Thursday, April 10, 2008

4/9 Also the Day of Taco Pie and Family in the Garden

Family dinner last night. Truly, this is the reason we moved down here. Family.

We sat out in the garden and ate taco pie (still not quite sure what it is, but it was good,) and drank margaritas and beer and milk or coke for those who don’t drink.

Ivy started out shy and wouldn’t talk to anyone, but by the end, she was running back and forth, grinning and clapping her hands. And she kissed everyone good night, after a little warm up.

G of course was in his element: the center of attention. Climbing on everyone, getting tossed in the air, making faces, etc. And he got to stay up late. At one point, he took his blankie and his bobo and lay down on the porch step, but then he got his second wind and was up and running again.

I made peanut butter and jelly and apples for the kids’ dinner, because I knew grandma was coming with food, but it would be too late for dinner for them, although they could have some when it was ready (Ivy had some, G refused it [from everyone, and despite the many tricksy reverse psychology maneuvers attempted by all.]) PB&J means no drama at dinner.

Wednesday, April 09, 2008

4/9 The Day of the Many Happy Things Despite My Head Being Wrapped Up in Seaweed

G discovered the joys of a cardboard box and thence it became a boat upon the open seas.

When he got out of the boat, I said, “now you’re in the water, are you going to swim?” and that is what he did, get down on the floor and make swimming motions. Big smile upon his face.

And Ivy wanted to be in the boat, too, so then it was a two man boat, with lots of giggles.

Cleaning the fish pond of its seaweed swamp. I cleared it out, G took it off of my tool and put it in piles. Ivy played in the heaps of wet green strands.

Got my sister to join Facebook. She almost never does the things I suggest, but apparently I was not the only one who had invited her.

When a facebook friend asked about the subject of my novel and I had to go look up my one line summary because I couldn’t remember it… but that’s okay, because it brings the story back to my head.

Looking at my cousin’s Wicca site and thinking it was a pretty cool thing for her to do, and sending her an email maybe possibly giving her another venue if she is interested in going there. I like to be of help, although it may not seem like it at present with my envelopment in the mothering process.

Oh, yeah, my mom called and reminded me she is coming over for dinner and bringing something called “taco pie” and stuff for margaritas. Can’t wait.

Oh, good. Many happy things this morning. That’s a relief, because I have felt very fuzzy headed this morning and a little lost. I want to try JulieJordanScott’s ideas [still to come] but I’ve been so cranky and off.

Tuesday, April 08, 2008

4/8 Also The Day of Now I'm Pooped

impromptu, acoustic dance party in the tv room. G started clapping his and Ivy’s milk cups together to make a beat, and then started dancing and wanted everyone to watch. Then papa started playing the tv tray with a down beat. Then mama clapped her hands along. Then Ivy decided she would clap her hands too, and then both she and G were dancing, dancing, dancing and they never wanted it to stop.

Cute little Golden Book where Theodore Goes to Sea.

G and Ivy ate everything on their plates. Granted I made G’s favorites of hamburger and tater tots, and I didn’t give him the tomato salad or even the mac and cheese, which he won’t eat (Wait? What? No mac and cheese? Huh?) But there was no dinner drama.

Nice walks where we made discoveries and apologized to flowers that were trampled and met doggies who were nice and neighbors who were boorish who we now know to avoid.

4/8 The Day of Documenting the Little Things

A butterfly floated through the garden. It was beautiful with orange and black and white. Uncle said it had probably just emerged from its cocoon and was still drying its wings.

Cinnamon toast. Now if only I could get the kids to stop eating my toast.

The fun of the old fire truck that we pulled out of Uncle’s closet. Big, sliding ladder. Wooowooowoooo!

The soft moss we found growing on the stone wall under the oak tree.

Looking back at the pictures I took this morning and realizing that I had done a pretty good job of documenting the morning, our ordinary morning. It was cool.

The thing about moving is that you are really aware of those daily moment to moment happenings that are what your life consists of. Maybe that’s why I’ve been so focused on this list. Also trying to stay positive and not be overwhelmed by all the changes.

Monday, April 07, 2008

4/7 The Day of Cutting Teeth and Making Friendeds

Ivy’s front tooth, broken through at last. Lets hope that’s the end of the writhing and hysterics. (Haha. I’m sure there will be another 17 years of some variation on that. At least.)

Watching the end of the third Pirates of the Caribbean. Really enjoyed it, even want to see it again. The second was so bad that it was an especially nice surprise.

Had some conversations with some friend on Facebook. I have spent a while not understanding the whole facebook thing. Why not just email? But I suppose theres something to be said for the ease of checking in, so I even friended some people I left behind in NY.

The way kids are happy and adventuring, even when adults are stressed. Well, unless that was Ivy’s nervous stomach responding to our stress. Hmmm.

My can and uncle’s cat are now not only enduring being in the same room, but they are apparently seeking each other out to make friends and influence felines. Either that or my cat is stalking him and is about to pounce.

4/6 The Day of All Day Rain and Sleeping In a Little

Got to sleep in. That was nice. Then woke up and took a shower without kids hanging off of me.

The Sunday paper. My uncle always gets the paper, since he works for them. It’s not nearly as weighty as the NYT sunday paper, so I can actually get through a lot of it.

Many sudoku. I went through the back issues of the papers to find them.

Upside down Ivy. She loves to go upside down, and if you hold her that way, she will (literally) hang out for as long as she can.

A rainy day. I like the sound of rain, and the fresh air and the cool breeze and the opportunity to cuddle in a sweater and stay in. Also getting caught in the rain, and watching the kids splash around in the puddles.

Dinner! Everyone ate! Oven-fried chicken, farm fresh corn on the cob, and tater tots for the tater tots. Chianti for the adults.

After a protracted bedtime, sitting on the porch with S, watching the rain fall and talking.

Then we watched the third Pirates of the Caribbean movie, which was MUCH better than the second one. We didn’t get to finish it because it was too long and it was time for bed, but that just means I have the rest of the movie to look forward to.

Saturday, April 05, 2008

4/5 The Day of "Creatures and Mayhem" and That's a Good Thing

Went out with my mom. We went shopping… or she went shopping and I came along, mostly. I did get the kids some used cartoon videos, but tried not to shop as it is not in the budget.

The hugeness that was Publix. I am not used to such big and busy grocery stores. Busy meaning it seemed to be like a community center, not just teeming and crowded with testy shoppers, like in Brooklyn.

The little used bookstore my mom took me to. It was so cozy, with different genre rooms and some finches in the window and seats scattered through out. It wasn’t actually that small.

Stopping for coffee and sharing a cinnamon roll with my mom and talking science fiction and other things.

G encountering a ladybug for the first time, letting it crawl around on his arm and giggling.

Ivy in her bed, kept raising her head to look at me, saying “mama” and I would say, “I love you.” and she would say “mama” and I would say “I love you.” and then she would smile and we’d do it again, and sometimes she would say “night night” and I would say “I love you.” and then she would giggle, and this went on until I finally just shut the door.

Uncle’s interpretation of my family (and his stories about me, like how I always put too much milk in my cereal and leave it and have since I was 4) Ivy is a sweetheart. G is dramatic. S has the soul of a poet and the heart of a pirate. That last had to be noted down because it was such a good line.

Uncle also said that he likes having us here because we get him out of his strange world. “I live in a world of creatures and mayhem,” he said. “And now they’re running around in your house. The boy is mayhem, and the girl is the creature.”

4/4 The Day of Winding Down

S cooked dinner. He made New Orleans style red beans and rice. I didn’t have to do anything… although I did do more cleanup.

Chocolate. ‘Nuff said.

Syndicated sitcoms. I don’t know why I love them, but they put a cap on my day and help me relax and rewind.

Ivy and G holding hands as they walk down the sidewalk.

Finding childhood pictures of my mom and one of my uncles which are deadringers for G. All of a sudden, his looks make sense.

Friday, April 04, 2008

4/4 The Day of Fresh Picked Grapefruits

Picking grapefruits off of our very own grapefruit tree. Well, it’s my uncle’s grapefruit tree, but he says he’s not that into grapefruits. The whole episode made the kids morning, watching me with the long stick and basket trying to capture the big round fruit.

One grapefruit was as big as Ivy’s head!

Man they were tasty, too. Didn’t even need sweetening. Is it just that they were free or that they were really good?

Going for a walk the kids, just up and down the street, but there were many things to see and explore.

Chasing G around with Ivy… I mean, I held Ivy out and chased him around as if Ivy was the weapon. Much squealing and laughter.

Call from old friend just touching bases.

Finished the book I’ve been reading for the last four months. It wasn’t my favorite of her books, but it was still good. Especially the ending.

Thursday, April 03, 2008

4/3 After Settling In, A Good Day

That S cleaned up all the toys we’d left in the tv room while I made dinner. Usually clean up is my duty, being the sahm, but while we have both been “on vacation” I am not the only one.

Crispy bacon. (But beware the eatus toomuchus. It leads to upsetus stomachus.)

Ivy kisses and hugs. She purses her little lips and leans into it. Sometimes she goes french.

Ivy’s big round belly.

The word “rotund.”

Reminding S that this was living, and it was pretty good, as he sat out in the garden, the blue sky above, the lush green, the trickling fountain into the fish pond, all as he was trying to deal with his native temper and impatience with the little ones and the world in general.

Return of the King on my uncle’s giant projection screen. G loves the hobbits, and he has actually seen the first movie multiple times (at first by accident, and then on purpose when I realized he could handle it.) He didn’t sit through the whole 3 hours, but bopped around playing, although he kept coming in to focus down. It got pretty scary for a while, he said it was “good scary,” but we almost turned it off. Then we got into the end of the movie, where Frodo is almost defeated, and G was so upset… but when he succeeded and Frodo wakes up in Gondor after being taken away from Mordor by the giant eagles, G gasped with joy. And then for the rest of the movie where everything is wonderful, he kept saying “more, more!” I’m afraid we have a boy who has been enraptured by movies.

Now past bedtime (with a wired young boy) and S and I are watching the special features/making of the movies. Making The Lord of The Rings is sometimes more amazing than the actual movie.

4/3 The Day of Settling Into Patterns

This morning having coffee and doing crosswords/sudoku with S while the kids ate their cheerios and drank their milk and played. They are just a little bit self sufficient… enough to get as many cheerios into their mouths as on the floor.

Ivy’s cute blue and red and white gingham dress.

G’s khaki shirt and pants.

Ivy has discovered raisins. She nods her head vigorously when I ask if she likes them.

And G ate three handfuls of them. Maybe it will help him in the regularity department, because goodness, that is some wild drama. Uncle thought we were torturing the poor boy, and he was just pooping.

Wednesday, April 02, 2008

4/2 Also the Day of the Moments After

Storm clouds rolling in, charcoal colored and bringing a cold wind to the semi tropical garden.

I love the sound of rain and thunder.

ANTM! And someone cried! I shouldn’t take such glee in these girls’ tears, but they are usually for very silly things, most often hair. So glee I take.

The moment when the kids stop crying in their room, no longer calling for mama, no longer asking for just one more stuffed animal perched on the bed, no longer needing yet another diaper change, no longer clamoring for just one more goodnight kiss and hug, no longer avoiding sleep and just… go… to… sleep.

And then, the moment, a couple hours later, when I have decompressed and relaxed and no longer feel flattened and exhausted.

Oh, the Frank O’Hara poem I read… Avenue A. So great. I should go write something.

4/2 The Day of Committing to Happy Details All Day Long

Ivy’s pucci print inspired sundress in green and pink and black swirls. When she is in the garden, she almost blends in with the tropical gardenness of it all.

Making a list of things that G discovers in the garden.
a grapefruit half eaten by fruit rats
a swarm of fruit flies
a key lime, still good
a black snake, making it’s escape
a nice long new stick
a couple of rocks
a purple plastic fish dropped by a girl
a little brown lizard
the beginning swell of a baby citrus fruit, fallen off the tree before it could ripen.

Recommitting to poetry even though the goal scares the bejeebers out of me.

Making the decision to write down things for this list, even if the day is not done, because I keep forgetting good things by the end of the evening, partly because I am so tired then. And I want to pay attention to the details… maybe I’m thinking that I can turn them into poetry.

Ivy’s hair is coming in and it’s starting to ruffle a little on the top. I might soon be able to put some barrettes in there.

Pancakes for lunch, with lots of butter and syrup.

An extra cup of coffee. S is around all the time and drinks all my coffee before I can get to it. I had to make a new pot… well, I suggested “we” make a new pot, and S did it.

Tuesday, April 01, 2008

4/1 The Day of Tots, Tater, Screaming, and Giggling

Setting up all G’s stuffed animals around the head and guard rails of his bed. They are all sitting up there, hanging out. It made him so happy. Of course, in the end all he cared about was that he was missing his little fishies, but when we came in with some fishies a few minutes later, he gasped in happiness and the crying stopped immediately.

Saw an absolutely ginormous spider making a web in a tree outside the house. I mean, like 2 or 3 inches across. I tried to take some pictures but I don’t think my camera was good enough. Scaryvelous.

Ate dinner at the burger joint, with grandpa and grandma. The kids discovered tater tots and were totally engrossed. The kids also danced and bopped their head to the guy who was singing.

Grandma is making inroads on getting Ivy to play with her. Ivy is very shy and mamacentric. She hides in mama’s shoulder when grandma comes along, but grandma still got some giggles and smiles finally.

Sunday, March 30, 2008

3/30 The Day of The Once Picky Eater and Her Wild Things

After dinner, milk sippy time, and Ivy had a little spill. G pointed out to me and seemed to want me to clean it up. I got a paper towel and gave it to him, and he ran over and wiped up the spill. Then Ivy got a hold of it and started wiping too, she wiped the table too. That excited G apparently, because when he got the paper towel back, he went off like a whirling dervish wiping every surface he could reach. Clean, clean, clean. He couldn’t get enough of it and it made him so happy to wipe everything down. My plan is to keep this going and hand him some dishes and a sponge as soon as it is feasible.

Chubby little Ivy running around the room while G got his story read. I think she knew Where the Wild Things Are at least enough to jump up when the wild rumpus started.

Checking in with some good blogs that I hadn’t read in a while. There’s some good writing out there.

I made a real meal. Well balanced, hearty, tasty. Meatloaf (with some veggies in it,) carrots with a sweet and salty glaze and some rice with a squeeze of key lime from the tree. I ate, the girl ate, the papa ate (although only two baby carrots) the boy however did not eat a bite, although he tried both the carrots and the meatloaf when I made it into a sandwich. He spit them both out, reacting violently to the onion, I think. Just didn’t like it. He got a reheated mini hamburger and was delighted. Even my uncle skipped the carrots, as anti-veggie as he is.

I said something about, “How strange it is that I am the least picky person in this house.” My uncle laughed, because he is the only person here who knew me when I was a kid and would only eat food if it was pink or red. On the plus side, if I was that picky and can now eat and cook all sorts of foods, then perhaps a picky child is not the sentence of doom that you always think when nothing gets eaten at dinner.

Catching most of the BBCSense and Sensibility even if it’s not very good reception.

3/29 The Day of Grown Up Lady Things and High Tea

Leaving the house, despite babies crying and toddling towards me, arms outstretched, “mamamamamama!” My mother had to actually pull me out of the door to keep me from dragging the parting out.

Stopping for a coffee on our drive, where I got checked out by some hot Italian guy talking on his cel phone. Maybe I am not completely mommied out.

Driving out to St Pete beach, where my future SIL was having a bridal shower. Driving around down there, since we were early, looking at all the houses on the water, some mansions, some cottages… thinking it would be a really cool thing to rent a little house out on the beach for a year or two, enjoying the best of St Pete, before we pack up and move on to California (this would be before we had to send G to school.)

Meeting SILs family and friends and realizing that I am not as antisocial as I thought I was. I did quite fine in the room full of strangers, being helpful, making jokes, getting along. That’s right. This period of isolating childrearing is not actually the totality of who I am.

High Tea. Tea in a tea pot, little sandwiches, scones. Fruit w chocolate. Oh, and Mimosas.

I won one of the games at the shower, a memory game where I had to list all the items she’d shown from a bag. I only missed one. I am not as mommy-brained as I thought I was.

Meeting up with S and the kids and my step father after the shower. Realizing that without me around all the time, Ivy does a lot friendlier and is less clingy when she does see me next. Time for mama to get out more.

Uncle sharing some of his old work (animation) with us, and then telling us the plot of this serial story he was working on. Great story. I think it should be a novel, myself, and I am trying to convince him that he should write it. He once wrote a science fiction novel that was pretty good, but gave up on getting it published.

Spending some quality time with S. He seems to be getting back to himself which is a good thing all around.

Friday, March 28, 2008

3/28 The Day of Mama's Mini Escape, Mwahahaha

Changing the girl, who didn’t want to sit or stand still and as I was wiping her butt, she ran off… and the wipe was stuck in her buttcrack. So the little girl is running around the room, with a babywipe stuck to her tush. She started going in circles trying to get it out, even, like a puppy. Then I showed G what was going on and he and I were both laughing hysterically. Finally I caught her and finished the diaper change.

G’s new love of hamburgers in a bun. Yes, something he will eat. Woohoo. Of course, guess what baby girl won’t eat it.

Got out of the house today, because my mom needed me to go with my stepfather and choose a shower present for my soon to be sister in law. He ended up picking the present on his own, but I helped him figure out how to get the registry list and all that. They wrapped our gifts there, too.

Then we played hooky and went to get a burger and a beer. Mwahahaha.

G and Ivy in the back garden when we got back, playing with some buckets and water. G had me pour the bucket over his head and then he splashed around in the puddles. I guess we need to get a kiddie pool.

Just now, G wanted to find papa and Ivy, so I took him out to the front where they were talking to some neighbors down the street who have a boy just G’s age and another boy 6 months old. Nice people. G and the boy played with his trike. We chatted, they invited us to stop over anytime we saw them out there to play.

Thursday, March 27, 2008

3/27 The Day of Sing It With Me! _Get the Poopy Out!_

Trying to help G poopy, and singing silly songs to make him smile, “we get the poopy out, we get the poopy out, we push, shove poopy them out.” Or saying maybe he should let the poopy out because “the poopy wants to go home to the diaper, he would like the potty even better, but would be okay with the diaper.” Or showing him that the poopy comes out like his hand comes out of his pajama sleeves. This is what you will do to get a kid who doesn’t like to poopy just to GO ALREADY!

Then G poopies and he starts laughing and dancing about. If you feel so happy and nice now, why can’t you just go ahead and poopy kid?!

I call from an ex boyfriend who always was a better friend than boyfriend. Just catching up for a little, when he heard that I moved.

Thinking about things I want to accomplish while I’m down here and doing research to figure out the steps to take. I’m not DOING anything yet, but I am getting ready to.

3/26 The Day of Family Time Plus One

A nice conversation with my uncle before bed. In part it was about getting a job, talking about where I might wait tables or something, and then some talking about the possibility of me teaching again. He says I seem to have a passion for it, which is true, but also why it’s so hard to do it sometimes when the politics of it all seem to be out to destroy all the things you worked for. He also understood why I wouldn’t want to jump into teaching now, while I am still undecided about where to settle.

Another conversation with my uncle in Georgia. He actually told me that his step daughter made 300 dollars a shift working in restaurants down here… which is good news for me.

Got to see ANTM, even if it was without my previous tradition of the brownie batter feast.

Having a family dinner with the whole family, including Uncle. I even made a simple salad to go with our frittata.

G trying to help Uncle with raking the garden. And then later, helping him put the gardening tools back in the shed.

The first few times G crosses his arms and says, “no!” It’s really cute. And then the following few hundred times? Not so much.

Tuesday, March 25, 2008

3/25 The Day of Girls Chasing Cats and/or Boys around the Kitchen

Ivy chasing the cat around and around the kitchen, giggling the whole way. The cat must have been enjoying it, because she kept going around too.

Ivy is such a walker. She has places to go and things to do. And she will tell you about them, too, even if it’s just “blalalalabla”

Walking into the kids’ bedroom to find them playing, Ivy smooshing her face up against the mesh of the travel crib, and G playing peekaboo.

G waking up from his nap actually happy and smiling and playing, because all morning he had been miserable and sick. Infact, the only one in the family not sick was Ivy.

G eating his hamburger in a roll like a big boy. Actually, eating it any way. He’s a slender boy, and when he has a stint of feeling yucky and not eating, he gets down right skinny, so that he ate the whole hamburger was a plus.

G pretending to be a cat, and Ivy, in her pink night gown, chasing him around and around the kitchen while he meowed.

Story time, and cries of “one more! one more!” They didn’t get as many books as they wanted, but they kept going to the bookcase and bringing back more books to read.

Monday, March 24, 2008

3/24 The Day of Old Photo Albums, I Mean OOOOLD

Was looking through some of my uncle’s old photo albums. I mean, these are OOOOOLD photo albums. Turn of the century photos, turn of the LAST century, that is. Pictures of women in floor length skirts and aprons, the roaring twenties, 30s and 40s. These are the kind of photos that you see in magazines. So iconic. I can’t believe these people are my relatives.

The next book I pulled out was a surprise. The first picture I saw was one of my from when I was 8 years old. Haven’t seen my school pictures in decades. This book was a few pictures of my generation as children, but mostly my mom and uncles. So cool.

I showed G a picture of my mom and me when I was about Ivy’s age, and he kissed the picture.

My mom’s childhood seemed so idyllic. Cowgirl outfits, ponies, little fluffy chicks, flower beds, ponds.

I also see a little bit of G in my mom as a child. She has said that she is a little disappointed that he does not look like me, but looks mostly like S. I think his looks might have actually skipped a generation.

3/23 Easter at Grandma's

Going to Grandma’s for Easter dinner. The kids found all grandma’s toys and had a blast. G particularly loved it.

G playing with Grandma’s dog in the yard. He would race around, and G would try to catch him. Try, only try. Made him laugh hysterically.

My brother and his fiance came over and brought easter baskets for the kids, which is nice, because I totally spaced on doing easter. We aren’t religious, so that isn’t an issue, but the traditions and the celebration of Spring are lovely.

G going ZOMBIE BOY on the chocolate bunny. He ripped the box open and didn’t even wait to get it out of the plastic before he bit its butt off.

Having other people to pick Ivy up. She is in a hugely clinging phase right now, and is always crying mamamamamamamama. But if aunt Melissa or Grandma wanted to try, there was at least someone to hold her.

Ivy’s cute little outfit in green and white toile with a sheer bow tie on the back. Even G wore a button up shirt.

Guy bonding on the porch and girl talk inside while we watched the rerun of ANTM, which I missed this week.

Sunday, March 23, 2008

3/22 The Rainy Saturday

Reading bedtime stories to the kids with the whole family (including the now-famous cat) in my grandpa’s bed.

My uncle saying that my grandpa would have enjoyed this: having his house and his garden being explored by toddlers fascinated with nature, water, plants, bugs, fish, dirt, whatever.

Seeing my cousin again without any of the drama that goes down with other family members and her. Even better, seeing her daughter, who is G’s age and having the two kids get along great, having fun playing.

Actually napping while the kids napped. I must be tired-er than I think if I can nap during the day. Usually I can’t. Maybe it helped that it was raining out. It’s also nice that I can see so many trees outside my bedroom windows. It’s almost like sleeping in a tree house.

Letting G splash in the downpour in the garden. He didn’t need to come in out of the rain, he could play until he wanted to come in, it was warm enough. And then we towelled him off and put him in sweat pants and gave him a nap.

Taking a short walk with the kids (G brought his magnifying glass) and no stroller, just exploring the neighborhood, only coming home when the light drizzle turned into real rain.

Eggs and bacon and english muffins and grapefruit juice for brunch.

G’s absolute joy at getting to see Saturday morning cartoons… his tv intake has been severely curtailed, but god those cartoons allowed me to take a breath from the increasingly hyper boy. It is no coincidence that we took our walk once the cartoons ended.

3/21 The Day of Going Out on the Town for the First Time in Three Years

Having our first date since the day before G was born, except for one wedding, which hardly even counted. We had dinner and drinks at a Garden restaurant with live Jazz then walked around downtown for a little. It’s strange to be in this new city…. and it really is a new city, a few years ago, nothing was going on downtown, and now it’s hopping.

Not wanting to call my mom and ask her to babysit while we check out the restaurant that I could drop my resume at, but not needing to, because she called just as I was considering calling and offered. Yay grandma!

G’s joy at playing watergun fight with the shark and dolphin watergun that S bought.

G’s wonder when Papa showed him a snake in the garden. He was still talking about it hours later.

Ivy dressed like a little hippie girl and toddling around the house.

3/20 The Day of Kung Fu Fighting Hiyah!

Got to watch Lost. TV is not a big thing here, no cable, old, turn-knob tvs, no remotes, even, but I managed to get ABC in and watch my Lost. Missed ANTM yesterday. Oh well. Perhaps this low tv period will break the addiction and I can start being more productive again. Here’s to hoping.

Going through my pictures since I got here. I’ve taken some really good ones. Unfortunately, the computer situation is weird. I got on the internet on my laptop, and then was unable to again. Don’t know why. Have to figure it out, but all my photos are on my laptop, so until I get back on line, that is where they will stay. And I want to send out pictures of the kids, so that those that were worried about us will feel better, because those are some happy pictures.

We were sitting out in the garden just hanging out, and I started singing that song, “they were kung fu fighting, those cats were fast as lightning.” And G all of a sudden went into Kung fu poses. Hiyah! I don’t know where he got it from, but it was pretty funny. I got a great picture of it. Too bad y’all can’t see it until I figure out the technicalities.

Omygoodness. I forgot about splashsplash time in the big bathtub. They enjoyed it, the kids did. So much better than our grungy old claustrophobic tub in Brooklyn.

3/18

Having a nice dinner of corned beef and cabbage with most of my family, mom, step dad, brother and his fiancee, uncle, S, and the kids. Was good to see everyone and have everyone around.

Taking a nap most of the afternoon.

Taking a shower after the nap.

Getting my missing bag from the airline. It took a detour through Daytona. Good thing my mom was here to give the driver directions, because she didn’t know how to get here. Boy, that airline sure was a winner. (Don’t fly AirTran)

Watching the kids as they explored the garden. Oh they love it. Love it love it. They like the house, too, but they are getting a lot of new rules about what they can and can’t touch.

Watching my poor kitty explore the house and the garden. She is doing pretty darn well. She isn’t even having a problem with Uncle’s cat, some hissing, but that’s it. So much better than being in a tiny box for 8 hours.

3/19 The Day of the Long Walk

Hanging out with S and Uncle and G and Ivy. Sitting out in the garden, beers for the grown ups and milk for the littles. Birds singing. Fruit trees rustling in the breeze. Warm air. Night falling.

S and Uncle are getting along great. What a relief. And I think it’s good for Uncle that we’re here. I think he spends too much time alone and has too little human contact. He’s also enjoying the kids. He says we have great kids.

Tacos for dinner. Good old fashioned, easy to make, easy to gobble up. Been having trouble eating a full meal because I’m still stressed and tired and maybe going from the winter to the summer overnight, so tacos fit the bill.

Coming back after our long walk which was supposed to be a short walk, but we went too far and needed to get something to eat so we had to walk even farther to find a place, although there was much to see on the way, like the bay and a huge banyan tree and an art museum. Returning, we took the direct route instead of the scenic one, and it was much quicker.

Watching G play with uncle, and he was okay with G bonking him on the head and they seemed to be enjoying it from both ends. It would annoy the bejeezers out of me, but hey, if Uncle wants to play the game, then it’s okay.

Monday, March 17, 2008

3/17 The Big Day

Sitting in the car, all of us, Mama, Papa, G, Ivy and cat, puling away from the old apartment, saying thank you and good bye to our home.

Managing to get the kids, the stroller, six carry-on bags (2 per person,) all four of our shoes and coats through the security check in… especially since I learned I had to take the cat out of her carrier, take her through the metal detector, and put her back in the carrier on the other side…since it took me half and hour to get her in the carrier in the first place. And our plane was getting ready to take off. Someone actually told me she was very impressed with the way I managed the whole endeavor. Go mama.

Racing to the gate to find out our plane was late, so we didn’t miss it after all. Even though we were never allowed onto the plane when it did show, because the cat carrier didn’t fit under the seats and they didn’t have a carrier handy that they could let us use.

Then, two hours later, as our second plane was near to closing the doors with us still not having a carrier, the woman who kicked us off the first plane came RUNNING down the hall with the appropriate cat carrier, and we all managed to situate ourselves in time for the plane to take off with us inside of it.

Showing G the way we were flying ABOVE the clouds. He liked flying.

Having Ivy and G fall asleep on the plane (although we had to wake them up when we transfered in Atlanta, that’s right, our direct flight became a transfer.)

How much the kids loved the m&ms in the snack mix I made (cheerios, goldfish, raisins, and m&ms)

Taking out the little 50 cent magnadoodles and Ivy and G spending the last leg of our journey drawing.

Landing in St. Pete and steering the stroller through an almost empty airport (it was past midnight although we were originally supposed to arrive at 8pm) to go get our luggage, and knowing the journey was almost over.

Seeing my mom drive up to the luggage area and getting to hug her.

Then seeing my step father in the other car, which would allow us to carry all the luggage with out hassle or (anymore heart ache [even though the airline lost one of our bags {with my porfolio in it!}])

The smell of Florida air. It smells like green growing things, even outside the airport.

Pulling up to my uncle’s house and getting the bags all inside.

Seeing my Uncle again.

Having S get along with everyone he’s never met before.

Seeing G and Ivy’s room. They were so happy. My mom had it set up with a toddler bed and travel crib and an heirloom child’s desk that my uncles used and books and toys. So nice.

Falling asleep in the nice soft bed. It used to be my Grandpa’s bed, and it was so comfortable.

Knowing that the whole miserable day was over and done with, even though I still had to wait for my back and I was so tired and my fingers were bruised and cut from packing and my stomach hurt and I was so tired I couldn’t speak.

Monday, June 05, 2006

new blog

In case you check in here and are looking for me, or you just found it and would like to see more, I am now writing a different blog.

warriorgirl.blogspot.com

Monday, May 03, 2004

Real Life Heroes

We're living in an age of heroes, now.

I watch the news, and they keep naming people heroes. This guy died in the war, this kid died of cancer, this man died in a fire. Sometimes people are alive and they get named heroes-- people who make it home from war, people who survive cancer, people who get other people out of fires. Now, I'm not saying these people aren't heroes, necessarily, but I don't know if just suriving or dying in difficult situations actually makes one a hero. Does a heroic action make one a hero? Does dying? If it does, then doesn't that make ALL of us heroes, sooner or later?

An age of heroes...

Funny to think of it that way. As if we're in a Greek epic. As if we are living through the Greatest of times, with a capital "G".

What if we did think about it that way? What if we just got rid of all the cynism that said the world was all fucked up. What if we got rid of the romanticism that said some other time was better, some other age was the one with all the great deeds, some other people were the heroes.

What if we actually lived our lives as if WE were the heroes-- not some military leader in history, nor in fiction.

For that matter, what if we realized we didn't need some outside force to make us heroes-- nobody pinning a medal on our chests, no newspapers declaring us so. No key to the city here, just us and the choices we make.

Because that's what it's about, isn't it? The choices we make? It's about facing adversity in our lives and choosing the right path, even if it's harder. Choosing to struggle on because you know it is for the better. Sometimes those difficulties might be public enough to get you declared a hero in the papers, but frankly daily struggles can be just as difficult.

When I was a kid, I thought I was going through the craziest, most traumatic childhood. I thought being poor, living across the street from crack dens, having a crazy, unpredictable abusive father terrorizing our house was the worst thing I could have gone through. One of my main purposes in life was to hide what my life was like. It was so horrible, I was so shamed.

It wasn't until I was older that I realized I didn't do anything wrong, and stopped hiding. I shared my stories, and heard others, and that's when I realized that so many of those other stories were so much worse. More tragedy, more pain, more suffering. I started to minimize my story. It wasn't as bad. I didn't deserve to feel like I had survived anything really difficult. It was just normal life. I was just a normal kid, normal person. No hero, here.

I grew up identifying with the heroes. The first books I read were full of heroes, fairytales, myths, Little House on the Prairie, even. Characters who faced down adversity and won in the end. It helped me going through my own adversity, because I knew there was something better down the road... or I believed it anyway.

A hero is someone who not only faces down adversity, but also takes action to make things better, even if it is just selling the cow for a bunch of magic beans. They are not at the mercy of the world around them, but the active principle. The hero has the goal of something better, a better life for their kids, a better world for all kids, a better, stronger self.

Sometimes, I think the last one is the hardest goal of all-- making yourself better and stronger, so that you are better able to achieve the larger goals. Facing down your fear. Dealing with your past traumas. Opening up to the people and possiblities around you. Moving forward, always moving forward.

It's fricking exhausting to be the hero of your own story. It's so tiring to know that you are the one who has to make it all happen. No one else to do it for you-- no knight in shining armor-- unless that knight is you yourself.

Is it worth it all? Being a hero? Is it worth the hard work? When I'm struggling with being the me I want to be, I don't know. It doesn't feel like it. It's too damn hard. The results always seem to come so slow, or not at all. Certainly, there's no newspaper recognizing me for my struggle. And I still have to do the daily grind. Sometimes that daily grind is harder to deal with than the awfulness of my childhood. It's just not as clear, my struggle. It's just not as easy to say I will persevere. The goals of making things better just aren't as desperate.

The daily grind isn't that bad, really. I'm getting along, okay, letting life take me in it's flow.

So why bother struggling to be the hero?

I have to think about it, seriously. Why SHOULD I bother? Why should anyone? Why do we need heroes?

But then, imagine a world full of heroes-- and I don't mean the ones who dive into burning fires or get paid to carry guns, or make millions of dollars throwing a ball around-- I mean a world full of everyday heroes. A world of people struggling to be the best Them, so they could take action, and make things happen. Make things better. What if we weren't all just waiting for someone else to do it? What if everyone was working to contribute something?

Frankly, I think it would cause a lot of trouble. All those people at cross purposes-- all wanting DIFFERENT better worlds. It would throw a wrench into the nice easy works that have been going on for so long. (A good reason for the powers that be not to want everyone to be a hero.)

A world of heroes. An Age of Heroes. Every single one of us a hero, big or small, young or old, rich or poor. Hmmm.

Think about it....



Friday, April 23, 2004

I Have a Secret

I am a little bit of a monster.

You'd never be able to tell from the outside. From the outside, I am small and pretty, just a girl. I dress in skirts and heels, and have even on occasion been called things like "fancy," and "girly-girl." (to which I strongly object.) I am sweet and kind. I have manners. I apologize to people, and make sure people are okay. Babies like me, and so do domesticated pets. I make real homecooked meals. I even own, and can keep living, a whole window full of potted plants.

But I am a monster inside. A slavering, ravening, spitting, hissing, growling, tooth-gnashing monster.

I am selfish. I don't care about others. No one else matters but me, nothing else matters but my stories and my poems. My paintings and drawings. The pen in my hand and the paint splattered on my face. I don't give a shit about the rules of this world that says I am supposed to be and do what it says. I could run away and live for years in a cave in the woods, eating what I have grown or killed myself, as long as I had my art. Sometimes that's what I want. To get out and away from all these boxed in rules and pretty, pretty surfaces. I would like to dance in the moonlight. Cast spells to the sea. Let the dirt cake under my nails.

Screw it all. Screw everything but the monster in me.

But I have to admit, I am frightened of the monster.

There's no place for her in this world. In this world she's called crazy. People lock her up. Pump her full of drugs so that she can be balanced, so that she can be normal.

What's a monster-girl to do?

Where is the place for her ravening?

I am not suffering from Writer's Block

This is no joke, this is my life.

Ah ha. I walk around complaining about headaches and how tired I am. I don't have enough time or money. I am distracted, I watch tv or stare off into space. Lazy, poor nutrition, too much to drink last night or last weekend. Blah, blah-blah, blah-blah.

Good lord, girl. Do you want to tick tock your life away like this?

I guess I am feeling as if my life passing me by is going to explode like a mad gorilla. I am going to explode like a mad gorilla because I am mad at myself for finding excuse after excuse as to why I can not write.

This is the problem with being an artist. It's like being in a relationship. It's great and wonderful and fulfilling as long as things are going great. When the art is flowing, you don't see how it could ever stop. You exist in this land of milk and honey. Perfection. Wonderment.

But when there's a jam up somewhere in your head-- and things start to slow down, and you have to work and struggle to get words on the page-- uh oh. This is no fun. This is hard work. This can be painful. This is not what the fairy tale books said it was supposed to be. Run away! Run away!

This is no block. I refuse to call it a block. It's just a little dam I have to work my way through. Rotten beavers damming up my works. Oh, wait. I'm the one that put it there. Why would I do that? I want to write.

Right?

I want to have my novel go well. I want to finish it. I want to send out my poetry. I want to have my career take off....

Right?

Someone, I don't remember who, once said that you will put in front of you whatever struggles you need to reach your goal.

What an interesting perspective-- that your struggles, your blocks, your difficulties, are actually stepping stones towards your goals. Hmmm.

And that you are the one placing these blocks in your way.

Almost as if, somewhere inside of you, you know what you are doing.

Monday, April 19, 2004

Dress Rehearsal

Spring has come in earnest. Maybe that's why my mind is turning to being productive, to creating, to taking my life seriously.

Well, no, that's not fair. I am taking my life seriously, it's going pretty well, and is promising to go even better after a few actions have been taken. But I have to say, that I'm getting antsy about it all. I feel as if I have been going so slowly, not really acting as if my life, daily grind and all, is actually a part of my REAL life.

My REAL life is somewhere down the line, when I do the things I need to do. When I start writing my novel again. When I send my poetry out to be published. When I get myself a portfolio and slides and figure out what the hell to do with all my art. When I get a better job. When I start a creativity workshop.

My REAL life is out there... in the future. Not this, not right now, where I'm just kind of preparing for my REAL life.

Yes, yes. It's quite obvious that's a silly way to look at it. Because if REAL life is out there somewhere, then what the hell is going on right here and now. Dress rehearsal? I don't think so. Tell that to the trees that are just full to bursting with life and green juices. They may not have brains, but they know that after this Spring, after rebirth and growth and Summer lushness, comes Winter.

Years are made up, after all, of these short seconds that we are frittering away.

And death, down the way, maybe forty or fifty years, maybe tomorrow, is a call to life. Use the time we have-- ENJOY the time we have, 'cause it's all the time we'll ever have.

Maybe we need to pay attention to the things that are really pulling us. On a deep level, not distractions. The things that ring with our soul, the things that have been building for years.

This writing thing, this art thing, this is not a passing fancy. This is something that needs to be done, even if I am afraid of it, afraid of not being good enough, afraid of wasting all my time and never getting anywhere. Being creative is an integral part of me-- sometimes it feels so important that it is just easier and safer to put my energies else where.

I wonder if somewhere in my human psyche, I think that by avoiding my art and my writing I can somehow avoid stepping into the flow of life and death.

Maybe my procrastination is because I don't feel ready for REAL life, but instead want to stay in dress rehearsal. (There is no dress rehearsal, girl. This is it.)

Wednesday, April 14, 2004

Flying Woman

Feeling up in the air.

Always feeling up in the air.

That's because life could, at any moment, change into something different.

Maybe it won't change into a spotted purple people eater, but it changes, is changing, constantly. Maybe I just feel it more now because I have consciously taken myself out of the predictable life I was living as a teacher, and into the life of the artist, the on-edge, the adventurer ready to take a dive. (Although I do love my couch. My adventures will probably be along the lines of mental, spiritual, artistic, romantic, etc. Not climbing mount Kilimanjaro.)

In my art, I have a woman who keeps showing up-- a flying woman-- or is she falling? It's so hard to tell. She's been showing up for, oh, ten, twelve years. Since college. She shows up in many places, in many guises. Sometimes it's about my confusion. Sometimes it's because I feel like I'm soaring.

I feel like that woman, now. I have so many opportunities, so many possibilities in front of me, and yet... somehow, I'm still floating around, not really grabbing hold. Not landing on the ground and making things real.

Maybe my floating/falling woman isn't that active. Maybe she's all about maybes. Or maybe she just is right now.

I think I need to start working on a workshop to teach. No, not start working on one. I've been doing these suckers for five years. The work is done, the curriculum is practically set. What I should do is just put it together. Just start it. Chose a time, find a place. Get the members to commit. And do it.

Maybe if I were in a community of artists and creatives, I would find it easier to be out there in the world with my art and my writing. Maybe if we were all in one of my workshops, using our creativity to deal with what it means to be human, what it means to be an artist, and all the joys and pains that entails, maybe everyone would be able to fly better.

Tuesday, April 13, 2004

Whoopsie!

I thought I lost my last blog entry. One of those computer snafus. So instead of getting pissed, I simply rewrote it from the top of my head. It was different, but okay.

Then when I published that one, and took a quick gander, it turned out that I didn't lose the first one at all.

So now I have two of the same, but different entries.

I thought I'd keep them. It's all about the process, anyway.

Self Portrait

The Spring rains fall hard. Thunder and lightning that seems to come from nowhere, although all winter has been building for this. Clouds have been forming in the warm upwellings of the Pacific, until they could flow across the globe to land here, on us, on the waiting trees and ground.

It has been a long winter. Cold and hard, and we have been hiding from the ice, to tired to hope for the green leaves that must ultimately come.

I have not been writing. I have not been creative at all, but I am ready to. I've been holding out, just like the green leaves, apparently.

My novel is waiting. I am yearning to paint, although I am not. I've been giving my time to other things, because life does move on. Things happen, seemingly out of nowhere, although they have been building just as much as these rain clouds.

I am in love.

As hard as that is to say, to admit, to toss out into the void for whomever to read, it is good. Most of my time has been given to him, to love, to our relationship. And that is good.

And even for my art, my poor neglected poetry, it is good.

The thing about art, that I'm realizing, is that it is all wrapped up in what it means to be human. You can not separate the human that is you from the creating you are doing. Anything in your life that is affecting you, is affecting your art, because art is about being human. It is going into the depths of what it means to be human. And so, if you have stuff that needs to be dealt with, you'd better deal with it, or it will come up.

For instance. I have not written.

And I can't really blame it on my new relationship. No, it's all me. Although it may have something to do with my relationship-- or atleast, what relationships mean to me.

You see, when I was a kid, my mother gave up any ambitions she might have had for herself to be a wife and mother. She gave up her art so that my father could be an artist. She was his helpmate, taking care of his home so he could be a genius. She was his assistant when he was making films. She put food on the table or struggled with how to pay for it, so he could focus on art.

Now, that won't fly with me. I am the artist. There will be no giving this up-- and yet I find my instinct is to do just that. To go right back to the familiar way of being that I grew up with. And then my instinct is to run away from the instinct, run away from relationship. Run away from creating. Hide my art and writing away, so no on can see it. Hide my heart from a man who would touch it. Hide my feelings from my family who hurt me so long ago.

Run away. Hide. Give up. These are the dark secrets of being human. Of being me.

And when I write, they come up. It's what my novel is about. And when I don't write, they come what. It's what gets in my way.

We are not just the artists who are throwing paint on a canvas. It does not come from the ether, it comes from inside. It comes from the life we have created, and the stories we tell to ourselves about who we are and what life means.

Every painting is a self portrait of the artist. Every story is the story of the soul.

I am not a poet
I am a poem.

Writing My Soul

It's raining today, hard. It's thundering. It should make me depressed, but I like it. This is spring rain. This is the kind that means winter is over. Next week, the leaves will be out on all the trees. The sun will shine, the temperature will soar.

Oh, my heart will soar. We really need this, Spring. We really need the warmth. It can be so hard and cold here in this city. We hide from the ice entirely too much.

I have not been writing. I have not been painting. I have not been being creative at all. My energies have gone else
where.

It's taking its toll on me, this not being creative, but I have to recognize what is going on in my life to make this happen-- or not happen as the case may be.

You see, life has moved on. Unexpected developments occur. Like thunder and lightning, seemingly out of nowhere, although it took all winter to get here. I am in love.

It was hard to say that, hard to admit, hard to toss it out there into the void for whomever to read. But it was also good. It's a wonderful thing, but it changes life, changes my routine.

So I have not been creative, I have instead been spending all the time I could with him. I needed to, and wanted to, and our relationship deserves that focus.

But as the days go on, that little/big part of me is trying to sneak its way back into my life. It can't be denied because it is who I am-- my art. I must give in.

But, god, it isn't easy.

What I realize is that being an artist is hard, because whatever shit you have to deal with in your life-- parental resentments, money rackets, anger at yourself or your lover, insecurity, feeling unlovable-- whatever it is, that shit is going to rise up and demand to be heard. Because art digs into the depths, and surrounds the whole. It is about being human, so all the things that make you human are going to need to be dealt with so that you can create.

That's why it's so hard. That's why people turn to drink and drugs and other things designed to numb them sufficiently to allow it all to come up without tearing their insides out.

So when I struggle with not writing my novel right now, I am also struggling with my issues. Here I am, in a new relationship, and putting that first-- just like my mom always did with my dad. She never went into her own art, her own stories. She didn't become a filmmaker on her own, though she loved it. Instead, she was a wife and a mother and a helpmate. She made it possible for my father to be an artist, she gave up herself.

So I am struggling with the instinct to do the same, and the instinct to run away from that instinct. And with what having a relationship means to me. And with what it means to hide away, hide my writing from anyone who would read it. Hide my heart from a man who would touch it. Hide my feelings from my family who hurt me a long time ago.

What it means to be human. What it means to be me.

So when I write, these things come up. This is the story I am writing. And when I don't write, these things come up, because it is me, human, who is hiding, who is running, who is witholding and afraid.

Everything I am informs what I create. Everythinig I am informs what I do. How I act.

All painters are creating self portraits. All writers, are writing their souls.

I am not a poet,
but a poem.

Friday, April 02, 2004

Life Sucks... and then it doesn't

This is a cynical world. I, however, have decided to screw cynicism. It's SOOOO nineties. (I'm joking. I don't give a shit what was in style in the nineties and no longer is.) I have decided to screw cynicism because all it is, is dissappointed romanticism. All those cynics, a long time ago, once believed in the world, and in wonderful things happening. Then, they were confronted with the world and all of its sucky things. Maybe they were 9, maybe they were 19, maybe they were 69, but they started not believing in wonderful things. Cynics are defeated romantics, that's why they are so tough, so hard to reason with. It's all about heart break.

I have been there, though. I have been the one who no longer believed in the world being right. I hated it. It was kind of hard to want to keep struggling. So I decided to start believing that things could be good. That people had good reasons for what they did, or atleast, they did not have evil reasons. I decided to believe that at heart, people were good.

Not, however, that they were perfect. I don't believe that people are always noble, but that they have their own reasons, and those reasons, within the circumstances that they were living, were, in essence, good. They may be the wrong decisions, but you know what? Just because they are not doing things the way I would do them doesn't actually mean they are bad. Maybe they just have to travel their own road.

Everyone is on their own journey. They have their own lessons to learn, and maybe they have to deal with their own personal dissapointments and struggles so that they can grow and learn on their own.

I am perfectly aware of how corny my ideas could sound. I'm a fricking Pollyana. But you know what? This world is all fucked up, and that's what makes it interesting. The world is all fucked up, and that is what's normal. The world is all fucked up because this world is figuring out how to be this world. So am I, so is everyone else.

And life sucks for a while, and then it's cool, and then it sucks again, but if you have faith that it will come around to cool again, it's not quite as hard to get through.

Thursday, April 01, 2004

Heart

When you give your heart to a thing, a person, a place, a project, a life-- whatever-- what you're doing is allowing yourself to be open. It's about saying "yes." When you give your heart, it's about a willingness to see what happens next, what comes next, what might be around the next corner. It might be deliriously wonderful, or it might be disaster and crushed dreams.

When you give your heart, truly, it's not about, "well, I love this today, but tomorrow I may love something different." It's more like making that thing a part of who you are, inextricable from everything that built you up in the first place. You can't shake something that you have given your heart to. There is no return clause when you give your heart.

People freak out about commitment, about how hard it is to actually be vulnerable, to want something with the possiblity of not getting it, to put your heart on the line. It's much better to keep things on the surface. Much better to stay cynical and not believe in anything. It keeps our poor, delicate hearts safe.

Maybe you have techniques that are less obvious. Maybe you think things to death, plan and consider, and all that. I do that. It's a stalling measure-- you WANT to give your heart, but you're afraid to, so you pretend you already have given your heart and fill all the hours and choices up with over-thinking. Intellectualism. Why else be a writer? So I can write/think everything to death, and I can stall actual commitment of heart as much as possible.

But this is dangerous, this half-commitment. You give your heart but keep a death grip on it, so you can yank it back when it gets too dangerous. It feels safer, but it's not. Well, you keep your heart armored, but you never actually allow what you love to reach you. So you never get it. You are setting yourself up for failure until you actually let go and allow yourself to love, no matter what may come.

What's funny about this entry is that I am actually writing about being a writer, about my novel, about committing and exploring and discovering, about letting go and not being so afraid to win/lose what I have wanted since I was fifteen.

And yet, it sure sounds like romance, don't it?

I suppose that life is like that. What is really true echoes,-- and I don't mean facts, but truth. When you've got a struggle that you have to deal with, it shows up in every important area in your life, not just the ones that you would expect. And when a law works on a big level, it often works on micro levels-- like say, "a body at rest stays at rest." Yeah, that's physics, but can anyone say it doesn't go for when your body is slug-like sitting on the couch, remote in hand?-- that body will continue to rest unless acted on by an outside force.

So when you come upon a truth in your life, if you watch it, you can actually find the pattern repeating itself again and again, large, small, internally, externally. Chances are, it's not just a personal truth, but a human truth, too, so you can see other people struggling and following the same patterns, also.

One of the things about the universe that I love is that you can actually see these patterns repeating themselves. It so clear, and startling in it's clarity. For instance, a lightning bolt follows the same pattern as a river bed, which follows the same pattern as a tree branch, which follows the same pattern as a crack in the sidewalk, which follows the same pattern as the veins and ateries sending blood to your beating heart. Ba-dump. Ba-dump.

Maybe actually this realization of the patterns in life can help in the bravery needed to give your heart fully. Because maybe the outcomes, the possibilities, the blind future that we are all rushing towards, is not so very unknown at all. Perhaps it, too, follows patterns, and maybe if we trust in the universe, then we can recognize that we have been through these patterns, theses struggles before-- and, actually, we made it through before. We will survive. We will prosper. We will, even, grow.

Ahh...

Yes.

Wednesday, March 31, 2004

Change, change, change.

I've been running around like a crazy head. Wrapped up in how life just keeps moving forward. Things happen. New opportunities arise, and the old desires and goals, sometimes it's hard to keep up with them.

I've always been like this. I am always doing twenty thousand things at once. A million projects. A billion ideas. Or perhaps it's better to say, I always WANT to do twenty thousand things, because when it comes down to it, I just can't, or don't, get them all done. At least not to my liking.

Projects fade. Trips and plans and commitments start to get less important when the new trips and plans and commitments come on board.

I suppose this is natural. I suppose this is part of life. Life certainly isn't static, although sometimes we want to control things so they always stay the same. Our plans have a funny way of changing on us, because we change and the world changes, buildings go down, new ones go up, some people move away, other people step in to your life. What you want changes. Does who you are change?

I feel pretty much the same person I was ten years ago, but many things about me have changed. And that's a good thing. I look forward to these changes. I suppose I expect them to happen-- I just don't want the changes to be for the worse.

Maybe it's better to go with the changes, consciously recognize the new choices you have, and how things around you have transformed, and then accept them. I think that gives you more control in how your life turns out than if you resist the changes, trying to hold onto the old ways.

It gives you control because you don't have to fight against life. Trying to hold the ocean back is a fruitless endeavor. Allowing things to change allows you to choose the new paths you take, instead of getting stuck, stranded in your dry land of "HAS TO BE" while surrounded by all these unasked for changes.

So, here I am, things switching up around me. Now, what am I gonna do? Try to maintain my old habits and plans? Or am I going to re-evaluate the goals here. Try find the things that are most important to me-- which may have changed-- and then try to find the ways to make these things happen.

I think this is what I want to do, I think this is the way to move forward and keep growing and make sure those changes are positive ones, or atleast constructive ones.

I think it's gonna take a bit of thinking on it.

And then it's gonna take a lot of action.

Thursday, March 25, 2004

Life Stirs

Lately, I have wanted to write.

This is not an inconsequential thing. Writing has been a "someday" proposition for quite a while. There have been all sorts of have-tos before I could ever get back to writing my novel. I "have to" figure out what I am writing. I "have to" get a new computer/get the old computer running/head to the computer center and buy some time on a computer that works. (How did anyone ever write anything longer than a page in the days before home computers?) I "have to" re-read and edit what I already have. I "have to" stop complaining and just write.

But all of that "having to" just made me tired.

Now, I WANT to write.

Maybe it's because I finally did get my new computer. (Yeay!) Maybe it's because I have been waiting table/bartending for long enough that the novelty has worn off, and I am back to remembering that I really need to do something important and productive with my life. (Wait, that's another "have to".) Maybe it's because I am in a new relationship with a new man, and Spring is finally here, and life has turned over and started to wake up. (Gr-roan, grumble, what time IS it?)

I have been transcribing what I have already written into my new computer. The beast (the computer, that is,) I borrowed from a friend is an ancient and tricksey thing. So I have to re-type everything. You would think that this was a pain in the ass, but actually, it's been really valuable.

All that old work, so much of it stream of consciousness, is now being molded with the vision I have been developing in the long months of being technologically challenged. I was "forced" not to write, but that made me think deep, and long about my book, and sent it back into the soup that is my brain. What has floated to the top of that soup is some sense.

I don't know what sense it is entirely, but it's starting to mesh. The random half-formed pieces are being placed next to each other, and I am am surprised to find them fitting together to make something whole.

I feel that having patience with my novel is paying off.

Lies! I didn't have patience. I wanted my novel, I wanted it written, and I wanted it done NOW, no YESTERDAY. I would force the words out of my head, because I had to write PAGES. I had to have writing practice. I had to BE a writer, or what use was it to quit teaching?

But that's why having my computer crash back in September, and losing half my novel, and having to struggle with so many tech blocks to writing might actually have been the best thing for my story. Because if I didn't have all the glitches, I might just have kept writing forward because I was impatient to have something written. Some sort of product that might someday get published and make me a REAL writer. Forcing it to come before it was time, a premature birth of my work, possibly never able to breathe on its own.

But now, let me repeat. I actually WANT to write.

Now, I feel the movement of the story under the surface, or not quite under the surface. And I think it might be able to survive being born.

Saturday, March 20, 2004

Spring has Sprung!

The snow has melted away, the clouds flitted off to other corners of the world. The sky is blue and there is a soft breeze. It isn't quite flip flop weather yet, but the promise is in the wind.

Not only Spring, but I feel new things brewing.

I am excited to write.

Wonderful things. We think we always have to be so anguished about doing this stuff-- the suffering artist. We have to grip the deep dark insides of our souls and pull them out like taffy. Work, strain, struggle.

Sometimes, maybe we have forgotten all the things that made us want to be artists in the first place. The thrill of getting caught up in another world of our own creation. The feel of the keys under the fingers, or the way the paint spreads out from the brush, or the vibration in the throat when that note hits just write. It just feels good, creating.

It can't always be that awful and hard to be a writer or an artist of every stripe? No one would willingly sit down to torture everyday unless they were getting something out of it. It's not like we're at the mercy of some outside force, here. I know that there is no one else but me there when I sit down to write, or think about writing (or not writing as the case may be.) I can only come to the conclusion that I am the one who is torturing me.

Sicko.

I think I will spring into Spring, and into all the action, creativity, fertility, and pretty flowers that entails. Sunny Side of the Street. Optimism. Possibility.

Is this a New York City girl?

Even New York can be rose colored in Spring.

(Just please, god, don't let winter come back for at least nine more months.)

Friday, March 19, 2004

Back in Business

I finally got my laptop. Yeay!

Here I am. Ready and waiting to face the world, to face the words.

It's exciting, the new toy aspect of it. But it's also scary. Now it's time to get down to work. Now it's time to turn back to my novel. Open up those doors and jump through. No more stalling, no more excuses.

This is the opening to the rest of my life, the latest opening, anyway. The doors keep stretching wide, and I keep walking through them and being introduced to new doors, new mouse holes, new windows.

Are those doors the opportunities I am faced with? Are they the choices I have made? The actions I take?

Sometimes I think we don't realize how much control we have in our own lives. It's a lot easier to talk about how stuck we are and we have no options and all possibilities really just aren't possiblities.

I think I know why we do this, why we trap ourselves in our own helplessness.

Because it's hard to be responsible for your own life. It's hard and scary, and a big pressure. There is no telling what the results of you taking responsibility for your own life might be. You might fail. You might suck. You might work and work and work forever and ever, and STILL never get anywhere. You might be great. You might get famous. That's almost more scary than sucking. What doors, what new scary, awesome possibilities might be through THOSE doors?

Oh, fear. We-- I have given fear so much power in my life, that it became my king. I lived that fear, daily, hourly, each tick of the clock.

But there came a time when I got tired of the Fear King, when I realized that as long as fear ruled over my life, then the things I really wanted would never come true. They would never be manifested, because I would be running as fast and as far as I could from what I wanted. And the more I wanted it, the farther I would run, because the more it mattered, and the more scared I was.

Change my relationship to fear.

I'll step up to my own throne. Queen Rowena, I am. Goddess Rowena.

Frankly, old King Fear still has a place, I'm not gonna lie. It scares the shit out of me to pick up my novel again, or to paint large paintings that someobody might actually want to buy/sell/hang on their walls to impress their friends, or to dive into a relationship that really might go somewhere.

But Goddess Rowena is never at the mercy of King Fear. He is an advisor, that is all. And he can be sent away. He does not have last say, anymore.

So, that said, it's time to get down to work.



Thursday, March 11, 2004

A Brief Intermission

I have been so out of commission, lately. The technical difficulties of not having a computer have been getting to me. But NOT for very much longer. I have ordered my new laptop and am just waiting for delivery of said miraculous invention.

I know that I shoudn't let little things like not having a computer get in the way of being what I want to be, but, you know, sometimes you have to work so hard not to let them get in the way, that you get exhausted. Plus, I've been working a lot so that I could afford my new computer. (not that I can afford it anyway.)

The wonderlanding continues, I just have to return to documenting it all.

And I will.

I am committed to this, this life. No excuses.

Tuesday, March 02, 2004

We Can Do No Great Things. Only Small Things With Great Love.

--Mother Theresa

I was talking to a friend about how we so often try to make ourselves smaller than we are. We put ourselves down. We shy away from the things that might show the world how great we are. We apologize, we play small, we stay small-- we hide.

It's what I do. I minimize my talents, I keep them in the shadows, because frankly, I'm afraid of putting myself out there with the big fish. I don't know why it's so frightening. What is there to be afraid of?

I look at the people who are doing the things I dream of doing and think, "oh, that's not me. I can't do it." But that's my insecurity talking. It's me making me miniscule.

When I look at things objectively, when I look at the things I can do, that I actually do, and hold them up against the light of those big fish, I realize my worth is no less than theirs. The difference is that they have declared their right to be out in the sun, in the big pool, with the other big fish. And they have actually done something to get there-- even if that something is just taking advantage of the opportunities they have recieved. THEY are not hiding.

(me, i hide, frightened of my own fishness.)

I'm not going to deny my fear. Fear is important, it shows us when we are up to something important. Ofcourse, that doesn't mean I should let my fear stop me. And I gotta be realistic here. I need baby steps, or I stumble. Gotta keep something small, so I don't feel so lost.

It really all comes down to how I want to look at the situation. And I've already made my decision about it.

I've decided that the whole idea of greatness is fucking stupid. I mean, maybe we can do things that end up being powerful and beautiful, maybe we CAN influence people, but how can anyone dive in when they are thinking "I am GREAT. My work is GREAT. This is BIG and HUGE and IMPORTANT. I am ONE OF THE FABULOUS ONES."

I mean, did Einstein come up with the Theory of Relativity while thinking, "Man, I'm a genius, time to swing that great idea that will change the way we think about the universe?"

No. Any sort of idea like that is absolutely setting you up for failure-- whether you want to paint the next great painting, or write the "Great American Novel," (as if any one novel could encompass all of America,) or find your soul mate on your next blind date. Expectations of grandeur are NOT the way to do great things.

I like Mother Theresa's idea. You don't set out to change the world, you set out to feed one person, or write the poem that is running through your mind, or play that set with as much feeling as you can, or commit yourself to your novel because those characters are as alive in your mind as the cousin who died ten years ago, but still resides in your heart and family and memory.

You don't set out to be great and famous and respected. You respect your ideas and yourself and your time and your vision and your talent. You make that the star in your attention. You love what you are doing. You love yourself.

It's not about the critics, or the trends, or the galleries, or the record execs, or the someday-fans, or even your mother. It's about the fire inside of you. The passion inside of you.

Saturday, February 28, 2004

Younger Than Springtime

I stepped outside today to meet my friend for lunch, and was stunned. The weather, ah the weather. Sun. Blue sky. Nearly balmy temperatures.

Oh my god. I think this long cold winter is over.

There's something about the weather opening up that lets the mind open up. You kind of get unstuffed. In the winter, everything seems dark, and closed, somehow. Dry. Harsh. Not just the weather but inside.

Spring, though, is the birth of new things.

I think sometimes we forget how connected we are to the cycles of nature. Maybe if we allowed ourselves to go with the natural flow of life, we wouldn't always feel like we were fighting. We... me. I wouldn't feel that way. There is a season for everything, they say.

I wish I could live closer to nature. Follow the seasons and the sun, the harvest, the hunt. Instead, we run around breaking our lives into false divisions. What is a week, really? Someone just randomly decided to make weeks how we plan our lives. (Unless you think god really did create the world in six days and then took a break on the seventh. Then it makes perfect sense.) Nine to five. Is that really the most productive schedule?

Or what about age? I mean, why is it that 16, 18, 21, 30 are these definitive ages.
Take 30. By then, people are supposed to be well set in their lives, know what it is they are doing and be on that path that leads them to success and fruitfulness. How many people freak out when they hit the big 3-0? Who decided that 30 was the age when people were supposed to be already there?

It causes a lot of unneccesary panic, I think, to make these markers iin life.

Maybe some people are ready to be really IN their lives when they are 18, maybe some need another 20 years to decide what they are, who they are.

I've been thinking about artists-- particularly musicians. If you were to go by the music industry, the best time in a musician's creative life would be from about 18 to 25. I mean, that's what they are selling, right? That's who they are looking for. But, doesn't it take life experience, long practice, and development to really grow into your talent?

Take for intance American Idol. All those young fresh faced kids. Scrubbed clean of dirt and personality. Maybe they can sing, some of them, but where is the depth? It takes a while to grow into who you are, both as a person and as an artist. Anybody can be polished and synthesized into something you can play on the radio stations, but is that what it means to be an artist? All I know is that when I watch that show and cringe at the kids onstage, I would really like to hear and see someone who is comfortable with who they are, as artist and human.

We as a society spend too much time with all these false definitions. Youth and beauty do not equal quality. We are run by these "should be's." You should be somewhere by 18, by 25, oh lord, by 30, you're already over the hill. Follow the schedule that someone has set out for you-- who was that, any way?

I don't know. Here I am living the life of a 23 year old, bartending and painting and being free. But I don't fee like I'm caught in some eternal adolescence. Where I am is important to my growth as an artist and a person. And, I am not at the same place as the 23 year old writers/artists/musicians/actors who are waiting tables and beginning their careers as artists.

I'm really glad that I took the time to develop my mind, my craft, my spirit,, my life. I'm glad I went down a different path as a teacher. I would never give that up, even though it might have set me back on my path as an artist/writer.

I'm not on the map anymore. I'm not following the prescribed road that I thought I was supposed to. I'm over the age of thirty and have still not published my fiction and poetry, have still not had that gallery show. For that matter, I have not gotten married or had kids. Once upon a time, I thought you had to do all that before you were thirty or you wouldn't get there. I thought life was over once you hit thirty.

According to all those definitions and landmarks, my youth has flown, and all my opportunities. All the maps I made when I was ten, fifteen, twenty-one have all flown out the window.

Mapless, I am.

Boundless. Ageless. All potential-- like Springtime.

Woo-hoo!

Monday, February 23, 2004

Dismorphia

I work at a restaurant where I am one of the oldest people working on the floor and on the bar. I'm 33, and most of the girls, right now, are about 23. Some only 19 or 21.

I listen to them talk about themselves. They say they are fat. They all say they are fat.

None of them are fat.

"Look at how big my arms are."

"I wish I had your flat stomach."

"Am I fat? Do you think I'm getting fat? Do I look fat?"

They will not believe me when I tell them they are not fat, they are fine, they are beautiful, they are in fact slender. All they see is what is wrong with themselves. None of them think the others are fat, just them, they're all wrong. They're not good enough.

Man, what we do to ourselves.

I don't know if this is a girl thing or if guys do it too.

What would it be like if everyone could actually see how much they rock, be honest with themselves about what is good and desirable and amazing about themselves? Would they then have power in their lives? Would they then be able to pour their energy into loving themselves and others, being productive, making breakthroughs, living the life they want to live-- instead of self loathing?

What would the world be like if everyone believed they deserved love-- not in an overcompensatory way, but actually really honoring themselves?

That's what I want for my own life. Even if I don't suffer from body dismorphic disorder the way the girls at my job do (and that's because I worked on making peace with my body, and un-surprisingly, now I recognize that my body rocks.), I still put myself down for a multitude of other imagined wrongs.

I am going to practice honoring the rest of my life and talents and skills and choices and in fact, the whole of who I am.

Sunday, February 22, 2004

Language of the Land

Life is crazy. Life is complicated. Life is this constant balance of active and passive, thought and deed.

It's not that there's anything crazy going on in my life, now, except for me. I've been in a little bit of a funk. I think I've figured out why. It's basically because I don't feel like I am in action. I don't feel like I am doing what I need to do in order to be able to feed my higher goals.

Turns out, getting my rent paid is not a higher goal.

So, I need to put my energy, my focus into what is important, not what is happening around me. I get so pulled off base by the immediacies of living. And I keep ignoring the fact that what I need to balance myself is a spiritual practice. Somehow, it seems like such a waste of time, hours spent staring at a wall that don't end with a product in hand. Silly girl, huh, thinking product is just what you can hold in your hand.

It's just like what I was talking about before, how I need to accept and value the silent times, the dark times, the shadow times, because they are what feed the large and loud times. Spirit feeds physical, just as physical feeds spiritual.

Being an artist is like being in the wilderness without any sign posts-- at least for me. I have to learn the language of the land and one of the languages is spiritual. But even so, I've got to keep the action going, too. I've got to keep the feet moving, the hands moving. It's not just about taking in the signs around me, but about doing something with them.

Stay in action. Be out in the world-- but not mindlessly-- with purpose. Don't get pulled off course by all the chattering worries. God, it's so easy to be pulled off course. Stay on course.

And dream.

Wednesday, February 18, 2004

The Art Warrior

If you want to be an artist, my friend, you have to not take the easy way out. You have to fight against your own desire to be lazy, to go for the quick and fast, to take the path of least resistance, and you have to struggle. It is work to be an artist, and not just an artist, but a person who is actively leading their own lives. It's hard.

Resist. Struggle. Work.

Is this the life I have chosen for myself? Is this the way I want to keep it up? Because this is what I am consigning myself to, a life of struggle and hard work. Resistance. Fighting. Wow. I'm getting tired just thinking of it. No wonder I have to make myself sit down in front of the computer. No wonder my novel is languishing in the nowhere land that is inside my head. No wonder I look at my art and all I can think of is what I haven't done.

There is another way to look at this, this life's work, this life's passion. There must be a way to frame it so it doesn't always seem as if I have to fight fight fight to let it come to light.

Is it work? Writing, painting, creating? Is it WORK? It isn't always easy, but is it like punching the clock? Is it like tending bar? Is it like that? It feels more precious than working in a Gap folding tshirts. More like it is a thing coming up from below, trying to be born. A thing worth doing. A thing that is woven together of the stuff that I am made of.

I don't want to look at it as if it is a grind that I HAVE to do. Something to dread. It's not a day job. Instead, to me, creating and all that comes with it is something that is holy. And truly, it is something that I need to do for me, in order to feel complete and full in my own life.

Really, I've got to get over my own fear of putting in all that energy and time that it takes-- maybe that's what I'm talking about when I say it's hard work. Really I've got to get over my fear of not doing it right, and of not being good enough.

You know what? You've got to be BRAVE to be an artist. Brave and strong. You've got to be a fricking warrior.

Grrrrrrr!

Monday, February 16, 2004

L. O. V. E.

Love. According to all the rules of the English lanuage, shouldn't it be said differently? Shouldn't that silent e change everything. Shouldn't it sound like "loave", warm and crusty and rising with the heat? But it's not, it's "Luv." Somehow it feels like a cheat. It's what those teeny bopper girls sign on their letters to their bestest friends. It's puppies and kittens and valentines day with paper lace and chocolate flowers. I luv u. U luv me. Blah blah blah.

It's like valentines day, a made up holiday used to sell greeting cards and hike up the prices of roses.

I've never been a fan of Valentines Day-- no that's not true. I lie. I actually have evidence of when I was a fan of Valentines day, way back in Junior High School when I wrote in my very first diary how I was looking forward to it, and maybe this boy liked me and maybe that boy liked me, and when it came down to it, the only anything I got was a little box of candy from my mom, and it wasn't even chocolate, it was hard candy, but I didn't blame her, she didn't know what was inside of the box.

The deep and dirty secret here about me and love is that I am a reformed romantic, the worst kind. The kind who grew up on fairy tales and true love and happily ever after, and after years of disappointment, became disenchanted. No longer caught up in the spelll-- and yet secretly hungering for the return of the story, prince charming and all.

I write about this subject because, for all I couldn't care less about Valentines Day, I was bartending that day, and my customers couldn't help talking of love. Some of them imagined themselves in love with me.

Love is a real thing. People hook all their hopes onto it, I think. I do. But how much hard work is it? Love is hard? Once you get past the first rush of ohmigodIcan'tbelievethisishappeningtome it starts to be an effort. Thinking of someone else all the time, worrying about them, fitting your life into theirs. Committing to that person, not just the romance of them, but the reality of them.

It's been a long time since I've been in love. I thought I no longer believed in it. I thought it was all a mad up fantasy, a sociological phenomenon that we have created in this age and time. I walked around with all my fairy tales squashed flat. (Geesh! Poor little frog prince.)

But then, I think I might have rediscovered fairy tales, and the subconscious, and the collective unconscious, and archetypes, and all those things that make living and being human a lot more complicated than science and all its measurements would have us think.

Maybe love is about the unseen things that connect us. That stuff without a name, energy or affinity, or- or-- what is that stuff?

I don't know. I don't know. All I know is that it is not about chocolates and paper valentines. It is much deeper and realer than that.

But what I have rediscovered is that I believe in it. I have faith.

All is good in the world as long as I have faith that there is love.

Ooops

Missed a couple days here. But that's okay. I've been working. As a bartender. Ah, yes, my glalmorous life. Basically it just takes too much time, and my schedule is wonky. Now if I could go home and do my blogging I would have time, but, with the computer down... that is not working.

I am working on a plan to get myself a new laptop that can accomodate all my needs-- they aren't that great, but they are more needy than I thought they would be.

I at last have something besides my rent to work towards paying. Maybe it will make me more ambitious.