the middle of last week I finally heard from the agent who was considering the first hundred pages of <i>Somebody's Bound to Wind Up Dead</i>. As many of you know, she'd been considering it for six months. Actually, it had been lost for four of those six. So for two months. Her response was gracious, kind, encouraging. She liked it, it was good, I should not give up. And so on.<br />
<br />
And no. It was not for her.<br />
<br />
Basically, I was relieved because I don't think I'd ever have the guts to say no to an agent's yes. And although she was kind and encouraging, based on things she's written online about what she's looking to represent, my novel did not seem to be a very good fit for her. Today's agent really needs to find a good fit. I so get that. Therefore, I'd already moved on. About 97% on. 96% maybe. 94%?<br />
<br />
What ensued then was what I can see now was kind of a mini dark night of the soul. I had traveled from Ohio to the Rocky Mountains last summer (in the company of my extraordinary spouse) to meet this agent who had judged my entry to be a finalist in the writer's contest for the Crested Butte Writers Conference. I could tell from things she said that she appreciated a lot of things about the novel that I myself think make it special. She'd had a chance to meet me face to face in all my charming irresistibility -- and still she said no.<br />
<br />
Moreover, I'd finally permitted the whole screaming flurry about The State of Traditional Publishing and Publishing In General to penetrate the carapace of my resolve to a) find an agent b) get a publisher c) become a real bunny after all. The odds against against that happening -- especially that last thing which is not now nor has it ever been in the purview of publishing -- seem vast. So very vast. <br />
<br />
So there it was. The freaking abyss.<br />
<br />
I fell right on in. I sulked about this, my lost grail. Wept some over it. Ate a few -- well, maybe six -- brownies for it. (Good choice, IMHO.) And felt really, frighteningly, <i>adverbially </i>lost for ... I think it's been exactly one week. The question I kept asking myself was, "What am I going to do with myself? Who am I if I'm not a writer? Wherever will I go? It's too late to take up figure skating."<br />
<br />
Then last night I was burrowing through some old emails and I stumbled upon the Wendell Berry quote I've posted above. It seemed kind of fuzzily apropos. I put it back in my email signature and this morning it all came into focus for me. At last. So I'm sharing. <br />
<br />
Oh, for Pete's sake. Here's who I am: I'm a writer. I've been a writer since I was about eight. I can't remember when I wasn't one. I'm a writer washing dishes. I'm a writer driving my car. I'm a writer, eating brownies. I'm a writer, most especially, when I'm writing anything at all. And when I'm in gear, fully, physically, word-to-page writing, in that space between Infinity and the keyboard of my laptop? Then? I am a writer as deeply, profoundly, miserably, exaltedly as any writer can ever be. What's more I've been an author since I finished my first of four complete novels in 1997. Writing is not publishing, it's ... ummm....writing. And letting people read what you write.<br />
<br />
Will I ever find an agent? Maybe. Who knows. I haven't given up. Will I ever be published? Oh maybe. I hope so. Will I ever -- and this is the only question that makes any difference whatsoever to me at the end of all things -- have readers? Heck. I<i> have</i> readers. Honey, I have <i>you</i>. Every single reader counts like crazy. <br />
<br />
I'm not sure why this feels like such a revelation to me. Maybe because I'm a prisoner of my time and place like everybody else on this beautiful planet. I believe I actually subconsciously thought I'd have to give it all up if I couldn't sell it. That I equated "real writer" with "best selling author." That's my good old "real bunny" problem again. Everybody has one. Let's all make a pact to give that one up and be our own real bunnies all the time.<br />
<br />
This post is mainly for all my dear and devoted friends and readers who've been waiting for six months to hear from that agent, too. Hey, thank you, my beloved people, for caring, for reading, for liking my books, and for loving me. All y'all are the best. The very best.<br />
<br />
Love,<br />
Annie<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
P.S. This post is also for some other folks who are part of my life, my one and only writing life. Perrin, Lefty, Ed Brown, Ananda; Tim, the Aunts -- Luticia and Monica -- Maylene, Mr. Kim; John Pritchard, Andy and Emily Corrigan, Emmett Chapman and Archangelo Bianchetti; Allie, Tom, Margo, Rune, Tony, Diana, Otis; Agatha, Liam, Arthur, Doc, Virgil, Hastings. I know you. I know how you talk, what you'll do, what you want, what you're thinking, and what's going to happen to you next. Some of the time. Sometimes y'all get to drive and I get to sit in the back and enjoy the view. You guys, I may never make you famous, but I will never, ever forget you or throw you away. Promise. <br />
<br />
Love,<br />
Me<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6193627556992077007.post-29401102601715887952013-12-24T08:52:00.000-05:002013-12-24T08:52:12.212-05:00A Poem For Christmas Eve<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi90xt8XXYTjP9jjzY-c8aAZygD3Rd88HL5o2Rwcqdp3uvhMfGBHmxbMr33ogU9Xt6MGp91nRHid2PINr1kTPEXOvzM_PxM8OcA_hoKQO9UAdVRJOGXNHjBCsiDOdZEWa6RAiMvGGeAks3N/s1600/IMG_0207.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi90xt8XXYTjP9jjzY-c8aAZygD3Rd88HL5o2Rwcqdp3uvhMfGBHmxbMr33ogU9Xt6MGp91nRHid2PINr1kTPEXOvzM_PxM8OcA_hoKQO9UAdVRJOGXNHjBCsiDOdZEWa6RAiMvGGeAks3N/s320/IMG_0207.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">We're always supposed to read a poem or something at our December book group and I can never find anything I can read without crying -- nothing, not even the stupid stuff. So I always end up writing something to read. Which should help but this year's poem was unreadable in the crying department. </span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I seem to only write poems at Christmas time and it takes severe chutzpah to share them because poetry is not necessarily my thing. (This is an ecumenical sentence. I like it a lot.) But this poem is for sharing with my friends. (And Mark Zuckerberg, of course, because he always reads my posts. I see you, Mark. You think I don't but I do.) It is my Christmas wish for all of us everywhere. Sometimes wishing is about the best you can do.</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Merry Christmas, O Blogosphere! May you find peace and joy.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: inherit;">Love,</span><br />
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: inherit;">Annie</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial; font-size: x-small;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial; font-size: x-small;"><br /></span>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="color: #3e003f;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The Christmas
Door<o:p></o:p></span></span></b></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="color: #3e003f;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Ah! Here is the door to Christmas,<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #3e003f;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">the Christmas we loved, the one we remember<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="color: #3e003f;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">even if it happened to someone else<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="color: #3e003f;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">in a book, a movie, or on TV.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="color: #3e003f;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Somebody else’s sacred dream.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="color: #3e003f;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">But anyway.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #3e003f;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Here we all are at the door.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #1a1a1a;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">All of us.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="color: #3e003f;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">See? It is wondrously carved and polished.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #3e003f;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Run your fingers over the holly wreath.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #3e003f;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Trace the leaves and berries,<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #3e003f;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">the labor of years.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #3e003f;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Touch the handle. Is it gold?<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #3e003f;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">It must be.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="color: #3e003f;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Behind this door is the one warm and welcoming room <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #3e003f;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">where all is calm and bright.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="color: #3e003f;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The fragrance of pine, cinnamon, and bay.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #3e003f;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Fire on the hearth.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #3e003f;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Carolers outside the windows.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="color: #3e003f;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">(Mullioned windows, I’m pretty sure.)<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="color: #3e003f;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Presents under the tree.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="color: #3e003f;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Of course there is snow.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="color: #3e003f;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The baby is in the manger.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="color: #3e003f;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">His promise still perfect.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="color: #3e003f;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">It’s all in there.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="color: #3e003f;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Every year we all stand outside this door of our own making.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="color: #3e003f;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">All. All of us.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="color: #3e003f;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Trying to figure out how to get ourselves back in.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="color: #3e003f;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Now, here is a secret:<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="color: #3e003f;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Every ridiculous exhortation of advertising,<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="color: #3e003f;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">every frenzied trip to the mall in the snow,<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="color: #3e003f;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">every single cookie, even if it’s from a package, icing hard as
nails.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="color: #3e003f;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">All of it. All that we deride and regret.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="color: #3e003f;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">All that we strive for and fall short of.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="color: #3e003f;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">All that makes us tired and cross;<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="color: #3e003f;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">disappointed, aggravated and bereft.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="color: #3e003f;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">All. All. All of it.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="color: #3e003f;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Is outward sign of an inward truth:<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="color: #3e003f;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">We would all run ourselves ragged and spend ourselves poor<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="color: #3e003f;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">to gather ourselves and our loved ones again<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="color: #3e003f;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">inside this lighted room of our own dreaming.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="color: #3e003f;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">To have it sing to us again.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="color: #3e003f;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">All. All. All of us. Every one.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="color: #3e003f;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">And here is the gift, the true and lasting gift, at last:<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="color: #1a1a1a;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">We are bound by this sacred dream to one another.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="color: #3e003f;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">By this mutual longing for light and love<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="color: #1a1a1a;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">and singing in the night, we<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="color: #1a1a1a;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">are made one.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="color: #3e003f;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">It binds us, lifts us, heals us.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="color: #3e003f;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">It is our common soul, this truth in the heart.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="color: #3e003f;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">This longing. This Christmas dream.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="color: #1a1a1a;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Whatever this is, we are all in here together.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="color: #3e003f;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">All. All. All of us. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<br /></div>
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<span style="color: #3e003f;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">God bless us every one.</span><span style="font-size: 13pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6193627556992077007.post-21919667847272026362013-12-21T16:36:00.000-05:002013-12-21T16:36:53.512-05:00A Poem for the Solstice <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">This is it. This is the night. The dark tide draws back. Not much. Not far. But enough. We have been marking this moment since we were almost without words. We used our brute strength to build mighty monuments to it. Stone circles raised in hope and in reverence for the mysteries of the universe and of our lives. </span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">When food was hard to come by. When warmth was elusive. We gathered together to celebrate this turning point. </span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">From here until June, the light cascades back. The dark will fail. The light will come. Tomorrow will be brighter, even if we are too busy to notice.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">I have often wondered what it was like for those early almost-humans, and a couple of years ago, I wrote this for them. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpFirst">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">December, 50,000
BCE <o:p></o:p></span></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">A Poem For The
Solstice<o:p></o:p></span></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">What is this? <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">The world has grown
dark.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Sunrise is later
every morning.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Sunset comes too
soon.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">It creeps ever back
into the day. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Soon it will surely
crowd the morning.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">What will we do
when the darkness is forever? <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">We listen to the
sound the wind makes in the night.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">And the night is so
long.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">We don’t remember
the warm time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Or if we remember,
we say, “Perhaps it wasn’t real.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">The fire is all we
have.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">When we must go
out, we take it with us.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">It gives us shadows,
then, but no respite from our fears.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">We sleep as much as
we are able.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">We eat whatever we
can find.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Our dread of
darkness mingles with the sadness of everything we don’t understand.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Where we came
from.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Where we go.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">We weep here and
don’t know why. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">We are attuned,
stretched taut, to any change that might appear to be for the better.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">So, when today
gives us more light than yesterday, we rejoice.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Light of the
World.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We cry out to thee. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Our joy is spare,
like a bone gnawed in hunger.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">But it is clean and
bright.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">It is warm.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Like something newborn.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Light of the
world.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Object of our
deepest longings.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">We wait in
darkness.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">And our waiting is a
prayer.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Light of the
world.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">We pray for
mercy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For pity.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For redemption.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For any explanation. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">In these days of
inconsequentially less darkness, <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">And virtually no
additional light,<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">We celebrate the coming of this sun. </span></span><!--EndFragment-->
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6193627556992077007.post-58364045136749691992013-10-24T09:04:00.000-04:002013-11-04T13:36:59.127-05:00The Postmaster<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>Hey, all y'all. I'm posting today with the awesome sisters of the <a href="http://themojitoliterarysociety.blogspot.com/">Mojito Literary Society</a> in The MLS Halloween Blog Tag. True (trust us) ghost stories, one a day, between here and All Hallows Eve. Bwahahaha. Now go read more scary stuff at the Society. </i></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Of all the more colorful ghosts in my small West Virginia hometown—the woman who shot her mother, the man who killed one, or was it both, of his parents with an axe—my phantom, the one who came calling that night in Apple Alley, was merely the Postmaster. Unremarkable in life. Doggedly persistent in death. Vengeful to the depths of his sorry soul.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">We should never assume that the unpretentious apparition is not the one to be reckoned with. A ghost is a ghost is a ghost.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The Postmaster lived with Mrs. Postmaster, who was also The Postmistress, in a pretty cottage on the main street of town. Whatever else might have gone awry in his life, the house must have been his refuge, his satisfaction, his place of pride. At some point he told someone—someone who remembered and entered it into the saga of the town—that he was NEVER going to leave that house.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Then he died. There was a funeral. There was a burial. After that, he headed on home. His wife was still there for company but then she died, too. And when they drove her over to the IOOF cemetery, she stayed where she was planted. The Postmaster had the house all to himself.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">For awhile.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Then an enterprising young couple with two lovely children and a cat named Olive Jones converted it into a bed and breakfast. Now there were guests. Things got crowded. And that’s when we showed up—for a class reunion weekend—in the room at the top of the stairs under the peak of the single gable, in the old bed that “came with the house” courtesy of the man who still preferred to sleep there. Alone. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">They told us about their ghost. I knew him by name, of course. Remembered his face and his wife’s, both of them staid and efficient, managing our mail. The young innkeepers were quite merry about how he was still around. He was good for business now. The <i><span style="font-size: 13pt;">frisson</span></i> of dread was entertaining at breakfast.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">3 o’clock in the morning? No.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I remember moonlight filtered through lace. The silence everywhere. City people forget how still the night world can be in a lightly inhabited town. Still, still, still. Except, of course, for the sound of footsteps on the stair. Slow. Heavy. Closer and closer, as I rifled my mind for a reasonable explanation. Here’s what I came up with: <i>The Postmaster is now standing right outside the bedroom door.</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I slipped out of bed, shivering in the sultry August dark. I stopped at the door. Now what? We were facing each other with two inches of old oak between us. I put my palm on the wood. He laid his on the other side. Palm to palm, me and The Postmaster’s ghost. I know this because my sweaty hand bonded to the door as flesh always does when it touches frozen iron. And I know because our minds froze together, too, and he showed me exactly what it was like to be dead.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It was not what I expected.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Ghosts are realer than you. Truer than a Monday. More forever than a Sunday afternoon.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And here.</span><i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> We are right here.</span></i></div>
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<!--EndFragment-->Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6193627556992077007.post-88841992772366870272013-08-26T12:54:00.001-04:002017-02-16T13:13:46.430-05:00Life As A Crappy First Draft<br />
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So Anne Lamott, among others, is an enthusiast of the Crappy First Draft. She says she writes only those. That all her first drafts are crappy or they are nothing at all. I myself secretly doubt this because I believe she's practically perfect in every way and merely trying to make the rest of us feel encouraged. That is so like her. I believe that Anne Lamott, kind and generous, wants the best for me. So I accept her CFD admonition as pure truth. I believe it. I do this for her. Out of devotion. And, okay, yeah, I do it for me, too.<br />
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To be perfectly honest, I derive an enormous amount of encouragement and solace from my crappy first drafts. They are the buffer between me and my inner judge who maintains a work schedule that I would find admirable if she weren't so darned annoying. She is always on the job. I have decided that she's the Anti-AnneLamott--the very devil in the hell of self-immolation.<br />
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When I start out all optimistic and some of the stuff sounds just brilliant and most of it has some speck of possibility, and I'm happy? The Anti-Anne is lurking."Well, that sucks." "Do you have any clue where you're going with this?""You were actually<i> happy</i> with that?" "Real writers suffer. Why are you smiling?"<br />
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My spirit sinks.<br />
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And then I say the magic words. "Crappy First Draft!" Balm for my soul. Encouragement for my heart. Guts for the muscles in my typing fingers which is where the words come from. <br />
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Typing-Finger Guts. The secret so few writers share. <br />
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But this morning I was not writing but pondering getting into the kayak. We have had the kayak since 2005 and I have never been in it. Before I got my knees fixed, it was too intimidating. After that I was getting back up to speed. After that I was probably somewhat scared. On a day in June when I was feeling optimistic and strong, I declared "This is the Summer of the Kayak."<br />
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I've been waiting for the perfect morning. The ideal confluence of weather, agility, and kayaking guts. <br />
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That moment of perfection may have been a morning sometime back in July. I believe it was the 15th. I have pictures.<br />
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So today I had a new thought, a corollary to the Anne Lamott Law of First Draft Crappiness: What if life could be lived as a crappy first draft? No disrespect to Life. And not in the sense of revision or do-over (both not necessarily available in the Life Arena.)<br />
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In the sense of "get thee behind me, Inner Judge! Shut. Up."<br />
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Clearly this is a day of not smooth enough water, of not warm enough temperature, of not actually brave enough me. But hey. Let's just do it. Let's give up all hope of optimum perfectibility. Let's just write a crappy first draft of this day, give it the very best we can, grab the oar (and the floating vest). <br />
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And take the%^&%#$@ kayak out on the lake.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6193627556992077007.post-45292710975780365712013-07-28T12:07:00.000-04:002013-07-28T12:13:47.979-04:00The Flight of the Flibbertigibbet<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
From Wikipedia: "Flibbertigibbet is a Middle English word
referring to a flighty or whimsical person…."<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Flighty. Whimsical. The person who is unable to alight for
any period of time, to settle into the moment, to savor … anything, to choose
one … of anything ... and stay with it, to take the "one seat" and
remain. To abide. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A flitterer. A fritterer. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This would be me. Unable on all counts. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I attribute this weakness partly to my position on the
Timeline of Life. Once the years cross the
yardarm of, oh, let's just say 50 for the fun of it. <i>Anyway</i>. The yardarm of mental competency or of the trustworthiness
of anything. We know the one…. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Once <i>that</i> yardarm
gets crossed, it's natural to apply a very keen eye to recent behavior of any
kind. Like not being able to stick to
anything. To be constantly reining
oneself in and bringing oneself back to whatever it was one was doing. Is that normal in some way? Or not normal in every damn way? Should I devote time to worrying about
this? Sure. What could be more important? <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So, what<i> was</i> that
"whatever it was one was doing" thing I was doing in the paragraph
above, exactly? </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Crap</i>.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Let me digress:
Ha! <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I will throttle the next person who tells me he or she is
having a senior moment. This is your <i>mind </i>people! IMHO you probably only get the one. Don't take its passing lightly. Hang onto it.
Be fierce. Be grimly tenacious.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Or at least celebrate it as it goes. A mind is glorious thing to lose. As it peels away, savor the taste of each
lovely segment. Send it up like a fire
lantern into the night. Bless it as it
goes. Hope it doesn't burn anything
down. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Back to whatever. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I'm trying to separate the components of my attention span
challenge into their categories so that I might be able to retake the driver's
seat of this mind. [<i>Is</i> there a
driver's seat? Was I ever in it? Was that an illusion of some kind?]<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So here:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I'm older. Conceded,
but let's let that one lie for now.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I'm no longer gainfully employed. Or at least I'm in a peculiar limbo in which
I might actually be somewhat gainfully employed and not know it yet. It's like that damn cat of Schrödinger's. Is
Fluffy dead or alive? Are any of my
novels? For the sake of convenience
let's say that I don't go to a job anymore and my days, with certain
constraints, are my own to deploy in anyway I see fit.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But there are So. Many. Ways. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My priority now: <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
To let the novel that's in the world awaiting answers wait
in peace. This requires nothing but an exercise of will.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And retrieve the most promising and challenging of my
novels-in-stasis and rethink it. Make a fresh start.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
However, to start fresh invokes the possibility of different
methods and MANY QUESTIONS.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
1) Should I read Truby, Corbett, or Wheat first, so as to
not muddle unaware? Note to self: No,
Yes, Yes. Read Corbett, read him
now. Read Wheat, read her first. Choose.
<i>Augh!</i><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Question: Is this need-to-read fetish merely a function of my
"Keats Syndrome?" (I.e, what
the critics said about "On First Looking Into Chapman's Homer" which was: "What the #%@!#, Keats? You're JUST NOW looking in there? Where have you been? What kind of education did you have anyway,
kid? What a loser.”)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Is this something I need to address or forget about? I’m going to try to forget. Trying now. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
2) Should I plan
<i>this</i> novel more? Maybe. Am I a planner
or a pantser? Pantser of course but
should I try to overcome this or ride it on down?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
3) Should I use
Scrivener this time? I think so. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Note to self: Learn Scrivener. Do it today.
Do it now. No wait. Read
<i>Scrivener For Dummies</i>. Hurry. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
4) Should I try to
find that article I read about four months ago about how to write a first draft
in 30 days? Don't know. Could be great. Could be useless. Could be impossible to find anyhow. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Note to self: Find
it. Find it now. No. Wait. Read Wheat first. Or Corbett. Or
For Dummies. Prioritize your confusions. Do it now.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
5) I must promote my books [assuming I <i>have</i> books. It's that cat problem again.] online. I must have a platform, a brand, a
website. Note to self. Read <i>WordPress: The Missing Manual</i>. Read it now.
Review that webinar you took about how to build an author website in a
day. Do it now. Do that first.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Plus, on the domestic front: <o:p></o:p></div>
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6) I have two weeks worth of CSA shares stored in three
different fridges. Those veggies will distil themselves into a greenish goo in
another 15 minutes. And fall out on me,
all gooshie, the next time I open any door. Anywhere. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Note to self: Cook
something with that. Do it now. What's for dinner anyway? <o:p></o:p></div>
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7) The garden! The
weeds. The garden. The weeds! Note to self: Let winter solve this problem like she always does. <o:p></o:p></div>
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8) The Temptations -- not the group, the seductions: of email, FaceBook, Angry Birds, new, untried
but terribly inventive, apps [for free, people, at no additional charge] TV, movies, (movies on the iPad) and
books of course, endless, irresistible, and <i>important</i>
for goodness sake. (See Keats, above.) I must read everything that pertains to
anything and do it now. Or at least
<i>next</i>. Plus I really want to read
something totally trashy, something escapist….<o:p></o:p></div>
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Ah, escape….<o:p></o:p></div>
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I am frozen. </div>
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I am
playing Solitaire. </div>
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I am losing. But soothed now. </div>
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Crooning "Every little thing's gonna be
all right." </div>
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Watching the cards
arrange themselves in order … red, black, red, black.<o:p></o:p></div>
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And rocking, slowly, from side to side. <o:p></o:p></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Unknownnoreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6193627556992077007.post-24974231726211359332013-06-16T17:24:00.001-04:002013-06-16T17:28:10.470-04:00Writing Myself Home<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoAxpCmNfoXo47SAriYsuUtRW8KjDZ5OQHtN7peu6IfwUxHJujSbeSNIkfYKsUPP5h4Siam8oCk3j0j77WW33ZPTdBvrF4zRsruokdGmuS7PWa7HckG3jRYrkbXQy14EAfl97qX4-2P6bf/s1600/CIMG1276.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoAxpCmNfoXo47SAriYsuUtRW8KjDZ5OQHtN7peu6IfwUxHJujSbeSNIkfYKsUPP5h4Siam8oCk3j0j77WW33ZPTdBvrF4zRsruokdGmuS7PWa7HckG3jRYrkbXQy14EAfl97qX4-2P6bf/s320/CIMG1276.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
For anyone who wonders why I'm always all about Cleveland, this is the story of how I got to be AnnieCLE.<br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">Seven years ago we moved from Shaker Heights to Collinwood. We’d lived in Shaker for decades. It’s one of those cities that when you tell people you live there, they nod sagely and say, “Oh, yes. Shaker <i>Heights.</i>" Your stock goes up. And it probably should because Shaker Heights is a magnificent place to live—even if you don’t, as we didn’t, live in one of its storied mansions. Founded on principles of excellence in architecture and education, forged out of a commitment to housing equality—at a time when that was in way short supply—and, for the most part, manicured out the wazoo, Shaker is pretty darned breathtaking.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">The perception that people—particularly Cleveland people and maybe particularly-<i>particularly</i> Shaker Heights people—have of Collinwood is not quite so stellar.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">In the tumultuous years of the Great Migration when African Americans abandoned the South to seek safety and opportunity in cities like Cleveland, the working-class Eastern Europeans who’d migrated for much the same reasons and built the neighborhoods, succumbed to the impulse to fly white. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">Drive through Collinwood today and you see a city that is still, at its roots, the same industrial town, built around a railroad yard, it was when it thrived. When steel turned rust, when populations jostled and moved out, when the economy got hard, towns such as this got hit very, very hard. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">That’s Collinwood now. More black than white. More poor than rich. Beleaguered schools and parents. Crime. And despair sometimes. So how come I love Collinwood with a blind passion I never, ever felt for Shaker Heights? </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">A black, ex-CIA agent named John Pritchard showed me the truth about my new home town. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">We moved here for the lake. It had been whispering to me—first softly calling, then hollering—ever since we arrived in Cleveland. According to MapQuest it’s 9.08 miles from our old address to our new one. When it comes to a body of water as big as Erie, that’s next door. Stormy nights up in Shaker, I could hear the thunder echoing out over big water. I could feel its tug. I longed for it like a woman who’s infatuated with a bad man. A wink and a nod (and a brave, supportive husband) hooked us up. Before I knew what hit me, I was driving down E 152<sup>nd</sup> past two blocks-worth of burned-out building and going “holy shit what have I done?” My mother in heaven was wringing her hands. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">I cannot possibly defend the ridiculous impulse that made me think I could write a guy (a gender affiliation I know about only through close observation of a good one of those), a <i>black </i>guy whom I can access only by the most speciously ill-informed imagination … plus he’s a CIA guy? Really, Annie? Are you NUTS? </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">But there he was, talking to me, telling me about his wife, Norah, who’d died last year, his old boss Harry who was retired but not one bit out of The Company, his best friend Andy Corrigan who’d crashed his plane into Lake Erie under suspicious circumstances, and Andy’s widow Emily, still very much alive and in danger from who knew what. Plus very attractive, Emily. Very. Even if your good old best friend was dead out there somewhere in deep water and your own beloved spouse was also gone. Maybe especially if those things were true….</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">John Pritchard and I were both in over our heads in this story. Big time. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">So whatever else John Pritchard might do for me now from the digital drawer in which I’ve laid <i>Twice as Dead</i> to rest, back then he showed me Collinwood. He and Andy grew up here—black kid/white kid— obsessed with the dreadful Collinwood School fire of 1908 which killed 172 children of a very small neighborhood. John and Andy swore their oath of loyalty on that tragedy: “<i>I’d walk through the fire</i>.” (That one still haunts John. I feel his shame.) They played—without parental consent, of course—out on the frozen lake with near-disastrous results that foreshadowed…. But that’s another tale.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">Over the course of their story, John introduced me around. He showed me the old Commodore Theater. (It fell to the wrecking ball in 2008. John got me there just in time.) He took me, for the first time, to the amazing City of Cleveland Greenhouse. We had lunch at the Time Out with Emily’s annoying son John. (Yeah. Namesake. Too bad the kid was such an SOB.) He took me down 152<sup>nd</sup> Street in the back of a cab, and showed me an ancient abandoned building, still smoldering. Or maybe, that one, I showed him.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">And the deeper I looked, the more I moved home to the heart of Cleveland. He took me on a stroll up an somewhat unmanicured street in my own neighborhood and showed me the flower boxes, the kids, the folks who are and are not me in the way that all we humans are and are not each other. He taught me to listen for the wail of trains up in the Collinwood Yards and to hear the bells of St. Jerome toll 172 times for the lost children of Collinwood. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">Writing John Pritchard did this for me. Made me look deep. Showed me how rich life is in the places that don’t get mowed once a week, where neighbors sometimes cover up what’s not working with plywood. Kicked me in my arrogance, made me accept some hard truths. Writing John Pritchard may not have revealed me as an expert on black CIA agents, but it enriched my life. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">Now, when I drive down 152<sup>nd</sup> and look at the progress that’s happening and the hard times that are still going on, I soak it all in. I understand now why Collinwood is fast becoming a major magnet for artists of all kinds. All you have to do is open your eyes and your heart. Art—beautiful, ugly, miraculous—is happening wherever you are. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">A year after they tore down the Commodore, and about the time I decided I was either not enough or too much of a woman for John Pritchard, I was driving home from the McDonald’s up on Lakeshore and I heard a woman’s voice that was and was not my own saying, “<i>You know you live in a rough neighborhood when someone honks at a blind man in the crosswalk</i>.” </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">That’s how I met Allie Harper, protagonist of <i>Somebody’s Bound to Wind Up Dead.</i> But in my heart I know that she was introduced to me by a black retired CIA agent who lives in a digital drawer in my laptop and is still in love with Emily Corrigan.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">Thanks, John Pritchard. For everything.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif; font-size: x-small;">Photo of the bridges of Cleveland courtesy of John Hogsett</span></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6193627556992077007.post-31496774306246252792013-02-13T10:11:00.001-05:002013-02-13T10:12:19.399-05:00From the Ashes of Ash Wednesday<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Every town has its sorrows and tragedies, big and little. Personal and communal. Some cast a longer shadow than others. The Collinwood School Fire which occurred on Ash Wednesday 1908 has been looming over this community for 105 years. I've only lived here for going on eight of those years, but it looms over me enough that I couldn't bring myself to post any of the photos of the aftermath of that disaster. The skeleton building. The people standing, stunned, outside. A hundred five years isn't long enough to erase that shadow, even though anyone who was directly affected is long gone. <br />
<br />
As I've mentioned before, the novel I wrote when we first moved here introduced me to a guy who grew up in my new neighborhood at a time when the memory of the fire was, if not fresh anymore, still very much alive. John Pritchard, retired black CIA guy, was my guide to Collinwood and in <i>Twice As Dead</i> he introduced me to my new home.<br />
<br />
Writers will tell you that characters come alive, make their own decisions, get into their own scrapes, and tell you stuff you didn't know -- which is as unnerving as it is amazing and wonderful. John helped me write myself home in this new place and he helped me learn about the fire. It was a big theme in the story of his friendship with Andy Corrigan, who was his best friend for life -- even when Andy was, like, twice as dead.<br />
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Here's what John said:<br />
<br />
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">"149<sup>th</sup> takes you past the
new Memorial School. It’s “memorial”
because of the first elementary school that stood on that site. Collinwood
Lakeview was a name that struck terror into
the hearts of educators, parents, and students for decades, because it was that
school that burned down on Ash Wednesday1908.
A fast-spreading fire exploded out of the basement, up through the
wooden structure, feeding on dry wood joists and oiled floors. Over two hundred
seventy children died, more than half of the school’s students, most of them
crushed by panic into a vestibule by a first floor door. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I’d been horrified and fascinated by
the fire when I was growing up here. It
always seemed to me back then that, after that day, Collinwood must have been
like Hamlin Town. So many of the
children gone, the Pied Piper of death having called them away from school
forever. The rest, the ones left behind,
lost, mourning. Limping through life. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Andy and I had gone over and over
all the facts we could find about the disaster.
It was the thrilling tale of terror that cast its smoky midnight shadow
on the walls when we slept over at each other’s houses. One piece of the story, the account of two
best friends who both perished in the fire—one returning to the blazing
building to find the other—was inspiration for a lot of youthful bravado. We swore we would both have gone back for the
other. But, of course, in our scenario,
the rescue was successful. We always found the better, smarter escape route and
lived on as heroes forever. For
years—until we got old enough to consider it silly—we swore our loyalty with
the pledge, “I’d walk through the fire.” <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">A Memorial School had been built in
1910 next to the place where the burned school stood, and a Memorial Garden was
made. That school had been torn down and
the garden now occupied the corner of<b><span style="color: red;"> </span></b>the schoolyard of the new, latest version, of
Memorial School. They’d kept the
original plaque which I remembered read something about a stunned nation in
mourning and said, “a caring community remembers.” It didn’t mention anybody
resting in peace, or the grace of God.
Maybe they just didn’t have any heart for that. This newest school was a bright, modern building. It appeared that whatever else might go wrong
here, fire shouldn’t be a problem. Maybe
the ghosts could leave it to this new generation of children and go wherever
ghosts go when the unfinished business is all done."<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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And when John's adventure was all done, he took me to the memorial service for the 100th anniversary of the fire. Election Day, 2008. </div>
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<!--StartFragment-->
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">"March 4, 2008 was the
centennial observation of the anniversary of the Collinwood Lakeview School
fire. Appropriately, maybe, the weather
was awful—cold rain getting on towards ice and snow. They had planned a little ceremony in the
remnant of the memorial garden at the new school, and I went up there for it. After
some cold standing around, making awkward small talk with a scattering of somber
old guys, I was glad when they moved the service inside the school. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">It was warm and cheery
in there. All primary colors and nice
artwork done by the children. They’d
made round badges with the names of the lost students in kind of abstract
designs—tasteful and nice. Not the
nightmare drawings Andy and I might have made of the fire had we had the
assignment at their age. I figured
they’d had some thoughtful instruction. A
handful of the kids were present for the program and they wore their pretty badges. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">They stood almost under a
stairway leading up to the second floor—the sprinkler system, painted a contrasting
primary color, was pointed out by the principal as something positive that had
come from the tragedy: a new standard for safety in schools all over the U.S. The children stayed
mostly at attention, with some minor incidents of nudging and giggling. These
were brown children, I noted, while the lost ones had all been white. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Some people said some
things. A couple of congressmen—a white man, a black man—were there and shared
the reading of a proclamation. As I was
leaving, in the cold rain, someone began tolling the bell in the St. Jerome
tower. It had been a hundred years ago,
just about to the minute, that the janitor had rung the fire alarm to signal
the end of so many worlds, including his own.
Three of his children were there in school. Only one made it home. They were going to ring
the bell a hundred and seventy-five times.
Once for each child and one for each of the two teachers and the neighbor
who perished, too. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The tolling of bells for
the dead, like the playing of taps, the firing of guns, the flying of the
missing man, is always solemn and majestic.
It struck deep in my heart and I felt emotion, rising, clenching my
throat, but the moment eased as the bell went on and on. I walked through the parking lot, listening. It was election day. With people coming and going around the
school building. Casting their votes for
a future that might be different from the past. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">As I drove by the
church, I still could hear the bell sounding, piercing the skin of the Jeep. So many.
<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">One hundred years is
surely an adequate span of the time that heals all wounds. The wrenching grief had faded as one by one
the mourners had all died, too. The spirits had no cause to linger any more.
Only a soulful pathos remained. A cold March
morning with a heavy, overcast sky and the sound of bells. All in all, it was good to have been
there. I was glad I had come."<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt;">So, I was there with John Pritchard on that day. I can tell you that the tolling of that bell took just about forever and was one of the saddest sounds I'd ever heard. But it was part of the process by which I came to feel rooted in my new home. "I was glad I had come." </span></div>
<!--EndFragment--><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></span></div>
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6193627556992077007.post-72975759044242546882012-12-07T21:16:00.000-05:002012-12-13T13:37:02.129-05:00Wrap it! Read it! Love it!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBL4OoNw1Smz1DRpJmZMyJnD0kg0F7lZSMiGesF3IXLTNET-1V-3M6h7SLb8FCqWkww3fb09eWDI_E5LXeT9n6hN6z9oTl8RMKQzY5OZoEOH8YMRsymFzSoCnnLIf2g3z10Q1BMhgZmZxT/s1600/WildCoverFromAuthorsWebsite.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBL4OoNw1Smz1DRpJmZMyJnD0kg0F7lZSMiGesF3IXLTNET-1V-3M6h7SLb8FCqWkww3fb09eWDI_E5LXeT9n6hN6z9oTl8RMKQzY5OZoEOH8YMRsymFzSoCnnLIf2g3z10Q1BMhgZmZxT/s1600/WildCoverFromAuthorsWebsite.JPG" /></a></div>
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<br />
<br />
One
year I ran. I ran every weekday morning. When I made my vow to run
every weekday morning, I also made up my Rules Of Exception. The only
excuse not to run would be 1) a fever of over 100° 2) a storm, with
actual lightning and thunder, and 3) a wind chill reading below some
ungodly number I can’t remember. Let’s say 18 degrees.<br />
<br />
As
I recall it now, none of those things ever happened. They’d almost, but
then it would be 19 degrees or a fever of 99.9 and I’d have to go. And
I went. For a year. What really sticks with me is the shocking
difference between the <i>idea</i> of running—the vow, the idea, the frickin’ <i>fantasy</i>—and
The Running. The moving of one’s body with one’s feet. The dusky gray
squares of the sidewalk. The slick, mossy places. The crossings with
cars. The sound of thudding: my shoes on pavement, my own heart.<br />
<br />
Cheryl
Strayed at age 26, never having backpacked anywhere ever, vowed to walk
the Pacific Crest Trail. And she did it. She walked more than 1,100
miles, carrying a pack that, when she started out, she literally could
not pick up.<br />
<br />
<i>Miles weren't things that blazed dully
past. They were long, intimate straggles of weeds and clumps of dirt,
blades of grass and flowers that bent in the wind, trees that lumbered
and screeched. They were the sound of my breath and my feet hitting the
trail one step at a time and the click of my ski pole. The PCT had
taught me what a mile was. I was humble before each and every one.</i><br />
<br />
There
were bears, snakes and leering strangers. There were steep drop-offs
and slippery slopes. Strayed repaired her feet with duct tape. Her
toenails fell off. She was hungry and couldn't afford a cheeseburger.
She strained her drinking water from mud. She walked, with that
impossible pack stripping the skin from her back, for 1,100 actual, real
miles.<br />
<br />
But, as you’d have to expect, these were also miles of the
spirit. The Cheryl Strayed who began that improbable hike in the Mojave
Desert, grieving and raging at the death of her mother, mourning the
end of her marriage, spiraling with heroin and promiscuity, crossed the
Bridge of the Gods from Oregon into Washington changed and empowered,
with things to say that have made a difference to me and a lot of other
people.<br />
<br />
<i>I knew that if I allowed fear to overtake me, my
journey was doomed. Fear, to a great extent, is born of a story we tell
ourselves, and so I chose to tell myself a different story from the one
women are told. I decided I was safe. I was strong. I was brave. Nothing
could vanquish me. … Every time I heard a sound of unknown origin or
felt something horrible cohering in my imagination, I pushed it away. I
simply did not let myself become afraid. Fear begets fear. Power begets
power. I willed myself to beget power. And it wasn't long before I
actually wasn't afraid.”</i><br />
<br />
One morning, after my year was up, I
fell and sprained my ankle, and that was it on running for me. The
wrench, the nausea, the pain were so real, so memorable, I was never
able to get past them. Never able to counteract them with a vow to run
that I might keep. Never able to overcome my ingrained sense of
self-protection that speaks in my mother’s voice, “You’ll get sick.
You’ll get hurt. You’ll die.”<br />
<br />
You can go to the bank with this:
I will never hike the PCT. But because Cheryl Strayed is an
extraordinary person who is also an extraordinary writer—fearless,
generous, unapologetic, compassionate and really, really good—the truths
she discovered upon the path are accessible to readers of this book,
including readers who are sometimes weak, sometimes strong, and who sometimes fall short in the guts department.<br />
<br />
Reading <i>Wild: From Lost to Found on the Pacific Crest Trail </i>
is no substitute for the PCT but it is a wise and powerful guide to the
lessons of courage and the possibilities of life. I say read it. Gift
it. Set it loose in your world.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
</div>
<!-- start LinkyTools script --><script src="http://www.linkytools.com/basic_linky_include.aspx?id=173347" type="text/javascript" ></script><!-- end LinkyTools script -->Unknownnoreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6193627556992077007.post-90292982859923114902012-10-13T09:09:00.000-04:002016-08-07T10:11:17.405-04:00I’d like to thank the members of the Academy.<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRLuxW8D20ZE2JvEkOKa63b9sWKQCj8dCp_L8t3CDc2buBnnKrfNfN4X2GFOe1cfo_YbZASIcSHmCOmTxph1csBJK4rRF-KCRYTElagEcKKm4uwfPdPnEjVjINR2I94vo6wfgt6YyoYtag/s1600/Oscar-Statue-2__1232736378_7142.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRLuxW8D20ZE2JvEkOKa63b9sWKQCj8dCp_L8t3CDc2buBnnKrfNfN4X2GFOe1cfo_YbZASIcSHmCOmTxph1csBJK4rRF-KCRYTElagEcKKm4uwfPdPnEjVjINR2I94vo6wfgt6YyoYtag/s320/Oscar-Statue-2__1232736378_7142.jpg" width="189" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">A few years
back, the ad agency where I worked hired an animator for a TV spot we were
producing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When we found out this guy
was an Academy Award-winner, we all lobbied for him to bring his Oscar when he
came to Cleveland.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He did it!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(Obviously this was before a TSA person would
have told him he’d have to check his lumpy gold weapon or skip the plane.)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">So there He
was.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Oscar.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We handed Him around.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He was heavier than I expected. Bigger,
smoother and shinier too. One thing that happened, though, we probably should
have anticipated.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When the heavy, gold,
naked, somewhat androgynous person was placed into someone’s eager paws, the
someone would be compelled to make a speech.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">They wanted
to thank somebody.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They wanted to pull
out a wrinkled up piece of paper and acknowledge a big bunch of folks who made
it possible for them to realize this dream.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>And, of course, somebody always wanted to tell somebody else, “You like
me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You really <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">like</i> me.”</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">The point
here is not to say what yahoos we all were—though, folks, we were, and I loved
that about us—but to draw attention to the desire most of us have to reach the universally-agreed-upon
apex of our ambitions and, then, while standing on that heady pinnacle, to
thank everyone who help us climb up this high.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Gratitude. Pay back.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A sense of
finally having earned our belonging in an inner circle to which we’ve aspired
for a lifetime.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">But look. A
great number of us will never get there. That’s the math of life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Watch the Olympic Games and ponder the fate
of those beautiful, committed, accomplished, almost-golden losers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We can’t ever guarantee the win, but that
heady moment of gratitude can be ours right now.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This is mine.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">I want to publish
my novel.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Ho boy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Do I.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>From
the brightest part of my spirit, I believe I will.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And from the dark night of my soul, I believe
I won’t. But nothing at all is stopping me from writing the dedication and the
acknowledgements for my as yet, unagented, unpublishered, unpublished book. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">That way
it’ll be ready when I need it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In a
couple of months or so. So here goes.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">Dedication:</span></b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">For Bill.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The forever believer.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">Acknowledgements:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">Yikes! Now
I know what the wrinkled piece of paper is for.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">To my
family, Bill and John, who didn’t laugh when I sat down to write. Even when I
was secretly and not-so-secretly mocking myself. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Who treated my work with respect. Who picked
up the slack when I was working, slack-jawed, at dinnertime.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">Extra kudos
to Bill who even though he grew up in the dark ages before feminism like I did,
always encouraged me to take risks and honor my ambition.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He’s been braver for me than I’ve been for
myself.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And steadfast.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Always.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">These two
guys have made it possible for me to know that if I never published a freaking
thing, my life would still be greater, luckier and happier than anyone could
believe. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">To Tina
Whittle for the kind of support an aspiring writer can only dream of:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>solid advice, appropriate admonitions against
direct foreshadowing, cheerleading, empathy, networking, even pitching on my
behalf. You know how grateful I am.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Actually
you don’t.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You couldn’t possibly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">And to Lynn
for introducing me to Tina, you too, lady.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Big time.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">To my
family of origin. Mark and Margaret.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">Mark: My
father’s legacy was delivered to me though the memories of the people who witnessed
his love for me in a time I don’t remember. Obviously, love is one kind of
immortality. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">Margaret: My
mother’s confidence that I was special, gifted, and destined for wondrous
things ferried me over my own doubt about that stuff, like a million times.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Momma, after you died I found a book in which
you’d underlined somebody’s advice to: ”Write something every day.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And in the margin you’d penciled, “Ann.”</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">To my BBFs:
Judy, Karan, Laura, Elaine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Each of you has
been my dream’s best defender.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Each of
you has been my strength, refuge, and partner-in-crime for a major part of my
life. Together you are all still my inner circle of support.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My good-listeners.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My ass-kickers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My friends. I sure hope I’ve been worth
it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">And for
Elaine & Bob and Doug & Thom, the Usual Suspects. You make the fun and
bring the love. As far as I’m concerned, without fun and love there’s nothing worth
writing about.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">For Joe and
Mary Lucille (and Pat, behind the scenes) you have been my “writer’s group” and
much, much more.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Daily support.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Daily friendship.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sustenance.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>And the taste of home.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">Now, for my
readers, in order of their appearance:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Bill, of course, Elaine, Doug, Dan, “Tuckie,” Joe, Susan, Fran, Judy,
Vicky, Laura, Bob, Anne, Terry, Cathy, Jane, Traci, Ellen, Cindy, Tess.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Some of you passed the ms onto people I
didn’t know about.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I bless them for
reading, too. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">To Rip
Ruhlman for taking the manuscript of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Twice
as Dead</i> to read even as he was dying. And for always making me feel
confident and appreciated.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Rip, we were
robbed when we lost you.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">Then, of
course, although I haven’t met all y’all yet: To my future agent.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My future editor.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My future publisher. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So grateful and I don’t even know exactly what
for.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And not least to my future
readers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Remember that I wrote for you
before I believed in you.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>On faith.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Out of devotion for what other authors have
written for me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">That’s
it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And yeah.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I know.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It’s too long.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Everybody went to
the bathroom or got beer or changed channels while I was droning on, but I
don’t care.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When I write the “real
acknowledgements” I’ll tidy it up, put in the ones I’ll be horrified to realize
I left out, and not gush so much.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But
I’m glad I had the chance here and now. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">Because
here’s the other thing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Last spring I
went to a writer’s conference and the author who won the big award for the best
new writer was a man whose wife had recently passed away. Right there, I got
it. Like a hammer in my head.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">If it’s
just you, any victory is no bigger, or more wonderful than you can make it, all
by yourself. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There can be a party, for
sure, and you can be glad and honored and validated—all that—but the
celebration won’t be complete unless all your people are there, too. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">And this,
as well. If we don’t take the opportunity to thank and re-thank the people to
whom we feel grateful, we might lose the opportunity to make our gratitude
complete.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They might get away before we
say the most important things.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We might have
to leave before they have a chance to know how full our hearts have always been
with thanks for them. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">Thank you,
my people, you make my life very sweet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">Because you
like me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You really<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> like</i> me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6193627556992077007.post-71923148146243101762012-08-17T12:47:00.000-04:002016-11-06T09:35:17.278-05:00Pat The Bunny<style>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYctX_jKlKr6XPpZ3wD3HdzYwDfFaZVg5BADpgIYQCL4iXJ_eCZwoLciB3cDye-sxzFdBYvIcg8Ao888yR5iWqbHkuQuMEn1LU4KIil66_ax_xmYPw2NsCUuHs6sSKkadAShecjub1W69y/s1600/cutebun.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYctX_jKlKr6XPpZ3wD3HdzYwDfFaZVg5BADpgIYQCL4iXJ_eCZwoLciB3cDye-sxzFdBYvIcg8Ao888yR5iWqbHkuQuMEn1LU4KIil66_ax_xmYPw2NsCUuHs6sSKkadAShecjub1W69y/s320/cutebun.jpg" width="320" /></a>Some years ago, when I was feeling pretty anxious about stuff I can't even remember now, I wrote this little piece about something that kind of worked for me. I was rooting through some files today, and up popped the essay about the bunny. I'd forgotten him. He'd forgotten me. No wonder I get scared sometimes.... </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Here's the bunny. May you know comfort. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Human beings, especially so-called enlightened human beings -- and especially, especially so-called smart human beings -- often
find it quite difficult to deal with the emotional thrill ride of life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One might assume that this problem has grown
worse under the pressures and uncertainties of the so-called modern world.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m not so sure.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I bet it was tense in the caves from time to
time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We’d like to think we can handle our emotions.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But wise people tell us that emotions operate
pretty much on their own timetable. They come.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>They go.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They come back.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And they keep doing this all your life, no
matter how smart, how transformed, how determined you are.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
One of the most persistent and paralyzing emotions is fear
in all its most unnerving disguises: terror/panic/anxiety/ uneasiness/nameless
dread. Very hard it is when fear comes to visit. We think – being the sort of
beings who put a lot of stock in our minds – that we should be able to reason
ourselves out of our fears. Often we are dismayed that in spite of the
application of extreme rationality, we’re still pretty scared.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I believe our emotions are part of our animal nature.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not bad.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Not good. Just something that comes along. And something that’s not
particularly reassured by intellectual pep talking.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I think of my fear as a small rabbit that lives inside my
chest. When I’m scared, it sits frozen, quivering.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Its eyes are very wide, darting wildly about, scanning
for danger. Its whiskers vibrate. Its body is clenched very small because it
longs to be invisible, hidden and safe.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It’s afraid to hop away.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Terrified
to stay put.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It doesn’t need a cheerful
talking to.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It needs to be petted and
soothed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Like a bunny.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So, when you are afraid, the most important thing is not
to brush the fear away or hide it -- even from yourself.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For then the bunny is terribly alone and
hopeless. Find the frightened bunny trembling inside you, accept its fear and sorrow, and imagine that you could hold
it in your hands and cradle it warm and soft against your chest.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Smooth its silky fur with great tenderness,
and say, “There, there, little bunny.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>There, there.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Just until it feels strong enough and safe enough to hop
along. However long that takes. And be sure to love the bunny. Because it
always does the very best it can.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And
because it is your heart.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<br />
“There, there, little bunny.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>There, there.” <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6193627556992077007.post-70285271626951786942012-08-04T13:56:00.001-04:002012-08-04T14:42:44.451-04:00The Post That Got Hijacked By Whitesnake<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhApDBt5FOwbGtUItwT_Fs7_8G5jt_cXd0eqceeb7Hh1orJXg8Fi7B5e02Ebn8H11sQCdLnVuXMG9YkLGCvvsSt3piYLVWG3C2_wvte5JYvvGCa_slFkZiVssEnehaqXiOHW6tJNzAG4IVW/s1600/mail.google.com.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhApDBt5FOwbGtUItwT_Fs7_8G5jt_cXd0eqceeb7Hh1orJXg8Fi7B5e02Ebn8H11sQCdLnVuXMG9YkLGCvvsSt3piYLVWG3C2_wvte5JYvvGCa_slFkZiVssEnehaqXiOHW6tJNzAG4IVW/s320/mail.google.com.jpg" width="258" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
Or Something. <br />
<br />
The hijacked post is actually this post you're reading right here, originally entitled "I'm In The Mood For Whine." And which began: "... simply because I broke down and purchased the <i>2012 Guide To Literary Agents</i>."<br />
<br />
There followed a major moan and whimper about the kind of morning I'm having because I've found myself back at what almost feels like Square One with The Novel. And what's worse, immediately after that disheartening moment of confrontation with my un-agented state, I stumbled into the "promoting yourself online," maze and the "what is your *^%$^ platform?" arena. Wherein I became not merely way sorry for myself but also seriously <i>overwhelmed.</i> And more sorry for myself.<br />
<br />
I experience this whiny, overwhelmed, self-pitying state as the sensation of having about a pound of that cold, kind of slimy clay from kindergarten lodged in my chest where my heart is supposed to be. And also (I find this sort of interesting) in a numb tingly feeling in the general area of my elbows. A paralyses of the typing muscles, I presume. <br />
<br />
I had it bad. And that ain't even <i>supposed</i> to be good. <br />
<br />
Right after that I realized I was hearing The Tune. <br />
<br />
NOTE: Tell me I'm not the only one who gets annoying repetitions of pop, rock, and very occasionally, classical hits in my head. Right? Hah! You do. I know you do. For example, you know that song, "Beautiful Sunday?" Like, "Hey, hey, <i>hey</i> beautiful Sunday. This is my, my, <i>my</i> beautiful day?" Forget it quick. It will rule your brain for weeks. Fortunately that was not the tune I was hearing this morning. <br />
<br />
It was "Here I Go Again." Not a tune I'm particularly familiar with. I didn't, for example, connect it to the band Whitesnake. Nor am I actually a big fan of Whitesnake. (I had to look them up to make sure Whitesnake wasn't, for example, one guy. A Mr. Snake.... Face it folks, 1987 was not my musical year. I was busy.)<br />
<br />
So here I was having this Whitesnake thing mainlined into my head from ... somewhere. Just the hookie part. "Here I go again on my own. Goin' down the only road I've ever known." Appropriate, though. Pretty sad and whiny, right? A good description of my dead end state of mind. So I went onto Rhapsody (where all the music lives, all the time) and played it to enhance the crankiness of my crappy mood.<br />
<br />
Pathos can be so consoling.<br />
<br />
Guess what? I found out something you Whitesnake mavens -- and possibly a part of my brain that I do not have direct access to -- already knew. This is a kick-ass song about ... kicking ass. <br />
<br />
For example: "But I've made up my mind. I ain't wasting no more time."<br />
<br />
Yeah, it's about the "lonely street of dreams" but it's also about being the Comandress In Chief of your own @%&#$ lonely street of dreams. It reminded me of the one thing I need to forward my writing right now:<br />
<br />
A new playlist.<br />
<br />
Not necessarily for my ears, but for my soul. My fainting clay heart. My numbed writing muscles. Access to the stash of courage that lies around in a subbasement of my being until I remember where I put it.<br />
<br />
I remember where I put it now. <br />
<br />
Here what's at the top of my new list: <br />
<br />
"Here I Go Again." Whitesnake<br />
<br />
But listen. Here's what I wonder. Here's what moves the tingly feeling from my elbows up to the back of my neck: Where did it come from, that little tune? How did it get into my head? And what part of myself gave me a chance to hear it, really hear it, for the first time, today of all days? <br />
<br />
That's the part of myself I want to come straight here and stand right by me, with its spooky l'il hand on my shoulder, when I lose my focus and my nerve. <br />
<br />
And to go with me. Down the only road I've ever known.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6193627556992077007.post-91931912676328077682012-07-09T11:19:00.000-04:002012-07-27T11:28:53.219-04:00Before There Was Me<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh24IMHrPQCegfKOJITDLuVwLxDZQDsNd1OgtTeTi5xdGxaTqVnBg9pPvqXv3hbWEeDv6NBL9UAW-rCzf6yjwKY-7zFEPuXRwptYijoDgn9iBux5i9k3WsV1jyETNzWLOqPsUHXiDlFrPkd/s1600/Mark+&+Margaret" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh24IMHrPQCegfKOJITDLuVwLxDZQDsNd1OgtTeTi5xdGxaTqVnBg9pPvqXv3hbWEeDv6NBL9UAW-rCzf6yjwKY-7zFEPuXRwptYijoDgn9iBux5i9k3WsV1jyETNzWLOqPsUHXiDlFrPkd/s320/Mark+&+Margaret" width="190" /></a></div>
Mark & Margaret. Before there was me, there was them.<br />
<br />
I have been much inspired by Viv's post about <a href="http://wildturtlecrossing.blogspot.com/2012/06/missing-fathers-day-words-for-ed.html">her dad</a>. She made Ed real for me. She made him a little bit alive again for herself, I think. But since I am compelled by my untrammeled egocentricity to make this blog about Me, Me, Me, this post is not precisely about M & M (Aren't they beautiful over there? Weren't they just cool?) but about what I discovered about them, long after it might have done the three of us any good.<br />
<br />
Okay. Let's give the old Beginner's Mind a shot here. It appears that parents<i> </i>are -- kind of like <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Soylent_Green">Soylent Green</a> -- made of <i>people</i>! And before your eyes glaze over with the absolutely brain-killing obviousness of that statement, just stop for a minute. Breathe. It took me about 51 years to get a toe in the water of "Hey. Margaret was a human being."<br />
<br />
All my life people told me I was just like her. She had to live 88 years and die (more than a decade ago) before I could start to realize:<br />
<br />
<i>She </i>was just like<i> me.</i> UhOh.<br />
<br />
And Mark? Forget about it. He died at 42 when I was not even 2. He wasn't just an icon. He was a god. I was probably six or seven before I realized he was not actually, <i>The</i> "our father who art in heaven." And the idea that he was "watching over me?" Not comforting. In the extreme.<br />
<br />
In the dawn of Me History, Mark & Margaret created my universe and placed me at the center of it. They named the animals. They brought the food. They made fire. And gravity. They set the rules. They told me The Story of Elizabeth Ann and when my father, whose voice I do not remember, "went away?" Margaret picked up the thread and devised the great Myth of Mark. When I say, "Myth," I don't mean to suggest it was untrue. It's a Joseph Campbell thing. And a lovely myth. But it wasn't Mark. Any more than my Myth of Margaret was Margaret. <br />
<br />
So I'm loading the dishwasher yesterday. And making a lot of judgments about how I'm doing it and wondering if I should be doing something else, something better, something more ... <i>worthwhile </i>right then. Such as a Good Person would do. The kind of person who would not be unexpectedly crushed by the universe as punishment for Something. And experiencing the miasma-like, hypnotic and overly-familiar little tune that plays, with all its variations of theme, in my head pretty much all the time. "Ah, maybe you're just lazy. Are you lazy?"<br />
<br />
And There. She. Is.<br />
<br />
Should I blame her for that? NuhUh. If <i>your </i>parents abused you in ways that were truly cruel and you blame them for that, you're completely entitled. <br />
<br />
But if they screwed up? If they gave you Life Rules that weren't much help or messed you over in major ways? If you hear their voices saying things that don't do you a bit of good? If you can point to a number of occasions when they were just TERRIBLE PARENTS? Cut them a break.<br />
<br />
Forgive them. And while you're at it, if you're a parent and, actually, even if you're not, forgive yourself. Just a little bit. You came out of the darkness into the light. You had about 15 minutes to figure the world out. And then you were on your own. Your parents (who'd had that exact same experience a shockingly few years before) tried to keep you safe and make you good and love you to the best of their ability which never, never expressed the frantic passion of adoration and fear that was in their hearts for you most of the time. Those folks? Forgive them. Love them. Love their memory.<br />
<br />
Try to <i>know </i>them for a minute. See them. Recognize them not as gods, but as <i>you.</i> But exactly. Confused. Scared. Pissed off. Awkward. Having a bad hair day. Hating their boss. Destroyed, almost obliterated, by an unexpected death and another and another. Hungry. Weak. Forgetful. Capable of well-intentioned mistakes, inexplicable bad moods, unbelievable carelessness, fully-intended anger and general meanness.<br />
<br />
Also, figure that, like you -- and definitely like me -- they were probably driving through an intersection, trying to make the light and not kill someone, when you asked them what f**k meant. Because that pretty much sums parenting up for me. Human. And conducted most of the time on the fly, ineptly, and without even a speck of parental wisdom. At the point in a child's life when the parent was, to all intents and purposes, God. Or Goddess, as the case may be.<br />
<br />
So, Mark & Margaret. Look at you two. The more I know about me, the more I understand about you. And the more I understand about you the more my heart just breaks open to everything you have always been for me. Because parents -- though human -- are the people in your life no one else will ever be.<br />
<br />
I had no idea who you really were. Probably still don't.<br />
<br />
You are more beautiful and mysterious than I could ever have imagined.<br />
<br />
I wish I could sit us down and tell you that.<br />
<br />
Then you could tell me to vote for Mitt Romney and how I should do my hair.<br />
<br />
And, Margaret? Remember how you always said, "One of these days you'll understand. I wish I could be there."<br />
<br />
Today's the day. And me, too.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6193627556992077007.post-75018987288435501182012-05-03T13:43:00.003-04:002012-05-03T13:47:56.994-04:00The Lamott Report<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: 12pt;">Anne Lamott appeared at the Allen Theater at Playhouse Square last month as part of the William N. Skirball Writers Center Stage Series. (Another good reason why it's great to be a writer in Cleveland, OH.) </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: 12pt;">I went because, like most writers I know, I was encouraged by Anne Lamott to write when I could not bear my own self-imposed belittlement in that area. She encouraged me as if she were my best buddy in the world and sitting right there <i>on my couch</i>. That is a really bad iPhone photo of her famous encouraging book to the right of this sentence. >>>>>>>>>>>>> See? </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: 12pt;">I took along my heart, which was bursting with gratitude, and it turns out there was a big theater full to the brimming over with folks bursting their hearts just like I was. (I thought it was going to be just her and me, like on my couch, back in the day. But it was fantastic all the same.) </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: 12pt;">When I got home, inspired and re-energized, I emailed a bunch of people about what it was like. And now I'm sharing that email with you. Enjoy. Pretend you were there with Anne Lamott and me, on a couch in a big auditorium with masses of other potential and actual artists, listening to her tell you how to respect your dreams. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: 12pt;">Here's
my report on what I did on my <span class="il">Anne</span> <span class="il">Lamott</span>
Vacation. <br />
<br />
Beginning with a (related) digression: I remember reading somewhere about Elvis
(Digression, Capital <i>D</i>) that the inevitable, debilitating effect of
having all that attention -- the energy of all that<i> </i>undefined <i>wanting
</i>focused on him all the time -- caused him to self-destruct and blah, blah,
blah. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: 12pt;">I don't mean to suggest that <span class="il">Anne</span> <span class="il">Lamott</span> is self-destructing. To the contrary. She seems essentially well
put together to me. But I was struck by that little, sort of raggedy
(it's the hair, which is awesome) woman, standing up there in the spotlight all
by herself, wise and welcoming and glowing like she does -- and just receiving <i>waves</i>
of hungry, frustrated creative energy and the desire of hundreds of people to
be <i>just like her</i>, plus a raw abundance of pure worship and admiration --
and gratitude, of course, weeping, blubbering, speechless gratitude. And then sitting there, after all that,
signing hundreds of books. Wow. Remarkable.<br />
<br />
She was great. She was human. She encouraged everybody. She
reminded us that if we want to write we need to put our butts in the chair at
the same time every day and write. She said nobody needs to watch the 10
o'clock news and that if you don't, you only miss where all the fires are, and
that if you're the fire chief's wife, maybe you do need to watch, but if you're
not, right there is 45 minutes when you can write every day. And for
investing that 45 minutes you'll get maybe 30 minutes of actual writing time.
And the first paragraph will be crap. She said that nobody needs you to
write. And that as a matter of fact it isn't even in the best interests
of the people around you for you to write. I completely get that because
it's a miracle Bill has made so much space for me to do that. Lucky
writers such as I have supportive loved ones, but I can see how it doesn't
really pay folks to have us do this craziness. <br />
<br />
I believe what helped the audience the most was how uncompromising she was
about her confidence in our capability to lead the lives we want <i>and </i>how
unflinching she was about sharing her own fears, doubts, and shortcomings. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: 12pt;">She
is stunningly generous. She delivered her presentation in the manner of someone
who's just tripped over something and is willing to proceed to give you what
she has that she thinks you need, without trying to find her balance. It
appears to me that, as a person who has <i>but exactly</i> the same insecurities,
terrors and dark, dark thoughts that I have, she trusts something to bear her
upward when she's fallen too far -- trusts without proof, without insurance,
without any particular peace of mind. (I suspect this confidence -- given the
considerable testimony -- comes from her spiritual core -- as someone who says
her prayers go, something like, "Hi. I guess we both know we have a
problem here.")<br />
<br />
Plus, she was wonderfully funny. Just adorable. End of story.
<br />
<br />
Except that I keep thinking of things. She quoted Shirley Jackson as
saying, "A confused reader is an antagonistic reader."
True. I believe this. She recommended <i>Middlemarch</i>. I
do not want to read that. And Salinger's <i>Nine Stories</i>, which I've
forgotten. And Ram Dass's T<i>he Only Dance There Is</i>, which I
remember. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: 12pt;">I'll pass along anything that occurs later. In the meantime, I am channeling Anne Lamott to remind us all: Put your butt in the chair and write. (Or dance. Or sing. Or paint a picture or a room.) Listen to the Anne Lamott in your bona fide creative soul and just do it Do it every day. If you skip the 10 o'clock news, you'll have time.</span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6193627556992077007.post-71735497130587099292011-12-31T12:52:00.003-05:002011-12-31T13:54:20.280-05:00HappyLutions to You!<style>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-M464IHujo6E/Tv84OZhUoyI/AAAAAAAAAi0/FkLOCtT_tCU/s1600/3699983703_d8f344d325_b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="205" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-M464IHujo6E/Tv84OZhUoyI/AAAAAAAAAi0/FkLOCtT_tCU/s320/3699983703_d8f344d325_b.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">So, the ladies in my arthritis water class are generally supportive about almost everything, but they completely mocked me when I told them my New Year's resolutions would be only things that make me happy. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Right away, Janice pointed out, "Good luck with that on April 15." It appears she believes there's nothing happy about coughing up your taxes and that, unlike Martha, I couldn't be happy in a federal prison. Quite possibly she's right about that, too. Bunk beds and orange clothes, yuck. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">But, actually, I think I just expressed my Happy Resolutions plan poorly. I don't mean I plan to only do happy things -- somebody has to clean up the cat barf, after all and sooner or later it will be my turn. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"> I mean that, here today, as 2011 fades, I am only going <i>to make resolutions</i> <i>to do</i> things that raise my spirits, encourage my better nature and, thereby, make me happy.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Here's the deal. I have two or three really big, bright, wonderful goals for this year. And, from many decades of experience, I've deduced that the <i>absolutely worst place</i> to store goals you care about is anywhere <i>close</i> to a New Year's resolution. It's way too dark and cold in there, and the moaning of the broken and lost is simply too dispiriting. Also the Guilt and Blame Levels (GBLs) are way too high for the support of optimism. Or maybe even life itself.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Here's what I meant by happy resolutions. First of all, I'm only making five. Not ten. Why does it always have to be ten? I want to abandon five absolutely jewel-like Happylutions with tender regret and whisper, "Sorry. You guys are alternates. Maybe next year. Or maybe if one of the ones I pick gets voted off the island.... We'll see." </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">(FYI: Moving into SweetieFry <a href="http://www.facebook.com/SweetieFry">http://www.facebook.com/SweetieFry</a></span></span></div><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">didn't make the top five. <i>Je regrette</i>.) </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">The key distinction is that these are things I rejoice in gravitating towards. If I happen to forget all five for a week, I don't want to say, "Oh crap. I am a toadlike failure, as was clearly inevitable." I want to murmur, "Oh, wow. I've got a ton of happy to catch up on." </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">So, only good, only nurturing, only generous and kind, feel-good mini-parties on my resolutions list this year. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">These are them: ("Screw good grammar" isn't on the list either, but what the heck.) </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">#1. Breathe like it's a spa treatment. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">#2. Be alert for improvement. When improvement is identified, celebrate.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">#3. Pay attention: Notice. Listen. Smell. Touch. Taste. Savor. Love. Be. Repeat.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">#4. Be kind to somebody. Anybody. Start with you and work outward.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">#5. Be grateful for something. Anything. Everything. Maybe even taxes. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">#6. (Cut yourself a break. Give yourself a bonus.) Invoke festivity.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">That's them. Aren't they pretty? Sweeter than a SweetyFry. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">To you, I say, Happy New Year. With all the incandescence of #5, I say that I am grateful for all the magical goodness that has come to me this year, all the kindness, all the healing, all the promise, all the generosity, all the love. (You know who you are. If you got this, you know.) </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">And, with all the kindness I can muster from #4, I invite you to make your own Happylutions.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">XOXOXOAnnie </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6193627556992077007.post-86473045020520622322011-12-22T15:20:00.007-05:002011-12-22T21:27:36.237-05:00U R BLES<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-lf4jKEPkv54/TvOLFECzDYI/AAAAAAAAAik/aBzEsL1f5xo/s1600/Christmas+Storm+010.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-lf4jKEPkv54/TvOLFECzDYI/AAAAAAAAAik/aBzEsL1f5xo/s320/Christmas+Storm+010.JPG" width="217" /></a></div><br />
<br />
Quick! Before Christmas. Before New Years. Before I forget. I want to write this down. Because it's the sort of thing that can really make a difference. And it's also the kind of thing that wears out, wears off, gets lost in the day-to-day. Like it never happened.<br />
<br />
Here it is. It's Monday at about 6:35 p.m. -- dead dark and drizzling. There I go, driving The Flying Tomato across the familiar intersection of Lakeshore & 149th, with the green light in my favor. And there it was. My brush with Eternity.<br />
<br />
Eternity was coming straight at me, driving a Cleveland Police cruiser, doing approximately 65 mph with its full complement of flashing red and blue lights. (And siren blasting, I'm sure, although I missed that somehow in the amazement of the moment.)<br />
<br />
It was large. And quite colorful. And close. I registered a big-flashing-red-and-blue UhOh. And my foot saved me by stomping on the accelerator <i>ASAP</i>. In an instant I was across the intersection and kind of parked. In good repair and excellent health. With probably 3/4 of a whole second to spare.<br />
<br />
Spared.<br />
<br />
I was spared! Realistically speaking, in my smallish red car with my 10 lb. Le Creuset pot full of hot sweet potato and lentil soup on the floor of the front seat, I would have been -- upon impact with that cop -- a) crushed dead and b) covered in soup. And probably have damaged the police person pretty badly, too. Not what I had planned for the evening. <br />
<br />
So, I drove calmly up the hill, ignoring the little voice that said, "Holy sweet jumping lizards, that was close!" I drove past the Nela Park Christmas lighting display, marveling at how great it is this year after being only "just okay" last year, and ignoring the fact that there seemed to be a red VW bug, the very spitting image of mine, limned in glowing light, on the lawn. (No kidding. Go look.) Just driving along, and watching my speed to avoid the evil spy cameras on Noble Road and ignoring the fact that I was, mostly accidentally, still alive. Not dead or injured or even hot-soup-spattered. Spared.<br />
<br />
I had a little more trouble, though, ignoring the white sedan in front of me with the vanity license plate that read (with vanity plate economy) U R BLES Oh, c'mon. Truly? And was Marley's Ghost <i>driving</i>? Not as far as I could see. <br />
<br />
I finally got the message. One wouldn't have to buy into the woo-woo of it all perhaps -- though I probably did. But the wake up call? For sure. Because whether it was the hand of God, or the dance of the Universe, or the good offices of my fast right foot, I was alive and well and on my way to book group. No harm. No foul. Spared.<br />
<br />
So, right away, that begs the question: "Spared for <i>what</i>?" Because we know people in books and movies always say, "She was spared to do some good thing in the world." Or "She was spared and finally appreciated the preciousness of her one human life." Or. "She was spared and gave poor Bob Cratchit a big turkey and a nice raise." Or other things along that line, usually with examples. <br />
<br />
Spared for what? That's a great question. Because if I look back -- and if you look back, you'll no doubt see this, too -- I've had a lot of close calls in my life. As close as that, if not as colorful. And I'm willing to entertain the possibility that others I don't even know about brushed by, like an asteroid, tumbling through the darkness, just as close or closer. How about you?<br />
<br />
So we're living The Spared Life, you and I, and probably everybody alive. And I've found in the last handful of days that The Spared Life is a very fine thing if you keep inquiring of it, "Was I spared for this?" To do this good thing? To save somebody without knowing it? To pass along the U R BLES message in short hand or long hand? To move through the world as if the commonplace were holy? That's a good question. And best left open so it can keep moving unimpeded through the world. <br />
<br />
Then, when annoyance strikes and I say or do or think something REALLY PETTY? Here's a good question to ask: "Was I spared for <i>this</i>?" Did I get rescued from the intersection of Soup & Death to be my old familiar jerk? Surely the Universe had something a little more generous in mind. Or, if we believe some holy, wonderful Something was not in charge right then, maybe it could be just me or just you with a suddenly better idea. A kinder, better, more loving, more ultimately satisfying way to be. In honor of the pure unbridled generosity of ... The Gift of Life.<br />
<br />
Gratitude. <br />
<br />
So, here's my Christmas/New Years message unto myself and to you: I am thankful to have been spared to intend to be a better, kinder, more generous, less <i>jerkier</i> human being. I am renewed in my sense of gratitude for family, for friends, for home, for my juvenile delinquent cat, for my unmanageable lake and this extraordinary moment.<br />
<br />
I tell you this not so you can watch for me, going about, doing good, because you'd likely be sorely disillusioned.<br />
<br />
What I wish for you is that you ride my little hair-raising experience into a happily enhanced appreciation of your own gratitude-worthy life.<br />
<br />
And to Marley's Ghost in the white sedan, I say, "God bless us, everyone. No exceptions."<br />
<br />
And especially, "BLES U."Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6193627556992077007.post-68123853623527166442011-09-29T14:29:00.001-04:002011-09-29T14:30:41.321-04:00I kissed a book.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRV5QS8PxJKhvyyw19BczNeaOpJRM2l13Znae5P-RbRZMr52RcWD1dtVwR1y4gjWn2htwI7JSJhtr5rXiC5ASTI-LiM2Jdz7vD_6_cqSOwj_39Pd4bCC460aBj9ke0sSrbZCQXeIGwS0mL/s1600/51nRHgj%252BoGL._BO2%252C204%252C203%252C200_PIsitb-sticker-arrow-click%252CTopRight%252C35%252C-76_AA300_SH20_OU01_.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRV5QS8PxJKhvyyw19BczNeaOpJRM2l13Znae5P-RbRZMr52RcWD1dtVwR1y4gjWn2htwI7JSJhtr5rXiC5ASTI-LiM2Jdz7vD_6_cqSOwj_39Pd4bCC460aBj9ke0sSrbZCQXeIGwS0mL/s1600/51nRHgj%252BoGL._BO2%252C204%252C203%252C200_PIsitb-sticker-arrow-click%252CTopRight%252C35%252C-76_AA300_SH20_OU01_.jpg" /></a></div>This is a revelation less provocative than some and more suggestive of insanity than most. <br />
<br />
I'm reading <i>The Art of Fielding</i> and I am in love. I'm not in love with the author, although I pause in my reading occasionally to bless, if not kiss, him. I'm in love with Henry, with Schwartz, with Owen, with Affenlight, with Pella. Even just a little bit with Herman Melville -- who woulda thunk it? I'm bedazzled. Bewildered. Entranced. My heart is busted right open and filled with the light that pours out of this book.<br />
<br />
Which I guess accounts for why, having read the end of Chapter 15, I was so touched and exhilarated by the beautiful delineation of the human soul contained therein, that I planted a big smackeroo right on the screen of my iPad. Which I never kissed before. I swear.<br />
<br />
[I know. I know. Let's set aside for a moment the issue of did I really kiss a <i>book</i> if I had to kiss it through a glass screen. Isn't that more of a prison visit, after all? I actually do share your passion for the smell of libraries and the deliciously tactile experience of a "real book." I do. But I also subscribe to the heresy that a book is a dance between two fully participating humans--writer/reader--and that dance can be danced on just about any medium which displays or purveys words that can be deciphered. (If you've ever read a book on an iPhone, you know what I mean.) And in my present state of mind, I can say with confidence that if Chad Harbach had written The Art of Fielding on &$#@*^% <i>gum wrappers</i>, I'd still be his girl.] <br />
<br />
Have I read all the way to the end? Can I guarantee anything about even my own satisfaction when all's said and done? No. I'm a rampaging reader and I think it's indicative of how much I'm loving this book that I keep stopping. And waiting. Actually savoring. I'm studiously not reading reviews. And this isn't actually one of those either. This is a blog. It's about me, me, me. There are lots of reviews of this book out there in the world. I'm entirely happy to keep it that way. This is love, after all, and it doesn't bear a lot of poking and prodding. It just <i>is</i>. <br />
<br />
I have a cherished memory of my penchant for crazy kissing that comes from the exhausting, exuberant days when our son was a baby. I kissed him of course, on his darling pink toes, on his downy head, on his angelic belly button. He was infinitely kissable. One late afternoon I was coming up the basement stairs with a load of freshly dried laundry -- baby shirts, baby pants, baby diapers (yeah, those were the days) -- and they smelled so incredibly <i>baby</i> and I was freaking tired out of my mind, of course, and not accountable for any of my actions. So I planted a big old kiss right on the laundry. I kissed a load of laundry. With all my heart.<br />
<br />
Sue me. <br />
<br />
I read all sorts of books. I love all sorts of books. I love books that serious bookers turn their serious noses up at. I mean it. I have adored some bona fide <i>trash</i>. The New York Times and I are often not of one mind. But I almost never pick up a book that from the first handful of words is as incandescent as this book is for me.<br />
<br />
Over the top? Well, duh. Do I care? Not a whit. Am I in love with <i>The Art of Fielding</i>? A book about baseball, for goodness sake? Yup.<br />
<br />
Sue me.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6193627556992077007.post-48766079920856813822011-09-28T13:01:00.001-04:002011-09-29T08:11:27.887-04:00New Post. Really?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjeYfbR7_KScOqDfbGK1l3TeFzHNoZ4FT1fkgT00trYwp97evgAp9BceTREuEvcgnPbyP3h9p4Hjjn5MBBzxJmZFrxHcgfVYVBSnQE8E8HksdmFMqPCe79pFJfkVU95HWz-cvCR3c5wH9a/s1600/CIMG1603.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="158" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjeYfbR7_KScOqDfbGK1l3TeFzHNoZ4FT1fkgT00trYwp97evgAp9BceTREuEvcgnPbyP3h9p4Hjjn5MBBzxJmZFrxHcgfVYVBSnQE8E8HksdmFMqPCe79pFJfkVU95HWz-cvCR3c5wH9a/s320/CIMG1603.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: right;"><br />
</div>Spring turns into summer.<br />
Summer dissolves into fall.<br />
Fall hovers on the abyss of October.<br />
Where was I?<br />
<br />
BOLO. Be on the lookout. For a blogger on the lam? That's me.<br />
<br />
Here I am. At last. <br />
<br />
So, actually. Where was I? So many places. So little time. Right here, I feel compelled to comment on the American Mindset which suggests that if one has not realized certain ambitions and accomplishments by the coming of autumn, one has wasted the summer. Not true, I say.<br />
<br />
Here's what I was<i> not </i>doing:<br />
<br />
Publishing a novel. (More about that in a minute.)<br />
Learning Italian.<br />
Training for a marathon. Or a half-marathon. Or a five-mile, three-mile, one-mile run. <br />
Reorganizing the garage.<br />
Redecorating the living room. <br />
Hosting a Lake Day.<br />
Finally, <i>finally</i>, getting into the kayak. <br />
Becoming in any way better looking.<br />
Getting in any way younger.<br />
Writing in this blog.<br />
<i>Wasting a summer. </i><br />
<br />
I had my summer. Heaped up and running over.<br />
<br />
I awakened early and mostly rolled over and went back to sleep, noting that yes, at 5 a.m. in June, the sun is already up. Hurray for it.<br />
<br />
I sat at our table with family and dearest friends on a fine number of occasions, relished the good food and savored the presence of the folks. Sometimes the table was inside. Sometimes the table was outside. Always the table was safe under the canopy of love. Dear friends. You know who you are. <br />
<br />
We had a lot of rain. I love rain. Mostly, I enjoyed the rain. Mostly, I enjoyed the thunder ... if it came from at least three chimpanzees away. <br />
<br />
We had bugs. Not so many this year, but persistently returning. I don't love the bugs but I'm down with them. <span class="bgpage-taxon-desc">Ephemeroptera. They earn their name by living one day and dying overnight. Go you, little bugs, I say.</span><br />
<span class="bgpage-taxon-desc"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="bgpage-taxon-desc">We had a hot spell.</span><br />
<span class="bgpage-taxon-desc"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="bgpage-taxon-desc">We had a cool spell. And as noted, really, quite a lot of rain.</span><br />
<span class="bgpage-taxon-desc"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="bgpage-taxon-desc">The pond got renovated and restocked. We watched and blessed, but did not name, the new fish. Nine goldfish surviving. Possibly ten, but they move so fast, who can count them? Four Golden Orfes (I'm sorry. Is that NOT just the best name <i>ever</i> for a darting, shimmying, leaping little yellow fish?) Two shubunkins. (I'm sorry. Is that NOT the stupidest name ever for those calico-colored beauties?) </span><br />
<span class="bgpage-taxon-desc"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="bgpage-taxon-desc">We lingered on the decks, not nearly enough. But there were sailboat mornings and sunset evenings and screaming girls dragged about on inner tubes (only one or two, but still ... a little screaming girl goes a long way.) There were breakfasts and lunches and dinners consumed in the presence of a Great Lake and a lot of wistful squirrels.</span><br />
<span class="bgpage-taxon-desc"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="bgpage-taxon-desc">There were raccoon nights of unprecedented bravado. Those furry bandits care even less about where they go and whom they menace than the Honey Badger. And we know The Honey Badger (to put it politely) <i>don't give a ... </i>darn.</span><br />
<br />
<span class="bgpage-taxon-desc">I revised the novel. Because: </span><br />
<span class="bgpage-taxon-desc"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="bgpage-taxon-desc">I found -- so serendipitously ... thank you, Lynn ... thank you Universe -- a writing partner who, having been writing and writing all along, has <i>had a real novel published </i>and because she is a stellar human being, let me read and comment on her latest novel-in-progress and agreed to read and comment on mine. </span><br />
<br />
<span class="bgpage-taxon-desc">If there were -- buried deep in my heart -- an alter ego who somehow knew what I had left out, what I was still searching for, what the book needed in order for it to be the book I could love without reservation and send whole and plenty-good-enough-for-me back into the forest where The Crafty Readers lurk? That would be Tina. </span><br />
<br />
<span class="bgpage-taxon-desc">Tina, I can never be grateful enough. You are the pen pal I wanted when I was ten. And also the one I needed this summer. </span><br />
<br />
<span class="bgpage-taxon-desc">Plus, thanks for introducing me to the awe-inspiring Mojito Literary Society and another *#(&@^ go-round with the *#&@^ Artist's Way. </span><span class="bgpage-taxon-desc">*#&@^, I say. </span><span class="bgpage-taxon-desc">*#&@^!!!!</span><span class="bgpage-taxon-desc"> Which is exactly what the Honey Badger would say. </span><br />
<br />
<span class="bgpage-taxon-desc">So I spent, no, <i>lavished</i>, a lot of my summer on rewriting <i>Somebody's Bound To Wind Up Dead</i>. Making it better. Making it so good. Loving it again. </span><br />
<br />
<span class="bgpage-taxon-desc">I read an incredible number of books, with both of my wonderful book groups and on my own. I read classics, magnificent stories, terrific reads and enjoyable crap. Fast and indiscriminately. I loved them all. Reading is so fun. </span><br />
<span class="bgpage-taxon-desc"> </span><br />
<br />
<span class="bgpage-taxon-desc">I listened to retreats conducted by Pema Chodron, my defacto spiritual teacher. I listened to them in my car on my way to working out and on my way back from working out, several days each week. Pema has taught me a bunch of stuff. She is kind. Compassionate. Forgiving. Encouraging. And on tape. So she couldn't beat me with the big stick for being a lazy student. Not that she would, of course. But that she should. </span><br />
<br />
<span class="bgpage-taxon-desc">I'm learning from Pema to stay with what's uncomfortable or scary or sad and to be glad for life when it's sweet and sour and itchy and grouchy and good and bad. And, once every two or three days, to be present and awake to whatever's here and now. For about 30 seconds. I'm also learning to forgive myself for not being present every minute of the damn summer. I'm learning all that from Pema. Thank you, Pema. I'm grateful. No kidding.</span><br />
<span class="bgpage-taxon-desc"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="bgpage-taxon-desc">I got my knees back. Both of them. I worked them out sufficiently to make them wholly acceptable unto me. I need now to work myself out enough to make me wholly acceptable unto them.</span><br />
<br />
<span class="bgpage-taxon-desc">I went places with Bill. Stayed home with Bill. Talked with Bill. Ate the above-mentioned breakfasts, lunches and dinners by the Great Lake with Bill. Lived another summer with Bill. Lucky, I. Thank you, Bill. Always. </span><br />
<br />
<span class="bgpage-taxon-desc">The same goes for John. And Allie. And Cujo. And all my other dear, dear people. You know who you are. </span><br />
<span class="bgpage-taxon-desc"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="bgpage-taxon-desc">And now summer is over. Savored to the full extent of an idle, distracted, regretful, forgetful mind. Which is a lot of savoring, it turns out. </span><br />
<span class="bgpage-taxon-desc"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="bgpage-taxon-desc">Let's BOLO for winter now. </span><br />
<br />
<span class="bgpage-taxon-desc">And in case you don't know from watching a lot of crappy crime-related TV, BOLO is explained in the post located right below this one. </span><br />
<span class="bgpage-taxon-desc"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="bgpage-taxon-desc">Summer may be over, but the blogger is back! </span><br />
<span class="bgpage-taxon-desc"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="bgpage-taxon-desc"><br />
</span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6193627556992077007.post-14256422331004937442011-04-08T10:56:00.000-04:002011-04-08T19:54:55.912-04:00BOLO: For Spring<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgt6Ei8Fg5Q5QHHuKNDl2-dRJbK8tKJ5bukVdwE_aa5bCiIn2p_dXAARR1EbAKnDg8idUMLF21FRI8gdtdxvs0gYsPBaChORde7e9ssZN3RPBjQlxpIc6IGLwNe7upekMfCATY-GbdaytV2/s1600/CIMG1631.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgt6Ei8Fg5Q5QHHuKNDl2-dRJbK8tKJ5bukVdwE_aa5bCiIn2p_dXAARR1EbAKnDg8idUMLF21FRI8gdtdxvs0gYsPBaChORde7e9ssZN3RPBjQlxpIc6IGLwNe7upekMfCATY-GbdaytV2/s320/CIMG1631.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>If you knew me well, you'd know that, in much the same way that the kid from "The Sixth Sense" saw dead people, I see (and write about) crimes. Mystery. Oh, yeah, and dead people.<br />
<br />
But not actually dead. And not actually people. More like potential, imaginary, fictional dead people. Like, if I were to find myself in the beer cooler at Dave's Super Market, I'd go "Wow, what if someone walked in here and there was a dead person (a <i>blue </i>dead person) leaned stiffly up against the six packs of St. Pauli Girl." How cool (NPI) would that be???<br />
<br />
It's like I'm living the first five minutes of "Castle" or "Bones" over and over again. In my head. At the store. Only not as gross. I'm usually eating something or planning to eat a little something in the next two or three hours or so, so I try not to be imaginative in that gross and disgusting, sort of liquidy, way that Castle and Bones specialize in. Eeww.<br />
<br />
My point? Getting there. I LOVE those stories and I relish all the lingo. Like recently I encountered BOLO in Tina Whittle's debut novel <i>The Dangerous Edge of Things</i>. (Read this novel. I read it. I loved it. It's way fun. Just do it. And if my just do it recommendation isn't persuasive enough, see my review at Amazon.com. <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Dangerous-Edge-Things-Randolph-Mystery/product-reviews/1590588193/ref=cm_cr_dp_all_helpful?ie=UTF8&showViewpoints=1&sortBy=bySubmissionDateDescending">http://www.amazon.com/Dangerous-Edge-Things-Randolph-Mystery/product-reviews/1590588193/ref=cm_cr_dp_all_helpful?ie=UTF8&showViewpoints=1&sortBy=bySubmissionDateDescending</a> And ask me why I have such a ridiculous user name there. Go ahead. I ask myself, myself. Lizzie? <i>Really?</i>)<br />
<br />
I'd seen BOLO in books and heard it bandied about on TV before but I had to look it up. It means Be On The Lookout. As in "As soon as I saw Frankie Brancusi leaned up against the six packs of St. Pauli Girl in the beer cooler at Dave's, I put out a BOLO for Ralph "The Iceman" Boyardee. 'Sonofabitch is at it again,' I muttered, 'and this time, he's mine.'" <br />
<br />
I like BOLO. It's the kinder, gentler kid brother of the APB. "Keep an eye open for .... If you happen to run across.... When he shows up at the N-Spot .... lemme know. But for crissake don't <i>shoot</i> him. Just, you know. BOLO."<br />
<br />
Now for the non-crime, philosophical application. My experience suggests that if you put out a BOLO for something you'd like to see in the world or in your more immediate life, it has a better chance of showing up. (I know. Woo woo. Wackyass. New Age bs. Get over it. Choose to be happier, you sour cynic.)<br />
<br />
What I really need right now is some serious spring. I have two new bionic knees and it's tough to get them up to six million dollar speed inside the house. Walls <i>will </i>stop you. Plus it's been slimy, icy, dark and rainy/snowing for quite some time and a change would be appreciated. Therefore I invite us all to BOLO for spring. And to give us all a little boost, here are some signs of Spring in Cleveland that might be interpreted as signs of winter in other, less challenging climes:<br />
<br />
The small round "lakes" in the roads are no longer frozen over into teeny, tiny skating ponds. Check. (And swerve to avoid.) <br />
<br />
Ten thousand ducks are engaging in a social convention that can only be described as "duck speed dating." Check. (In case anyone ever asks you where baby ducks come from, tell them Lake Erie. It's a kind of single's bar. For ducks.) <br />
<br />
Against my better judgment and in spite of my kind warnings, daffodils are popping up like the true morons they are. Check. Check. Check check check.<br />
<br />
The buds of the leaves of summer 2011 are clearly delineated against the blank gray of the sky. Check. <br />
<br />
The grass is green. Green<i>er</i>. Checking. Checking. Keep checking.<br />
<br />
The wild garlics are springing up like the creepy intractable weeds they are. Soon the garden will be in full and lavish ... ah ... smelly garlicky weed bloom. Check. Pewie.<br />
<br />
Now it's your turn. BOLO for spring! It'll make you happier, I promise. And if you happen to see Ralphie B. hanging out up at Dave's, lemme know. But for crissake, don't <i>shoot</i> him. Just, you know, BOLO.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6193627556992077007.post-46162797666113394122011-01-11T14:19:00.000-05:002011-01-12T11:59:19.650-05:00Ice, Ice, Baby.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgM1Rk3ag7qavBkaRYLuGcRCCEx4RLHXz9OJbncpUqs3mWjItrdD_UzJVzt8dWJKtyrKILoITnbvDk2pBsSquIp9N9tvnytp8cO-DfTxLixD6jhCDqg7xmVdbPvVJbGG5_3xWx99OjyV5ty/s1600/-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgM1Rk3ag7qavBkaRYLuGcRCCEx4RLHXz9OJbncpUqs3mWjItrdD_UzJVzt8dWJKtyrKILoITnbvDk2pBsSquIp9N9tvnytp8cO-DfTxLixD6jhCDqg7xmVdbPvVJbGG5_3xWx99OjyV5ty/s320/-2.jpg" width="239" /></a></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">I'm back. And I've been gone so long even Blogger didn't remember me. What can I say. It was knee surgery. It was Turkey Day. It was Christmas. It was New Years. It was my birthday. I was preoccupied. But I'm here now.</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">Talking about ice.</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">I'm confident that if you're savvy enough to go bloggering about the Internet, you already know that the Native Americans formerly (and I believe now un-PC-ly) known as Eskimos had something like 100 words for snow. Presumably that was because they didn't have TV, cars, drive-in movies or iPads and got really familiar with snow. Which was one thing -- maybe almost the only thing -- they <i>did</i> have. </span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">This is a pretty story and there's a lesson in there I'm sure, but apparently it's not exactly true. These indigenous peoples, while they must have had many distinctions for snow that even, say, Clevelanders don't have, they didn't have 100.</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">According to Wiki (No-Leaki) Pedia: </span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">"One can create a practically unlimited number of new words in the Eskimoan languages on any topic, not just snow, and these same concepts can be expressed in other languages using combinations of words." </span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">Apparently, this is because of prefixes and word combos like "ohno more crappy" snow or "don't tell me it's ^&*%$ snowing again" snow. Which aren't distinct <i>words</i> as much as a possible heartfelt sentiment of the Inuit peoples. </span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">Which brings me, inevitably, as always, to me.</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">And to my lake which is currently freezing over because it's been way cold. And rather calm. Which creates excellent conditions for the freezing of lakes. </span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">We have lived at the brink of this lake for five full winters now. This is Winter #6. We get asked quite a few questions about when, how, why -- all that -- the lake freezes. The answer, the<i> truth</i>, is: Beats me.</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">Every year it's been different. The first year it didn't freeze at all. It tried. But no luck.</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">Winter 2, it froze overnight. From a turgid, gelular (I knew there was no word such as gelular -- gel-like, it was) sort of subdued state at bedtime, it went <i>dead solid</i> by 3 a.m. I wrote about this in my third unpublished novel, as follows:</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><style>
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</style> </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal; text-indent: 31.5pt;"><span style="font-size: small;">"It was a white night. For a moment I couldn’t absorb what I was seeing. At dusk, the ice had been just a thin line, barely visible on the horizon. And Emily had showed me the slushy bubbles she called Slurpee Ice just beginning to congeal. Now the freezing had overcome everything. The lake was a bright plain, flat and dazzling under the stark glare of a high, almost-full moon. Just like that. Close in to shore I could see a few black rivers of water still moving. Fed by some warmer current and still alive in that pale, dead world." </span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">(This insight on the part of my protagonist was followed shortly thereafter by murder and mayhem and a denouement that occurred out there <i>on the ice</i>. But that's not important now.)<br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">And it actually was also an introduction to one of my own 100 words for ice: Slurpee Ice. Granular coatings of crushed coldness that snap frozen. Just like that. </span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">"Ah," I mused back then. "So <i>that's</i> how it happens!" </span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">Nope. That's how it happened in Winter 2. </span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">In the ensuing winters I have coined such new expressions as "Chunky Monkey Ice, Sparkling Diamond Ice, Crazy Jumbled-Up Ice, Blowing Sand Dune Snow/Ice, Hockey-able Ice, 'Look At That Triangle of Ice!' Ice." Last year was "Wooee! Big Mountain!" Ice. And this year "Telephone Line Ice" for unexpectedly smooth ice with lots of long, straight, hair-line cracks running through it. </span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">So, big surprise. It's never quite the same. That's just the way of it. Yesterday there was a bald eagle sitting out there wondering why there was a &*(&%% floor between him and the fish. Today a coyote, moving quick. On very cold paws, I'm guessing. </span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">Every year. Every season. Every day is different on Lake E. The photo I took 45 minutes ago, is out of date now as snow coats our world. The breakers of autumn have become a silent field of snow. There's a word for that.</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">I think I'll call this one, "Beautiful." </span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"></span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6193627556992077007.post-90214705255050939962010-12-17T12:12:00.000-05:002010-12-17T12:12:32.191-05:00At Christmas<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEim-OtU1RJKJ1n01GnSntGM660CkMDt8KdtotNz_SiPmj2WzKvJwpe8j-1U3HK7DPfDAUR0MRMd1-xSOBH6VhewhBXq8cRUfSmHONlo019zcb1eScLMfiktIrC06q66s3Tr3u4DyLhi9qtA/s1600/-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEim-OtU1RJKJ1n01GnSntGM660CkMDt8KdtotNz_SiPmj2WzKvJwpe8j-1U3HK7DPfDAUR0MRMd1-xSOBH6VhewhBXq8cRUfSmHONlo019zcb1eScLMfiktIrC06q66s3Tr3u4DyLhi9qtA/s320/-1.jpg" width="277" /></a></div>My book club, as I've written here before, tends to push me towards doing things I'd not normally do. Read hard, sad, rigorous books, like <i>The Brief, Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao</i>, for example. Or, on at least one occasion, write a poem. Out of sheer Christmas Desperation. <br />
<br />
Usually, for our December meeting, we don't read any book, either rigorous or fluffy, on the assumption that everybody is<i> way too busy</i>. We gather together around somebody's cozy fire, eat cookies and drink wine, and each of us reads from some Christmasy thing we like. Sometimes Ida plays her cello. That is a particular treat. <br />
<br />
Coupla Christmases ago I was planning to read from <i>A Child's Christmas in Wales</i> by Dylan Thomas. Just a bit here and there and then the end which goes like this:<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">"Looking through my bedroom window, out into the moonlight and the unending smoke-colored snow, I could see the lights in the windows of all the other houses on our hill and hear the music rising from them up the long, steady falling night. I turned the gas down, I got into bed. I said some words to the close and holy darkness, and then I slept."</div><div style="text-align: left;"> <br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">So, just to make sure I could pronounce parts like "moonlight" and "snow," I read through it aloud. Guess what. I could pronounce all of it, but I couldn't read the end without crying. There was something about that "close and holy darkness" thing that cracked open my heart in the most awkward way. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">I don't know if it's because December binds us irrevocably to the tender hopes and dreams of childhood. Or if it's the liturgy of the season that pours down upon us in sacred hymns and olde favorites like "Baby, It's Cold Outside." But for me there's a Ghost of Christmas Past on every corner, roasting chestnuts and stirring dreams. My memories of that little town in which I grew up, embellished by the passage of a lot of time and the erasure of the commonplaceness of the place, are rich, sweet and overpowering. When Dylan says, "I could see the lights in the windows of all the the other houses on our hill?" Well, <i>Ack</i>! I can see them, too.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">So, that was out. What to do? Who knew what other emotional pitfalls lurked in beloved stories of the holiday? I decided to pull one of my old sleight of hand tricks from my copywriting days. If I needed a quote and didn't have time to get permission or whatever, I'd write one of my own and attribute it to Anonymous. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">I decided to write a Christmas Poem. Ha! </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">And I did. I tried to capture what the season is like for women, who so often are the ones called upon to do a magical juggling act of bright ornaments, favorite recipes, sacred traditions and -- yes -- the perfect gift. Men make a ton of Christmas, too, and it would be no fun without them, no doubt. But this was a girl poem for the ladies of the club. I stuffed it full of hope and angst such as I feel when it's all too much, too, big, too fragile, too holy to deal with. This is it. </div><div style="font-family: inherit; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>A Christmas Prayer</b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">Bear us up, O baby in the manger.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">Bear us up through the list-making, the driving, the parking, the trudging, the shopping, the wrapping, the baking, the cooking, the hoping that all will be well and all merry.<span> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">It is the women who make the Christmas.<span> </span>It is the women who wake at three o’clock in the morning and sit straight up in bed whispering to a man, who snores in oblivious yuletide bliss, “We forgot Nancy!”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">It was a woman who made the first Christmas.<span> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">Joseph swore he had nothing to do with it.<span> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">And the other Father—well, where was He?<span> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">Cheer us up, O baby in the manager.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">Forgive us, for we know not what we’ve spent.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">Surely, truly, we can never forgive ourselves.<span> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">Bless us.<span> </span>We mean well.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">We mean to be gracious and not churlish.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">To be generous and not begrudging.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">To be kind, to be calm.<span> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">To Be Organized.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">Unfrazzle our hearts.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">Lift us up, O baby in the manger.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">Be the forgiving one who said “Love one another as I have loved you,”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span> </span>Not the one who threatened a lot of casting into outer darkness and gnashing of teeth.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">(Reassure me that that one was just a case of bad reporting.)</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">I gnash my teeth and “click to submit my order.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">And wait for the UPS man to arrive with Christmas in a box.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">So, raise us up, O Baby in the manger who might have preferred something from the Sears Wish Book to the cold foretelling of gold, frankincense and myrrh. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal;"><span style="font-size: small;">Guide us through the valley of the shadow of the thought that nothing we do in this season of the year could possibly be holy. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal;"><span style="font-size: small;">And lift us to the hope that anything we do in this season of the year might, by thy grace, be holier than we know. Amen.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif; line-height: normal;"><span style="font-size: small;">I didn't cry. Well, maybe a glimmer and a catch at the end. The ladies were nice about it. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif; line-height: normal;"><span style="font-size: small;"> <br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif; line-height: normal;"><span style="font-size: small;">I expect to be back blogging before The Big Day, but in the meantime: Happy Whatever Holiday fills you with the Spirit of the Season. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif; line-height: normal;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif; line-height: normal;"><span style="font-size: small;">And as one of my most favorite bumper stickers prays: "God bless everyone. No exceptions."</span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6193627556992077007.post-46388200215387586262010-11-27T12:29:00.000-05:002010-11-27T12:35:21.920-05:00What I'm Thankful For<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTyL6m0n8LL6szJFpMSrW2IsWq8buiNXiZY35E3ebArQl18cMlWtv6wt9z744otlAMx8qYTkaezTAC9pX_u25pnjEdbq9UvpqJpJTRIH2JP-SlucuuelEOzE8I1OtD0gSxNs8GChja8GbT/s1600/images.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTyL6m0n8LL6szJFpMSrW2IsWq8buiNXiZY35E3ebArQl18cMlWtv6wt9z744otlAMx8qYTkaezTAC9pX_u25pnjEdbq9UvpqJpJTRIH2JP-SlucuuelEOzE8I1OtD0gSxNs8GChja8GbT/s1600/images.jpg" /></a> For starters, I'm thankful to Winston Churchill for having liberated us all from the No Prepositions At The End Of A Sentence rule. Well, most of us. I know there are a few clenched-jawed hold-outs. Keep clenching, folks. You connect us to our Puritan roots. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">So what am I really <i>thankful </i>for? Look. Anytime you yield consciousness and control to a man who's about to take a saw to your leg, <i>you are grateful to wake up</i>. As a particularly delightful bonus, you are grateful to wake up, feeling quite happy to be looking out a sunshiny window with a lot of kind people just finishing up on your new knee and talking to you nicely. Miss I Cannot Remember Your Name: You were SO NICE. Thank you! </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">So for starters, I am seriously thankful to be alive and walking excellently. I am also thankful for never getting shot in the leg (or any part of me) during the American Civil War (or any war for that matter.) I know how lucky I am. In so many, many ways.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">While I'm being thankful, I should throw in ALL the people, every single one at the Cleveland Clinic. I agree with Robin Williams that I wish for all people everywhere that kind of medical care and emotional support. From the guy with the seeing eye dog who hears you coming and welcomes you to the Orthopaedics Department, to the lady playing the harp like an angel in the main lobby, to the nurses and aides who are <i>insanely</i> patient with patients, to the surgeon who totally knows what he's doing and acts like it, to Mary Ann, the surgeon's nurse clinician who totally knows what YOU should be doing and helps you do that with even more patience and good humor than the nurses, if such a thing were possible. And Patsy, the Physical Therapist, who made me laugh so I didn't notice she was breaking off my limbs. I am thankful unto you all. Even, maybe especially, the dog who so warmed my heart with his steadfastness.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I'm thankful for my fabulous, irreplaceable friends and family members who clucked so sweetly about how was I doing and did I need anything and then showered us with cards, food, flowers and food that looks like flowers, gifts, visits, phone calls, emails, and tender concern. If I do any "especiallys" here I'm sure I'll leave somebody wonderful out. But folks, you know who you are. I am thinking of you ... yes YOU ... right now, with such gratitude, not just for how kind and generous you were on this occasions but what miraculous friends you are to me always forever and as-a-rule. I see your faces as I write. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">And if I have your plastic container, I swear you'll get it back. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Which enumeration brings us, of course, to immediate family: </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Cujo was okay. He has such a <i>penchant</i> for jumping on the very spot of my knee that should never be touched by cat claws and he did not respond to my condition with either sympathy or empathy. However, he gets a pass because he's genetically incapable, being a <i>felidae </i>and a true carnivore. And he's been warm and furry on my behalf. Every recuperating person should be tended to by a warm and furry friend. And learn to fend off a furry Knee Attacker. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">John's been great. Solicitous would be the word. Helpful would be another. Concerned like you would be if you really, really <i>liked </i>the limping person. A mother lives for such moments. Enough said. Thank you, John, for being my kind and wonderful son. And for bringing Allie (and her pies) into the picture at just the perfect moment. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">But here at the end of all thankfulnessworthy things, who gets the Oscar for Best Picture? Who showed up and was incredibly nice about it, <i>every single time</i> I got him up in the darkest section of the night. (Multiple, multiple times.) Who brought me things, even things I didn't deserve, ALL THE TIME? And told me I was being strong when I was actually whining (or at least groaning) quite a bit. (To be honest there was a <i>lot</i> of groaning and considerable moaning, much of it merely on principle, because if stuff didn't hurt, it seemed to me as if it should. Or might. At some point.) Who was worried and caring and vigilant? Who counted pills and bugged me about the therapy exercises even when I was snarly? And did I mention who was kind? And not merely kind of kind? Who made me laugh? And helped me feel pretty and lovable even when I was ... not. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Bill. My Billy. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">He has so many points hoarded up in the magnificent guy/excellent husband department, it scares me. I'll never be able to pay him back. I think he may have covered the "sickness and health" clause forever. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I also think, skimming back over what I've written here, that the thing I'm most thankful for in all of this is love of one kind or another. Every clumsy step of the way, I have felt amazingly, luckily, undeservedly loved. And Bill has loved me in the most generous, forgiving, and encouraging manner for the past way too many years -- and especially for the last month. Thank you forever, Bill. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">So, thank you, all you loving people mentioned and alluded to here. Like I said, you know who you are. And so do I.</div><br />
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Love,<br />
Annie <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0