MotleyBits*365

We interrupt your regularly scheduled blog . . .

2011-02-19T16:03:00.000-08:00

For those few who actually follow my otherwise well-intentioned blog, a la 365, I owe you an apology for the sudden silence, which completely goes against the stated charter of this particular blog. Thank you so much for letting me know you've missed my missives. :)

It seems that your intrepid author has fallen madly and deeply in love and can't seem to pull herself away from Skype long enough to keep up her blogging responsibilities.

This would normally not happen in your average relationship, but in this case (and in most cases for this writer these days), love seems to have struck from a land far, far away. 3000 miles in this case--Hawaii to be exact. Yes, I've fallen for an angel in paradise.

Those readers who know me--or followed my other, sadder blog--know that my last relationship began at about that same distance. That one rescued me from the frightening conservativeness of North Carolina and brought me here to experience the awesomeness of Portland. Although that relationship clearly had no future from the beginning, I am thankful for the geographic fortune it brought to my life.

I mean, what better place could there be to live than Portlandia itself, where the 90's are still alive and young people go to retire?

Well . . . if you're thinking perhaps Hawaii, then we're on the same page. It's actually a close race so far, a see-saw of Pro-Con's happily battling away, for both me and the amazing woman--more on my love later--who has prompted me to think these thoughts. Both places awesome and lovely places to live.

So, in the interests of tipping the scale, I'm taking an exploratory trip out to the islands of paradise in a few weeks, to see how it feels to live there, as well as to see if my mesmerized heart is right about the love who waits for me there. I shall keep you apprised.

In the meantime, I shall attempt to backfill the missing entries in this blog as time, energy and my twitterpated attention span permit . . . =)

You Won't Find Diamonds in a Chicken Coup

2011-01-31T16:35:00.000-08:00

Thanks to Roxie for this wonderful metaphor to illustrate the silliness of finding the Girl Next Door on an online dating site, in answer to my prior post, The LDR. She wisely suggests getting out and meeting people to help bring love into your life. And I thoroughly agree with this advice. But . . . I believe there is a counterpoint to this logic for some . . .

You might not find diamonds in the chicken coop, but if you ask the chickens they might know where to direct you, since they spend a lot of time looking at the ground.

In all silliness, my point is: dating sites are not universally a bad idea.

I agree that getting out and living life will always be the best way to meet compatible people, doing things you like to do and going places you like to go, but there are situations where this strategy can fall flat on its face.

For instance, the in-person meeting strategy is great for "normal" people. But when you don't know if a person is a lesbian and they don't know if you are a lesbian--because femme lesbians look just like straight girls--it is almost impossible to ask every single girl you see if they are a lesbian without giving them ample potential for taking some kind of offense over it and possibly stabbing you with a stiletto.

So then, what do you do?

This is where online social networks--and dating sites--come in handy. With this technology people of a certain ilk, such as femme lesbians, can advertise themselves, and their intentions, quite clearly so that like-minded, compatible women can find them. Granted, this can be fraught with peril, but no more than you might have at any social gathering. We all know about the losers you find at bars or other singles hangouts.

For example, I met up with one really fun meetup group (Let's Hang Out Portland), which gathered about 20 of us together in a friendly platonic group to go bowling together. The bowling was a blast but, as usual, I had no idea if any of the attractive women there might have any interest in other women. There was simply no way to tell. And I knew that there was no way for them to tell who I was interested in either. To make that point abundantly clear, about halfway through our sets a man began talking to me, complimenting me on my bowling form and quickly moving on to make inappropriate compliments on my physical form. I tried my best to diplomatically let him know I was unimpressed and to give no reciprocating interest; but he kept at it, practically demanding I dance with him by the time we had shifted to the karaoke portion of the evening.

Flustered, I finally outed myself as a lesbian, in as friendly a way as possible, to simply get him to direct his attentions elsewhere. Instead he became angry with me, called my lifestyle a "choice," which is basically a ridiculous accusation for anyone who knows anything about sexual orientation (or gender) and made me feel threatened for the remainder of the evening.

I might just as easily have run into a nice woman who might have had a chance of being my type, but I got this guy instead (and there is no end of these guys). Well, it's not really much different online. Dangers are everywhere.

The charm of the dating site is that not only can you more easily locate potential companions, you can use the tools provided to filter out the more obvious undesirables. You can also invite those who are left to converse, much like pen pals, in order to get a better feel about whether you might want to actually meet. In this way, if they get ugly you aren't within arms reach of them. When you get the feeling that meeting them might be fortuitous, then a date can be arranged and neither of you will feel as if you're starting from scratch in the smalltalk department.

From the date on, things are pretty much the same as meeting them in person--there are no real guarantees in either strategy that anyone represents themselves any better in person that first meeting, or for the first several dates, than they do online. It's really not all that different.

The reality is that in my case, and for women like me, there is a need to put the equivalent of a tattoo on our foreheads that says "femme lesbian looking for same." Using a good online dating site (such as OKCupid) this can be done with much less embarrassment ... and risk.

Denizens of the Roo

2011-01-30T18:05:00.000-08:00

There are regulars here at the Blue Kangaroo, my creative nexus of choice, my personal homework headquarters; a study mecca from which no quiz, test or project has gone amiss as yet. I suppose there always were repeat partakers of great coffee here, succumbing to the comfy armchairs or the Friends-like couch or one of the many butcher block tables--sometimes for several hours of the day.

But the regular-ness of some of us here didn't really register until today.

I've been going to the 'Roo--a moniker I'm not sure has the full sanction of Flo and Cindy, the owners--since I moved to Sellwood this past August. Thanks to a little rainbow sticker beside the front door, I first came in and noticed not so much the comfort of the place, but the feel of it. There's a creative vibe here--and I'm not the only one to notice it, if the number of laptops and schoolbooks and pads of paper are any indication. It's a place where things get done. And in my case, it's a place where things get done well. I wonder if others are having similar results.

Since August I haven't learned too many names of my fellow Roo-ites, for my name recall typical sucks the first few iterations, but I've become familiar with several faces that frequent the venue. And I imagine they've begun to notice me, as well.

Today especially seemed to bear that out. While completing an online quiz for my Visual Basic class--the only non-writing class I'm taking this term--a wonderfully nice lady (whose name has once again slipped out of some hole in my cranium) brought up the fact that she recognized me from many previous visits and had to say hello. She was reading The Hunger Games by Susan Collins, which she adamantly recommended to me. We had a nice conversation about books, the Roo, homework and her work. I felt like I made a fast friend today, one I will say hello to often when I come to dig my way through another drift of homework. One more comforting face, one more positive facet added to the already inspiring aura of the place.

Not long after, a fellow writer from my women's writing group at the college happened in and also recognized me. And suddenly, I'm not feeling as remote in Portland as I once thought.

It's amazing how new friends can help make a new city feel like your own. I've been here a year and eight months--only that latter part on my own. And although this city felt like home soon after I arrived, I'm beginning to actually feel at home here, thanks to all of the new friends I've made in those last eight months. And doesn't it seem appropriate that this happy realization occurred here, at the Roo, where I can write about it.

The Future of Book Publishing (and it's about time)

2011-01-29T13:50:00.000-08:00

I would like to take today's post to proudly support (i.e., plug) an industry (and the future) that has been too long in coming, but is welcome all the same. And I'm doubly proud to say that these are friends of mine. You guys rock!!

Introducing Puddletown Publishing Group
by Lisa Nowak on Friday, January 28, 2011 at 12:00pm

Some of my readers already know what I’ve been up to the past few weeks, but to others this post will be a surprise. Without further ado, I present to you the press release for:

Puddletown Publishing Group, an e-Publisher based in the Portland, Oregon metro area, announces its formation. Beginning in March 2011, Puddletown Publishing Group will release multiple titles formatted cross-platform for digital readers.

Founded by Susan Landis-Steward, Lisa Nowak, and Renée LaChance, Puddletown Publishing Group is adopting a business model that favors authors and embraces digital as the preferred method of content delivery for an author’s work.

The buzz in the traditional publishing world is that paper books and publications are going the way of 8-track and cassette tapes. Ebooks are destined to garner a large portion of publishing revenue, claiming one-third of all book sales in 2010, up from one half of one percent in 2009. Amazon.com announced in 2010 that sales of ebooks exceeded hardcover sales. Barnes and Noble announced in January 2011 that ebooks exceeded paperback sales on its website. Since last year’s release of the NOOKcolor and iPad, the evolution of ebooks has surprised publishing insiders and those outside the industry as well. The Jan. 3, 2011 Publisher’s Weekly cites a memo by the CEO of Simon and Schuster, Carol Reidy, where she states 2010 “is the year publishing changed irrevocably.”

“E-publishing is the wave of the future.” Landis-Steward says, “We want to get up on the board before the wave crests.”

“After pursuing traditional publishing and hearing that my writing is excellent but the subject matter doesn’t ‘fit the list’ of various agents and editors,” says Nowak. “I began looking into going directly to ebooks. The more research I did, the more I realized this is a viable option for most authors, whether they’re established or just starting out. It’s also an excellent option for traditionally published authors with a backlist of books that are no longer in print. Dead tree publishers have been gatekeepers to what readers can access. It’s time for that to change.”

Puddletown Publishing Group is modeling itself to be a part of that change. It will strive to influence the industry as an early adopter of the digital delivery system and create a market for new and established authors. Puddletown Publishing Group will partner with other small presses to get their author-branded backlists available on digital readers.

Landis-Steward, Nowak and LaChance bring decades of experience to the group.

Landis-Steward has worked in editing and writing for many years and brings two decades of strong journalism background to the group as well. She currently owns a writing, copyediting, and indexing business and is almost done with her Masters in Publishing at Portland State University. She has various other degrees, including a Masters in Spiritual Traditions and Ethics.

Nowak has 15 plus years experience as a small business owner, a strong background in reading, writing, and editing Young Adult fiction, and an established social network in children’s literature.

LaChance is an entrepreneur with business experience in editing, publishing and marketing. She is the co-founder of Just Out Newsmagazine and Out Media, Inc. Just Out is Oregon’s queer newsmagazine and Out Media was an advertising agency, event producer and publishing house based in Portland in the 1980s and 1990s. For the past 10 years she has worked doing copyediting, copy writing, publishing and creating graphics as LaChance Creative.

“We are very excited about our new venture and feel ebook publishing maximizes our combined skill set,” says LaChance. “I am impressed with the caliber of the authors we are already working with and I look forward to a Puddletown Publishing Group title on the New York Times Best eBook Sellers list.”

For additional information contact Renée LaChance

lachance@puddletowngroup.com

***

Stay tuned for information regarding my personal journey in deciding to become involved in this business.

The LDR

2011-01-28T23:59:00.000-08:00

This post was a little late (if a "little" can mean half a day), because the topic was too busy happening to be reported on. And it is this...

What do we do with the Long Distance Relationship?

Perhaps when I begin to describe my evening you will think, "Wow, she's really jumping the gun here." Well, no. Not really. Writers are allowed to think ahead more than normal people, if only to figure out what our characters are up to so that they can be honestly portrayed.

Hi, I'm MotleyBits, and I will be your character for the duration of this blog post.

Last night I was innocently perusing (i.e., procrastinatnig with my homework) the dating site OKCupid, to see if new love could be found there, only to find yet another otherwise interesting and beautiful lady had sent me a nice message from across the country, some 2400 miles away. She joked about the distance and hinted how it would be nice if we were closer.

I've only been in Portland less than two years and it still feels like the home I have been looking for all my life. That would be another blog post or three to completely explain why (so stayed tuned). Even with how much I want to be a part of a couple again, preferably for life, suffice it to say that if she really wants me, it'll have to be here. With apologies. I sent an equally complimentary, but regretful reply, wishing the same thing, and moved on.

I was beginning to wind down, tiring of looking at the tiny postage stamp-sized pictures of women and thinking about the homework I was not getting done . . . when an Instant Message box popped up and asked me how I was doing.

I might normally have ignored it, but the little picture in the corner showed a beautiful younger lady and homework seemed like it might be able to wait a few more minutes. So I cheerfully responded, and clicked to see who had singled me out to IM.

It turns out it's a beautiful woman who lives on the big island of Hawaii. Good grief. Just my luck. Another communication from 2660 miles away. So we talked about Hawaii and what brought her there from Portland, and how spontaneous the decision had seemed, but it seemed right. Her story sounded much like mine, in the way that I have also lived in many places before I found my "home." As she was drawn there.

We talked about the weather and how beautiful it was there, and how it was really no more expensive--not counting food--than it is to live here. That was a shock. I always thought that you needed to be rich to live in such a heavenly place. Not really ... you just needed to be a freelancer, or not mind working in a hotel, because that's the kind of jobs they have there.

In the course of this conversation, we noticed we were talking as if we'd known each other for years--and romantically. We both had gender issues in the past and we were both being very open about it along with everything else. The next thing we know, a few hours have past and we're both talking about how much we wish they had already invented teleportation devices, because we both wanted badly to be holding each other at that point. I still get the warm fuzzies just thinking about that conversation.

And yet, the morning after--my heart still aflutter, but my mind clear--I can't help but think, what do you do with something like this? If there really is something to it, even after only one evening, do you consider pursuing it knowing that you are only drawing yourself closer to the big question: Will one of us have to move?

The thing is, I moved to Portland to be with a woman I fell in love with online two years ago, the 2462 miles becoming impossible to bear. That relationship opened my eyes to how romantic love really could be, even after a 19-year marriage to my best friend. It was easily enough to motivate me to move to Portland from the east coast. Unfortunately it did not work out--could not, given the things she didn't tell me before I got there--but I have considered it an ultimately positive thing that she brought me to the place I feel is Home.

I already know the answer to my quandary here, for the time being: Continue to communicate with this romantic wonder and see what becomes of it. But I still wonder if it will mean yet another move should it work out. And would my being drawn to Hawaii of all places be such a bad thing?

I guess really the big question is: Why can't I seem to find love where I am now? This question I will continue to work on and keep you apprised. :)

Live Your Life

2011-01-27T23:54:00.000-08:00

Tonight I'm going to allow myself to succumb to sleep, so I'll share a text file I recently fell across on my computer, dated back in August of last year. It seems to be random affirmations to remind me to enjoy and make the best of my life, despite the heartbreak I was dealing with at the time. That heartbreak has pretty much faded away and I feel pretty good about life, but I found the words still ring true today.

Perhaps you have a list of things you want to tell yourself about living life more fully. :)

.........................................

Live Your Life
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

* Dream about living in Paris.

* Skip stones.

* Play the ukulele.

* Ride your bicycle everywhere.

* Listen for the train whistles.

* Write in cafes.

* Believe you can fly ... look at airplanes you might want to buy.

* Feel beautiful, because you are.

* Know that your own Amelie will come to you when the time is right.

* Believe in love (and True Love).

* You are amazing and special and the right friends will come along to appreciate this.

* If the beat strikes you, then Dance!

* Be in love with being in love.

* Remember: What would Melva do in this situation?

* Empathy – always.

* Cry when you need to.
   Laugh when you can.
    Smile all the time.
     Happiness is contagious and will make its way back to you.

* Live your life! Because you can do it better than anyone else can.

Anywhere But Here -- A writing exercise

2011-01-26T23:54:00.000-08:00

Here's another installment of work from my "Creative Writing: Fiction" class, an exercise I submitted for grading this evening. This one is a little strange, but I'll justify it by saying that the prompt was a little strange, too.

This week is all about Dialogue, the exercise is about attempting to write a piece almost entirely out of dialogue, while in the style of the prompt. There are only "he said," "she said" there, which I seemed to need even less so in my piece. For some reason my muse decided to continue from the prompt's slightly unnatural phone-sex beginnings ... out into space.

Here's the prompt for this exercise:

This second craft exercise will ask you to focus on dialogue. Write the next 500 words from this excerpt of Nicholson Baker's novel Vox:

And here's what I came up with:

Anywhere But Here ...

“I'm sorry—”
“I'm kidding, silly,” she said. “Now you.”
“I'm wearing a charcoal gray three-piece suit, with pinstripes. Not Armani, but close.”
“Nice.”
“I have the jacket thrown over one shoulder, the vest is unbuttoned and the sleeves of my pale blue shirt are rolled up halfway to my elbow and the collar is open.”
“How many buttons?”
“Two.”
“Where did the tie end up?”
“It's carefully folded and in my jacket pocket. It's silk and has small gray-blue dots on a background of dark red.”
“With that suit? I was picturing navy blue, but that might be … too much … blue.”
“Are you okay? You sure you want—”
“No, please. You haven't arrived to knock on my door yet, so I can see you.”
“This is so hard. Let me look at your gauges again.”
“Please … don't. What does it matter now? No one can possibly save us. I can't imagine what happened in there. It was so … horrible.”
“I know.”
“You got me into this suit before the fire got us. That was so chivalrous. You didn't even know me.”
“There were two suits and you were there—so beautiful. What was I supposed to do? And now that we've talked these past few hours, I wish I'd known you all my life, Deliques Intimates or not.”
“Me, too. I can barely feel you through this suit. At least the stars aren't making me dizzy anymore. I've never even been outside before.”
“I'm so sorry.”
“Why? At least we have a little more time than the rest of the people on the space station, what's left of it. You were the only one who did anything besides panic.”
“Yes, but … I have a confession to make.”
“What, darling?”
“I'm the one that set off the bomb.”
“You wh-what? You killed all of those people? Oh my God! Let go of me!”
“Please, no. Stop squirming. If we let go of each other we'll never be able to reach each other again. You don't want to die alone, do you?”
“But you killed all those people. You killed me!”
“I'm so sorry. At the time, it seemed the right thing to do. I was doing what I was told, for what I believe. But now I'm not so sure.”
“Fine time to figure it out, asshole. How could you—?”
“I was doing my job. I had no choice.”
“You always have a choice. You monster!”
“You don't know how it is. When you don't have anything else to live for, you'll believe anything to help put an end to it. Anything. I've been thinking about it ever since I met you. It's so different now.”
“Of course it's different. We're both going to die as soon as our air runs out. We're floating in space alone and no one will ever find us. That's about as different as anything gets. Jesus— “
“I'm so sorry. I wish I had time to explain. All I know is that I've fallen in love with you. It's changed everything. I don't even know that pathetic man I was before.”

“Please, talk to me,” he said. “We don't have a lot of time left. Please. The light is blinking and the air is getting pretty bad. I don't want to end it with us this way. There's no excuse for what I did, but I wanted you to know. I wanted to be honest with you. Does that amount for anything? Please. Talk to me. We're all we have now.”
“I know … It figures. Love has always been pretty fucked up for me. This would have to be how it ended up. I've got the worst karma.”
“I doubt that. I think you're amazing. You deserve so much better than this.”
“Everyone deserves better than this, you idiot.”
“I'm sorry.”
“Oh, shut up. I still can't help but feel fortunate I didn't burn up with the rest of them. I wish you hadn't killed us all, but there's that one small thing. If my air wasn't getting so thin, I'd rip off your arm and beat you to death with it.”
“I would let you. I think it's … interesting that your fantasy outfit has so many stars on it, considering where we are.”
“Hopeless moron.”
“Yes? Say anything, just please talk to me.”
“Oh, God.”
“I'm sorry.”
“Shut up. I live in a brownstone, nine marble steps leading up from 91st Avenue, a multi-paned glass door, beveled, leads into the lobby. You'd have to push the little button and tell me your name, and I'd buzz you up. No, scratch that. I'm adding a doorman who will be patting you down for explosives.”
“I don't blame you. I wouldn't have any. Will he let me up?”
“I suppose he'd have to. I'm on the second floor. The stairs are oak hardwood with a runner. There's a kind of Chinese pattern on it. My door is the second one from the landing on the right. It's white, with a small glass ornament made of broken shards of mirror.”
“I've climbed the stairs and stop there, worried I look too casual. I'm wondering if I should put my jacket back on to impress you. I smile quickly into the ornament to make sure I don't have something in my teeth.”
“I heard you come up the steps. They creak a little. I'm watching you in my peephole, charmed that you care what you look like. I like how you are dressed. I open the door just as you're about to knock. You look a little surprised, but then you see me—“
“And I'm mesmerized.”
“Yes, you're mesmerized. I ask you in … “

The Disorganizer

2011-01-25T23:37:00.000-08:00

It's not a cyborg. It doesn't come from the future. It's not even terribly big or strong. But it is about as unstoppable as a Terminator. It is the Disorganizer, a creature who can single-pawedly lay your apartment to waste--or at least make it messier than you can.

She's like a small, furry tornado. In fact, I think she may be a superhero with tornado powers, since she has a white shape emblazoned on her chest that looks exactly like what a tornado symbol should look like. It suits her, for she has many of the same powers as an actual tornado if it were scaled down into the body of a diminutive feline.

Since she took up residence in my apartment--I only say "my" apartment anymore because I still have my name on the lease, but I think this might be a mere technicality in the cat world--things move that should not be moving on their own. Items that used to stay on tables--pens, glasses, books, papers, keys, purses, ... --now spend more time on the floor. Some of the more interesting items don't stop moving from there.

Post-It notes, once a favorite way for me to remind myself of things, have suddenly become unreliable, because they can be found almost anywhere. I found one stuck to the tail of the tornado today, so it is clear now how they are making the trip from my desk to the clothes closet in my bedroom and various other places.

She's been working on knots, too. The chair pads that were once neatly tied to the chairs with bows are all untied and dangling free. I've never seen her do this.

Climbing is taking on new heights as well. She's learning to climb up on the back of my scrawny desk chair when I'm sitting in it, and watch over my shoulder to kibitz with my Facebook usage. The three-inch-wide top of my headboard is practically her own personal bedroom highway, although she will often take the bypass across my body when I'm sleeping.

New challenges are presenting themselves daily. This morning I had to concede her two points when I found my cell phone headset in the trash underneath the desk. And her interest in technology seems to be increasing. Lately, I've been noticing her eying the printer, for the way it randomly churns and spits paper out of its front. She seems to think this is as worthy of thought as the blinking Sleep Mode light on the front of the desktop computer. What she will do with this information, I shudder to think. Her mind is always going.

One of her more annoying habits is the way she cannot stand for the bathroom door to be closed at any time. If I don't push it shut hard enough, it doesn't latch perfectly. As soon as I go in, she pushes it open and joins me. If I close it behind her, she immediately starts working on opening it again, which she has mastered with nary a flick of her tiny wrist. If you're familiar with my bathroom mirror, you'll know it has a pretty great view down Milwaukie Blvd, which makes me wonder if people on the street can see me in the mirror, making showering around her most interesting.

I should have figured that her more entertaining talents--jumping her front feet into an empty shoe box and surfing it across the room, or burrowing under the blanket on my couch to ambush me whenever I sit down, or doing the panther crouch from the second shelf of my pantry whenever I go in there--would spur her on to new heights of self-entertainment.

Keeping me ever vigilant on kitten-proofing the apartment--a thankless, impossible job--I can barely wait to see what she thinks of next.

Life Without TV

2011-01-24T23:59:00.000-08:00

Is there life without television? Some of my friends seem to think not. They'll turn to me and say something like "Did you see the episode of ... " or "Did you see on the news where ... " and I'd have to stop them and say "I don't own a television."

I'd get a strange look from them as if I had just admitted to being abducted by aliens. They've heard of such a thing, of course, but they never thought it actually happened. Perhaps on a reality show... but not in real life.

I actually know of a few friends who have admitted to the same situation. For some reason or other, they don't own televisions either.

Some people actually admire this about us, but most of them can't imagine going without themselves. It's simply unthinkable. Why would we want to do something so radical? So unnatural? So inhuman? How can we survive?

I sometimes wonder the same about the folks who have televisions.

For me, I simply cannot stand the amount of time being stolen these days by forced advertising. From the advertisers' perspective, the only purpose to create entertainment or any kind of program to be aired on television is to sell us something. Not from the program itself, although that happens, too; but from attracting people to a program just long enough to keep them there while they run this "little commercial by you." And over the years they've trained us to accept more and more and more of a proportion of our recreational viewing time to be taken up by commercial breaks.

Do we all realize that we aren't really watching a program, like "House" or "Bones" or any other program for entertainment value? We're watching an enticement for the advertisements. The so-called entertainment is simply the bright light that gets us to gather around, so that the electric grid of advertisement can zap us. At least that has developed to be my view of the Boob Tube over the years.

As each commercial break seemed to get longer and longer over the years, until it seemed as if there was more selling going on than program, the programs themselves seemed to have less and less content or value. And it was frustrating to deal with the distraction from the story, when there were so many different interests clamoring for my ear, and my money.

When the Public Broadcasting System fell victim to it years ago, that was the last straw. I'm not sure who remembers when PBS (OPB here) used to be truly free, when our taxes were actually being used for something of true value like the educational programs you can't see anywhere else. It seemed to be almost sacrilegious when they first started telling us the commercial enterprises who sponsored the shows on PBS, since we all knew deep down inside that it would not stop there. Now, since none of them are funded the same way, the sponsor "ads" have grown longer and are actually selling us things, while some programs are even taking breaks in the middle of the longer programs for these "reminders" of who is graciously paying for them, so that we should feel obligated to buy their products. And I won't even mention the week long membership drives...

I realize that this is a bit of a oversimplification and I know that they are actually simply filling in where government funding was ripped out from under them. But it bothers me that something as fine and pure as PBS once was has long since fallen victim to the same money machine, its objectivity beginning to be suspect in the process.

Some folks wonder how I survive not keeping up with what is offered to everyone else on the television. But does anyone really remember what they watched on it the previous week? Or even a couple of days ago? If it isn't worth retaining, is it worth watching in the first place?

As far as news, I get plenty of that on NPR when I'm in the car driving to errands and to classes. So far NPR is still about the most objective source around, without all the drama and slant the other media networks give the news now. They also try not to inundate us with all the bad news, like the networks do. I have never witnessed anything so depressing as when I am visiting someone who insists on watching the local news while I'm there. I can only take so much murder and mayhem, dragged out until every ounce of drama and horror has been squeezed from it, before I need to get away and find something to remind me that there is still good going on in the world.

In the meantime, I keep up with movies--my favorite form of entertainment, and my career goal--via NetFlix. So far I can still do this without any commercial breaks, so I can avoid that distraction. I also feel as if I can count all the minutes that have been returned to me every day since not watching all of those mandatory commercials every day. I can watch TV programs, too, and I sometimes do, but I can't shake the feeling that they were still designed to simply keep us addicted to the screen long enough to watch the commercials, even when they are no longer there. So there aren't too many of those programs I watch.

Of course, I'd feel better about all this lifetime I've gotten back from television by not watching it . . . if I wasn't so addicted to the "social network," that is ... Facebook. All of my gains are going right down the drain there, and I will admit that freely. One day I will figure out how to feel as in touch with the outside world, ironically, as I do with Facebook and email--something I truly need right now, being a soft spoken extrovert--but right now this is the best I can do.

Meeting My Inner Child

2011-01-23T23:46:00.000-08:00

One night not too long ago I had what I can only call a catharsis of sorts. It's the kind I imagine your psychiatrist dreams about you having while on their couch, but this one happened when I was on my own.

To set the scene, I should note that I am about 8 months out of a wonderful-but-toxic relationship, I'd since moved into my own place, and was living on my own for the first time in 25 years. After 8 months, the heartbreak has pretty much faded, but up to the night in question, I was still having pretty regular crying jags--usually when I returned to my apartment after being out with people (friends or strangers).

I usually attributed these sad bouts to missing the relationship, but whenever I attempted to think about the person I left, all my brain could come up with was a vague face and a bit of annoyance at the thought of her, or of what I lost because of her (basically: love and family).

So maybe it was just loneliness. I began to realize that perhaps my problem was with the emptiness of the apartment. I must admit, although I had done some work making it a comfortable place to live, I hadn't taken as much time as I'd hoped to decorate the walls and make it my own space. I really did not like being there by myself, especially at night.

One night, talking with my best friend back east, who was dealing with some issues of her own (mostly mother issues), she mentioned something she and her therapist had just talked about. It regarded the practice of a troubled person to fill their life with noise and distraction and people and complication, simply to keep out the thoughts of what is troubling them. Her therapist then said, "to make progress, it's best not to avoid the void." Meaning, don't be afraid to allow your mind to go into that painful place. It's there for a reason, get it over with.

After having that conversation, I realized I was sitting there wondering if I should watch my second NetFlix movie of the day, and my Pandora channel had just stopped to ask me if I was still there. Apparently, noise was a big part of my life at home...

I was avoiding the void.

For a moment, I hesitated letting Pandora know of my presence. I sat there on my couch and gave myself a mental looking over, something I realize I hadn't done for a long while--at least not since my last good cry. Immediately I was aware of a horribly uncomfortable feeling deep in the pit of my stomach. Bingo. I suddenly wanted desperately to do something distracting and get the feeling to go away. But this time I stayed still.

The feeling was almost palpable, as if it had its own existence, its own presence. I decided just this once I would not avoid the void.

So I took a deep breath and closed my eyes. The feeling of discomfort swelled up to meet me, as if it dwelt between my tailbone and my sternum now, and was threatening to take over the entire premises. I stayed the course and allowed--no, forced--my mental attention into the center of the monster.

And then the strangest thing happened.

For a brief moment, the pain was almost unbearable. A loneliness of Olympic proportions rolled over me, threatening to drown me to death . . . and then the worst rolled past me. It was as if the most horrible part of the pain, the thing that had caused all the fear of my putting attention on it, was only a thin veneer. Could a comfort zone be that thin? Could I have actually felt it as an almost physical thing?

I still felt the original loneliness, but I also felt something else. Or should I say someone else. Before you begin to worry about me, I'm not prone to schizophrenia or MPD. What soon followed I can only describe as a very realistic daydream, with strange connotations.

I found myself sitting on the concrete porch in front of my father's house. The brick facade, the lawn, the wood pile and rusting white porch swing to the right, the untrimmed bushes to the left; all of the details were there.

And sitting to my right was a child. It was a very familiar child. In fact it was me, when I was maybe 5 or 6. It was hard to tell. The child was crying. All of the hurt I was feeling was coming from her, radiating out to engulf me as well. I could also feel the awareness of someone else in this scene, which was my father inside the house, who never made an appearance.

Without thinking, at least on whatever conscious level I had at this time, I turned to the little girl and started telling her of her future life. How she would eventually figure things out and that it would be alright. I told her that there was nothing really wrong with her. That she would be as normal as anyone else. I also spent some time describing how her father didn't really mean to ignore her, that it wasn't really her fault that he didn't understand her situation. He was doing the best he could, but he had not been brought up to deal with a son who was a girl. He had done the best he could with what he had and I told her, in the end, we would forgive him for he had never meant any harm by it.

I felt as if I had talked to this little girl for the longest time and once I said as much as I thought I could, she seemed to stop crying and was looking more thoughtful. I don't know if she could see me in this dream, but apparently she heard me and she seemed comforted, almost happy.

The next thing I know, I'm waking up a couple hours later, stiff and sore from laying on the couch in a funny way. I hadn't really planned to go to sleep, or dream or whatever it was that just happened. I chalked it down as a strange enough dream and went to bed, not realizing at the time that nothing whatsoever felt uncomfortable within.

Normally after staying up so late, which I tend to do with some regularity these days--apparently a habit I get into when I'm not with someone--I tend to be a little slow at getting out of bed the next morning, regardless of the time I awake. That next morning though was different. I awoke feeling ... amazingly happy! When had I last awoken that way? Oh, it must have been about 8 months ago. I felt wonderful, cheerful, happy to be alive and ready for the day. I jumped out of bed immediately and started getting things rolling.

And soon I remembered the daydream of the previous night. It was weird in that usually, if I don't take the time to write it all down, I completely lose the memories of my dreams. But this one was still as clear as day. It was as if I had lived it. And then a truly wonderful epiphany occurred:

I didn't feel sad that I was alone anymore. Going over the daydream I realized it never really had anything to do with the end of my last relationship. The fear of being alone had always been in there. I could suddenly recall many nights sleepless as a child wondering why life was so hard, why I felt so alone and misunderstood. I know now why it all happened. But I don't think my inner child had until then, and I was feeling her pain from the very beginning. And last night somehow I knew exactly what to do and what to say to her.

Since that night I have no longer felt the sadness of returning to my empty apartment. I've begun to buy art to go on the walls, along with candles I'm lighting to quietly set a pleasant mood for just myself, and other bits of decor to make the place feel like it is my home. It wasn't until that night that I allowed myself to do these things. I'm still amazed by how it happened, how my subconscious somehow knew what to do, and how it played out in my mind.

It felt as if I had actually gone back in time and healed my younger self. But in actuality it probably had more to do with the fact that we all carry our own inner child with us everywhere and, often without our knowledge, she or he has the final say on how we react or feel about the world around us, based on the experiences that came before. And from what I experienced that night, it seems as if all we have to do is check in with our inner child and see how they're doing, reassure them and find out what they need. And life suddenly becomes a much more fulfilling thing to live. I know it has for me, ever since.

I still want to find someone to love, for I have so much love left to give. I want to find someone to happily grow old with, but like that same friend once told me, "you'll know it's the right time when you want it, but you no longer need it." I think I've finally found that place in my life again. I'll just keep myself out there and enjoy my life and see who comes along. I know she's out there somewhere and I am keeping my heart open for whenever she walks into my life.

In the meantime, I'm going to go have some fun, to keep my inner child happy. =)

Romance in the 21st Century

2011-01-22T23:51:00.000-08:00

Somebody tell me romance didn't die while I was away from the dating scene these past 25 years. I know it's not possible, since there is absolutely no down side to it, no reason why it might possibly go away. To me romance is the most awesome invention since kissing.

But I'm beginning to wonder...

Perhaps it's just an online phenomena, something that has fallen by the wayside for those of us resorting to the Internet to find love. I know . . . it sounds pretty pathetic, but when it's so easy to confuse me with something else, sometimes you need a little extra help.

You see, I'm a girl . . . who likes girls. Oh, but that's not the worst part, for those of you who are thinking any of the usual stereotypical things about that. What's worse, I'm a girlie-girl who likes girlie-girls. This means I look like a straight girl (for the most part) and I'm looking for girls who also look just like straight girls... Can you imagine separating your demographic out of the crowd with that challenge?

"Excuse me, are you a lesbian? No? Oh, sorry."
"Excuse me, miss? Are you a lesbian? Oh, I'm sorry... No I didn't mean anything by that. No, of course not. It's just hard to tell. No, no, I don't mean I think you look like a lesbian . . . "

The problem is, you can't really tell. Statistically, one in ten ladies would say yes, they are. In the meantime, I'm making a spectacle of myself along the way, and I still have to then figure out if this particular one might like me, or I might like her. Lesbian dating is not only fraught with that formidable challenge, there's also the usual perils straight dating has to contend with, too. You still have to find the single ones, and from them finding the ones who are interested in you and you're interested in them. This is why I believe there must be magic happening on this world--how else are any of us--straight or otherwise--finding the one we're meant to be with, with all this confusion going on...

So there's online dating, where we can advertise exactly who we are and what we are looking for, while hiding behind a little online anonymity to stay safe, until we find some promising prospects. This is where I begin to worry about the mortality of romance:

Nobody seems to want to talk anymore...

We say plenty about ourselves on our dating profile pages, but no one seems to want to talk to each other. After the mysterious "Wink" that signals interest, the only conversation other than "you're hot" is "where can we meet?" Meanwhile, I'm still on "who are you?".

With online anonymity comes a certain amount of danger. People masquerading as other people, beautiful women turning out to be nasty horny men. Damaged angry women talking sweet on their profile. Sociopaths. It pays to get to know someone a little bit before you put yourself into a public situation.

And what's so wrong with getting to know someone a little first? What is the huge hurry? I'm looking for a long-term, rest-of-my-life kind of thing, and I'm talking to women who say they want the same thing on their profiles. That's worth taking a little time on. But when it comes down to it, my experience so far seems to amount to getting that first introduction over with as quickly as possible over a beverage, seemingly to size you up quickly for the bedroom. Or so that is the impression.

Frankly, they're not all like that. There's almost as many prospects who begin to talk to you, but as soon as there is any hesitation on your part to meet right away, they take it as rejection and scamper off. And I was only trying to ask "let me know a little about who I'm meeting first. Just a little bit." Sometimes it doesn't hurt to show up with at least a few ideas of what you might talk about.

Perhaps romance isn't dead in the 21st century after all. Perhaps it is the art of written conversation that's dying instead. I know I've heard some claim this has been happening ever since the computer came along and the old online Bulletin Boards was all we had. But with all the emailing and texting and IMing and chatting we all seem so addicted to, I would have assumed we were ALL consummate writers by now.

That doesn't seem to be the case. Or it is the greatest irony in my life that I, a writer, seem only to attract those most unmotivated to write. And I don't require much more than a few emails worth...

I'm trying to tell myself that it is simply the universe telling me it's not quite time yet. She'll come along. She's on her way to you right this minute in fact, fate just hasn't hooked the two of you up yet.

Be patient.

Good advice. I've heard a quote that says a successful person is the one who has fallen down 12 times, but picked themselves back up 13 (your mileage may vary). Persistence is the key. All that falling down has got to improve our balance over time. And who wants to sit in the dirt and watch all of the opportunities just walk on by. You have to buy a ticket if you want to play. You're here, you're on the board of the game of life--you might as well spin that spinner and PLAY!

So that's what I'm doing. When the time is right, it'll happen, probably when I least expect it. I just need to be on my feet to go with it when it does. In the meantime, I'm going to keep the lines of communication firmly open.

Dancing to the Eighties at Lola's Room

2011-01-21T23:10:00.000-08:00

Lola's Room is like a trampoline with walls. Situated on the second floor above Ringler's Pub on Burnside NW, and part of the Crystal Ballroom, when a hundred or so people begin to get down to an 80's Dance Attack, like I partook in tonight, you begin to wonder how much the old building can stand!

I was warned out on the sidewalk not to put my coat down near any tables. "It gets a little ... wet in there," the man said. I had no idea what he meant at the time until the first 80's video came up on the big screen with a basic thump-thump-thump rhythm, the kind the audience has to mimic on the floor lest they lose their place and fall down. With about a hundred people all bouncing in unison, both of the two tables on our corner of the room were practically doing a dance of their own. The less adventurous of us backed away. Liquids from several cups were sloshing and commingling in the air, until they could no longer be contained and spilled out onto the writhing floor.

Out on the dance floor, it is a wild ride! You're part of the bounce, the music calling the rhythm, the crowd responding in kind. Mist machines and fans keep us cool, or were they there to keep the atmosphere of the place cool. Who cares, we were there to dance until we couldn't dance anymore.

If you happened to be standing on the sidelines trying to catch your breath, you begin to wonder about Nikola Tesla's experiments in finding the resonance of a building. Rumor has it that he once set a huge vibrator going in one old building, varying its frequency until he found the building's resonance, and practically shook the thing to the ground.

Feeling that rhythm underfoot and watching the tables dancing made me wonder how quickly I could get to an exit, should I need to, through the room's saturation of people. It was a fleeting thought, since it was obvious this sort of thing happened here all the time and no major tragedies had befallen it yet. Yet.

Dancing to the 80s, I found, is different than dancing to today's music. It's all about rhythm--the Beat. Back in the eighties, that beat was a touch more basic, a little less cathartic and complicated as it is now. Listening to it and working on disengaging the brain so the beat can infuse me so that my feet do what my feet must at these times--dance like crazy--I realized we are nothing like our parents in this respect.

Where our parents used to yell "turn that racket down!" Most of the dancers my age that I talked to all agreed that getting the old feet going on the eighties took a little more patience. Like me, that thump-thump-thump was okay for a good wiggle, but if you really want to get down, you need some of those modern rhythms to get you going.

While the young crowd are all agog over our mundane past, excitedly bringing back all kinds of retro from our childhood like they'd invented the stuff, we who lived the eighties typically would like to move the hell on and listen to some good funky, rap-infused hip-hop and get our funky groove on. Okay, so I have no idea what I just tried to say, but you get the gist.

But for tonight, we were there, all sharing the energy from music pumping out loud speakers with wall-sized videos to go with them. How could you not get into the swing of things and enjoy yourself?

Meanwhile, some of us enjoyed getting into other aspects of the 80's: the clothes. We were dressed in a spectrum of 80-ness, from the jean-and-T-shirt clad whatthehelliers, to the all decked out in bright multicolored Jane Fonda inspired exercise wear that screamed 80s. And then there are the ones somewhere in the middle, like me, who didn't really remember how we dressed in the 80's and just made something up. Mine was a tight purple velvet dress, a foot longer than it should have been, trussed with a super-wide belt and knee-length hot boots with heels; my long hair tied back with a homemade hair band.

I thought I did rather well, although I learned some respect for the gals who came dressed for exercise. A full Lola's Room gets HOT! And when you're stomping, jumping, wiggling and strutting, you sweat! Pardon me: men sweat, women "perspire." Well I must have "perspired" about a gallon all on my own, if the amount of water I drank to keep at it was any indication. At least the velvet dress was good at sopping it up.

The good news is that we all probably burned some major calories; the bad is that once I get home and peel the poor dress off of me, I'm going to read that label inside that says "Dry Clean Only." The only such label in my entire wardrobe and it practically needs to be wrung out. Oh well, you gotta pay to look like a million bucks . . . or in my case a few hundred thousand. =)

Time Machines on Wheels -- The Past Perfect Made Present

2011-01-20T23:59:00.000-08:00

I met an angel with a broken wing who inspired me to fly.

Well . . . she looks like an angel and she had broken her wrist--I saw a picture of it: beautiful feminine skin around a joint curved in an unnatural "S" shape. It was painful to look at; I can only imagine how agonizing it must have been to be the owner of that wrist at the time. But the lady in that picture smiled bravely as if to say, "look at the silly thing I've done."

It happened on a roller skating rink, as these things often do. She'd tried to catch herself on a fall and the wrist--weakened by being broken when she was only two--gave way under the pressure. She'd given it six months to heal, and another six months to get comfortable with the idea of coming back to the rink. And this she bravely did, not allowing one tragedy to stop her from doing something she loved.

And tonight, not long after, she brought with her someone who had not been on roller skates in a quarter of a century: Me.

I had always loved roller skating. I'd never gotten very good at it--I couldn't even skate backward or knew quite how to stop properly, even back then. I might have, had I kept at it, but a weird phenomenon kept pushing the hobby into the background of my life: I kept falling in love with women on wheels, and they with me. And with this new focus, for a hopeless romantic such as I, the roller skating rink became a thing of fond memory.

The last wheel-inspired romance occurred on bicycles, where I met a woman during a 120-mile bike-a-thon for the American Lung Association. She was part of the crew, riding "sag," which means she was there to make sure no one was left behind. It was a two-day ride, and by the time I'd met her again on the second day, I had her telephone number. This relationship blossomed and lasted 19-years. She didn't roller skate at all. I'm single now and in many ways a new woman.

And tonight I found myself putting on well-worn house roller skates, tan with bright orange wheels, and wondering how long I would spend hugging the wall or lying on the floor rubbing my bruised gluteus maximus. It seemed a depressing prospect, relearning it all over again, but I was excited to be there.

If you haven't been to the roller rink at Oaks Park, you should. In almost every way it reminded me of the very first roller skating rink where I met my first girlfriend. Pretty much the same as any roller skating rink you're ever likely to see--I'll have to let you go see what that means for yourself. But in this rink, there are amazing extras.

The most dramatic of which is suspended above the center of the big oval-shaped floor, where on a long platform resides the most amazing collection of musical instruments: huge wooden pipes, xylophones, drums . . . all of it controlled by an organ played in a glass booth on the back wall of the rink. Two days a week, a man with a unique talent climbs into that booth and makes another era come back to life, much as the vintage metallic structures outside bring the classic amusement park to life during the warm months here. Tonight was one of those days.

My angelic friend had wisely suggested starting out on an organ night, the cadence a bit slower and more safety conscious than the raucous beat of the DJ nights. Skates firmly tied to my feet, organ music drawing us to the floor, we made our way to the rink, me trepidatiously awaiting my first big fall.

Which never happened!

Oddly--then shockingly--my body decided it knew what it was doing and insisted on getting down to doing it. Twenty five years after the fact and it still somehow knew what to do!! I was a little clumsy at spots, whenever I tried to think about it; but when I just let it be, the old smoothly lacquered wood began to fly under my wheels. My legs knew to bend a little, my feet knew to push a little forward and outward, my ankles knew their lines, my hips--which had plenty of new things going on all by themselves--knew to lean this way and that; and I seemed to have nothing to do with any of it.

I was riding in this body that suddenly seemed to know more than I did about what to do in this situation. My friend said it was as if I had been skating all along, that I had never stopped. My legs even pulled a scissor step out of its bag of tricks that I had completely forgotten I'd taught myself to do . . . and the last time I'd done it was back when I was in my twenties! I was close to twice that age now.

It still feels surreal. I'm hoping like crazy that it's not all a first-night glitch, a product of my initial excitement to be there. But I intend to find out very soon!

Although I'm hopeful that the romantic magic with wheels continues to cast its spell for me, I'm also pretty sure I won't allow even that to stop me from roller skating for the rest of my life. Like flying, it feels like something that reaches into the heart of me and makes me happy to be alive. And I can't be more appreciative of that angel--her wing now solidly mended with a titanium plate--for bringing this wonderful thing back into my life. =)

Castle in the Sky -- A writing exercise

2011-01-19T23:50:00.000-08:00

So here's something new for the new blog . . . an actual writing sample from my short fiction class (Creative Writing - Fiction). I'm guessing it's okay to do so now that the work has been passed in for a grade. I'd love to hear what folks think before seeing what the instructor thinks. :)

Here's the prompt for this exercise:

"Craft Exercise #1 will foreground setting and is due at the beginning of class next week [earlier today]. Your assignment is to write 500 words that in some manner engage the setting of the above photograph by artist Cindy Sherman. You are free to write a fictional, expository or analytical piece in/of this setting; the method and subject is entirely up to you."

Note: This is not supposed to be a complete story, just an exploration in setting.

And here's what I came up with:

Castle in the Sky

It's not every girl who had their own treehouse hideaway. Girls never did, according to mother who, later on, never forgave her husband for building it. I was eight the first time I had scaled up to see it, the same year my little brother had died of pneumonia, which is probably why it frightened mom so much every time I climbed into it. She'd wring her hands beneath me, worried she'd find me laying broken and lifeless under that tree, the way she'd found my little brother that night he'd stopped breathing. And when she realized I was all she had left, she became protective to the point of suffocation, until the only place I could get away from it was high up in that massively ancient sycamore.

The treehouse had begun as a simple but sturdy platform, built from the leftovers from the room dad had added to the house when my brother came along. Mother was more approving of the project then, laughing as he started hauling newer material up there and making it almost as pretty as the house beneath it, with shingling and shutters and a tar paper roof.

I knew it was meant for my brother, but he never made it up there. He was always too sickly and weak, which began my mother's descent into worry. When he was gone, at first I would go up there for him, taking his memory away from the sobbing below; talking to him as if guiding him up the individually shaped and lacquered steps he could now climb without fear, because he had wings to catch himself. I suppose I mourned in my own way.

It was even more beautiful within as without. Dad had taken no shortcuts to make it seem like a home in the clouds. Curving beams arched up to hold the roof, lintels and sills graced each of the four windows that looked in all directions over the rural countryside, a trapdoor that fit flush into the floor so no one could trip over it. It even had solid walls that we had pasted old wallpaper on, with tiny purple and gold flowers.

But the best part was the floor itself. Carpeting would have been impractical in the wet season and bare wood an invitation to splinters. When mom insisted on upgrading her kitchen—thinking it would help sell the house, since she felt she could no longer live where my brother had been lost—the first thing to go was the old linoleum floor. She was immune to the memories my brother and I had built up playing upon it, it's patterns of small brown and yellow rectangles and squares providing whatever our young minds could come up with: garden paths, freeways, labrynths, deserts or wild west plains. I could often be found laying upon it staring up at the underside of the kitchen table, just thinking about things. Such things as I write about today.

So, before his aging knees kept him from climbing up to see his creation, my dad diligently measured, cut and installed a piece of that linoleum, polishing it up like new once it was in place. And here I would lay after a long day at school, feeling the breeze trying to rock the huge tree, jingling the glass mobile hanging from the center of the ceiling, stirring my imagination as the sun glinted off of the familiar patterns beneath me, projecting them and my silhouette upon the walls.

My life would have been so different had my dad's practicality not won out and mom finally accepting that there were other ways short of moving to move on in life. The worst part would have been leaving behind my castle in the sky.

The above is complete fiction, except for the fact that this exact linoleum was in my father's kitchen when I was growing up. Must have been a pretty common floor back then...

The Magnetic Vortex of Crunch

2011-01-18T23:41:00.000-08:00

It happened again. I'm beginning to wonder if I should take some responsibility, since I always seem to be handily present to witness this contact sport of the road outside my window. I'm referring to yet another crash at the intersection, this time a van tried to turn left onto Milwaukie and a black sedan impeded its progress by plowing into its side.

This one was not nearly as devastating to see as the last one. The damage will still cost a fortune, but they both drove away from it. At least no one ran away this time, or I would begin to wonder about the moral standards of my neighborhood.

In fact both drivers seemed fairly relaxed about the whole thing, moving their cars out of the way almost immediately, flicking the bits of debris out of the path of traffic and having a civil conversation about the event. It was almost inspiring, after last time's hit-and-run.

Still I begin to wonder if there is some kind of magnetic vortex in that spot, conspiring to bring cars together in this fashion. If it happens again in another two weeks, I may need to look into that...

Perhaps it is all the pretty bicycles lined up on the sidewalk there, distracting the unwary driver. There doesn't seem to be any less visibility there, although all of the turns onto Milwaukie seem fraught with peril, with all the parked cars playing hide and seek with the moving ones. I've taken to going around the block to the right rather than make any left turns onto Milwaukie myself.

At least this time, hearing the crunch at my bedroom bureau, I don't have to worry that they were distracted looking at me in my bathroom mirror fixing my face. I mean I wasn't that scantily dressed last time. Perhaps I should go out there and see what can actually be seen from the street. I don't want to frighten anyone--or be sued for reckless mirror endangerment.

Left Brain on Right Brain Time

2011-01-17T23:59:00.000-08:00

This is what happens when I procrastinate. Instead of doing my homework at my favorite coffee shop, like I've always done, I find myself finishing it at 3AM the day before it is due.

If you read my last blog post, you'll know that the staying up late part is not a great issue for me. It would not be an issue at all if it were a writing assignment. But the homework in question is a programming exercise. Lots of Greek computer code that makes up all of what you see on your computers today. You're looking at some now, disguised as a mild mannered website.

This amounts to my right brain intruding on my left brain's time. That I'm not liking at all.

I call myself a writer these days, because that is my main focus in life now. But here I am, still wrangling bits as I did in the past. It's basically a fallback position in case I need to make actual money to pay to do those silly things like feeding myself and my cat. I did rather well with the programming thing in my previous life, so I'm not in danger of starving for a while; but the left side of my brain is tired--or the hormone therapy is making it dormant.

Or so I thought.

It turns out, it is merely the interest in left-brained activities that is waning, not the actual talent, since apparently I can still do the geek magic in that area. My heart is not really in it, but I can still do it as if it came naturally to me. I'd hate to think how much of my brain's resources are being taken up by all that technical gobbledygook, when I could be better filling that space with writing stuff. Or is there really a limit in there? Something to think about ...

Meanwhile, I'm going to make a little pact with myself: no more procrastinating the computer stuff into my writing time. Geeky bits can be done anytime--creative bits are the domain of the night for me, as I described here yesterday.

At least tonight wasn't a total waste... I was able to at least season my geek-laden assignment with a little creativity, perhaps because I did it in my creative time of night. My mission for tonight's exercise was to program a simple application to display different pictures when the user clicked things. I made it a little more fun by turning it into a pictorial application of state flowers for the northwest states, which made it kind of pretty by the time it was done. It wasn't writing, but it made it fun and colorful. Mission accomplished, night time creativity quota restored--sort of.

Writing homework begins tomorrow. I can't wait to stay up all night doing it. =)

Night Writer

2011-01-16T23:52:00.000-08:00

It happens in the middle of the night, sometime around an hour or so before midnight. The air seems to get crystal clear, the sounds of the street outside diminish to an occasional whoosh, the static in my mind becoming the soft landing of a gentle mist on leaves. It is as if the mere act of all those brains going offline clears the airwaves for me to think my own thoughts.

I know that's not what's happening--well, I can only assume that's not what's happening. And I don't really hear other peoples' thoughts, but it seems as if the sheer force of all that cranial communication is causing an ionic haze in my atmosphere, the signals not quite making it back to earth. When everyone else is in their beds, my mind wakes up.

A more realistic explanation might be that I've developed bad sleeping habits, or I'm simply wired to be a night person. I remember I was about 12 or 13 living in inner city Baltimore in a row house whose upper story back windows looked down upon an alley. Over top of the roofs of the next row houses behind us we had a view of the mall parking lot on the next hill. I remember countless warm nights sitting on my third story bedroom windowsill, oblivious of the drop into our dark back yard. I'd gaze off into that parking lot or scan the alley or peruse the stars above. I probably watched countless drug exchanges going down over in that lot, at 2:00AM, but all I cared about was how amazed I was that there were a few people actually meandering around at that time of night. I found it fascinating.

These days it's more likely I'll be staring into the depths of Facebook or my email inbox. Many is the time that my correspondents have mentioned the odd hour that they receive my emails. But if I can pull myself away from these distractions, I tend to do a lot of my best writing at this time of night.

And most of my blog posts.

Perhaps I'll never know if it is the sun, or psychic crosstalk from my neighbors, or a temporal habit, or the affects of alien abduction . . . the night seems to hold a different power for me, creatively. And here I am at three in the morning, writing my way through it.

Until next time . . . the night owl realizes she needs to get some sleep--if she wants to see a few hours of that bright warm thing traversing the sky tomorrow...
I've heard there might be some health benefit to seeing that every so often.

Calendar Challenged

2011-01-15T15:39:00.000-08:00

We all forget things, but when it comes to anything temporal, I believe I'm worse than most. Back when I was still in a long term relationship, I was relied on to remember all kinds of crazy things like how to operate a gizmo or doodad, or find my way around an operating system, or navigate streets. But when it comes to clocks and calendars, my brain can't seem to wrap its neurons around it. My partner usually ended up taking pity on me and writing things to remember on a large calendar mounted where I could easily fall over it, like in a hallway or on the fridge.

I might have thought being on my own for several months might be forcing me to practice and improve on this phenomenon, but I think it's making it worse. When someone else lives with you, you typically talk with them about the day, which usually brings up what will be happening a little later on, or the next day. It's like an automatic refresh cycle for the more addled minds. I don't have that now. I must rely completely on myself.

I'm doomed...

Bicycle Blues

2011-01-14T22:27:00.000-08:00

It's wintertime in Portland and like most places that actually experience the season, it's no time to bicycle. Of course there are always those hardier souls who have no idea what I'm talking about. You've seen them out there on those cold mornings or blinking along at night. Forty degrees and rain have no effect on these folks--and I admire them for that.

But I was never built that way. Anything below 50 degrees makes my hands grow numb and slow-witted. My face becomes a frozen mask, my shoulders lock in their own version of a fetal position until my neck screams at them to Stop It. But they won't listen.

This all happens just when I'm walking around, in a warm coat, with gloves. I can only imagine how much worse that would be on a bicycle while the wind of forward motion is trying to pry its way into my clothing. And the pelting of rain is straight into my face.

No, I admire the hardier stock, by I will not be among them.

But still I miss it. My bicycle has leaned against the same wall, untouched since the rains started a few months ago. None of the many sunny days that have graced this city since have been able to budge it from its spot, the temperatures continuing the siege.

I imagine my bicycle, like me, must dream of the spring, when the sun is higher and the Springwater river trail calls us out to feel our thin rubber tires thrumming on the warm asphalt. The Eastbank Esplanade drawing us along as the crowds return, happy to feel the warmth of the sun again. The Steel bridge awaiting our passage over the river, the fountains on the other side shooting higher in celebration of our return.

Until then my bicycle only gathers dust against the wall, its tires growing a little softer as I pass it by day by day, forcing myself to at least walk around the neighborhood to get exercise. But I too dream of when I can feel the wind pull back my long hair and I can feel the ache in my calves as the miles fly by.

I think I am learning what it is like to live in Portland and this is a good thing.

Back on the east coast, where I once lived, the horrible sauna of summer has given way to freezing snowy days of winter. When the friends I left behind there look at the weather forecasts here, they typically see rain all winter long, not realizing that 90% of that day might easily be sunny, or a bright cloud cover with a light mist of rain, barely enough to warrant pulling the hood onto your head.

I miss pedaling my bicycle around Portland, but it doesn't mean I'm unhappy I'm here. I'm living a Portland winter and I really can't complain. Especially if you think about how things might be different if there was not so much rain. So many more people would be living here, our roads and highways would be jammed, and no one would know us from Los Angeles or San Diego.

No, let it rain. Let the clouds do their thing. I like Portland the way it is, so well watered that it stays green all year long. And only those who get Portland will stay here and we will all nod at each other knowingly from under our rain jackets.

Meanwhile, my bicycle and I will happily await the warm sunny days of spring.

Poetry Slam at Cafe Magnolia

2011-01-13T23:33:00.000-08:00

It's one of those nights when you can't help but feel that you're doing exactly what you were meant to be doing that night. As if you can sense that you're going down the right path, though not a cairn can be found, nor a broken twig, nor a trampled bit of sod.

I could tell this because I got lost on the way to the poetry slam. I pulled up where I thought it should have been and someone's quiet porch was there instead. I had dressed nicely for the evening and here I was with no place to go--or so I thought. I could have easily turned around at that point, gone home, put on a robe and counted the evening as a miss. Instead I got out of the car and took a walk in the moist night, feeling oddly safe walking down one of my most favorite streets: Hawthorne Boulevard.

Seeing that I was already lost there didn't seem a need to hurry. Most everything was closed at that hour, but a few eating places and Powell's. Ah . . . what better place for a writer to get her bearings than in Powell's? I went in, found the display of maps of the local commercial districts and found that Hawthorne's were all gone. So I asked the cashier if he'd heard of the place. He wasn't sure, but Google sure had. He set me back on my path, which I decided to continue on foot. For January, it was a charmingly warm, calm evening in Portland. And it turned out I wasn't that far out of place after all.

Here's the part where the rightness of my path made itself known.

I entered Cafe Magnolia, smiling hearing my name called out by the friend who insisted I come, only to find that PA problems for the past hour had kept them from starting the program . . . up until just about the moment I entered. I hadn't missed a thing but the cacophony of high pitched squawks that would've driven me up the wall had I come earlier.

The evening's literary repast started out slow--I'm not sure I really understood the plot of the first reading--and built to a mind-opening crescendo.

The pretty brunette that followed read half of what at first promised to be an silly, perhaps inane tale of a strange woman stalked by a goose--only to become an engaging tale as the narrator somehow became an accomplice to kidnapping the creature. The imagery was so awesome, the humor so sneaky and involving that I think we all realized the worst part of the story was that she hadn't the time to read the entire story to us. I hope it crosses my path again, I want to know what happened. I only wish I'd written down her name...

Following her, the poet Mindy took the mic. Her wit and wisdom flung us across a pleasing plethora of ideas, sometimes almost randomly, but never anyplace we didn't want to go. Imagery here also was amazing. She spoke of heartbreak and loss and defying bitterness and making your own holidays and a myriad of other things, seemingly all at once. And although there were serious issues uncovered, it was done in such a positive way, that her smile became a contagion upon the room. I caught it along with everyone else. Her last name, too, I wish I'd remembered. I want to hear more of this.

And then came the headline poet of the night, Anis Mojgani, veteran of two years worth of poetry slam finals in the northwest. His poems I can barely describe. They were lyrical and rhythmic and with deeply visual meanderings through what felt like our own minds; the concepts forming understanding, though in deep metaphor and symbolism and image. He is moving from Portland to live in a trailer with his love in Texas and this was his last slam here. You missed it. But my amazing friend somehow got me a CD of his before I'd arrived, and it was signed! It said, "..., May this give you some slivers of inspiration! Anis ~ 1/13/11." Ah, methinks he is being modest here, for I can imagine inspiration pouring out of it.

If you're nice to me, I might play it for you... =)

All I can say is, if you're a writer ... get yourself "slammed" on a periodic basis. It will show your mind what happens when it allows itself to think outside of its usual writerly constraints, to boldly go where no brain has gone before. And you will be amazed. I was agog with the inspiration that overtook me tonight and followed me home. Inspiration to get myself writing before the ranchers came out and put the fences back up on my cranial acreage, keeping my muse from roaming free wherever it would go.

So, the last standing ovation died down and it was over. I realized, stepping back out on the sidewalks of Hawthorne, how it still felt strange to leave a place like that by myself, no one there to talk to and laugh and croon in glee about what we'd just experienced. But that's fodder for a different blog...

Despite that, I was happy. I felt so fortunate to have been there. A full palette of inspiration came home with me and I think I'll let her stay.

After the Writers Have Gone

2011-01-12T16:21:00.000-08:00

It's funny what you notice about a place when you see it slightly out of context. Oaks Park Amusement park in the winter, a dance floor over a bowling alley (Grand Central Bowl), or meeting room RR220 after the writers have gone . . . which is where I'm sitting right now.

Chrysalis, the women writers group that has been meeting in this room at Clackamas Community College each Wednesday for many years, had gone their merry way only an hour before. I can tell by the way the chairs are arranged around the table. A soda cup that says "Terravida" remains, straw akimbo, next to a short brace of staples, sans stapler. A receipt for a bank withdrawal for $95.00 lies folded and forgotten on the floor. The rest of the seating area is without clue of what transpired here, other than how most of the chairs seem attentive toward the center of the long oval table, instead of the cinema seating arrangement left here a couple of days ago.

Thanks to a class I'm taking at the same time across campus, I've missed another productive meeting of the group, where inspiration is portioned out with objective observation and writerly wisdom. And where new friends are made. Perhaps if I had missed it because of another writing class I might feel better about it, but it's not.

Instead, here I sit alone in this empty room, seriously in the mood to write something.

Perhaps I'm picking up traces of writing vibes not quite dissipated from the readings that might still be heard echoing in the room. Or perhaps it's the many women authors watching me from their framed bios, lining the upper back bookshelf, safely ensconced behind protective glass. Or perhaps it is the drama, literature and writing books collected on the opposite wall, behind their glassed in shelves. Or the raven, wings spread, calling out for us all to remember Poe and his dark contributions to the craft.

The mood is most definitely not inspired by the two huge paintings in the room, colorful five and six-foot-tall creatures made of fruit. Nor is it by two of the half dozen lifesize musclebound superhero paintings peeking in from the walls of the corridor outside, all with the same face. What's up with that?

But these last do little to distract from the inspiration to write. And I've realized that much of that must come from simply being on campus again after so many years. The almost countless number of people who have learned so much on this ground, the tons of textbooks bought and read here, the gallons of ink spilled on forests of paper, and more lately, the endless stream of data whisking around us all as the Wifi responds to educational materials along with Facebook and the streaming video of college football games. All that information, all the intent upon and potential for learning in this place, where only trees and wildlife once thrived.

That is where I sit now, at the big oval table, writing. What more could any writer truly ask for.

Animals and Souls

2011-01-11T03:11:00.000-08:00

Last night a friend sent me a funny forwarded email, made up of a series of pictures alternating between the marquis of two churches, each situated on opposite sides of the same street. Usually, despite their difference of interpretation of their beliefs--which is what religion seems to be all about--churches, or the people who operate them, usually tend to get along with each other. Or, at best, at least not get into fistfights in the street over how to read that one book that tells us to love our neighbors, as well as our enemies.

The email doesn't mention what town these pictures were taken, but I can easily envision a small southern town, from my limited experience of colorful attitudes in such places. I could be wrong. There are colorful people everywhere.

Here is what the marquis said:

Catholic:	ALL DOGS GO TO HEAVEN
Presbyterian:	ONLY HUMANS GO TO HEAVEN READ THE BIBLE
Catholic:	GOD LOVES ALL HIS CREATIONS DOGS INCLUDED
Presbyterian:	DOGS DON'T HAVE SOULS THIS IS NOT OPEN FOR DEBATE
Catholic:	CATHOLIC DOGS GO TO HEAVEN PRESBYTERIAN DOGS CAN TALK TO THEIR PASTORS
Presbyterian:	CONVERTING TO CATHOLOCISM(sic) DOES NOT MAGICALLY GRANT YOUR DOG A SOUL
Catholic:	FREE DOG SOULS WITH CONVERSION
Presbyterian:	DOGS ARE ANIMALS THERE AREN'T ANY ROCKS IN HEAVEN EITHER
Catholic:	ALL ROCKS GO TO HEAVEN

In the words of Dave Barry, I'm not making this up!

First off, I'm not about to take sides with any particular church here, although I am surprised it turned out to be the Catholics who were on the side of the dogs and rocks having souls. I don't know why I thought that ...

What most struck me was why this subject was so important as to have such a public debate over it. Especially when more important matters seem to exist almost everywhere. Why does the idea of an animal having a soul torque some people the way it does? Could it be the same reason why Darwin had such a rough reception after submitting his theories to the "learned crowd" awaiting him at home after his big expedition?

In Darwin's case, it is reported as an almost knee-jerk reaction that in no way could humanity ever be a part of the animal kingdom. Did any of the listeners to his speech actually look at the bible before they spoke up? What was it that made this idea so untenable?

My thoughts tend to lean toward a recurring phenomenon with certain humans, especially those who find themselves at the top of the class structure, or having some power or technological advantage over another human group. That is: arrogance.

We are better than they are. How could we even be the same species, or come from the same roots? People were actually saying this about other human beings not long ago--some may still be saying things like this now, sadly enough . . .

I wonder, if I took a poll of two equally populated groups of people--those who are pet owners and those who are not--how each group would fair on whether they thought animals had souls. Although I'm reticent to do this without getting into the whole debate about what a soul is in this case--I'm not sure I know.

Interestingly enough, as far as I know, there really is no explicit statement in the bible that animals are lacking a soul. Most of the interpretations of such are based on instructions that we are free to eat and sacrifice animals--which must mean they have no soul. This makes about as much sense as many of the other contrary interpretations I've read or heard from that particular book. I wonder what part of the bible that particular Presbyterian church would have had the other church read.

The fact that animals clearly love, that they can think quite clearly in order to manipulate us at their will, that I've seen many a dog running and cat talking in their sleep, clearly dreaming ... these would seem to indicate a certain same-ness with us. But if a book says they don't have a soul, I guess that's up to the reader to decide. For me, I can easily admit to having no loftier a place than my cat in the grand scheme of things. The thought does not seem to make me feel any lesser in the eyes of whoever placed us all here to think these silly thoughts.

One day humanity will finally realize there is no actual advantage in thinking we are so much better than every other living thing, instead of feeling a kinship with all life. Perhaps then we will find where we've hidden our peace on this planet.

Running out after only 10 ... ?

2011-01-10T22:44:00.000-08:00

This is going to seem like I'm cheating, but I'm going to blog about how hard it is to find a daily topic to blog about.

Don't get me wrong, the pressure to write is good for me. It's just like my last Creative Writing (nonfiction) course last term, where we were expected to write for ten minutes, three times each class, to a myriad of unique prompts. What came out of that was usually something relatively awesome. But perhaps it was the unusual prompts that got it going.

But here I'm simply telling myself "I need to write a blog tonight."

Not much focus in that statement, is there? Although the slant to the blog is Progress--either envisioning, planning, creating, observing or appreciating progress in my life. I know that every day is some kind of progress toward something, but it's obviously not always noteworthy. Or is it?

The question is: How far do I go in trying to bore the hell out of my already sparse readers here. I think I should try to get a handle on what is fair game as far as topics, subjects, digging up past anecdotes, or going off on flights of whimsy. The last thing I want to do is to simply fill empty space with words.

Apparently the New Year came a tad quickly, as I wanted to get things started at an auspicious date--perhaps I needed to define the mission of this blog a little better first. Well, where better to explore that issue than right here. I'll think it over in the next 24 hours, and will keep my ears open to suggestion, explicit or otherwise...

Meanwhile, I shall endeavor to remember that every day should be a step toward what I want my life to be.

Love on Wheels

2011-01-09T23:02:00.000-08:00

So, today I got up at an alarmingly late hour. Which is to say that my alarm did not get me up at anything remotely resembling a normal hour. It really had no chance of winning the battle with my need to sleep after I had so much fun dancing until all hours the night before, where I must have vanquished about a billion calories.

So between that and the inevitable time I spent with my keyboard soon after--not to be confused with work, more the FaceBook and other addictively social time killers--I had all of about three hours left to get out of the apartment while there was still light to enjoy the day.

Since I'd already done my homework for the week, I eschewed the usual stop at the Roo (what I adoringly call my favorite coffee-haunt, the Blue Kangaroo), and headed toward the river. Sometimes having a big chunk of water nearby can really smooth out the spirit. So I made a roundabout route through Sellwood to the river, to get more exercise and a little window shopping in, walked through the dog park, visited the rocky beach there, walked around the other side of the Oak Bottom Wildlife Refuge and found myself at the Oaks Park Roller Rink.

A friend the previous night had mentioned perhaps going to this place together sometime, and I realized: as close as it was I hadn't really checked it out before. To my utter luck, Sunday nights they play the pipe organ in the place, which I could hear through the walls from outside. If there's one thing they do well in Oaks Park is create that classic Days of Yore feeling in the air--even in the winter when all the vintage rides are still and quiet. I went in to have a look around.

Since I was going to come here with a friend soon, I didn't rent skates and hit the floor just yet. To be perfectly honest, I haven't been on roller skates in maybe twenty years, or more. And I wasn't all that good back then. But I remember having fun cruising around the loop, so I was looking forward to it. Anyway, I wanted a friend around to spot me when I inevitably went down to make my peace with the floor, repeatedly.

Enthralled with the amazingly festive atmosphere, contagiously smiling kids and adults zooming around the circle while an organist resonated the rafters with melodies of days gone by, I realized there was something about my old days of roller skating--and why I never got very good at it.

You see, I have this history... Every lasting relationship I have ever had began while I was on wheels. My very first girlfriend I met at a roller rink, and her name was pronounced the same as mine, oddly enough. The first girl I ever lived with . . . you guessed it: met at a roller rink. Both times the first time I went after a long spell. And the resulting romances worked out well enough that I was a bit too distracted by the relationship to practice my roller skating talents.

Then there was the relationship that lasted the longest. That one I met on a 120-mile bicycle marathon (a bikeathon) for the American Lung Association, my first time doing something social on wheels after the last relationship ended. That one lasted 19 years!

So here I am, getting psyched to try the roller rink thing again and wondering if the old rolling magic will strike again. I hope so. The first one lasted a few months, the second four years, and the last nineteen. (I'm not counting the painful failure after that--I met her on the Internet.) So, if this logarithmic pattern persists, the next one should span the rest of my natural life.

And that's exactly what I'm looking for. Someone to grow old with, to spend time sharing fun things, like learning how to roller skate backwards, which I never learned before.

Of course I won't expect anything like that to happen. I don't want to jinx it. I'll meet the right woman at the right time, usually when I least expect it. But when I do go roller skating my first time back in decades--wish me luck!! =)

My New Roommate

2011-01-08T14:26:00.000-08:00

I live in a fairly small apartment, though it's about the right size for what I need in my life right now. But it's the first one bedroom I've occupied in . . . wow, 25 years.

So it might come as a surprise that I took on a roommate just as the new year was beginning. I would have mentioned her then, but I had to think about what I thought about it at the time. I can tell you, I had a nervous stomach at first, but that pretty much went away after the first couple of days--for both of us--and we seem to be getting along pretty well.

She's really cute and adorable, and she loves to talk to me all the time. I'm realizing though, that she's not exactly neat. She leaves her things strewn about the apartment. I periodically pick up after her, but I think she likes it that way and soon has her things everywhere again. I don't mind all that much. It's good to have company.

She does get to nagging me every so often, reminding me of my responsibilities, which would be galling if she wasn't usually right, though she usually does so right before I planned to take care of it anyway. If she wasn't so adorable, I suppose the nagging might get on my nerves, but it doesn't.

She doesn't cook either. In fact I have to prepare pretty much every meal that she eats. She never goes out, so that's every meal, every day. I guess I can't complain about that either: her tastes are pretty simple. I don't really have to "cook" anything.

She doesn't work. She doesn't help with the rent, but she struts around like she owns the place already.

And then there's her schedule: She gets up and makes a racket--or worse--waking me out of dead sleep pretty much every morning, and stays up late at night doing the same. But during the day, she takes naps and goofs off.

She's really great company when she's not waking me up. She looks at me with her beautiful green eyes and I'm putty to her will. I suppose she's kind of spoiled and I'm only making it worse, but I did invite her to live with me.

She acts a little strangely at times. Getting riled up and silly, playing hide and seek, then running around the couch. Sometimes she hides under my bed. I don't know why. I ask her, but she hasn't really explained that one to me. My windowsills aren't terribly deep, but she likes to sit on them anyway and watch the traffic, or the birds and squirrels that run up and down our balcony.

Some might say she's living off me and serves no purpose. But, although she's never said so in so many words, I think she really loves me. And though she doesn't have a penny to her name, she is never seen without her fur, her tuxedo and tiny white gloves. She's quite classy in her own strange way.

And pretty regularly she comes to check on me, to make sure I'm still there. She tells me about her day, though I don't understand a thing she's saying. Sometimes she'll come sit in my lap and kiss me on the end of my nose. I'll massage her neck and she just purrs.

Yes, even though it's only been a week, I think she loves me--if only because I feed her and because I give her a lot of attention. But life should be enjoyed for the simple things. I have absolutely no regrets taking in my new roommate.

It's good to have a kitten in the house again.

Playing With Food ~ Yet Another Blog ...

2011-01-07T23:55:00.000-08:00

If this once-a-day blog idea wasn't bad enough, it seems to be spawning offspring already! Instead of being happy with my old blog and this new high-octane-once-a-day blog, now I have three of them! Yikes. Another mouth to feed--an apropos analogy at that...

It happened like this . . .

This morning I woke up in the mood for a boiled egg or two. That seems pretty mundane, even for my highly limited culinary motivations. So I boiled a few eggs. But then I thought that perhaps some kind of bread-like product might be a cool way to balance this urge into something more resembling a meal. So I toasted a nice whole wheat English muffin.

Still nothing to write blogs about . . .

But, as I gazed upon the lameness of this paltry meal, I began to wonder if I might bore myself into complete starvation one day. So, as I've done before when this thought came into my head, I began to cast about in my paltry seasoning collection, falling upon curry powder and basil. I employed these, did a little rearranging on the plate, and ...

Voila! An excruciatingly simple, but attractive and tasty little repast to get my day going. I was so proud of how cute my little dish looked, I thought to myself "Self, what better way to appreciate my food than to take a quick picture of it before it is gone," in case anyone ever wanted to make a cookbook for pretty-but-lame-recipes.

And then it hit me ... Why not?!

Mostly for grins, but also to just to see what happens, I've started yet another blog--this one intermittent--that's all about Playing With Your Food. Hopefully it will be worth keeping an eye on. And in the process I might actually enjoy a little time in the kitchen, for a change. =)

I Saw a Car Wreck in My Bathroom Mirror

2011-01-06T19:38:00.000-08:00

No, I'm not picking on how I look. I actually witnessed a car wreck in my bathroom mirror this morning! How many people can say that? How many people will believe me? I'm not sure I do...

I was simply going about my normal maintenance rituals, when I heard the sound. Even the cat jumped from that sound. And there, in my mirror, just to the left of my face was a view of McLoughlin Blvd., where two cars were still in motion as they recoiled from their contact with each other. I turned around and stepped to the window to see if I was imagining this strange occurrence. It was like accidentally looking at the very spot that lightening was about to strike.

The most amazing part was the sheer variety of emotions and thoughts this experience created within me--and I wasn't even an active participant in it.

I felt shocked to hear that horrible crunching metal sound that only colliding cars can make. Anyone who has been in a car wreck can't help but cringe to hear that sound, even from a distance.

I felt frightened for the driver of the car who, without warning, was suddenly plowing into another car that ran the stop sign to make a right turn in the space she was about to occupy. The entire front end of her car was crushed inward, toward the driver.

I felt disbelief when the other car, also horribly damaged, drifted forward on the momentum of the crash--then raced away, leaving the innocent victim to fend for herself.

I felt relief to see her open her door and step out, several deflated air bags hanging from different places within her car, obviously satisfied they'd done their work. She didn't seem phased at all, considering the state of the car, leaking and steaming its vital fluids all over the road.

I felt anger, with her, while we both watched the offending car disappear down the road. Who would cause such damage to another person and then flee? I can't imagine the mind that would do such a thing. It's like watching someone litter.

I felt vindicated when one of my neighbors, also having witnessed this tragedy, jumped in his SUV and raced after the departing driver. I hope he caught him, or at the very least helped the police to capture the creep.

I felt impatient, watching out my window to see the police cars not arrive, not arrive, not arrive. Oh, there they are. Finally.

I felt a little excited to have been able to witness all this, and the slow drama that followed. The police interview, the cars trying to get around the wreck, the wrecker arriving and pulling a once-pristine car up on the ramp, obviously a goner.

I felt guilty for feeling excited about this...

I felt thoughtful, wondering what all this was meant to teach me about myself, since I am one of those strange characters who believes that all moments in life are meant to show or teach us something about ourselves and our world.

I felt a little sad when it was all over. The police cars leaving, one then the other. The wrecker sweeping up, then taking the twisted remnants of the victims car away. Watching as the traffic continued, now completely unaware of what had transpired in that exact spot only an hour ago.

I felt empathy, wondering how the lives of the drivers of both cars would now be different after that one crushing moment of contact between them, and the poorly thought out decision that quickly followed.

And then I felt quizzical: Do we all have so many emotions occur when we witness such things? Or do we have them all the time, when we see most anything happen before us, or to us? Are we all doing this and not noticing it, except for those strange writer-types who are used to watching their own neural meanderings? Or am I simply weird?

Then again, how many people can say they witnessed a car wreck in their bathroom mirror? (Drive safely out there folks. And please watch out for the idiots.)

My First Creative Writing/Fiction Class ... (sigh)

2011-01-05T16:02:00.000-08:00

I've been back at college a year now. I've been doing a lot of writing so far, and I'm proud of that. Not only have my writing chops noticeably improved, but I've learned a few things about myself in the process, and even had a major catharsis or two along the way.

My English Composition class took me to a place where I could better understand my father's perspective on me, and to understand that he--like all of us--did the best he could with what he had to offer. I'm proud of him for that, though it took me some time to reach this place. Seven years stretched out after his death before the tears finally came to properly mourn him.

And my Creative Nonfiction class just last term showed me that I could write memoir. In fact so much material came out of that class, and so much inspiring feedback over it from my classmates--about how my little pieces belonged in a book they wanted to read--that I've added memoir as another genre to pursue in my future writing career, along with essay writing, some silly poetry, screenwriting, as well as my first love: novels.

And this term I'm finally taking my first Creative Writing/Fiction class. I think there are still dried spots of drool over that entry in my college catalog and here I am, finally taking one of the two courses I most want to take. The other is screenwriting (more on that later, I hope).

Like anything worth doing, this class won't be easy. Creativity never is. But this is what I want to do most, so I'm looking forward to it. Stay tuned! :)

Self Publishing Seminar

2011-01-04T23:02:00.000-08:00

It seemed like dumb luck that I happened across the right friend at the right time, who offered to take me to my first self-publishing seminar. I'd thought about the possibility one day of self publishing--when I finish a novel that isn't about a million words long. It always seemed like a cool way to get published, keeping control of the whole process; but then there's the loss of all the things that the big publishers provide.

Or so I thought ... before tonight.

The problem with the big publishers, for as long as I can remember looking into them years ago, is that they are so big that there's so much competition for their services. And at the same time they are so insecure about who they will take on. It's always been a wonder to me that anyone got published at all.

The same problem seemed to exist with getting an agent, as well. You typically needed one of those guys to get the attention of a publisher. So it's running the gauntlet of all that competition again, just to get someone to represent you, so you can pay them to run the gauntlet at the publisher. And, on the average, you still probably wouldn't get the book sold.

And these past decades, it seemed to get only worse. Instead of expecting the marketing might of a huge corporate machine, the big publishers were expecting the lowly authors to market themselves, so the corporation could save its money for whatever they were saving their money for.

And I don't even want to talk about how depressing the math turned out, for those few who did actually get their books published by the big guys. It seemed only pennies of the price of each book made it back to the author, so you had to sell at least a million to pay the rent for a year. I must admit now, that perhaps this contributed to the reason I went into computers instead of following my heart and dreams to be a professional freelance writer ... until now.

And from what I heard at the seminar tonight, it sounded like things had even become worse--if you were dead set on going with the big guys. But there's an alternative.

Back when I started looking into getting published, they called them "Vanity Presses," where authors who couldn't sell their work to a publisher paid to have it printed up anyway. Most of the attitude I witnessed seemed to consider this to be a lowly form of egocentric desperation. And the market they were selling to had a similar perspective. So actually selling a book that way was a huge challenge, even if the book was pretty awesome.

I think everyone knows now that the Internet has changed pretty much everything in the world. Dating, marketing, shopping, socializing, communicating, even crime. Is there an aspect of life on this planet that hasn't been affected by this virtual synaptic network that spans the globe? I don't think so. At least it's hard to imagine as I sit here, randomly sampling amazing tourist spots all over the world from space via satellite.

The publishing industry is no different. Now, whenever you hear the term "Vanity Press," I can only imagine it is being used by nervous executives in those same big publishing houses, or at least the ones that are left standing. According to the statistics, they seem to be falling like so many dominoes. From an unpublished writer's perspective, the image is somewhat gratifying.

But what they're kvetching about with that outdated term is probably the new wave that's taking over publishing: Self publishing. Perhaps the big publishers unwittingly started the trend themselves, when they began urging (forcing) authors to do their own marketing. Now they're doing that and the publishing, too.

It's become not only respectable, but downright practical. And with the print-on-demand services now offered by some online companies, the upfront costs are getting to be less and less. The focus is returning to doing the writing, as well as putting the power of choosing what goes on the cover--both artwork and the title--back in the hands of the author. The majority of the profit is also retained by the author, as well as control over the editing and deadlines. And to make it even worse for Big Publishing, the turnaround on these projects is phenomenally improved.

There's still quite a bit I'm not saying about this relatively new technology and its benefits to authors, because there's quite a bit I don't know; but I'll probably be delving into it further as I reach a time where I will be seeking just that kind of option myself. I'll keep you apprised. Since this is listed as one of my goals for the year, let's assume that further posts on that subject will be soon forthcoming.

Until then, the impression is that publishing is going through changes for the better. Authors are getting back control of their work, which is something we've been needing for a long time. Hopefully things will continue to get better as technology continues to rock the publishing industry.

Going Back to School

2011-01-03T20:47:00.000-08:00

It's the first Monday of the year, the day after my birthday and I had my first day back at college, starting a new term after winter break. I find myself happily thinking that if this new blog is going to record a year that is to be all about creating progress in my life, then going back to college to start my second career has to be one of the best steps I can take right now.

The decision was actually made just before I moved out to Portland about 19 months ago, although the idea had been percolating for some time. So much of my life had broken free when I transitioned (more about that in my other blog). The possibilities were endless, the opportunities everywhere, and old dreams were suddenly brought back to life. Going back to college, to build those dreams a sturdy foundation beneath them, seemed to be the best idea going. If not for the official paper to show people that I was dedicated to my new life, it would force my work ethic back into gear after the huge sabbatical that was necessary to put my life back in order.

If you haven't noticed by now, with all this blogging going on, my dream is to Write! I've loved writing since the day I received my first Big Chief notepad, the bright red cover emblazoned with its title character, complete with feathers. What seemed like millions of gray pages within crying out to be filled with words. And I couldn't wait to fill them all.

I regret not having any of these pads today, but I have the memory of them, as well as the feeling I had back then. Today I can better describe that feeling than I could then: it felt as if I were a channel for ideas. I don't know where they come from any more than I did back then. I just knew that they wanted to be written down, as well as my 7-year-old mind could hope to grasp them, and my inexperienced fingers could manage to contain them between those endless blue-green lines.

Although I have been practicing the craft of writing all of my life since then, I allowed more practical thinking, and perhaps a little pressure from others, to push me into a more "profitable" career choice. I went into computers and did rather well with it. I enjoyed puzzling out the logic, working with the myriad of languages and syntax I learned, as well as challenging the technology that was growing up around me at the time. But always the best part for me was designing the user interfaces and the help systems, which involved writing--communicating ideas with others.

And here I am, at my local community college, taking classes in creative fiction and nonfiction, and soon--my most favorite subject of all--screenwriting. With the way the ideas are flowing, I hope to wow you one day with something simply amazing on the big screen, while pumping out the odd novel, memoir, and perhaps ... a blog or two, if I find the time. =)

My Resolution: To Make Goals

2011-01-02T11:00:00.000-08:00

Today is my birthday! Behind me spans another awesome year full of unexpected accomplishments--and one heartbreaking glitch. (sigh) What better day to move forward and discuss goals for the next stellar year?

Motivation

If you've seen my other blog, you'll know why "making every day count" is practically a mantra for me. It's sometimes a neglected mantra, but one that always reasserts itself when the memory of my "past life" comes to mind, which is all too often. When you wake up one day realizing you've lived the first half of your life as a zombie, you kind of want to make the rest of your life count. And who here hasn't at one time felt they could've made a little better use of the days that brought them here?

Purpose

That, among other things, is the true mission of this blog. That is, to motivate me to perform one or more of the following each and every day:

Write! Every single day! This is my new prime directive
Make some positive progress in making a better life
Make some positive contribution to the world
Explore what lesson I might/should have learned that day
Work toward attaining some of the goals listed below

Resolutions v. Goals

To begin with, let me state that there's a difference between a "resolution" and a "goal".

Resolutions are those nasty little willpower-sucking creatures that attack you in the throes of New Years day, possibly your brain's desperate attempt to get you to improve your life so you don't have to drink it into next year's painful hangover.
Goals, on the other hand, are long-term aspirations you proclaim for some foreseeable future and then move on with your life, allowing your subconscious to find ways to make it so.

I like goals a lot better, because they tend to sneak into your apartment and yell "surprise!" when you least expect it, showering you with unexpected treasures you forgot asking for earlier that year.

It's amazing what your subconscious mind can do when you throw it a challenge and leave it to do its work. (If you don't believe me, check out the book A Writer's Time by Kenneth Atchity.)

It's so much more effective than trying to get your procrastinating, lazy and forgetful conscious mind to go after some pesky resolution. Sometimes the only way to make that work is to set yourself up with some serious peer pressure to keep you on the path of progress ... er ... much as I'm doing with this blog idea. But when it is something you actually have to remember to do each day, then a resolution is a necessary evil.

Goals for the Coming Year

As for goals, here are a few of the things I would like to see happen with my life within the next year:

Adopting a little sister kitty for my new kitten Squirrel
Earning an Associates degree that will propel me into ...
Beginning a Bachelors degree in Film Studies
Earning a scholarship or grant to pay for it all
Writing at least one salable book (novel or memoir) and screenplay
Finding an awesomely happy and loving relationship
Identifying more goals as the preceding goals are attained

Hopefully these are neither too mundane nor unrealistic. But now that they have been stated, all too publicly, it is now merely a matter of my subconscious--and my friends--to continually kick me in the seat of my skirt to attain them. Although I will revisit this list and add to it on a periodic--perhaps monthly--basis, I look forward to gazing upon this list exactly a year from now and seeing how I did.

Blogging Out on a Limb ... (Blog*365)

2011-01-01T22:00:00.000-08:00

Most of the people I've bumped into who saw the movie Julie and Julia were inspired to cook. For me it was an inspiration to Write!

Not that my two cookbooks aren't crying out to be challenged, choking upon the ancient dust atop my refrigerator. I think that's why I have two of them: to keep each other company up there. But the motivation to cook more often never entered my half-baked mind while watching that movie. What whisked me into a frenzy was how it made Julia write ... Every Single Day!

Julia made a choice to focus on a goal--if an arbitrary one--for the duration of an entire year! She challenged herself not to fail. And to motivate that challenge, she enlisted the help of the entire web-surfing population, the unseen readers whose numbers grew to follow her adventure with awe. Using the blog she effectively put a pastry gun to her head to succeed, lest she let her public down.

I'll never fool myself into thinking I will ever whip up that kind of a following with my humble blog. Plenty of better writers are out there blogging two and three times a day. But for someone like me--who seems to misplace her blog muse for months at a time--this will be a true challenge. It sounds like a recipe for public disaster ... all the more fun for you, huh?

And the beginning of the year seems the perfect time to set myself to the task. That time when so many, promise so much, to last only so long. As if to raise the stakes, I'm starting this adventure on one of my most credit-encrusted, writing-filled college terms yet.

If you haven't cooked up a pool for how long this can possibly last, now would be a good time. But we shall see... (insert evil laugh here)

Tune in tomorrow for the action-packed sequel, wherein I will actually set goals for myself--not resolutions, mind you--actual goals. Not just for the blog and my writing, but for my life in the next 365 days ...