Hippo Birdies Two Ewes

Happy birthday to Selene, JV, and my great-aunt.  Yes, the August Babies have already begun counting in their birthdays.  Some of them I've forgotten the exact date, others are burned into my mind, in no apparent order or with any reason or rhyme.  Your parents knew how best to occupy themselves on those longest nights of the year.

We're still pulling tansy from our pastures, and when we're done that won't be the end of it.  Sadly, there's more scattered on the trails through the blackberries (and some are unreachable in the middle of the blackberries) and in my garden.  I talked to my neighbor across the fence--they're pulling the last of theirs out of the lower west pasture sometime this weekend.  If we can bear the thought, the next step is to ask our neighbor on the other side if he needs help with his.  He's been here for over thirty years now, and due to his age I don't think he can manage even an hour out there pulling by hand.  Maybe he can mow it--it'll come back, but weaker, reducing the overall seed load.  Either way, it's best if it goes away.

There's a fun side-benefit--tansy ragweed attracts bees and beneficial wasps.  With all the local tansy pulled, they'll gravitate to my lavender, squashes, tomato, oregano, mint, blanketflower, echinacea, farewell-to-spring, and all the other stuff that's in bloom right now that self-seeds.  Hopefully we'll have more of these lovely and useful plants popping up everywhere, and less blackberry seedlings.  There eeeevvryweeeaaar, the wee little blackberry seedlings and they make me craaaaaazy!!  As if we didn't have enough blackberries around here.

Which brings me back to ABBB--traditionally, we have blackberry milkshakes, and sometimes I get pie crusts and make homemade blackberry pies.  Well, this year we may be all done with the best of the blackberry crop.  We'll see.  If it rains between now and then, poof!  The berries get very watery and many of them mold, spoiling our fun.  That's one of the hazards of having the party later in the month.  On the good side, though--we may have early grapes.  Yum!

Time to Write

I'm at the Fat Straw, prepping to write.  Today I'm writing about a woman with no legs, and I'll possibly go into writing about a woman who has nasty symbols burned into the front of her body if I have time.  I'm also staring at a deadline.  I've crossed the finish line, but I let the manuscript ferment for a bit and I'll taste it today to see if it's ready to go.  If it is, I'll send it out, as I got pinged the other day reminding me that the story is due by September 1.  Piece of cake.  If I'm not done dithering by then, I can't call myself a pro.

Mixed in with all these writing tasks, I've got a field riddled with tansy ragweed that has to get cleaned up before the flowers go to seed.  Sometimes it feels like an uphill task, I mean, for metaphorical reasons, not just because the field is on a hill.  Our neighbors have a field full of tansy ragweed too.  They usually get rid of it early and we're the ones at the eleventh hour pulling things up, shoving the ones gone to seed already into big plastic bags.  Not this year.  We're a little ahead of our usual MO, they're way behind.

It's not fruitless, though, just aggravating.  Like the necessity of marketing--it'll never go away.  Even if I manage to find an agent, I'll still have to send short stories out, write query letters, synopses and proposals, make phone calls, do business.  Would I rather just write?  Heck yeah.  I'd rather just do my regular gardening too, instead of sweating out in the pasture pulling up stuff that shouldn't be there in the first place.  But it's part of owning land, and marketing is part of writing.  You just gotta do it.

On the plus side it's cooled down locally.  Very pleasant writing weather, pleasant gardening weather especially in the early evening, when it's still light outside but the birds are trying out their night songs, and the moon is like a rosy pearl, and it's too bright for stars.  That's my favorite time to be out, as long as I remembered to spray on some bug juice.

It's still bright and warm outside now, but it feels like the perfect hour.  Time to write.

August Babies Birthday Bash

I'm surrounded by Leos.

Many years ago now my DH (born in August) and I had come to the conclusion that we were missing a lot of friends' birthdays and that August would be booked solid with the cake and gifts if we tried to make even half of them.  We decided to throw a collective birthday in our backyard, and to make it more sane, everyone would bring just one gift and put it in a box.  The August Babies would draw out their gifts at random.  We put a price limit on the gifts back then.  Nowadays we just say, don't go too overboard.

Anyway, we played blind-man's-bluff, cooked over an open fire, drank too much, talked until we were hoarse, and generally had a good time.  Such a good time, in fact, we had to do it again the next year.  Bigger.  That time, anyone could invite or bring anyone.  We made it a potluck.  The house got hot, we crushed a lot of lawn, and I think we had a kiddie pool full of hot water filled via a contraption hooked to the shower head and run out the bathroom window.  We laughed loud and often.  A good time was had by all.  The gifts got crazier, too.  A lamp that looked like an alien head.  Ear candles.  A huuuuge bra.  I seem to remember a Dilbert candy dispenser.  Maybe it was the following year, but an inflatable cellphone pool toy showed up, and became a perennial gift--it seems to turn up every year.  And of course we had the flying things--flying pigs, flying cows, flying bat.  But covet-some gifts showed up too.  Handmade pottery.  Art.  Brand new DVDs.  Bottles of premium liquor.  A giant zucchini.

Okay, maybe that last one wasn't coveted.

Somewhere around #2 or #3 we started the tradition of the firepit 'bardic'.  A rockin' lobster wall hanger showed up, and we passed it around like a baton.  The bearer of the lobster had to tell a joke, a story, sing a song, or be doomed to press the button and rock out with the Lobster of Shame for our entertainment.  When we had music available, belly dancing was also an option when a turn came up.

Each year we had more people, more food, more fun.  We hit a critical mass with the booze--no matter how many people showed up we always had lots of everything left over.  A keg would be a waste on us.  Perfect; more money in the budget for meat that way.

We moved onto acreage and one of the first big projects was to level a large area for a firepit and procure seating to accommodate our August Babies Birthday Bash.  Seating is still one of our biggest challenges.  Anyway, we now have an Aussie bbq (a huge bbq is on my lottery list) in addition to the firepit for cooking, and the trees we planted are starting to cast some much-needed shade.  We have a gazebo too.  But sometimes it's all for naught--we've been rained in before.  We set up a copper firepit in the house, filled it with water, and floated rose candles in it.  The cats loved it.

We often have work parties beforehand--some have been a huge production with their own feasts and free t-shirts, others have been smaller and at the same time more intense, clearing brush and making sure the paths and stairs are mowed and safe and the firepit area is clean and free of nasty pokey plants.  Some years I hand wave them and do most of the work myself.

Last year was poignant.  My DH was overseas.  He got up very early and called us from a war zone--everyone got a chance to say hey.  The connection was horrible, but we all laughed and talked and I have to admit I got choked up.  I made a movie, but sadly the data was lost.  I'm hoping to reclaim the one and only DVD so that I can make copies.  It'll be fun to watch again, especially the sushi races and the safety dance (not the one you're thinking of.)

All our ABBBs have been special for some reason or another.  Someone turns an even decade, the full moon is up, we're early enough for the meteor shower, or it rains, etc. etc. etc.  This year, after a round of frantic emails, I rescheduled my original date so that we could have one of the original August Babies back home at the time of the party.  He'll probably still have a fair amount of sand in his boots when the party begins, and he'll have such stories to tell ....

And the tradition goes on, and on, and on.

Weather and Glass

My sleep schedule has turned around with the weather.  I woke up at 4am.  I may have to take a siesta today, though.  Good time of year for it.  Sleep through some of the heat of the day.

Having an early-to-rise sleep schedule is good news.  I typically get more work done inside and out.  I anticipate much writing, and I'm going to work out while I can still have the door open and the fan on full blast.  Working out indoors any time after 8am is really not a good idea, and outside after about noon is a distinctly bad idea.  Yesterday some of the paved areas I drove through were at about 105 degrees F.  I write less and more poorly when I haven't exercised, so making sure I get exercise in is important.  I watch the clock now and get upset with myself when I fail to slip the exercise in and have to wait until the next day due to heat load.  I suppose I could just do yoga.  

Speaking of working out, I'd been resisting even simple walking for a couple of days because I thought I'd bruised my foot when I got a cut from what I thought was a rock, running around with the dogs on a river trip.  The pain was quite sharp and localized and it aggravated me that I was limping with such an otherwise minor injury.  Turns out there was a piece of glass stuck in my foot.  I pulled it out last night--ahh, sweet relief!--and put some antibiotic ointment on it.  This morning my foot feels great.  The boy provided first aid on this one.  I thought it would be good practice for him, and I was right.  I'll have to let him know that when he cleans a wound out he should take a really close look at it, especially when the patient says something.  You know, like, it feels like there's a splinter in there or something.  Do you see anything?

It's only six a.m. now and I can feel already that it's time to close up the downstairs.  In another hour I'll have to close up the upstairs too.  The heat load we're carrying in the attic won't be reduced appreciably with these warm-ish nights, so I expect that the upstairs will be warmer at the end of the day each day until this weather breaks.  It's one of those infinite money kinds of things.  If I had the $$$, I'd have someone install an automatic fan up there to help vent out the heat at night.  But, so long as we have our lovely daylight basement where it stays about 70 degrees without AC, I don't have anything to really gripe about.  We're lucky to have an area to retreat to.  I really feel badly for people in upstairs apartment buildings without AC!

Eighteen

I received lots of mixed news today.  Good, bad, weird, exciting, scary, all at once.  It's going to take me a while to settle down to sleep.

Anyway, the boy has been 18 for a while now.  He's a man.  Ish.  Like many men his age, he's both eager to meet his future but unclear about what he wants it to be.  And that's the thing.  Creating a future is a tricky thing, especially to so many young people to whom it seems things just happen.  After all, they've had their whole lives planned out and scheduled for them up to this point.  

He hasn't been cast adrift yet, but I've been more than hinting that the creation process must now begin and that the clock that measures how much more time he has to live at home has begun to tick.  To me all the possibilities are clear, and if I were him I would be exploring like crazy, researching those possibilities, discovering new ones, searching for my passion and joy and getting prepared for what I want to be.  I'm happy he's content at the moment, and I'm glad he has some plans, but they're typical tentative, small-scale, short-sighted things or so far flung (like being a colonist on Mars--not an explorere but a settler when everything's set up (he's assuming this will happen in his lifetime, a hard suppose)) that he can afford to be very hand-wavy about what he'll do in the meantime.  Normal, normal, normal.  I'm not concerned, and I refuse to start bossing him and directing him because then he'll never learn this stuff.  If I do, it'll always be forces outside of him moving him around like a puppet rather than he himself moving himself around learning what it's like to be an adult.  It's hard to watch him flop about on the ground, though, when I know he can fly.  It's the classic 'if I had to do it all over again, I would' moment in a parent's life.  

Patience, young mother.  He too will learn, and he will soar.

Renaissance

The spawn will begin fencing classes soon.  They've had a few lessons, but this will be more intense; five days in a row, 90 minutes a day.  They're excited, I'm excited ...

I don't know what it is inside me that resonates so strongly with swords, lace, leather, horses, chivalry, renaissance art, and romantic gardens; the trappings of western civilization a few centuries ago.  Maybe I never fully grew up, but I think it's more than that.  

I know that even during the renaissance, when so much knowledge and aspiration exploded outward and changed the world forever, things were pretty primitive.  The medicine usually made you worse, not better.  Wealthy young men and women dropped dead of poisoning from the lead in their makeup when they sat close to the fire.  (The heat opened their pores and softened the makeup at the same time, increasing the absorption rate to lethal levels.)  If the makeup didn't get you, the plumbing did, if you were so lucky as to have plumbing.  Your other option, of course, was to take a chance with public wells, river water, or to cherish the secret of a clear spring.  People who didn't have wealth or influence often starved, lived in deplorable conditions, and had no voice in their fates.  I'll just mention the judicial system and conditions in jails--that should be sufficient to give anyone a chill.  

So it's not the real renaissance that I connect with.  Or is it?  After all, despite numerous technological disadvantages, oppression, ignorance, poverty and crushing environmental and political pressures, I marvel at all that people achieved in that time, technologically, philosophically, artistically.  I guess I love the veneer, and the courage that formed the foundation beneath it.  From where I sit in my own flawed century, I look back and respect the ideal more than what people were as a whole.  I don't know if I would survive for long, never mind achieve anything, if I were thrown back in time, even with all the advantages I have in knowledge of things like germ theory, insulation, mechanics, physics, chemistry and all the other stuff that was a mystery to them but part of a high school education to us.  Anyway, I couldn't feel superior to the renaissance man (or woman.)  Our civilization is a veneer too.  Also beneath it we have courage, and perhaps a little something more--an odd hope that we will have peace and basic needs met around the world.  But we carry our flaws with us, just as our ancestors did, as individuals and as a species.  We aren't better than them.  I think the best of what we are is connected to the best that they achieved, and maybe it's that connection I feel so keenly.

Anyway, I'll always love the art of the sword, and the fashion, how they valued wit, and the image of a knight and his lady, the gardens, the fountains, the music, even the social niceties that often merely served as a means to deliver back-handed 'compliments.'  It's what I love, and what I write, and I'll be a proud and pleased mom to see my children raise their swords and salute each other before engaging in a traditional sport that speaks to my soul.  

Touche'.

SCA

Once upon a time a young lady went to a college and discovered a thing called the Society for Creative Anachronism.  She and some others were very interested, interested enough that they helped form a college group, complete with a seneschal, secretary, treasurer, etc. and made it a formal, official club as far as the college was concerned.  This group also created an SCA appropriate name and device and set to getting all that approved.

Many all night costuming sessions, archery practices, attempts at armoring, and a couple of children later, the now older lady is getting drawn back into the SCA by some very good friends, one of which hearkens back to those times of yore.  

It's back to the sewing table again.  I'm not hand-sewing this time, though, like I did my very first tunic dress waaaaay back in 1986.  Or was it '85?  And yay, my gambeson still fits!!

Quote of the Day

The girl made observations today.  She said (paraphrased,) "at sixteen you get your first car, at twenty one you get your first drink, and at forty you go over your first hill, and I guess there's another at eighty."  My BFF observed that maybe at forty you get your first tattoo.  I observed that the girl skipped the part about the first really bad boyfriend, which I estimated to fall at about age 25.  I was about to say that I missed that landmark when the girl piped in, "that's when you got Dad."  Through the laughter she added (defending her opinion) that he beat people up for money, among other things that were strikes against his character at the time.  It was quite the list.

Yep.  Apparently I never got over my first really bad boyfriend.

Image Meme

From karindira: a meme of ten pictures.  Hers are here.  

• Post ten of any pictures currently on your hard drive that you think are self-expressive.
• No captions. It must be like we're speaking with images and we have to interpret your visual language just like we have to interpret your words.
• They must ALREADY be on your hard drive - no googling or flickr! They have to have been saved to your folders sometime in the past. They must be something you've saved there because it resonated with you for some reason.
• You do NOT have to answer any questions about any of your pictures if you don't want to. You can make them as mysterious as you like. Or you can explain them away as much as you like.

The Idea Monster

My idea monster likes cookies.  Apparently he also likes black tie cheesecake because I received a whopper of an idea in my idea inbox today after a nice dinner and dessert at Olive Garden (courtesy of a gift from my beloved INK comrades--thank you!)  It might become a short story, but I suspect that it's more of a novel-length idea (as usual, argh.)

I really don't need another novel idea.  I've already got enough projects to keep me busy for the next decade, easily.  But I don't like to let these things pass me by, because I never know what's going to write itself, and what I'm going to be struggling with for years.  I prefer to have a variety of projects at various stages.  It's one of the habits I nurture so that I'm never blocked.  If I'm having trouble writing on one project, chances are very good that switching to another project will get me writing again (and often I can come back to the blocked project with fresh enthusiasm and ideas in short order.)

Usually what I do when I have an exciting idea is I open a new file, type a few sentences and then save it under a memory-jogging title.  

How do you keep track of ideas (if you bother) and do you ever come back to them?

Return of Insomnia

Ugh.  I did everything I could to get to sleep at a decent hour tonight.  Quiet evening.  Editing.  Hot bath.  Reading.  Yet here I am at 2am again, unable to sleep.  I think I'll take my laptop to bed and hope that I'll doze off eventually.  Oddly, I seem to do better with the light on, and right around 3am I finally nod off.  

Something's haywire.  Not sure what.  I'm hoping I'll be asleep in less than an hour, but at the moment it doesn't look promising.

At least I get added writing time!

Ooo, I'll try some tea too.

I hope everyone else, especially M&E who are at the hospital following M's heart surgery, is getting quality rest tonight.  Sweet dreams.

Drinking and writing

Most people who know me know I like to have a drink in the evening--either wine with dinner, or an after dinner drink.  If I'm spending the evening watching a movie or hanging out with friends rather than sitting at the computer (hopefully writing) I sometimes have a second drink.  I don't when I'm writing unless something is wrong with my head or I'm being dumb.  

I have lots of reasons.  One reason (it's not just laziness keeping me from hopping up the stairs for seconds) is that for me writing while impaired is a lot like driving when impaired.  I'm a big girl (around 165-170 pounds) but not big enough for two drinks while maintaining a clear head.  And I never want to drink so much that I develop a tolerance.  It's not only hell on the liver, but it's expensive, and alcohol is very, very high in calories.  I don't even want to think about how much physical training I'd have to do to maintain my (not very) svelt figure (such as it is) if I drank a lot.

I believe some folks feel (I've heard this in an indistinct way, not specifically in reference to anyone I know) that it relaxes them and gets them into a frame of mind conducive to creativity.  Well, in my experience a relaxed, dreamy state of mind or buzzed, fuzzy connection with reality generates cliche'-ridden dialogue, dense, purple prose and a lack of sensual clarity in scenes.  When I'm painting it's even worse.  Ironically, I tend to drink more when I'm painting than when I'm writing.  Might explain a few things ... and it shows I'm not as serious about my painting as I am my writing, if the comparative time expended on these things wasn't already an indication.

I'm unwilling to get rip-roaring drunk (Kami thinks about a double workout and shudders) to compare sober writing with drunk writing here on my blog, and I haven't preserved any written-while-blotto scenes--they weren't worth saving the very few times I've written under the influence of more than a solo drink.  I don't want anyone to do it as an experiment, but, if you happen to have written something while smashed, and kept it, I hope you'll offer your findings in the comments.  Maybe we could even have a first draft drunk vs. first draft while sober contest or something.

Anyway, even if I discovered that I did in fact write better while drunk, I don't think I could pursue drunk writing.  My body may be a transitory, temporary thing, and it is possible for the written word to be quite lasting by comparison, but I love life too much.  I want to enjoy the experiences outside of writing as much as I enjoy writing itself, and it would be difficult to do that in a body that's falling apart.  I listen to the struggles of dear friends with serious health problems and can't bear to think of deliberately debilitating myself when I could (and do) have the very thing that they strive for and dream about.  Health.  Hell, I know a few who would do anything for a pain-free hour.  I have those all the time.  Life can be really unfair.  

For another person, I guess having a working liver versus brilliant prose might seem an equitable trade, assuming they're a fair judge of their own work.

Besides, it would be really hard for me to collect those real-life experiences that comprise much of the fodder for my fiction if I'm impaired, whether it's with liver disease or constant drunkenness or excess weight (my knees are in really bad shape--I'd be immobilized if I was heavy.)  Rock climbing.  Paragliding.  Scuba diving.  Hiking.  Skiing.  Playing with the dogs.  Gardening.  Martial arts.  I'm thinking about taking fencing this autumn, and I'm gleeful that I have that chance.  

When I think about an ideal self, I think of a writer with both physical and emotional strength and clear eyes, a sharp mind and reflexes even quicker than her wit who's explored the world, listened to interesting people--a woman who loves her friends and family who love her in return, and who can respond effectively in an emergency.  That's within my reach.  I don't want to piss it away.  The chance to become my ideal won't always be mine to have for the effort.  That's life in a physical body.  Mine is sacred.  Body and brain are entwined, so, no drinking and writing for me.  

Even though wine is really, really tasty and it's so nice to sip.  And Navan ... mmm ...

Time for tea.  It's also nice to sip, and I don't have to watch how much I drink.  Yay!

Itches and Feedback Dilemma

'Tis the season for spider bites, I guess.  I called the advice nurse and it sounds like I won't have to go in about it unless it starts to get extra icky, or I have red streaks or bright redness or I lose circulation in my foot (?!!)  In the meantime it's an itchy pain in the ankle.  I'm continuously distracted by it.  To keep it from really getting to me during the critique session today I covered it with a pirate-themed bandaid.  

Which, the critique went really well.  I'm not sure which way to go, because the group was pretty sharply divided.  I don't want to leave it alone until I'm done with the book either, because I know me, and me usually doesn't get back to feedback-focused editing unless me does it right away.  I'll sleep on it.  Tonight I plan on shaping up the next submission to the group, the next chapter in the book, and then I'll send it out.  I don't want to procrastinate on these subs. 

 If it weren't for David Levine's timely reminder about the meeting, I would have missed the deadline (I thought I had another week, eek!) and then I would have been in trouble.  Well, sort of.  We all would have had a nice round of drinks at my expense.  This time I'll have it all done in advance, and that'll give everyone more time to read, too.  Winners all around, except the Lucky Lab I guess.

Back to writing now.  I'll leave you with It (short for It Runs In Front of Me) in kitty zen meditation becoming one with the loops.

Another Journey Coming Soon

Looks like I'll be going to Istanbul for a week.  The song always goes through my head.  But also, mosques, magical cisterns, turkish baths, baklava, islands, golden treasures, dancing, amazing music, drums, seafood, sailing ships, carpets, veils, hats, dark eyes, big smiles, busy streets, dates, eggplant, spices, silk ... a place where many cultures meet, a destination so famous it seems cliche' if a world traveler mentions they've been to Istanbul.  I felt connected to Ireland.  Istanbul will truly be a foreign country for me with very little to internally reference it except what I've read in history books.  (I'm ignoring Hollywood references.  Yuck.)

As per usual I won't say much about it until I get back, for security reasons but also because there's only so much readers can take of the squee and the packing and all that.  Also as usual I'll take lots of photos and do a series on Turkey when I get back.  Wish me luck.

My noses can smell roses now

I'm better!  I'm better I'm better I'm better I'm better I'm better!!

I still have a cough, but I'm not draining all available fluids out my nose!

I wish I had something more profound to say than that, but that's all I've got for now.  That, and some minor writing news.  I got another story shipped off to a market, and brand new shiny little flash that I've since figured out how to make better than it is.  If it bounces I'll deal with it then.  I really should let some of these things sit longer before I fold them into paper airplanes and send them on their way.  Also, I sent off the next chunk to my current novel-in-progress (as opposed to the novel in perpetual edit, or so it feels like at this point) to the Lucky Labs.  Just barely in time, too.  The plan is to turn in a chapter for every meeting.  If I miss a meeting, I have to buy a round of drinks for the whole group.  Ouch!  It's certainly motivational.

Last of the writing news, I still have two stories that are out past the average response time.  One is only overdue by a couple of days, the other by twenty days.  Best thing to do now is to keep writing. 

In moments of the cute, I saw a small child neatly sitting inside a box just the perfect size so that I could only see her from the ears up.  She looked like she belonged on the set of "Fellowship of the Ring," the scene where the little hobbits listened to Bilbo Baggins tell the story of the trolls that turned to stone. The cute seemed lost on her sibs, who milled around and looked bored while waiting for food. 

The Grim doesn't care if you're gay

Mortality is everywhere, part of everything.  In some ways it seems fair in the sense that I know that nothing, even the universe itself, can opt out of irreversible change and ultimately a loss of existence.  Death is ugly, but it doesn't discriminate.

Everyone deals with this in their own way.  There's science, religion, willful or intellectual or emotional ignorance, spirituality, medicine (both as a science and a religion,) philosophy, artistic achievement, fame, pouring hope into progeny ... all kinds of ways to look at the ticking clock or avoid looking at it or ways to defer it to the future.   When all the seconds are gone in a human life, though, the next of kin are presented with questions and problems that society has too-often shielded from them.  Singing la la la will not make these things go away.

One set of questions and problems connects with same sex marriage or the lack thereof.  I think the celebration of the signing of the Declaration of Independence is as good a day as any to look at this inequality in a land where supposedly all men are created equal.  We're still working on that, apparently.  It was written in part in defiance of the Divine Right of Kings.  Now I think we need to examine laws that are establishing the Divine Right of Christian Heterosexual Fundamentalists.

When it comes to organ donation, there's no time to take things to court.  This beautiful livejournal entry snagged from this post on David Levine's livejournal says it far more eloquently than I can, and the comments are just as enlightening.  It seems that the last moments of life and the first moments after death make the tragedy of inequality even more clear.  These kinds of decisions belong with the spouse.  The law agrees, but the law doesn't agree about who is and isn't a spouse, and therein lies the major problem.  There's no 'escape clause' or 'domestic partner equivalent' to get around this problem, either, so don't go blathering on about how it's all taken care of.  It's not.

BTW, this is yet another good reason to get out, and get out fast, of a marriage where you don't have a trusting, understanding relationship.  People get married and stay married for so many strange reasons.  I wonder if they question why marriage is important to them.  Do they think that signing a paper will magically turn their infatuation or drama into a loving partnership and their family into a working, healthy one?  Anyway.   Chances are that your life, and your death, will be in the hands of your spouse if you have one.  Is that what you want?  

Philosophically, spiritually, morally, is it right to deny that right and responsibility from gay and lesbian couples?  To me, it seems that it's even more important that these decisions stay with their chosen partners, not their parents, and not their kids.  

For example, although I get along great with my mother, she never has understood nor will she ever understand my pagan beliefs, my love of history, the emotional connection I have with romantic notions of knighthood, codes of honor, or how important writing is to me, and so on. She would not think to put a sailing ship or a sword or dagger in my coffin with me or coins over my eyes.  If asked to, she'd be at a loss as to why, and it would cause her a lot of pain and anguish at a very hard time in her life.  My sister would do it, but she wouldn't believe.  It would be a senseless, strange thing to her.

My DH doesn't have identical believes and loves, but he knows mine very well.  My children are closer to the mark, but I'm too much of a puzzle to my kids for them to work out what my wishes may or may not be.  They're too busy trying to figure themselves out.  I think they could manage, but they're not on the same footing with me as my DH.

My spouse and I are on equal terms.  We're the same generation, together by choice, and we have a resonance that even our most beloved blood kin doesn't share.  If I was in a same-sex relationship, the gap between my beliefs and lifestyle choices and those of my remaining parent would be even wider.  She wouldn't condemn me, and she would likely accept my partner, but I know it would be hard for her.  She wouldn't understand.  I would need understanding, as total as possible, just before my death, and my spirit, such as it is, would rest easier afterward in the hands of someone who not only knew me well, but celebrated me for who I was, as I was, and found that beautiful.

The law recognizes this.  Though many marriages are abusive, unequal, badly patched affairs, even these often are (scarily) improvements on the blood kin relationships that surround them.  One way or another, spouses are chosen, and unchosen, in the fullness of a lifetime.  Free people are allowed to make those choices, even if they're bad choices, and free to live with the consequences.

Domestic partnerships aren't the same legal animal.  They aren't up to the task in many legal areas.  Organ donation is one of those areas.  At least my entire family is in agreement in the matter of organ donation.  Many, many families are not.

I don't think marriage should be a legal institution at all.  But it is, therefore, everyone should have access to it legally and at the exact same level.  Everyone.  I hope that this administration makes the changes necessary to finally bring this ridiculous inequality to an end.  It could save many lives, and soften the pain of many, many deaths.  

Death doesn't discriminate, but alas, human beings still do, even in America, land of the free and home of the *brave.  

*If we're so brave, why are so many Americans afraid of same sex marriage anyway?  It's not like the USA needs more 'breeding pairs' like some people claim marriages are supposed to be all about.  Yikes.  Marriage is a partnership, not a people farm!  If it was, then I guess infertile marriages should be broken up too.

Oops, I think I said that with my outside voice.

Background Check

You know, I've forgotten some really important things.  Like, I was in a serious car accident on my birthday in 2001.  How could I have forgotten that?  

I remembered (or half-remembered, or decided that knowing was kind of like remembering) a lot of things while filling out the thick background check packet.  Like, I still have my Oregon driver's license number memorized.  And, I apparently had a student ID number at the university I went to.  I always thought it was just my soc. sec. #.  I got to see how many credits I actually completed when I studied physics.  Ouch.  And, I took more classes than I thought I did in horticulture before the dizzy spells from hell forced me to drop out.  I really couldn't drive safely like that.  

Anyway, back to the car accident, I ran into a sorcerer.  Literally.  His house was just a couple of blocks away.  He walked me to his place, a beautiful historic landmark btw, and got me water and let me sit long enough for the shakes to settle a bit, and showed me his library of arcane books.  He gave me some that he had duplicate copies of.  One of them, Riding the Horse Backwards, turned out to be a fascinating read.  Some of the others looked like important books, but they were dry and difficult to read.  I started a few, but didn't finish them.  Some were essentially recipe books and aren't meant to be read cover to cover.

I sent all this stuff, each bit of data a reminder of my past, in an envelope marked confidential along with a notarized statement that everything I submitted there was true to the best of my knowledge.  The best of my knowledge is pretty poor, but thanks to a lot of research, I think it represents the skeleton of truth.  It's up to the researching officers to put flesh on those bones.  But flesh and bones will not reveal me.  For that, they'll have to talk to me face to face.  That's one of the best ways to get to know a person.  Once you find out whether or not they're related to a human predator or if they've been arrested for prostitution or whatever, that is.  

Much as I like to get to know folks face to face before I can say I know them, I have to admit that there are some seriously good liars out there that could shine me on forever and I'd never know it without a background check.  Now I'm going to be under a magnifying glass.  I wonder what else they'll turn up that I've forgotten?

The Day in Pics

Sometimes I clean. Yes!  It's true. 

No, seriously.

Shut up!

Okay, this time I have proof.  With massive help from the boy and a little IKEA shopping trip, I replaced the falling-apart wire shoe container of doom with a sofa table that's just perfect for tucking away our gizillion shoes that we wear on a regular basis.  I don't even want to think about what we've got put away.  Why do we have so many shoes?  Back in the day, people were lucky to have two pair--one for working in and one for Sundays.

 Anyway, moving on ... this morning when I found myself at loose ends, did I get in some serious writing?  No.  (I did send out a story, though.)  Did I eat bon bons and watch movies?  Too easy.  I decided to tackle the evil kitchen cabinets from heck.  I got the one under the sink with the garbage all prettied up, and then tackled the really nasty one that the girl and I toss whatever won't fit anywhere else into.  Some of the stuff in back was dusty, and there was flour in there from way back when I had to store a large sack of flour in there temporarily.  It was bad, waaaay bad, but now look how Stepford wifey it looks!  Yay!

It was too gorgeous not to go outside after my forays into the yuck of my two worst cabinets, so I went out, first for a stroll, then with a camera because the late afternoon sun was just too good, and the sky ... well, you can see, it was ugly.

The heart is a calla lily.  I hope that eventually the lilies will take over one side of the firepit.  Burgundy clematis trail up a trellis (with bonus tiny image of goat in there.)  Clematis are difficult to establish and hate being transplanted, but once they're yours they're yours forever and are some of the most rewarding and reliable bloomers in the plant world. 

A bug enjoys the shade inside a canterbury bell.  

And no, I'm not going to kill the bug.  I don't care!  Look how cute the little antennae are.  I mean, really.  And if it had a face, I'm sure it would be an innocent face.

Last but not

 least, the catness, It Runs in Front of Me (Katherine,) posed for me.  Y'all may recall the sad story of IRiFoM.  Thrown out of a moving vehicle, she hit the pavement hard enough to scrape up her face.  She took refuge from the snow and sleet (literally, this was a couple of winters ago) in our garage.  

The boy mistook her for Huntress, our other tuxedo kitty, picked her up and, when she didn't protest, took her inside where she's been ever since, except when we take her to the vet.  That she doesn't like so much.  But this?  Napping in the middle of a pile of clean blankets and pillows ain't bad.  She's shiny, a healthy weight, and has no problems with parasites or chronic illnesses.  I like her because she doesn't barf on my stuff and she actually uses the litter box.

Speaking of which, the cleaning around the shoe area?  OMG.  Cat barf had actually splashed onto the wall.  I was scrubbing Huntress upchuck across two large surfaces.  She'd decided to go for it from the top of the dividing wall between the entry and the stairs.

Stupid cat.  But it's clean now, so it's all okay.  And that, ladies and gents, has been my day.  So far.

Being the Bad Guy

I've started the kids exercising.  Boy, you should listen to the griping, the whining, the moaning about the stupidity of it all, the dodging ... mostly from the man-child.  From the girl I got cursing while in process (she chose Bollywood--wow, tough even for me, who's been bellydancing a long while.)  She cursed at herself, at the video, at herself again, but by the time she got through it all she was grinning and happy.

They were both grinning.  They'd accomplished something, no little feat, neither.  I hope it won't be like pulling teeth when we do it all again tomorrow.

But mom!

Sometimes I have to be the bad guy.

Sixteen

My little girl turned sweet sixteen the other day.  Three of us went on a massive shopping spree, bought far more books than clothes, had dinner at Red Lobster, looked at kitties (but didn't adopt any--five are more than enough, thank you!) at an adoption center, and spent the rest of the evening watching comedy.  Well, the kids did.  I crashed hard for a bit, then after everyone had gone to bed I worked on OryCon 31 programming stuff. 

This virus poopyheaded bug thingy, whatever it is, is still making me tired.  When I do sleep, I have unsettling dreams.  Anyway.

She's not any taller, or smarter, or more mature by stepping over this landmark birthday, and yet she is a little smarter, taller, and more mature every day.  She used to fit on her father's lap, head by his knees, feet at his belly, large, blue eyes staring up at him with her hands waving around randomly at first and then with slimy purpose.  She had a grip, this small thing, and a fascination with hair.  I got used to having slimy hair, having my hair pulled and yanked and tangled in moist, pink little fingers.  

She hid cat food under her pillow and in her closet.  It's important to have an emergency food stash in case of, well, an emergency.  She also hated clothes, like her mom.  She'd take them off at unexpected times and streak about.  

A lot of parents talk about their kids' independence.  Me too.  She decided she wanted to go home from kindergarten one day.  She snuck out, and if it hadn't been for a sharp-eyed secretary, she would have escaped to attempt to walk home.  Oh, I shudder ... we moms do that.  That was a decade ago and I still feel the same chill, and again when she almost drowned, and again when she fell asleep on the bus--that time the entire after-hours school system was hunting for her, and if it weren't for the bus driver hearing a small "can I go home now?" from the back of the bus just as he got off to leave the bus barn ...

But she's home, putting dishes in the dishwasher, enjoying her time to herself, talking to herself.  She's a private child, not quiet and subdued but she definitely prefers her own  rational, certain-of-the-future, inventive and determined companionship over that of any other being, human or animal.  When she seeks the rest of us out, it's good to know she does because she genuinely wants to be around us, not because she was lonely or bored.

There's not enough room in a blog post to share all the feelings I have, or paint even a fraction of the memories we share.  It's just good to travel through life with a daughter, this daughter, our daughter, a jewel amid the stardust in the universe.  

Writing Time

I've written somewhere between ten thousand and fifteen thousand words in the last couple of days on a couple of different novels.  I try not to rely on grooves to write, but when I'm in a groove I run with it, because who knows how long it'll be before the next one comes along!  

I'm also excited because a couple of short stories are a little overdue.  Overdue is good.  Fast responses are also good and very much appreciated, even though fast responses at my stage me no.  A fast no means I can get that story out quick to another market, a market where the editor might say yes.  Anyway, I'm pretty happy about being a writer right now.  

In gardening news, my garden exploded.  The other day I was weeding around some David Austin roses, specifically my favorites, the clump of three Abraham Darby roses, and I about fainted with pleasure.  Even with spiders dripping down my arms, all I wanted was to bury my nose in those shrubs.  The scent is so intense you may not necessarily want to stick your nose in the flowers themselves unless it's late afternoon because in the morning they might knock you right out.  But hanging around close in the leaves, jostling them, the fragrance wafting all around--it's a gardener's heaven.  My Abraham Darbies aren't full sized yet.  I can't wait until they are.  They'll all grow together into a giant mass that people won't even have to bend down a little to smell the roses.  Beautiful.  

If you want to try out some Austin roses in your garden, there's some things to know in advance.  First, these are very, very heavy blooms, generally speaking.  A few will remain upright, but most are nodding, due to the weight of the bloom, even though they have stiff stems.  Second, most of them are very large shrubs, and some qualify as out-and-out hedges.  If you have a small area, be sure to check the growth habit on the roses.  He does have some very, very fine smaller roses if space is tight.  Lastly, these are high quality, and generally very expensive roses.  It's typical to see them sold for $25 a piece or more.  You can order them for slightly less direct from the grower, but then you pay shipping.  If you learn by heart (or keep a list in your purse) the roses you're looking for, sometimes you'll find them at nurseries for far, far less than standard retail during the main 'rose season' that starts as early as January, depending on your location, and goes no later than the end of May.  After that you can still sometimes find them, but it's usually at regular prices in one to five gallon containers.  Costco (yay Costco!) does carry them, but again, you have to know the names, as they may not be marked clearly as English or Austin roses.  This year I saw Golden Showers, Abraham Darby, and Gertrude Jekyll.  I've also seen Princess Margareta at various nurseries (highly recommended, though it hasn't yet managed grow higher than the giant ball of daylillies.)  Othello and Falstaff are also gorgeous and easily found, but if you can have only one Austin rose and your space is somewhat tight, but you still want a vigorous rose, I highly recommend Shakespeare 2000, a red rose that leans a tiny bit toward the blue/pink.  It won't get ginormous immediately, so you won't have to prune it several times a year to keep it from poking unwary passersby.  The flowers are to die for and the scent is intoxicating.  They're red roses, always attractive and lovely.  They're hardy, so if you forget about them, they won't die on you, and if you plant them in a less than perfect spot, it won't go limp or protest by putting out a few leaves, one flower, and then quit until next year (*cough* Sterling Silver *cough* Tigress *cough*)  Also, it nicely exactly matches the color of my Karl Rosenfield peonies and the flower size and style are extremely similar.  I planted them close to each other deliberately for this reason.

Personally, I look for rose descriptions like "sometimes can be unruly" or "aggressive" or "not for small gardens" or "can also be grown as a small climbing rose."  I also like descriptions like wild, arching, very large, hedging, spreads through roots, vigorous, fast-growing, and highly disease resistant.  When I have lots of choices, then I look for rebloomers or everblooming varieties.  Even in the 'everbloomers' the first show will always be the best, but it's nice to have lots of flowers at frost.  Oh, and speaking of frost, many of the hardy, cold-tolerant roses will develop buds well after the first frost, though it's unlikely they'll open.  Every year, I have at least one bud late in December (I don't prune my roses all the way back until Valentine's Day) for the winter solstice celebration.

Ah, roses, my gardening passion.  Yay writing.  Yay roses.

Sleeping

I'm fighting off a cold.  Both kids have it.  I've been sleeping most of the time, and when I'm not sleeping, I'm working (writing, housework, filling out a really, really long form for my job application) so I apologize for being away.  I hope I'll be back on Monday with more blogging.

20080

I've accumulated over 20,000 hits since I started counting.  I don't remember when I started counting, but it was not that long ago.  Anyway, thank you all very much for reading!

Blarney

Ireland.

I have to admit that one of my favorite places in Ireland is one of the most notoriously commercialized.  This is one of many places we visited where traveling in Ireland off-season made the experience very worthwhile.

When we arrived in town, it had been raining off and on.  It cleared long enough for a spectacular sunset.  From the driveway of our B&B, I managed to get a photo of the castle in the distance with the early part of the sunset peeking through a window.  

Our host advised us to go to the castle early, or an hour before closing, as the buses of tourists don't run at the verges of the castle's visiting hours.  He'd heard on the news that the weather would break in the afternoon the next day, and hoped for us that the weatherman was right.

It rained in the morning and early afternoon, so we toured the stores and the town square hoping the rain would let up.  The weather and time of year kept it from being crowded, and we were able to spend some relaxing hours writing, reading, and taking in the local atmosphere in a comfortable pub.  The rain did relax, so we walked over and arrived at the castle gates about 45 minutes before they stopped admitting new arrivals.  A sign let us know that we wouldn't be booted off the grounds for a bit after that, and the gatekeeper assured us we'd have plenty of time to see everything so long as we went to the castle straightaway.

The castle is more complex and interesting than I ever imagined.  Nooks and steep spiral staircases abounded.  The center of the main building had no floors anymore, so there's a view several stories down as you approach the top.  On the way up, often there's another diversion somewhere, or another tower to climb, so that it seems you'll never see it all.  At times the view from a walkway or tower set off my mild fear of heights, and I was grateful for the frequent breaks on our ongoing climb.  It would be very difficult for someone of frail health or with a disability to get anywhere inside the castle.

The location of the Blarney Stone is much higher than I realized it would be.  Those who used to come to kiss the Blarney Stone before safety committees existed quite literally took their lives into their hands.  Now there's a gate to keep you from plummeting to your doom if you slip, but it would be an unpleasant fall onto it, and wouldn't trust it to hold me.  It might slow me down long enough for the employees to grab my ankles and pull me to safety.

Yes, I know what locals do to the stone.  I kissed it anyway.  I'm a writer in my heart, and the history of it is too irresistible.  Besides, it had been raining all day, and it didn't smell funny.  I've done worse things, and it was a lot of fun.

The best was yet to come.  The grounds are amazing, and unlike the castle, there are plenty of places for people with physical challenges to explore.  But even in the garden, there are hidden steps, steep hollows, and potentially dangerous areas including some fast water, so it's a good idea to take it slow and keep a close eye on small children.  As a gardener and appreciator of nature, I felt like I'd took a strange turn into a different world.  The garden is old, and despite being overrun relentlessly for years, it has held onto a magical undercurrent and ancient power that our entire family felt.  I didn't take many pictures as a result.  At one point the men and the women went down separate paths.  What secret rites or mysteries the men wove into, I have no knowledge of.  I hold my own memories close.

Blarney is a place to bring a sketch pad, or watercolors, or a good camera, but it's also a place to meditate, or play, or relax.  By all means have fun at the castle, but for me, the real power of Blarney is in the land and the good nature of its besieged locals.  If you want to check off a world-famous landmark, you'll only need two or three hours for the castle, grounds, and soup at the pub.  But there's much more to find there if you're patient, lucky, crafty, humble, and quiet.

(last photo by my DH)

Charity

I know, I was going to post more stuff about Ireland.  Next post, maybe even later today, but first I want to talk about charities.

I got a call from Washington State Lodge Fraternal Order of Police late last month.  Since I'm a nasty, suspicious person, I didn't want to give them any credit card information over the phone, so I asked that they mail me information.  I felt uncomfortable, because the caller clearly didn't sound like a volunteer.  He used pushy jargon, didn't seem particularly grateful when I said I'd contribute $25, and then asked if I would contribute more when I got my invoice in order to help cover overhead associated with mailed contributions.  I hung up feeling iffy about the whole thing and was glad that I'd have a chance to investigate further once I got the mailed materials.  I hearts teh internets.

The letter I received looks very shiny and promises to contribute to all kinds of things I normally eagerly support:  helping out police and families in distress, developing crisis management and stress support programs,  LEO Torch Run for Special Olympics, college scholarships for children of LEO's, etc.  Seven items were listed as examples.  I thought wow, this is great!  But, being horribly suspicious, I did a web search.

I won't call them a scam like some have.  But they do appear to be a commercial, money-making venture rather than what I would call a true charity.  Their last report to Washington State's secretary of state reveals that 20% of money actually reaches the LEO community.  I've also seen an older figure of 18%, so I guess they've improved.  (Yikes.)  The BBB hasn't received any requested information from them--which isn't necessarily bad, but raises my eyebrows and makes me want to dig deeper.  I'm glad I did. 

The Charity Navigator puts some perspective on overhead and percentage of charitable contributions that actually goes to charity.  My feeling is that 20% going to charity isn't good enough, not even for government work.  $20 of my $25 would have gone to the company for their overhead.  Well.  It seems obvious that if I want to give money to police programs, there have to be better and more efficient ways to do that.  In 2008, Washington State Lodge brought in $816,882 and spent $576,131 on fund raising.  They also spent almost $40,000 on conventions, conferences and meetings.  I totally feel their pain in the convention department, but having said that, with their additional accounting expenses and what-not, have very little left for, you know, charity, the reported purpose of their organization.

I can't support this kind of inefficiency, even if it's not deliberately set up to provide jobs off of people's goodwill rather than help people (or animals) in need.

Always, always check out charities before contributing.  I'm all about feeling good for helping out a good cause, but I want that good feeling to be real and justified, not a phantom thing because I went through the motions and poured money through a phone line.

It's a shame.  I would love to support LEOs and their families, especially when they're in crisis.  I'll just have to find another route, to honor the pledge I made.  It most certainly will not be through the Washington State Lodge Fraternal Order of Police today or next year or ever unless they shape up their organizational practices. 

To Jay with Love

Back to Ireland soon, but first, I would like all the folks out there who know Jay Lake to send healing thoughts his way.  Jay received bad news regarding his cancer.  He faces what many people in America face silently, privately, for many reasons including not wanting their friends to treat them like the walking dead (or to avoid them for fear of being uncomfortable or saying the wrong thing.)  

The very sick are often isolated.  Jay has chosen to be public about his illness, hoping to teach us one aspect of what we as a society once knew when we had our loved ones with us through all stages of life.  I see it with births too, not just serious illness and death where people spend endless hours in hospital beds behind white curtains.  

I'm not any smarter in this regard than anyone else.  I want to learn how to relate to people better.

Jay often posts that if love could heal, he'd be the healthiest SOB in the world.  I hope knowing he's supported and loved will help.  I believe it can, maybe in surprising ways, but certainly in the obvious ones.  Fighting cancer takes willpower, courage, and every last shred of energy a person has (and some they don't.)  Family, friends and community are essential to keep going.  Think of a sporting event you've participated in.  Ever had a teammate urge you on?  Come on, just a little farther, you can do this.  I know you.  You're strong enough.  You're smart enough.  

There's a time when all we have, and all our friends have and family has, isn't enough.  There's no reason to believe that Jay faces one of those times.  It's time to cheer him on, to rally, to lend him strength where and when we can, not because he's dying, but because he's fighting for his life.

If you have an ailing friend or relative, or if someone you know is a new parent, consider calling or writing a letter, right now.  A few minutes of your time may help them through the next stretch.  

Incidentally, I know this would never occur to most of you but I've heard of it happening--people who offer help, but don't follow through.  If you know you have a habit of procrastinating or forgetting, then think twice before making a promise, even if you honestly mean to deliver.   This is a situation where 'it's the thought that counts' gets into iffy territory.  You don't know when your promise might be someone's last lifeline and they might be waiting for you by the door or next to the phone, waiting for you to do what you promised you would, be it making a phone call, a casserole, or arranging for music therapy.  

Stuff to think about.  If you want to learn, check out Jay's posts.  Click on the cancer tag if you dare, and follow along.  If you're inspired, offer a helpful comment.  It may make a difference.

non sequitur of the day:  back up your computer!

Accomplishment

I was watching "Pride and Prejudice" (the newer version) again.  Caroline asks if Elizabeth wants to take a turn about the room.  They'd been talking about accomplished young women, and Lizzie noted that "And it is a small kind of accomplishment, I suppose." (To take a turn about the room after sitting for a long time.)

To someone like Lizzie, who loves walking and walks everywhere, taking a turn around the room has got to seem silly.  To Caroline it's a ploy.  But thinking about accomplishments in general ...

For someone in really poor health, just standing up is really difficult, if not impossible.  People in really good health look down on this kind of thing all the time.  They say things like, how could someone let themselves get that bad, and so on.  This attitude provides a very handy excuse to not even try.  It's too late, there's no point, I'll never be healthy (which may be true for some--but this is where self-honesty has to be at it's best.  Is there a diagnosis, or a mental block?  Can you and your doctor work as a team to get you better, if not all the way to prime health for your age?)  If I try, I'll just look stupid.  I am healthy, I'm just big-boned.  I should be able to look any way I want, be any way I want, and people shouldn't judge me (which is true, except it shouldn't be an excuse to give up unless there's a medical reason for the situation.)  I'm truly happier this way.  (Which is great!  As long as it isn't a lie--you shouldn't be ashamed to have your picture taken or be afraid to look in the mirror, right?)  Healthy people are born that way, they're lucky.  My genes are against me.  

For the record, my genes are waaaay against me.  My grandmother has struggled against her weight all her life, and lost--she's much too heavy, although she's got low blood pressure and is still able to get around, thank goodness.  My mother has struggled against her weight all her life, and won--thanks to cooking for herself and staying active.  My paternal grandmother died of her obesity.  My father was in excellent health when he died, but he did old-school calisthenics every morning and enjoyed camping, skiing, waterskiing, and gardening.  His father is terribly overweight and a couch potato, literally waiting to die, alone.  My sister was in great shape most of her life, but then her hips began to crumble apart and she was unable to exercise.  The weight packed on.  Now, overweight and with high blood pressure, she's healing from a hip reconstruction surgery (just on one side, the other is still bad but now she can compensate) and she can't wait to get back into shape again.  She's already made huge strides in that direction.

I've struggled against my weight all my life.  When I got pregnant, the pounds ballooned and I felt what it was like to be heavy.  My doctor warned me I was gaining weight way too fast.  I flirted at the verge of gestational diabetes.  At the end of my term I was ginormous--and of course, after the baby was born, I didn't return to my pre-pregnancy weight since I put on way more than breast-feeding and looking after a newborn naturally takes away.  It's not easy for anyone, and it wasn't easy for me.  But I lost the weight again, and after being at a stable weight for many years (give or take five pounds) I'm once again working to get my weight down and my ability to do fun stuff for as long as I want up.  I don't work hard to look like Jillian Michaels.  I work hard to look like a better me.  I have the chance to improve myself every day.  I'm taking that chance today.  I plan on taking that chance again tomorrow.

It's a small sort of accomplishment to walk around the garden every non-rainy day (and some rainy ones too.)  But it's something.  It's a small sort of accomplishment to write for fifteen minutes.  All these small things can be compared to the people who run five miles every morning before work, or write eight hours, or climb Mt. Everest, and of course they come up short.  Unless you're an astronaut, comparing yourself to an astronaut and deciding you'll never reach that high serves no purpose.

There's no need to compare ourselves to anyone else in order to strive.  Strive to do something more than you already do, something important to you (as opposed to what someone has told you ought to be important--just because I'm focused on my weight right now, that doesn't mean I'm pointing at you and your weight!)  Over time, these small accomplishments build into ones we can be proud of.  One day, no, one minute at a time.

Back in the Chair Again

After a busy weekend, I plan on continuing my Ireland series here at Jestablog.  I'll also be making a DVD of our travels, plus I have OryCon things to do, so it'll be a busy Monday too.  

Alas, I'm 13 minutes into Monday, and facing the fact that I need to get a good night's sleep before I can start my day.  

Don't want to!  pout  Want to stay up all night and work.

Even though I'm eager to blog and get my projects done so I can have free and clear time to write, I can't let my sleep schedule get thrown off.  The dangers are that I'll either need naps or oversleep, or I'll go short on sleep and be so mushy in the head I'll write poorly or simply waste the day vegging, wondering why I'm so low energy.  It of course doesn't take rocket science to figure out why I'd be low energy, but mushy brains are slow that way.  Even if I did figure it out, what could I do?

As much as sleep sometimes feels like a waste of time, I do get some great story ideas from my dreams.  Besides, I've noticed that I write more and more slowly the more tired I am.  If I sleep well and wake up feeling rested and excited about the day, I write quickly and often more clearly.  

I can write any time of day.  I know there are folks that can't.  They have trouble waking up in the morning, or they feel too drained in the evening, or too sleepy after lunch ... I think in some ways if I had restrictions on when I could write, it might be easier to be consistent.  The more consistent I am about what time I sit down and write, the easier it is to make into a habit.  On the other hand, being able to write pretty much any time in any state means that it's easier to squeeze in some writing at oddball times, even when I'm on vacation or at a convention when the idea of keeping some sort of schedule or planning writing times is an exercise in frustration.  So, as always, being one kind of writer isn't an excuse not to write.  You just gotta, and the more often you write in accordance with what kind of writer you are, the more productive you'll be.  Just an observation.  And now, time to settle in for the night.  See y'all in the morning.

Thistles and Barley

I'm proud (and nervous) to announce that my short fantasy, Thistles and Barley, went live at the free online magazine, Beneath Ceaseless Skies, the June 2009 issue (#18.)

This is such a neat magazine, and it's free.  Did I mention it's free?  Free to subscribe, free to view, and it's a not-for-profit, so if you donate, it's considered a charitable donation to the arts and you can write it off on your taxes.

But wait, there's more!

There's a forum just waiting to be taken over by passionate readers of fantasy.  It's quiet there now ... too quiet.  Just think of the opportunity to vent your spleen in regard to western (as in wild west) fantasies (there are two I know of in back issues that are very popular among readers.)  Tell the world my writing is dull, or deep, or pink.  Get into a discussion with the editor or authors about first person present.  Have a little fun with the assurance that, at least right now, it's not going to eat all your time for the next month (or year) to keep up on the topics you're interested in.  I love fledgling forums for that reason.  Plus, they're all shiny and uncluttered by trolls. (knock on wood)

So have a looksie.  I hope you enjoy what you find Beneath Ceaseless Skies.

Air France Flight 447

When 228 people die in an airplane crash, it touches people all over the world.

It's more than a little ironic.  There are so many conflicts all over the world, people suffering torture, deprivation, dying, and few if any of them get any media attention.  When they do, it doesn't seem to cut as deep, even if there are thousands of victims.  That got me to thinking about mortality, and what touches us, and what does not, and why.

I remember when I read Tuesdays With Morrie, how Morrie felt when he read the news about the suffering of others, whether it be from hurricanes, serial killers or disease.  Mortality became real as he faced his own death in so many more ways than a healthy person with a long or at least undetermined lifespan can completely understand.  Including me.  I can't claim to be any wiser or more connected to the pain and deaths of others than anyone else in my privileged circumstances.

My family all recently flew on long international flights, including within sight of a strong storm, and watched the scramble of rerouting as a series of tornadoes swept through the south-eastern United States.  I remember clutching the arm of my seat every time the plane dropped sharply, remembered the flicker and loss and only partial return of functionality to our onboard computer entertainment center.  I remember telling my kids this was normal, and in a lot of ways, it was, and is normal, as we watched our plane circle and navigate around dangerous areas, forming U's and figure eights on our flight map.  Storms and turbulence are part of flying, and pilots deal with those situations very frequently.

That's what's making my stomach clench and what makes my heart ache every time I think about that flight, those passengers and the crew, and what they must have faced.  I know the pilots did everything possible, and I believe they did everything right with the information they had.  It's a dark and bitter truth that doing everything right doesn't always save the day, no matter how experienced the crew, or how long they have to brainstorm for solutions.

Our world is so much bigger and stronger than most people imagine.  We appear to be in total control of our environment, with our houses, our sea walls, our weather reports and air conditioning.  But we're not.  We add percentage points to our survivability in a crisis.  That's all.  

It's safer to fly than to drive.  Absolutely.  But we're monkeys, and for many of us, facing death so far above the ground with nothing to save us but the wits of the crew and a machine, no matter how magnificent and graceful, is something we can both imagine all too easily and which we dare not imagine at all, not in any detail.  I don't think there's anything to be gained from such a thing, unless you're an artist and need to express that terror so that it can be released to the sky like a prayer, or an aircraft designer doing your best to take every circumstance into consideration to give the crew and passengers a few more percentage points to hang their hopes upon.  That's what the investigation will focus on in the next few months.  They'll try to analyze the hell out of this thing in hopes of preventing an accident like this from ever happening again.  But you can't actually remove the hell entirely.  It's always there, waiting.

If we want to lead utterly safe lives, we can try, but that won't prevent us from facing our own deaths someday.  Some might decide that we have no business flying at all, that we don't belong in the sky.  I can't hold to that.  There's no safe place anyway, not even in our own beds when it comes down to it.  That's why I can't decide that I won't ever fly again, no matter how vivid the pictures in my mind are of what those people experienced before the crash.  There are too many places in the world I want to see.  Heck, if I sell a book, I plan on taking a whirlwind tour to promote it, and celebrate life.  I'm a nervous flier, but I'll do it, because I want to live my life, not exist in a dark, padded room eating a sterile, monotonous diet and running on an OSHA approved hamster wheel for fear of death.

It's such a blessing to fly.  It's beautiful to experience places beyond our backyards, where people dress differently, speak differently, think differently than we do.  The other day at a writer's group meeting, we talked about the scent of the air, how it differs from place to place.  This isn't a minor detail someone experiences in his life.  It is life.  It's living fully, and learning to appreciate who we are and what we have as a species, not just as individuals.  If we don't experience or appreciate in some way by reaching out as far as we can, whether the best we can do is try to touch our toes or whether we can aspire to fly among the stars, we may as well be inanimate.  The people on that flight lived, not nearly as long as their loved ones would have wished, but they worked and played hard.  They saw more of the world than some of our ancestors even dreamed.  

I'm so desperately sorry for their loss.  But Air France flight 447 shouldn't be a cautionary tale.  It should be a reminder of our mortality, yes, but also of our achievements, especially our ability to fly.  The people who are locked in tiny cells for the entirety of their brief, painful lives, who live in fear every moment, who perish unknown of hunger or thirst, wish they could, and I suspect that the dread of a death falling out of the sky wouldn't stop them from trying to fly away to the promise of work, or play, or coming home to a safe place.

Kylemore Abbey

Ireland.

One of the must-stop places in Ireland is Kylemore Abbey.  The grounds are graced not only with the Benedictine abbey itself, but a gothic church and a Victorian Walled Garden.  The interior of the abbey has some interesting artifacts.  Part of the building isn't accessible, because it's still in use, but the areas that visitors are allowed in are plenty to hold a history buff's interest.

A lakeshore walk through woods took us to the gothic church, a small but ornate and lovingly-kept piece of architecture.  Although I was impressed by the building, especially the incredible interior colors and ceiling, I have to admit I was distracted by the birds.  This is a bird-watcher's paradise, and I really wished I had a zoom lens and tripod with me.  Their songs surrounded us.  On the path, signs help bird watchers and folk who appreciate wildlife identify what they might be looking at.  I really wished I could have seen a badger, but alas, the only one we saw in all of Ireland had been killed by a car.  I spoke with a local about wildlife and she lamented that hedgehogs had declined lately and she hardly ever saw them anymore.  Again, sadly, we saw a hedgehog, but only a roadkill.

Those of you involved with a horticulturist, be prepared to sit back and spend some time here, because the gardens are a work of art-in-progress.  We walked, but there's a bus for visitors who don't want to hike the not-insignificant distance up to the Victorian walled garden.  One of the most fascinating things about this garden is the painstaking restoration process its undergoing.  Horticultural archeologists are analyzing leaf and other plant deposits to determine what originally grew where.  The greenhouses are being rebuilt.  This particular garden had some innovative design features, including piped heat, that must have made it a wonder to behold in its time.  Right now the garden is very young, but I can see in my mind's eye what it will be when it's all grown up and I'm thrilled to consider its future.  For avid gardeners, they provide plant lists, which I had to take home of course.

The gift shop deserves special mention.  It has some quality artwork and handmade goods at reasonable prices.  If you see something at this shop, don't resist if you really want it.  There's a possibility you'll find some of the items there for slightly less somewhere else, but chances are you won't find these things anywhere else at all.  I looked, because there was a statue I wanted, but I never saw the artist's work displayed anywhere else we went.

Having said that, the cookies were not to our taste.  The birds at the bed and breakfast we stayed at that night, however, loved them.