On My Toes

I just hopped over to etsy to see what people are selling these days, and one of the featured items comes from genepierson's shop.



I've always had a secret thing for ballet dancers, probably since the time I was five years old and tried to discover a way to dance on my toes.

Anyway, there's something I love about this photo, and the others that can be found at the link above.

Movies That Almost Slipped Through the Cracks

In between all the stuff I didn't do this weekend, I managed to squeeze in one book and two movies.

The thing about being a Netflix subscriber is that you feel compelled to return movies as quickly as possible so you feel you're getting your money's worth, which means more movies coming back to you, which means you really have to stay on top of your queue and not let it get empty like I did once, leaving me drumming my fingers wondering what the hell was wrong with Netflix that they weren't getting my movies out to me. Until I pulled up their website and saw that, oops, my queue was empty.

However, when you're watching as many movies in a month as I am, while trying to choose what will please the men in the household, it can start to be a bit of a crap shoot. Sometimes I don't have the knack for picking good films, and sometimes I let good ones get away entirely.

I hit the jackpot this weekend, though. Two films I would give five out of five stars:



The Brave One, 2007

Jodie Foster brilliantly portrays a New York radio personality who loses her fiance when they are both beaten in a brutal attack. The film explores the astonishing (and almost gratifying) way her character deals with the feelings of fear and victimization that are left behind, culminating in revenge on the thugs responsible for the attack. It's vigilante justice at its finest. Last line: There is no going back, to that other person, that other place. This thing, this stranger, she is all you are now.



Eagle Eye, 2008

Shia LaBeouf (Transformers and Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull) is Jerry Shaw, the unmotivated and underachieving twin of an Air Force officer who dies suddenly in a car accident. Jerry's life shifts suddenly into high gear when, shortly after burying his brother, he discovers a checking account balance of $571,000, and subsequently goes to his apartment to discover an arsenal has been shipped to him box by box. A phone call from a mysterious woman unleashes a series of events that will keep YOU away from the bathroom and glued to the screen, because "you have been activated. Your compliance is vital."

A Novel Idea

This morning on the way home from buying my Saturday morning cup of coffee, two characters found their way into my head as if they had just arrived by train and I was meeting them at the station. This happened to me about ten years ago (before The Internet took over my life), and the story of those two characters burned inside of me until I had to write it halfway down. Then, like ignored guests, they hopped back on the train and went somewhere else.

I've never really discussed story ideas with anyone, ever since I read that it interrupts the flow of creative energy to do so. But I will say that this will be a love story, set in Oklahoma during the Dust Bowl Era.



And guess what? Just as a survivor of the Great Depression was distrustful of banks, I'll be writing my story on paper. I have no faith in electronics.

Kate Winslet: A Photographic Tribute

Kate Winslet. Is it weird that I love her so much? Is it odd that I have watched Sense and Sensibility 500 times? She was 19 when she played the role of Marianne Dashwood in that film. Nineteen. I can't even recall what I was doing when I was nineteen, and, thankfully, it wasn't filmed.



I like that she doesn't consider herself a movie star. "Please don't call me [a movie star]. I don’t feel like a movie star in my life at all, and I don’t particularly think I behave like one."



With her son, Joe. I never look that good when going to Wal-Mart. Or, well, anywhere, for that matter.



Ah, the fair skin. If I had known how beautiful fair skin is, I never would have tanned like everyone else I knew.



One for the guys.



I don't know. From the set of Revolutionary Road, maybe? I love the dress. And the gloves. It would be worth it to be an actress, just to play dress-up.

By the way, I used to HATE Leonardo DiCaprio. Hate, hate, hate. Like, Tom Cruise hate. But I find I like him quite a lot now that he's a man. It's like someone took sandpaper and roughed up his edges.

What the Doctor said.

After work, I went to my "primary care physician" for the second time in two years. I'd forgotten what a great guy he is, easy to talk to, relaxed (I want to be on whatever he's on). My reason for going was that my prescription for blood pressure medicine had run out, and even though my BP isn't horrible without it, it's high enough to do some long-term damage to those little red hoses running through my body.

I've always loved going to doctors, which is ironic, since I hardly ever go, and it was especially fun to be going to a professional who wasn't going to stick horrible things in my mouth. Back when I was a young mother - high-strung, under-pampered, and most likely depressed - I would cry the moment a doctor asked me how I was. I think it was because no one else ever asked and really cared what the answer was. It's a miracle I wasn't subsequently doped up with anti-depressants.

But today, I got to connect with someone who likes to talk about all the same things I like to talk about, including me. (ha!) He (a licensed medical doctor!) agreed with me about high fructose corn syrup, and was very interested when I told him the significant effect that giving up soda had on my blood pressure. He was impressed that I'm eating more fresh, natural foods, that I'm trying to avoid manmade processed crap, that I know I need to exercise more and that I'm aware of the effects of sodium on my body. After writing my scripts, he told me to come back in 6 months, or sooner if I wanted to. I said that it was probably time for me to have a physician other than my self. When he asked if I "go online," I wanted to say, "Of course! Where do you think I got my medical degree?" But I didn't, and he passed along a couple of websites about natural health that he thought would interest me.

It kinda made that whole dentist ordeal go away for a while.

I'm so cool today.

I got a pingback and a trackback on a post I did at Journalspace: my attempt at debunking the myth about crop circles after my youngest son was awake all night worrying about them, and the year 2012.

It doesn't matter that I'm probably about to get slammed by a bunch of weirdos who actually believe in extraterrestrials. I'm up for the challenge, because I'm so uber cool.

I'm also not concerned that no one has followed the links yet.

I'm Teething.

I figured out why my mouth is still hurting. There appears to be a sliver of bone of unknown size making a magical journey through my gums. This little alien has a name - a sequestrum - something that happens as a result of a difficult or traumatic tooth extraction. Not sure if I mentioned it before, but the tooth extraction was pretty difficult and traumatic. I had enough adrenaline rushing through my body to take out the entire offensive line of a professional football team. Or at least to jump up and punch my dentist in the face.

But that's all over with now, and my memories of the pain are receding. Now all I'm left with is a constant cutting sensation which has suddenly made me sympathetic toward babies. So if you have a baby who is teething and slightly cranky, just remember that your baby doesn't have a cache of Vicodin in its purse.

all alone

I'm alone in the house for the second night in a row.

Solitude used to be one of my favorite things, but tonight I find myself feeling pretty unsettled. Last night I simply slept through two movies. Tonight, with plenty of things to do, no Sandman in sight, and a glass of wine in my hand, I'm just...well...lonely.

Maybe I'll drive 10 miles to McDonald's for some coffee, then 10 miles back.

That should kill enough time to enable me to fall asleep with another movie.

In the Valley of Elah

Since re-subscribing to Netflix with the “three at a time” option, we’ve been watching a lot of movies. And because I have to severely limit the chick flicks, I find myself leaning toward two genres: war movies, and thrillers. The interesting thing is that films about war now make my husband very uncomfortable; in fact, he refused to watch one film centered around the war in Iraq. I have to admit that I find myself viewing these films from a more emotional or empathic place. Even World War II films have the power to evoke some kind of cinematic bond between me and the mothers of celluloid soldiers.

So it was with some uncertainty that I popped in a DVD last night of the film In the Valley of Elah, which stars Tommy Lee Jones as the father of a modern day soldier just back from Iraq, and Charlize Theron as a policewoman who helps investigate the son’s disappearance and death.

One of the critical reviews of the movie at Netflix stated that the movie “centers around Tommy Lee Jones’ persona, and that’s why it works.” I found that to be very true, because Tommy Lee Jones appears to me to be someone who has suffered greatly. His face looks like it should belong to a farmer from Nebraska instead of an actor…or even to a man who sacrificed himself and the lives of his two sons in service to his Country.

It’s easy to see the anti-Iraq war sentiment. But what is really remarkable about the film is the very true portrayal of the effect of the war on young men. The attitudes, the words, the laughter over things I would consider sickeningly morbid are things I’ve witnessed myself when visiting with my son and his Army buddies. It’s their way of coping with the reality of the things they have seen and the friends they have lost.

Anyway, great film, and if you’re a Tommy Lee Jones fan, a must-see. It made getting this new photo from my son tonight, very poignant.

the tooth fairy and me

In early Europe, there was a tradition to bury baby teeth that fell out. Some believe that the Tooth Fairy evolved from the tooth mouse depicted in an 18th century French language fairy tale. In "La Bonne Petite Souris," a mouse changes into a fairy to help a good queen defeat an evil king by hiding under his pillow to torture him and knocking out all his teeth. (Source: Wikipedia.)

So in the interest of continuing the tooth fairy tradition, I asked my dentist on Wednesday if I could have the tooth he decided it was necessary to extract. He assured me I didn't want it. But what if I had put it under my pillow, and the tooth fairy (i.e. my husband) decided to leave a twenty there? We will never know.

After the dentist's toilsome job of pulling my tooth, I decided to tell my favorite tooth fairy story. When my middle son was 5 or 6, I happened to remember my role as fairy (which sometimes wasn't the case, and I would have to "find" money under the bed or behind the headboard to cover for the lapse), and tiptoed into his room to perform my duties. The next morning he came to me and said, "Mom, I saw the tooth fairy last night."

"Did you?" I asked.

"Yes," he said, his bright blue eyes sparkling up at me. "She looked like an angel."

Today on the JS Homepage

Recent Comments
(because I couldn't accept not having them anymore.)

You know how I know you're gay?
You dress your kids in matching jackets.
That's punishable by swirlies and wedgies here in the US, you know.
- TOBP-Steve in dickbar's journal


I can only imagine when you say WORK you are messing around. Well maybe you are "messing around" but that kind of messing around is actually hard work in my mind. HAve fun!!! Love, Bobby
- Fijufic in dirtyshadeofgray's journal


Dinner, drinks, and bed - no fair that a 5-year-old gets that and I don't.
- SamanthaBaker in StupidWorkGirl's journal


And I was wrong, you're not Lermontov....he would've met up with the guy, nailed him in the alley, and then went out drinking with friends.
- TOBP-Steve in Lizardo's journal


Yep – the Welshman was the right advice to give. If you want her to be sexually dissatisfied and to turn to you for solace that is. You have sheep in Australia I believe? That’s all that’s necessary.
- Simon in lermontov-lives's journal

Falling Again for Snow

I used to love it, the quiet fall of crystals, the muted crunch and a squeek underfoot, back in the days when I didn't wear a coat until Old Man Winter demanded it in January. Snow fell deeper then, and warmer, in huge downy blankets that insulated us from the world.

I also wasn't a driver then.

But I had a sled, and I wasn't afraid to use it. I knew how to make igloos and snowmen and snow angels. My feet flew on ice skates along the creek in the woods, and, later, glided over the top of snow drifts on snowshoes like a web-footed bird.

It wasn't difficult to love snow, because I lived in it. I even babysat for a family who would transport me to and from their home on a snowmobile. Now there's a ride, especially after dark.

Somewhere amid 20 years of long drives to and from work, however, I've learned to despise snow. Until a random program on television brought back to me all of its beauty, in microscopic detail.



Snowflakes were first photographed by Wilson A. Bentley in 1885, using an adapted microscope and mutated bellows camera.

If these were diamonds, only Kings could afford them. To us, they are free.

In the 1993 film Groundhog Day, Bill Murray's character, finally getting it right on his umpteenth repeat of February 2nd, reports Punxsutawney Phil's shadow sighting this way:

"When Chekov saw the long winter, he saw a winter bleak and dark and bereft of hope. Yet, we know that winter is just another step in the cycle of life. But standing here amongst the people of Punxsutawney and basking in the warmth of their hearths and hearts, I couldn’t imagine a better fate than a long and lustrous winter."

Everyone's a Comedian

I don't mind telling you that an abscessed tooth makes for a crappy week.

On Thursday and Friday, I went to work with a swollen cheek. The first thing I said to my co-worker, Russ, when I arrived at work on Thursday was "I brought extra acorns for lunch if you want any," then pointed at my cheek.

My friend John said it looked like something alien was growing on the side of my face. "It's a fetus," I replied. Then on Friday, he said it seemed to be growing legs. "But not fast enough," I said. He suggested I sprinkle fertilizer on it.

I kept asking my co-workers if they had an ice skate I could use to extract my own tooth. Would you believe no one at FedEx has one?

And finally, Russ is one of the kindest and most gentle men I've ever known, which made the following comments even funnier to me. He suggested that I go home and ask my husband to punch the other side of my face to even things out. He said (in an aside to someone else), "They're just like a bad screen door. You have to slam 'em a few times to straighten 'em out."

I laughed, of course. Then hurt even more.

Vicodin Dreams

I stayed home from work all day yesterday, because my face felt like a used punching bag. I've never experienced anything like this, and wonder how my tooth got so bad. It's not like there is a visible cavity or anything; in fact, I think it's a tooth that my dentist worked on a couple of months ago, trying to save me from a root canal.

I tried to use the Vicodin sparingly. But pain can be a compelling reason to use it. And while I slept in the afternoon, I had a couple of very strange dreams.

In the first one, my husband brought to my attention what he believed was a dead chicken. The chicken was small and brown, and limp when I picked it up to carry it toward the house. As I stepped inside, it made a noise. I stuck my head out the door and said, "Would a chicken go "eep, eep, eep" if it was dead?

My husband answered, "It's just a reaction." I assumed he meant a reaction of the nervous system that can occur after death, like a muscle twitching. I didn't believe him, of course.

So I put the chicken in a cardboard box. It stood up and began to walk around.

I stuck my head out the door again and said (in a tone laced with a little disgust), "Would a chicken WALK if it was dead?"

Then the dream switched to twin tornadoes. Tornadoes in dreams are a recurring event for me, and I'm never frightened of them. Just fascinated. This time, the tornadoes ran nearly parallel to each other, offset enough that I could see them both. The detail was amazing.

I was just ready to jump in the truck to go survey the damage when I woke up.

Then I remembered the chicken dream, and went to give hubby hell about it. I'm still not sure I've forgiven him.

Of Toothaches and True Love

I have an infected tooth, even though my dentist didn't exactly say so. He didn't say so even though the right side of my face feels as if it's on fire, and my upper and lower jaws ache, and my throat hurts when I swallow, and it feels like someone is shoving a fist through my head when I bite down on a french fry. Taking into consideration all of these facts, I decided to ask my dentist for an antibiotic this afternoon since he didn't offer me one. And, well, Vicodin for the pain. That he offered. And that I accepted willingly and with so much grace it would embarrass you.

Something very odd happens to me when I suffer from excruciating pain. I become really pleasant. It doesn't matter that I can't really focus my eyes on anything. Or that I can't do my job very well. What matters is that I'll be extremely pleasant while not functioning as a human being. And I think that counts for something.

Being in pain also makes me love my husband very much. Here's a photo and some words to prove it.



I took this photo of My Mater the day I took the fog photos in an earlier post. Just look at how strong and tough he looks. Don't you wish you had a man who could wrangle all that firewood with only his bare hands and a hydraulic wood splitter? Okay, maybe you do have a man like that. If you're a woman, I mean.

But maybe you don't have a man like this. Last night I was in bed, and he said, "You look so beautiful lying there." He said I was glowing. I resisted the urge to ask if I was running a fever, and instead I smiled and my soul opened up like a flower.

One Wild Oat

When I started this blog back in 2006, I gave it some random title I can't remember. After a long absence (during which I entirely forgot about its existence), I came back to begin writing again. But I wanted a different title. And as usual, like trying to name a pet, it became a huge, agonizing issue.

I wanted something unique, of course. Something mysterious. Maybe even glamorous. A title that fit me somehow, even if I couldn't even figure out how it fit.

I asked myself, who is glamorous and mysterious? and the first woman I thought of was Audrey Hepburn. I don't know why I thought of her, because I've never really been a fan of anything but portraits of her.



So I IMDb'd Audrey. And discovered that before she was famous, she was an extra in a 1951 film titled One Wild Oat. For whatever reason, I liked it. I identified with "one." I identified with "wild." And I certainly identified with Oat, being a farmer's wife and a horse lover.

As for the more common definition of "wild oat," well...

Okay, I admit it. I sowed a wild oat before I was married, and that's why my oldest son is here. But there was just the one. I mean it. And it sprouted nicely in the field of marriage and became a soldier and a gentleman, which makes it all okay I suppose.

Lassitude

I twice posted this elsewhere, in journals long ago and far away.

I.

The angels gathered me with silver wingtips. Their breath was white as winter, drifting across my collarbone then far away into my heart. It was dark, but their light illuminated me, slanting across my wounds and making shadows of them. The shadows were shaped like dark demons laughing at me ha ha ha, making light of my pain, running to and fro outside the circle of luminaries, trying to penetrate the holy, wanting to defeat it. I bowed backwards, pulling strength from my soul and from the purified breath of angels, and after one long defiant scream the demons ate my silence and were destroyed.

II.

The story was written long ago in a giant book, broken-spined and bound in kidskin. It does not end the way we think.

III.

Once there was a room full of silent gestures. The gestures could not be seen or felt or understood in any way. There was no way out.

Favorite Writers: Richard Brautigan

My first encounter with Richard Brautigan was in a used bookstore in Lebanon, Indiana. I was on a run to pick up tractor parts for my husband, and had seen the bookstore's huge sign painted on the side of an old brick building. This kind of detour was a necessary part of my existence: living far from everything as I do, with a practical husband, I've learned that "there's no reason to make a special trip."

I was browsing the shelves when the owner, an obvious refugee of the 1960's, asked if he could help me find something. I asked if he knew of any other writers from the "Beat Generation," besides Jack Kerouac or Allen Ginsberg. While I liked Kerouac's early writings, some of his later stuff was too much for me, and I couldn't stomach Allen Ginsberg at all. (No, I will not apologize.)

He reached up and pulled from the shelf a copy of Trout Fishing in America. "It has nothing to do with trout fishing." he said. "Richard Brautigan is one of my favorites. I think you'll like him."

So I took Richard home, and proceeded to fall in love.



He's such a hippie.

But he was a hippie with a unique way of seeing things, and I love that in a writer. I can't type here my absolute very favorite line of his until I get home and pull it out of a book. So until then, here's a poem:

Boo, Forever

Spinning like a ghost
on the bottom of a
top,
I'm haunted by all
the space that I
will live without
you.

Richard Brautigan

It's cold in Baghdad

Thirty-nine degrees, to be exact. It's about the same where I am. But when it gets below freezing here, the way it has since a cold front began making its way through Iraq three days ago, we don't have camels trying to drink through ice in the pond. To even things out, they don't have Santa Claus or Carson Daly.

More About the Moleskine

What could be more endearing to the budding writer or artist than an item used by Van Gogh, Picasso, and Hemingway?

Yes, that's what I thought, the moment I saw my first Moleskine® notebook. Though I love art and have dabbled in oil paints, it was Hemingway who drew me to the Moleskine®. It gave me visions of sitting in a sidewalk cafe in Paris, jotting notes or sketching the Eiffel Tower from afar. Or sitting in an apartment lit by one window, at a table with only a loaf of bread and a bottle of wine. Complete and total Romance.

In the secret little back pocket of every Moleskine®, you'll find a booklet about this marvel. There you'll find its history written in six languages:

Moleskine is the legendary notebook used by European artists and thinkers for the past two centuries, from Van Gogh to Picasso, from Ernest Hemingway to Bruce Chatwin. This trusty, pocket-size travel companion held skketches, notes, stories and ideas before they were turned into famous images or pages of beloved books.

Originally produced by small French bookbinders who supplied the Parisian stationery shops frequented by the international avant-garde, by the end of the twentieth century the Moleskine notebook was no longer available. In 1986, the last manufacturer of Moleskine, a family operation in Tours, closed its shutters forever. "le vrai Moleskine n'est plus" were the lapidary words of the owner of the stationery shop in Rue de l'Ancienne Comedie where Chatwin stocked up on the notebooks. The English writer had ordered a hundred of them before leaving for Australia: he bought up all the Moleskine that he could find, but they were not enough.

In 1998, a small Milanese publisher brought Moleskine back again. As the self-effacing keeper of an extraordinary tradition, Moleskine once again began to travel the globe. To capture reality on the move, pin down details, impress upon paper unique aspects of experience: Moleskine is a reservoir of ideas and feelings, a battery that stores discoveries and perceptions, and whose energy can be tapped over time.

The legendary black notebook is once again being passed from one pocket to the next; with its various different page styles it accompanies the creative professions and the imagination of our time. The adventure of Moleskine continues, and its still-blank pages will tell the rest.

With such a rich history behind it, don't you think you deserve one, too? Even if you don't think of yourself as a writer or artist (who among us isn't?), you won't regret having a Moleskine. If nothing else, it will give you a place to gather autographs, like the genuine signature I got from Country artist Josh Turner before he made it big. I think he really liked me. Or maybe he just wanted my Moleskine.

2009: Year of Reinvention

Is there something about your "personality" that you don't like? Are you stuck in a rut? Do you take the easy way out, slipping back into old patterns? Would you like to WOW everyone you know and take The World by storm? Well, you're in luck, because 2009 is the Year of Reinvention. And do you know why? Because 2009 is not divisible by 3. That makes this year a magical one for everybody. Your dreams are going to come true. Just follow these five easy steps:

1. Forget who you think you are. You aren't lazy, shy, a coward, or any other label that your family stuck on you with super glue. Really, you aren't. You are a spirit designed with infinite possibility. You can do anything. You can be anyone you want at any given moment, as long as you remain true to your core values and beliefs.

I figured this out at my father's funeral, when I stood up in front of everyone to read a note I had written to him. For years I had convinced myself I wasn't a public speaker. That I was shy. That I didn't have the guts or the skill to speak publicly. But I heard my dad's voice in my ear, saying "Get on up there; you can do it," and his hand on the small of my back pushing me forward. It doesn't matter that I had taken a Xanax twenty minutes earlier. I would have done it anyway. All I'm saying is that if you need to take drugs to reinvent yourself, go ahead. Okay, I'm kidding. Really. Don't take drugs. Drugs are bad.

2. Be enthusiastic. Pick one thing to be enthused about, even if it's small. Even if it's your job. Be a dork about it if you must (see #3), but I promise you that your enthusiasm will spread to others, and to other areas of your life. If you've ever seen enthusiasm at play in someone else, you know what I mean.

3. Stop worrying about what other people think. Guess what? They aren't thinking at all. And usually, when people of limited growth gossip, what they're really saying is I have so many personal flaws that I can't do anything but talk about other people.

4. Write your goals on paper. If you want to do one nice thing for someone else each day, write it down. If you want to write a screenplay, pencil it in. If you want to rid the world (or just the cabinet over your left shoulder) of cobwebs, write it down. Can I suggest a Moleskine? You can find these little beauties at Barnes and Noble (and elsewhere) and they are now available in a variety of colors and sizes, making them very convenient to carry. I've been buying them for years, but this time I chose red.



5. Small things can be successes, too. Every time you do something right, or get a little closer to one of your big goals, you gain confidence. Find something you're good at, and become better. Find something you've never tried but would like to, and learn everything you can about it. Invest in yourself.

Remember when you were a child, and you wanted to be a ballerina, or a fire fighter, or an astronaut? Figure out how to finally do it. There are ways. If you can't find a way, make one.

At least 3 of anything is a collection.

I'm not really a collector. Not in the sense that I will go hog wild over something if I see it in a store or flea market, or in a shop-on-eBay kind of way. But I have accidentally gathered some things in groups of three or more.

Cats. Boys. Little sheep in various forms. Feathers. I did have three horses, but I'm down to one. And that's about it, since long ago I stopped going to auctions and flea markets.

However, I now seem to be working on a collection of bird plates.

I never understood the idea of collecting plates. If you can't eat off of them, what good are they? They're hard to display. And really, bird plates? Does anyone else in the world care about birds as much as I do? Probably not. But I'm going to show some to you anyway.

Johnson Brothers of England, Game Birds, "Quail"




I also have "Woodcock"


and "Ruffed Grouse." The Collectors Weekly had this to say about the Johnson Brothers:

Brothers Henry, Alfred, and Frederick Johnson purchased a bankrupt pottery works in the Staffordshire area of England in 1882, and began producing a material known as 'semi-porcelain,' which looked like china, but was durable like ironstone. Their most famous patterns, 'Old Britain Castles' and 'Historic America' were immensely popular in England and America. After WWII, the company struggled, but managed to modernize, and in 1968 joined the Wedgwood Group.

Since I already had three bird plates (a collection), it only made sense that I would want some small dessert plates I found while shopping at Marshalls with my sister before Christmas. I didn't go absolutely crazy over them. Really. Except maybe when my sister picked them up and put them in her shopping cart and said she was buying them for me for Christmas. And maybe I was a little excited when I opened the box on Christmas day, and saw that there were four, which I didn't remember.


It says on the back that they are fine bone china. Whatever that is. I hope no actual bones were used in the making of them.

So I guess I'm a Collector now. And someday I'm going to eat actual food off of these plates instead of letting them collect dust.

New Flower, New Desk, New Blog, New Year

My husband gave me a computer desk for Christmas. This desk has produced a whole set of challenges for me:

1. It's black. My 100-year-old farmhouse is dusty. I don't think I need to say more.
2. I want to keep the desk and the area around it organized. So, yesterday, I bought the silk African daisy (above) and a small glass vase to keep it in. Nothing encourages me to stay organized and clean more than one pretty thing.
3. Now that I have a clean, organized place to write, there is no reason I can't finish my 300-page novel. And, well, get our taxes filed early.

I like bringing in a New Year with new things. The important thing is to get rid of some of the old stuff, too. Old things, old attitudes, old habits, old excuses. They weigh us down and cause us to look back. The only way is forward.

Always bear in mind that your own resolution to succeed is more important than any one thing. Abraham Lincoln

Only Fly

When I existed in the other realm with my favorite angel, Michael, I asked him to teach me to fly. His wings were stronger than my small, delicate ones, and he often let me ride with him, stretched out on his back, my head resting softly against the warmth of his neck. But I really wanted to fly the way he did, with wings that stirred the air into a swirl of colors; spectral colors which later would be captured by an artist on earth and lovingly placed on canvas, (for everything which becomes beautiful is first brushed by angel wings).

As we climbed the highest mountain, Michael told me stories. Of human wars and human loves, of the contrasting strength and frailty of the human spirit, of the absence of love which is fear.

"What does fear feel like?" I asked.

"There are a thousand ways I could tell you," Michael answered, "but it is better that you feel it for yourself. Are you ready?"

I saw then that we had reached the summit of the mountain. I nodded.

Michael instructed me to take his hand. "When we leap," he said, "feel the movement of your wings, how they stretch and move and hold you aloft. Focus on the beauty of the smallest thing you can see. Don't look backward to where you were, or forward to where you are going. Only fly."

And we leaped from that great mountain and flew, my hand clutching Michael's hand, his light and energy pouring through my being. I smiled, turned to look at him, and he was gone. Then I faltered; my wings stopped beating. I looked behind me, searching for Michael. I turned and looked before me, searching for Michael. And there was no Michael, only me. Something within me shattered and fell. For a few minutes I tried to move my wings, but they were paralyzed by a feeling I didn't recognize, and soon my body fell with whatever had broken inside of me.

I felt pain when I landed; felt the strange liquid which fell from the corners of my closed eyes. When I opened them, there was Michael's face, looking down at me. The liquid fell from his eyes, too, so I reached up with my hand and touched it.

"They are called tears," Michael told me. "When you go to earth, you will know them again. They will come for one of two reasons: whenever you cannot contain the love that is in you, or whenever you believe that love is absent."

Michael helped me stand and brushed the debris from my being. "What did you think of fear?"

"I didn't like it at all. It made my wings feel frozen, and I stopped flying." Michael nodded.

I thought of something else, and tilted my head as I looked at him. "When you left, you took love with you."

"Only this one time," he said. "So you must forever remember one thing."

"And what is that?"

"No matter how much you may think otherwise, love is always with you."

Separation: The Great Illusion

Or so they say. We're all connected, every day of our lives. A few minutes ago, as I tossed dirty clothes into the washer, all I could think of was the last time my son came home, and we were looking for him at the airport. His plane had landed about an hour before; my family had split up to look for him, and I walked out of Starbucks with hot coffee in my hand when I saw him walking toward me through the terminal in his desert camo, looking older and more like a man than ever. I had thirty seconds to watch him before he saw me. He's not a very observant soldier - I was three feet away before he knew I was there. He put his arms around me with a hug of superhuman strength, and kissed me on the cheek in that way sophisticated world travelers have. This man, flesh of my flesh, is a spirit which I carried in my body for nine months. How, then, can he ever be separate from me, even if he's on the other side of the world?

Band of Angels

I like birds because they remind me of certain angels I have known. My favorite angel was Michael - dark, beautiful Michael - whose feathers were always a bit oily and unkempt. He had a long, straight nose and a quirky smile, and eyes that burned red-brown like Georgia soil in summer. He was quick and muscular and built as much like a racehorse as an angel can be. Whenever he returned from his travels on earth he'd bring me souvenirs of rocks or leaves or flowers. Then we'd race each other along the golden river (he always let me win) and across the water to the big rock island that sleeps in the middle. It was there I'd spend eons preening his wing feathers and listening, rapt, to his war stories and the occasional bawdy joke. Sometimes he smelled of whisky. If Michael had been born on earth he would've been Irish. I loved him the most.

There was Raphael, that shining angel of death, who enjoyed his occupation more than anyone. He was a practical jokester who could convince the minor angels that not even they were immune to his power, and so he would bring them lambs blood to smear over their doorways at night, in exchange for cigarettes. His favorites were Lucky Strikes, and it was always amusing to watch the lesser angels reappear suddenly in the heavens, girded with tobacco.

Of all the archangels, Gabriel was the most beautiful. He looked like John Schneider at 18, only more golden. And his eyes were not only blue - they were that blue you have seen only once in your lifetime - remember it? That blue. The one that made you stand in quiet awe until some shift of light stole it away. To look into Gabriel's eyes was to no longer thirst; to be in his presence was paradise.

When Michael and the other warrior angels were away, I'd listen to Israfel play his flute. Israfel rarely spoke except through his music, and we had between us a quiet understanding. His hair was curly and blonde, soft as a toddler's, and sometimes when he slept I ran my fingers through the silk of it. With his flute he created the sweetest of songs, a keening and a longing, a melancholy lilting that was like the wings of hummingbirds lightly brushing a thousand silver windchimes.

And among them all, my friends, my angels, not one of them warned me that being human would hurt so much. If I had known, I would never have left the sheltering love of their wings.

The Sum of My Experience

Every human being on this earth is born with a tragedy, and it isn't original sin. He's born with the tragedy that he has to grow up. That he has to leave the nest, the security, and go out to do battle. He has to lose everything that is lovely and fight for a new loveliness of his own making, and it's a tragedy. A lot of people don't have the courage to do it.
Helen Hayes (1900 - 1993)

I've left cyber footprints on The World Wide Web. Many have been erased. This morning I learned that a lot of my marks were obliterated forever in a massive, late December drive failure over at Journalspace.

Just so you know, this place is not permanent, and can be gone in the blink of an eye.

So I wonder what to do. There is something so convenient about writing online. But I know that if, at the age of 10, I had written my childhood musings on the as-yet-undreamed internet, instead of in a diary or on index cards, those words would most likely not exist anymore. Exactly the same way my hundreds of private and public entries at Journalspace do not exist anymore, except in small, imperfect caches at Google. And even those will go away eventually, and can in no way be tied to me. You know...the me whose name is on a birth certificate and census records.

Even as a child, I was driven to leave a mark. I wanted to be a Famous Author, or at least remembered. So where, now, is the sum of my experience? Only in my head. Not on paper, not chiseled in stone. This THING I'm talking about was my biggest regret when my father died. That a brain that contained so much information was going away. Massive drive failure.

So do I start over here, or on paper? Or both? I'm tired of losing everything lovely.

Fashion Faux Pas Through the Ages

I've been thinking a lot lately about the way I dress, and particularly about my inability to find clothes I want to buy. When I shop, I have these elaborate fantasies of finding things that Sophia Loren would have worn in the 1960's, but all I can find are either a) teenager clothes, or b) things that Mama Cass would have worn in the 1960's. Since I'm trying very hard to not dress like a teenager anymore (and failing), it occurred to me that I have a European body instead of an American body. The only thing that will save me is a trip to Italy to buy an entire new wardrobe.

But the truth is, I've never been a fashionista. Ever. And I have proof. My sister and I used to affectionately call ourselves The Goodwill Sisters, presumably because if Goodwill Stores had advertised back in the day, we would have been their walking billboards.

Since most photos from my childhood are still in albums at my mom's house, I can only go back to about 1974 or so.

Here I am as Lady Godiva, at Swope Park in Kansas City, Missouri. This outfit was most likely purchased at Kmart, and my mother probably objected to it because it's obviously too tight. I have to confess that I still seem to be wearing clothes that, well, aren't baggy.


This is me in 1975? Here you see my very first pair of blue jeans. That's right; I was 13 before I ever had jeans. I wanted jeans so badly that I made sure they went halfway up my chest. Obviously, my philosophy was that chickens don't care what you wear. Also, I wore that blue t-shirt until it had holes in it.


One of the blizzards of the late 70's? I think this was my birthday, and my sister and I were tired of being cooped up in the house. So we both donned the bridesmaid dresses from our brother's wedding, grabbed our shawls, and went outside to illustrate the striking contrast between the piles of snow the snowplow had just left behind, and our keen fashion sense. No, that's not a snowball hitting the side of my head, it's a flower.


I believe we're at Kings Island in Cincinnati? 1976? That hat! That hair! I don't know!


I'm confused by the date on this photo. It says June 81, but I thought it was our parents' anniversary in August. It's very likely that the film stayed in the camera until the next year, when we finally had the photos developed. Anyway, the important thing is that my sister and I created an elaborate Italian dinner of spaghetti, and served it to mom and dad as an Italian man and woman, hence the penciled in moustache on my sister. This is as close as I ever got to dressing like Sophia Loren.


Here I am as a Senior in high school, flanked by two Indianapolis Colts football players who came to my school to play basketball. I want to reach through the photo to fix my collar and close my mouth. This was the first time I ever saw a man.


I can't explain this.


This is me as a 44-year-old mother, trying to resurrect my Lady Godiva phase. Please tell me I'm not in my underwear.


It's obvious I need help. There must be a world beyond cotton t-shirts, tank tops, and denim. If anyone would like to foot the bill for my shopping spree in Milan, please let me know.

Veil

There is a timelessness in fog. Nature, in sudden modesty, veils herself in white gauze. Fog whispers to us of mysteries, begs us to come forward and see, allows us to hide. It makes time stand still, and dresses Winter in quiet beauty.

Post-Christmas Stress Syndrome

To put it plainly, I look like dog crap. My eyes have packed their bags, and are ready to board the next red-eye. My fingers look like fat little sausages. This is my body's response to three things: too much sugar, too much salt, and too much stress.

How many times have I said to myself - I'm never going to be caught shopping on Christmas Eve again. I'm going to start Christmas shopping the day after Halloween, and have everything wrapped by Thanksgiving. Okay, maybe I haven't really ever been that ambitious, but I'd like to be.

Holy cow, it's raining AGAIN. I know this, not because there are any windows in my office (at work), but because I can hear the downpour on the roof. Plus I just peaked at Yahoo weather and it said Freezing Rain. Yay.

But back to my rehashing of Christmas. Usually, my family has a 100% gift success rate. But yesterday, five things failed to fit: the jacket I ordered for myself online (my husband marked the box To Laura From Laura and put it under the tree), a pair of insulated coveralls from my son to my husband, an insulated vest from my son to me, a pair of boots from me to my husband, and a set of floor mats I special ordered for my son's truck. And who do you suppose will be responsible for returning all these things? Me. It will be like having to go Christmas shopping all over again, only with even longer lines. Bah humbug.

On a lighter note *cough*, the first thing I did this morning at work was to look through the latest Associated Press slideshow from Iraq, to see if there were any pictures of my son. This is a habit very similar to buying a lottery ticket, and of course nothing ever comes of it. But it's nice to hope.

This is not my blog.

This isn't really my blog. The real me is at another site; a site that crashed 3 or 4 days ago and is inoperable for at least another week. The site owners had to mail the drives containing all the site information to someone who could raise it from the dead, and the word is that recovering everything will cost more money than the site generated last year. If I were the owner, I might have to consider shutting the place down forever. Not that I'm advocating that.

That's why (if anyone is reading this at all) you're going to see a lot of crazy, sad, weird, scattered, nonsensical posts from me for a while. Because that's who I am at the other place, and well, that's who I am. In the immortal words of Marshall (Slim Shady) (Eminem) Mathers, "All I can do is be myself."

In other news, it's bitterly cold. It's the kind of cold that sticks to your skin long after you've gone indoors, that makes you want to wear an undershirt like your mom used to make you do, that tempts you to touch a metal pole with your tongue. Huh? It's late January weather, and I'm disappointed in it. If the weather were a student, and I were weather's teacher, I would give it an F minus. Or a minus 20 F.

Crazy Cat Lady

Merry Christmas from Spivey.




Spivey was sick recently with what I believe was The Dysentery. So he went to see Dr. Casey and his staff, who had to poke him in the bottom, not once but three times. Then they gave him medicine, which his owner faithfully gave him morning and night. And now Spivey is all better, and enjoying the Holidays.

I made a Christmas card from the first photo, for Spivey to send to Dr. Casey and his staff. He wanted to thank them for making him all better.

Dear Santa:

If I could have a beautiful house of my own, even if it was empty, I would have everything I ever wanted.

And maybe a few chickens.

How many idiots does it take?

Last night after dinner, hubby was craving something sweet (as usual), so I scrounged around and found a box of Jello Instant Pudding (butterscotch) and whipped it up for him. After dividing it into different bowls, I asked if he wanted what was left in the mixing bowl. As I held the larger bowl above his bowl, he scraped the remainder out with a spoon and said, "How many idiots does it take to scrape a bowl?"

Feeling unusually quick-witted, I said,

"One."

Then I giggled about it the rest of the night.

A New Beginning

Yesterday, along with my niece Working Mom, I shot the wedding of Jasmine, who I had the pleasure of watching grow from a sweet little girl into a beautiful woman. Jasmine was, in fact, my oldest son's first girlfriend. Back in elementary school, he would pick her wildflowers and give her pretty little things for Valentine's Day. But now she belongs to someone else.

Jeremy. But it's okay, because I think he'll be good to her.

And she deserves it.

Best wishes to Jasmine and Jeremy!

God will catch us.

The leaves are falling, falling as from far off,
as though far gardens withered in the skies;
they are falling with denying gestures.

And in the nights the heavy earth is falling
from all the stars down into loneliness.

We are all falling. This hand falls.
And look at others; it is in them all.

And yet there is One who holds this falling
endlessly gently in his hands.

Rainer Maria Rilke, Autumn

Someday...

...I'd like to go on a photographic journey some place, with a tripod and lenses and filters. Somewhere away from interstates and cities, where the light falls just right at six p.m. and no one else has ever photographed it.

Until then, this will have to do:

I've got a ride in Denver tomorrow night

My son leaves for Iraq on Monday. If your son was going to Iraq on Monday, what would you do? Yes, that's right, you would book a flight to Denver for tomorrow afternoon, and a flight back on Sunday night, because, apparently, no one is flying to Colorado Springs.

So I've spent the morning at work not working, unless you call making travel arrangements work, which I do. I'll arrive in Denver tomorrow at about 4:30 p.m., pick up my rental car at Alamo, drive 60 miles on this highway:

to Colorado Springs, check into my Bed & Breakfast (which I didn't intentionally book, but will be a delight anyway:

(and don't give me grief about the name), and then I get to spend the whole weekend with my son. Maybe we'll go to the Garden of the Gods:

or to the top of Pike's Peak, or to see a movie, or to a bar, or to lots of yummy restaurants including maybe the Japanese hibachi grill one. Or maybe we'll just go shopping at Best Buy, which is Chase's favorite place to shop.

It doesn't really matter what we do, as long as I get to spend this time with him before he goes. It feels like the best gift ever.

P.S. The title of this post is sort of a line from a song by Garth Brooks called Much Too Young (to Feel this Damn Old).

This ol' highway's getting longer
Seems there ain't no end in sight
To sleep would be best, but I just can't afford to rest
I've got to ride in Denver tomorrow night

I always like to sing songs in my head about the cities I visit.

My new ball gown

The gossip sheets have all been abuzz regarding what I am wearing to the Willow Manor Ball.

Well, here it is, darlings:



Isn't it fab? Of course it's not a wedding dress! I insist. Even if it were, I'm just daring enough to show up in public in it, anyway. Because I'm a maverick. I only hope I don't trip over that bubble hem all night. It would be a horrible faux pas to fall into some man's arms.

Since I couldn't make a choice between Cary Grant and Clark Gable, I allowed both of them to accompany me. I do declare, I can't decide which of them is the handsomest. I'm hoping there will be some sort of duel by the end of the ball. Of course I will insist that the gentlemen take it outside, so as to not spoil the ambience of Willow's lovely ball.

Then I will allow the one who is still alive to escort me home.