Future plans and changes

Whenever a door closes, a window opens. Or something like that.

I've been very busy working and watching Battlestar Galactica -- on tape of course. A friend sent me the pilot and every show but the season finale, which hadn't come out yet. (He's sending that one some time this week.) I expected not to like the show, but I was wrong, very wrong. I am having a little trouble with the actor who plays Gaius Baltar because he also played Bridget Jones's gay friend, but he is very interesting and a little manic (you have to know what's happening to him to understand). I sort of understand my friend's interest in #6, but after watching the sixth episode I wonder a little because she's very violent. And I do mean VIOLENT. Mafia style, hands on, flat out VIOLENT. The plots are believable, the characters complex and interest and minutely drawn, and the show is a real treat. If you haven't seen it prepare for some changes: Starbuck is a woman and so is Boomer this time around. Apollo, Starbuck, Boomer, Hotdog, etc. are now callsigns instead of their names (the characters have regular names just like us). The cylons are no longer walking toasters and the females are definitely not the type to get headaches--they might cause a few, but they won't get them. It's a very good show and it's well worth the time to tape and watch or just sit down and watch every week. I mean really, with Edward James Olmos and Mary McDonnell leading the cast, how could it go wrong? The new show takes all the best from the original series and adds a very real and interesting sensibility that will hook you if you have any brains and taste at all. So go watch.

In between watching BSG and chatting with John I have found more than a little time to work on operative notes and discharge summaries and all things medical and hospital, but I have also managed to sneak out from time to time to go to the library and fuel a growing interest in hiking and backpacking, also courtesy of my BSG tape making friend. I've always dreamed of packing a few belongings in a sack or backpack and just walking off into the horizon. The fact that I can also take my ham radio rig (a very small one) with me is also a plus, but just getting away from civilization and cars and pressure and the like is seductive. We've been talking about some day hikes to get me seasoned and ready for weekend hikes that will get me seasoned and ready for week long hikes and eventually something bigger and more challenging, like the Appalachian Trail, Colorado Trail, and the like. Grandma Gatewood began hiking for the first time in her 50s and she even did the Missouri Trail, the one that starts in Independence and ends on the West Coast, the one pioneers traveled to open the west, and she did it in less time. She wasn't hauling her household goods in a wagon or driving a team of horses or oxen, just walking, but she still did it and she was in her 60s or 70s at the time. Fifty seems like a good age to begin doing all the things I haven't had the time, the money, or the physical chops to do. I still have another hundred years to go yet and I want to make the next fifty as interesting as the last fifty, but not quite so traumatic. A walk along hidden wonders, beside burbling streams and silent lakes and tarns that mirror nothing but the sky, trees, and surroundings is preferable to the sound of boat motors, camping families with screaming kids, and campers parked cheek by jowl next to improved cabins, showers, and tent sites. There is something mystical and spiritual in walking through a silent countryside that few people venture near because of its seeming inaccessibility.

On top of all that, I finally received my copy (and the check) for an anthology of true ghost stories about friends and relatives. It's about time. The good news isn't the book or the check, but that the local library wants to buy copies and keep them on the shelves. And the librarian who buys all their books has asked me, because of my own personal interest in all things science fiction, fantasy, and horror, to suggest books they should buy. I have a list that every library should stock. It pays to be a book reviewer.

I have heard that certain friends are planning their own excursions to sunny tropical settings where the nearly equatorial sun beats down on clear blue water and the surf pounds the sands and lulls you to sleep. To each his/her own, but it does feel like change is in the air and people are reaching for their dreams for a change instead of allowing their seemingly insurmountable problems get them down and keep them cowed and lonely. So here's to the future and reaching for dreams and happiness.

Adventures

In talking with a friend today we got into discussing a ham radio event that happens April 30th this year, which is a Saturday. It's one of those events/contests that have interesting rules. For this years QRP To The Field day the theme is railroads and he and I have been discussing combining hikes with old railroads, preferably near ghost towns, that we can operate from for that weekend. I discovered there is a great place called Corona Pass Trail that is way up in the mountains and not far from here that both of us think would be a great way to combine an interesting hike with an exceptional place to operate from because it's above most of the local peaks, with only one 14,000+ foot peak in the way and there's an old railroad depot that would add points to our scores. It's strictly for rigs operating with under 5 watts of power and using Morse code (extra points for using an old fashioned straight key as opposed to the modern iambic keys -- ham talk) and the views from the pix we have shared back and forth are breathtaking. Could be a plan. I plan to get on the air before then and before I leave here, but it would be my first contest and my first time combining hiking and ham radio.

I haven't been hiking in about two years and haven't done a major backpacking trip in more years than I care to admit, but it's something I definitely want to do. Since I'm forced to work for a living again and have to work during the week, hiking and backpacking on weekends with my radio rig and a close friend are just what I need to get out and get away from everyone and everything and get back into shape. Getting into shape is top of my priority list these days. I want to get the rest of the weight off and I want to hike and backpack and camp along the Colorado Trail and some of the other really adventurous trails here, something I need to do for myself and for my soul. To share makes it even more appealing.

Who knows, now that I'm back on the work track and will have regular access to money I think it's time to consider getting that mountain bike I've had my eye on for so long. If I'm going to get physical I might as well go all the way.

It seems so strange having something really adventurous and physical to look forward to and not something just to dream and fantasize about but something to plan for and execute. Might even add a camera to the gear or possibly just a sketchpad and pencils or charcoal to feed my soul while I'm walking my heart and body.

Don't get me wrong. Living up here this past year and a half has been wonderfully soothing and makes me feel closer to nature and to myself, but I have been alone too long and I need to add at least a person or two to the mix to include conversation and a different point of view to keep things interesting.

I am definitely looking forward to moving in May. I have a feeling that there are a lot of new adventures in store for me to keep me interested for a good long while. Time to shake the moss off this rolling stone and roll onto some new paths.

I'm going to the Taj Mahal at last

I got an email this morning I deleted and then glanced at the subject line before it went to the trash. It didn't seem to be spam, but you never know. Never one to take chances where my writing career is concerned I looked in the trash and it wasn't spam; it was from the editor of the Taj Mahal Literary Journal to reprint an interview I did with horror writer Simon Clark. Will wonders never cease?

I checked them out and the journal is published on paper (the finest kind, according to their information) and they want to reprint the article for their June 2005 issue, which is compiled, edited, and printed in India. I will be among international writers in English with a very wide distribution. I'm excited. Talk about exposure. I couldn't get more exposure walking naked down Wall Street in New York City after the closing bell.

Okay, so I won't actually get to go to the Taj Mahal and see the marble monument to a beloved dead Indian maharani, but this is the next best thing.

A breath of fresh...

...air. Spring is here -- or so they tell me.

Today was a white day: white sky, white trees covered in snow, white ground, white everywhere, very few other colors. I hear it's spring everywhere else, but not up here, but it's spring in my heart.

I hate fights and arguing. I had enough of that growing up from my mother and my siblings. I especially hate being on the outs with friends. Today a very dear friend and I had a long conversation. Nothing really important. A little give and exchange of information, a few jokes, teasing each other, and generally a return of the easy camaraderie we have shared until recently. It was wonderful. He laughed and I could tell he was smiling even when we got off the phone and switched to IM. For the first time in so many weeks I feel like I have my friend back and that is a feeling I have missed for so long. He had even deleted his LJ and I asked him to please undelete it. He did, for me. It isn't that he writes in it, he hasn't since last September, but I like knowing he's there and that I can go back and read what he wrote about himself.

What's important is that for the first time in a couple of months I feel like we're back on track and he's himself again. Granted, some of the problems were physical in nature, and that has been taken care of, but there were other difficulties, too, and it feels like we've resolved the worst of it.

I've always told him I'd rather have an hour with him than a lifetime with anyone else and I still mean that, but I'd prefer the hours keep coming.

Today is the vernal equinox, the time of the year when night and day are equal, when the world awakens and puts out buds and green fingers of leaves and grass and plants, and the trees deck themselves in soft pastel colors that float on the winds and fall in soft scented mounds on the bleak but burgeoning landscape. It is the time the earth promises that the cold and silence of winter are passing and life is returning. Up here, the birds are coming back and I saw two new ones, beautiful blue and white and black birds like none I've seen before. Red foxes jog down the dirt road along the beach sand-colored edges of the snow while the last of the great bucks peer from the shadows of the pine trees along the hillsides and does nose aside the slushy snow for the tender shoots reaching for the brightening sun. Ravens wing up among the scattered blue sky peering thru the white sky and arrow down toward bits of brightness struggling thru the ice and new fallen powder where rodents sniff and scamper among the bright burnt orange twigs of last year's bushes.

The promise of new life and returning friendship is in the air and I am intoxicated.

Thunderstorms

I feel as if I'm on the brink of a great chasm and the other side of the trail is too far from me to safely jump across, but I know there is a path here, a narrow bridge that will lead me safely to the other side. I just can't see it right now. In many ways it is like the chasm that Indiana Jones faced in The Last Crusade where he was supposed to have faith. He closed his eyes, put his hand on his heart, and took a step into the void, landing on the path. A scattering of dirt and gravel showed the path to those who would come after him.

So what does this have to do with thunderstorms? It is that breathless moment when the air is pregnant with violence and crackles with electricity. It is that breathless moment before the skies open and the clouds gather like doom above. I feel skittish and excited and aroused and my body feels like lead even though I know this moment, this second in time, is just the calm before the cleansing violence of the thunderstorm.

I can hardly wait for the skies to open, for all the gathering forces to descend and wash away the debris and detritus of the past, until purple forked tridents light shoot and streak across the black weighted ceiling above and fill the air with ozone and crackling life, strike the ground and fertilize the earth, make it ready for the seeds to come, the seeds that will become trees and bushes and flowers and life giving crops.

There is an excitement in thunderstorms that Mary Shelley took and with which she molded life from death and that birth, frightening as it seemed at first, became a promise that even death could not destroy.

What the lightning touches is instantly changed and though it seems as though the very form and function it originally held has been destroyed, in its place is a new life, a new beginning. After the thunderstorm all is clean and new, shining and sparkling with rain and bright sunshine that uncovers the beauty previously hidden beneath the covering dust.

Hold your breath, watch the skies, and listen for the rumble in the distance because the thunderstorm is coming and with it comes a new beginning.

Saturday and no Chaco for me

Light leaden skies above and melting snow below and all around in this 39-degree heat wave. The sun is out and sparking crystalline fire from the snow covered ground and it's quiet here as always.

My thoughts speed outward to Chaco Canyon where Bev and the kids are exploring the ancient Anasazi ritual site and to a friend who had surgery on Monday. My thoughts are also with the friends I shared with one who is now in a more peaceful state and my tears are for my loss and what the rest of the world has lost as well.

Death does not frighten me. It is another journey for me to take, an adventure to a place I have known before and yet will not know again until it is time for me to visit there again. Silence has been my friend but today it is seductive poison that tempts me to find solace in sleep and dreams, dreams that take on a strange and dangerous tone where I battle forces that consume those around me and threaten to consume me as well, but I know how to combat them and I gather those who are willing and teach them the skills they need to survive. How magic and Jane Austen and a world over 200 years in the past could come together is beyond me, but I know that the outward world changes the inward world, the world of hearts and minds and people, never really changes. The words used are different, but the thoughts are always the same -- to search for and find happiness. Sadness, destruction, emptiness -- they frighten me because they are the opposite of life. They are the black holes of the soul that drag us inexorably into the darkness and twist our hearts and minds.

I need more sun. I need to bathe in the ancient streams of hearts and minds united in the desire to be one with the universe and with each other, to find the guiding light of the Infinite, to be at peace and in the arms of one who cherishes me as I cherish them.

I need spring.

Absent friends...

Today has been a very sad day. A close friend, a mentor, died at 2:23 a.m. in Murfreesboro, Tennessee. She was 93 on our birthday, Feb. 17, and she will be missed by many. She was Andre Norton, a woman who was the inspiration for and the godmother of fantasy and the first woman to be taken seriously as a science fiction writer. She shepherded many other writers into the public eye and co-wrote many books with new and upcoming writers who went on to greater things. Most of the women in science fiction and fantasy owe Andre for blazing the path, which was amazing for a woman who was brought up in the Victorian tradition and who never went beyond a high school education or traveled.

Early on, Andre was classed as a young adult writer and most of the established writers considered her beneath them, and although the characters in her book were usually young people in the first flush of power and life she created worlds and characters that still resonate today.

One of the saddest things about a celebrity passing is those who wish to profit from the celebrity's fame and hard work, and even to blacken their name in the cause of making money by casting them in a sensationalistic and negative light. Such, I found out today, is one of seven writers who shared the same birthday, a disappointed, mentally unstable woman who Andre welcomed into her home, nurtured, and cared for most of her life, and who intends to pay Andre back for her own lack of success and notoriety by writing lies for publication.

To this blighted rose I offer this piece of advice: Do not suppose you will get away with your lies because there is another who knows the truth and is not afraid to publish it. So beware because the road you now venture onto will cost you dearly. Your lies and your perfidy have now come to the light and there are those who will not stand by and allow you to tarnish the brightness of this great lady's star. You have been warned.

I am sad to lose my mentor and my friend, but in a way I am also happy for her because she is beyond pain. To Andre I offer my love and my remembrance of all your generosity and the wonderful gift of your friendship and teaching. It is because of you I found my way.

If you can't take it...

...don't dish it out.

There are times when friends are in a place in their minds where they do not and cannot understand what you're saying. One of my long time friends is there right now.

I have offered moral support when needed. Right now she's being a bitch. She is frequently.

Twenty years ago she ran away from the man she loved because she thought he was putting her in second place and she wasn't good enough for him, even though they had plans to marry and he was stunned by her disappearance. Fourteen years ago she went looking for him. He didn't respond, probably because he was married at the time (and still is), and said that he wrote her a 12-page response that he tore up and didn't send. He also showed his wife the letter. Time marched on and eight years ago he contacted her. She was still married at the time, as was he, but they continued their online correspondence. During the past two years she has entered into some iffy sexual relationships in hopes of goading him into action. More times than I can count, she has almost run away again because of his friendship with me and because he is friends with many women, making her feel once again she is second to everyone else and not good enough for him. I have badgered, bullied, and talked her out of running away every single time. I have even taken him to task for his actions and lack of action. In response he has become more attentive.

What she doesn't know is that he has told me more about his feelings for her and where they're going than he tells her, a confidence which I cannot in good faith break without hurting both of them. So instead I offer suggestions in how to handle the situation, suggestions she is now throwing back in my face vehemently because she "...knows him better than anyone else after knowing him for over 20 years. After all, he came looking for me 14 years ago." Okay, so her math and memory are faulty and she knows him better than anyone else. She knows him so well that she ran away from him before and has nearly run away many times in the past eight years. "This conversation is over," she told me. I know the tone. I've heard it before, too many times to count.

Despite her own assets, she persists in casting herself in a negative light, in rating herself below everyone and anyone else...unfortunately including me most of the time. And yet she persists in telling me how to run my relationship with the man I love without knowing anything about him, without having talked to him for more than a couple seconds, and really not liking him, me, or herself most of the time.

My suggestions proceed from an intimate knowledge of the man she claims to know so well, the man she ran away from, the man she won't even tell how she honestly feels and what she wants from him. I want to help. It's in my nature. She sees me as interfering and trying to tell her what to do. She feels her grasp of the situation is better than mine and that her instincts are better than my knowledge. Right. Her instincts ruined their lives 20 years ago, and ruined the life of his children and the woman he married instead of her. Her instincts ruined her own life and nearly got her killed by the man she married, putting her young son in the position of finding his dead father's body. Her instincts put her in emotional and physical danger last year when she taunted, teased, and sexually involved her with two men, one who was married and one who ended up in jail. Her instincts made her the target of a "friend" who harmed her in every way possible, ran off all her real friends, and nearly destroyed her. Her instincts are really good, aren't they?

I'm not saying my instincts are any better, especially when it comes to matters of the heart, but I'm not relying on instincts; I'm relying on the hours and hours of talks her fella and I have had and the respect with which he regards me, the truth of the situation he won't or can't tell her because he's worried about her having an emotional breakdown.

I know what you're going to say: Stay out of it. And you're right. I should stay out of it. It just bothers me that she knows me so little, trusts me so little, that she doesn't realize what I tell her will help her. Oh, well, I guess it is true that the ones you help out of friendship can't see the forest for the trees and they will hurt you at every opportunity -- because they know best.

Add to all this the fact that she has written some unfair things about me and other friends who have allowed her to say what she feels, but when they, and especially I, do the same she demands a retraction or an edit to put her in a good light. Guess what? You're not always a nice person. Sometimes you're a bitch -- like now. Sometimes you're selfish, elitist, and petty. But then everyone is at some point. I'm still your friend despite our differences, but, honey, if you can't take it, don't dish it out. You get what you give.

I'll shut up now.

Pins and needles

Ever have a leg or an arm go to sleep and then move and feel that horrible pins and needles sensation of returning circulation? That always made me long for the numbness again. Returning circulation can be incredibly painful but it's necessary. Without circulation our limbs would die and rot off or have to be cut off and when that happens, if you don't get to them in time, the rest of the body dies. Emotions can be like that, too.

If you've spent most of your life, or even a good part of it, denying your emotions, numbing yourself so that you can't feel anything, not even happiness, and suddenly your emotions kick in because you fall in love or wake up or have an epiphany, the pain is just like the pins and needles of returning circulation. Most of us don't like pain and we long for the numbness, for the time when we didn't feel anything or know that such pain existed, but unless we let emotional circulation return we die...slowly and painfully, rotting at the soul's core.

It's so seductive, that feeling of numbness where you can't feel anything, and the pain of returning emotions is almost more than you can stand at times. I know. I've been there. You just want the pain to stop. But you have to endure the pain in order to live, and living is far better than dying slowly or your soul rotting away. The thing is that once you allow your emotions to surface, get thru the awful pins and needles, you don't have to endure that pain any more. There will be other pains, but none so bad as the pins and needles. Believe me, it's worth it to feel again. Not all tears are to be avoided. Some of them cleanse our hearts and our souls like a fresh spring rain after a long dry winter.

Spring fever

Spring isn't even here yet and I'm feeling the itch, the need to get outside and breathe the fresh air, walk the snowy trails, and feel the warmth of the sun on my skin again. I feel antsy.

I ran some errands earlier today, dropped some books in the drop box at Safeway because I hadn't planned to go to the library, and then changed my mind and headed to the library on the way home. I felt like watching movies. Eyes glued to the movie titles, I wasn't paying attention to where I was going and bumped into someone. When I looked up I found myself staring into a familiar pair of deep brown eyes glinting with amber flecks and smiling down at me. "You should have used your turn signal," he said.

It isn't the first time I've literally bumped into him either. He runs the monthly book discussion group at the library. "Is this the only way I can see you?" he asked as he took my movies from me, and put his hand on the small of my back, guiding me carefully thru the stacks to the check out desk. The last book discussion was on The Odyssey and on my birthday, but I was going out of town and didn't make the group. He told me the next book is Machiavelli's The Prince, a book which I have read, but I'm going out of town again.

As I waited for the girl to get the DVDs from the back, he leaned down and whispered in my ear, "Since I'm not going to see you in the group, how about dinner some time?" I smiled at him, scooped the movies into my bag and headed for the door, my cheeks burning. He followed, took my bag, and even opened my car door for me. I felt my ears getting very warm. "How about it? You owe me for bumping into me again."

A few moments of chit chat later he pulled my business card, which he had wangled from the children's librarian with whom I discuss children's horror books, and told me my email address was wrong. I explained I hadn't realized that at the time. He handed me the card and a pen. "Then how about giving me the new one?" He smiled at me again and his eyes crinkled at the corners. I got into the car and mumbled something about getting home. Before he shut my door he said, "At least I know the phone number's good and you look good with color in your cheeks." I drove away feeling very shaky.

He called tonight and we talked for an hour. I didn't recognize the phone number and picked up the phone, half asleep at the time. He's intelligent and has a great laugh. He's single, tall (6'3" tall), with thick dark hair and those deep brown eyes with the amber flecks. There's something about him or maybe it's just spring fever. Then again, it could be nothing more than the one I love is far away and seems uninterested in seeing me any time soon. I don't know.

What I do know is that I enjoyed his compliments and his flirting. For the first time in a long time it was a pleasure seeing the look of desire in a man's eyes when he looked at me. It was a pleasure talking to him and laughing with him. And I'm confused.

Maybe it's just being alone for so long. Maybe it's missing the one I love. Maybe it's just being seen as a desirable woman by a man who isn't afraid or unwilling to let me know he finds me alluring. Maybe it's...

Dreams or memories?

It's not spring yet and I feel the definite stirring of warmth and movement in my blood. My dreams have turned to subjects both hot and redolent with the scent of spent and still spending passions. Last night was no exception.

The first thing I felt was surprise at seeing him. We stood inches apart, I waiting for him to move and he waiting for some internal sign that what he felt was real, those few seconds stretching interminably, both of us holding our breath, my eyes questioning and hopeful, and his eyes blazing bright and full of emotion. He had asked for time and I gave it gladly, certain of what I knew and the words we had shared. He reached for me and I melted against him, reaching my arms around his neck while his arms pulled me against him, curve and hollow fitting as if fashioned for each other. He murmured the words we had sent spinning along electronic pulses against my lips as another deep connection was made, unmade, and made time and time again, the words echoing in our twinned heartbeats. Dressed in fall warmth, he still in his jacket, we were suddenly too hot and too cold, merging heat and desire long delayed and even longer denied.

I rose on tiptoe and felt the throbbing swell of his need pushing, probing, nestling against flushed, swollen, sensitive lips yearning beneath imprisoning cloth. Breathless and eager we pulled apart, eyes locked, seeking, searching and finding mirrored thoughts no words could adequately express. Once more he captured me against the solid strength and safety of his chest, hearts fluttering in perfect time, kissing me and murmuring those simple words again and again until we were both drunk and reeling, laughing, crying, breathless.

We walked to the safety of the living room where bright sunlight shattered the soft silence, warming bird and animal throats in a hymn of joy in being alive. Quivering with excitement we talked, kissed, touched, discovered, memorizing each other in rich sensory detail, dipping again and again in the taste, smell, sight, sound, and feel of new and yet well known territory, certain of what lay beneath our clothes.

His long legs were not made for my love seat and love was hampered by the lack of space, so I led him to a more comfortable arena, tucked away in the back where glancing rays of sunshine glistened on views of towering pines, blue sky, and snow-tipped peaks.

--To be continued...

The light at the beginning...

The past few weeks have been really awful and yesterday started out to be more of the same, but once again friends pulled me out of the abyss. The "cold" I got from some other friends (who shall remain nameless--Bev and John) turns out to be influenza instead. Oh, well, but at last I am on the mend. Healthy products from my favorite health food market in Winter Park and a big cup of homemade soup from the same locale have put new life into me. Some ionic silver and herbs and the cough, congestion, and goop are on their way out of me at last. I can see the light again and enjoy it.

I felt weak as a newborn kitten yesterday and it was all I could do to make my rounds without passing out or crumpling into a sodden phlegmy heap on some dirty floor, but I made it back home without too much shaking and got my bags up the stairs and unpacked of their healthy largesse. Once my ears clear I will be hard at work and focusing on better times, like going to Chaco Canyon with Bev and the kids, meeting Rick in Albuquerque to finally see his now beardless face and hear his voice for the first time, interview senior motorcyclists there and in Alamogordo (at last), and back to Chaco for a little spiritual retreat and magick before wending my re-invigorated way home to make more money and get ready for the big move the end of April.

I'm sure part of my recovery is due to taking back control of my life after being at the mercy of others for so long, but it's also due in large part to realizing once again that what I want is within my grasp as long as I'm careful how I take hold of it. I forgot that for a while but free-falling has a tendency to make me giddy and uncertain. Maybe such times come to remind me that I am a survivor and that I have survived in quite a bit of style over the years, triumphing over some pretty steep odds, and to remind me that in spite of my outwardly perceived god-like powers I am still human -- or as human as an alien ever gets.

I'll shut up now.

Whinge II

One quick shower, pack my scant belongings, turn off the lights, take the shampoo, body lotion, and mouthwash (I paid for them), down the steep high stairs to the lobby, grab one banana, cheese Danish (I earned it), and juice, check my email, and dump the detritus just in time to get the cab that was being chatted up by a family of three.

"Oh, is this your cab?" the woman cooed.

"Yes." I got in, gave the address of Silent Type, was corrected about address, and accosted by the cooing woman.

"You're going to Silent Type?"

"Yes." I was in no mood for chit chat with the home stretch in my sights.

"That's where I'm going." She started to push in next to me and when I didn't move said, "I'll just get in on the other side."

Good plan.

Serena, for that is her name, is from Connecticut and came up for one day of training, arriving with her child in arms and husband the night before so as not to be detained by the apocalyptic snow storm bearing down on New Jersey and New York and, as I was later to find out, La Guardia airport. Great! One more thing to deal with on this nightmare cruise to hell.

Serena was pleasant, chatty, and nice, which grated on my remaining shred of nerve. It wasn't her fault I was stuck in 7th ring of hell or that I didn't get any sleep the night before, was hungry, and anxious to get home some time within the next decade, so I mustered what nice reserves I still had and chatted politely in monosyllabic monotones punctuated with appropriately timed gasps of pleasure and surprise at her domestic bliss. I was about to open the door and fling myself to the pavement when we arrived at the office. Schooling my impatience to get the day started and over with, I matched my pace to hers, endured her inane chatter and waited while she wrestled with the heavy glass door that I carelessly flung clunking to the wall with no effort after waiting for her an interminable number of seconds.

The owner, a stereotypical New Jersey hard-nosed business woman who built her company from the divorce up, finally sat down and talked with me about everything I had already digested from the company manual. She also handed me two copies of the contract for my computer equipment, of which I took the CPU, speakers, battery, and ear phones, and surged off to her office to wheel and deal. Even with the constant interruptions, a decadent lunch of thickly filled chopped liver sandwich (that I devoured like a starving wolf in winter), and having each dictation checked, I missed the minimum required pages per day by five, and that includes leaving early because of the impending snow storm wreaking havoc in the surrounding areas. Felix arrived early trailing clouds of cologne, raping and pillaging my sense of smell, carried my bag down to the parking garage and whisked me onto the highway back to La Guardia. There was a short park near the Triborough Bridge, but nothing to write home about.

Felix regaled me with tales of famous passengers, (Keanu Reeves, Nicole Kidman and kids, and Derek Jeter's parents during baseball season), between spurts of personal information about how he and his ex-wife (a Silent Type supervisor) have a better relationship since the divorce and how they spend much more time together than they ever did when married. Before he could go into the more intimate details of what happens when he inevitably spends the night with his ex, we were at the airport with time to spare--three hours early.

Back thru security, composed of third world and minority personnel, where I did not have to take off my shoes or be subjected to another pat down and having my now dirty lingerie pawed and sniffed, I found my terminal gate and waited in Tolkien's adventuring company while the gate began to bulge at the seams and more and more people queued up to the departure gate desk. And here I thought things were looking up because I was seated in seat 45D in a 757, a real commercial jet with room to spare. Not so.

Delta, an airline of no special amenities outside of a tiny pack of miniature pretzels and free sodas, juice and water, in their infinite wisdom took all the passengers from two other flights (probably puddle jumpers) and jammed them into the plane I was about to board. I prayed for my manicure scissors and handy dandy fold-up tool.

Jammed next to a very nice young man named Andy who confided his birthday was the same as mine and who was anxious to get home to Atlanta to his wife and nearly two-year-old son, I endured silently, with a prayer to the weather god/desses that we would take off on time, the interminable wait for takeoff. No one listened. They were probably all off watching the storm hammer the flight line. After de-icing the plane, plowing the runway, and waiting for the flight path to clear, the plane took off into the snowy night sky 75 minutes after the scheduled departure, which left me, if I could get off the plane first, roughly 10 minutes to get from concourse B to concourse E to the last gate in the terminal at Atlanta to make my connection. I told the flight attendants and they assured me they would get me off the plane in time to make the connection. An announcement was made while we circled Atlanta in endless loops and as soon as the plane landed everyone in the plane jumped into the aisle. I was in the last row of the plane.

I excused myself politely while my carry-on luggage took on the gravitational pull of a black hole, tapping my foot impatiently and edging toward the exit. A very nice lady jumped in front of me, opened the overhead storage bin and glared at me while asking, "Can I get my bag out of the overhead?" Feeling very generous I asked, "I don't know. Can you?" She shoved me against the opposite seat and wrestled her wheeled bag containing her winter wardrobe down onto my head and then onto my feet.

I didn't need a watch to know I wasn't going to make the plane, but a dimming glimmer of hope refused to burn out. As my carry-on bags got heavier and heavier I raced for the terminal, asked a Delta employee if my plane home was on time, found out it was, asked if she would call ahead and have them hold it, was told no, got directions to concourse E, and dodged thru the oncoming passengers toward what I hoped would be a better ending to my trip than it had started out. With Andy's promise that I was golden and would make the flight ringing in my ears, interspersed with promises to call him at home (I had his business card and cell phone number) to take me home with him for the night, I raced on, bladder screaming for relief, lungs cramping from lack of oxygen, muscles protesting my unaccustomed and needlessly prolonged exercise, I reached the gate five minutes after the plane had taken off. The helpful Delta employee told me I could speak to someone in the Delta information office about a room for the night with a special rate, which I could not afford, and informed me that I had been booked on the next flight out of Atlanta for home at 11:00 the next day. Nice of them to do that.

The rest of the evening passed in a sweaty, anomalous blur of Delta employees telling me that weather and air traffic control delays do not warrant a free room and that I could not stay the night in the terminal because they were closing down, trudging thru another 20 miles of concourses and terminals and stinking air fresheners, cologne, and the purportedly pleasing scents of civilization, heat, and foreign bodies, shuttles to nearby hotels and rude and jostling travelers until I landed at another over priced Best Western near the airport and blissful oblivion that just would not come no matter how I begged, cajoled, and courted it with prayers or shower.

Tolkien kept me company until I drifted into steamy, sweat-soaked sleep and woke before the wake-up call. Blindly stumbling to the bathroom I took another shower, brushed my teeth and hair, packed my bags and prayed for a substantial breakfast. I got my wish with a banana, cheese Danish, and two cups of juice before the airport shuttle arrived.

I did meet a lovely British ("from Canada") couple on their way back to Toronto, which provided not only a bright spot to an otherwise horrific experience but another article for Iron Horse magazine, in addition to the one I would finally get to write once I arrived safely back in Colorado to pick up my car and drive to New Mexico for the weekend to interview a seniors only motorcycle club.

Security was a breeze even though I had to take off my shoes again and I boarded another plane, a 747 this time, for the flight home. There was a seat between me and the passenger in my row and I finally felt relaxed enough to drift into near unconsciousness, waking for the sumptuous pretzel and juice snack and an uncomplicated arrival in the Springs.

When I got off the plane and trudged up the ramps toward the beautiful blue Colorado skies I glimpsed thru the doors I nearly didn't recognize until I bumped into her, handed her my backpack, and stumbled toward the restroom. The walk from the terminal to her car felt endless but soon we were on the road, thru the gates, and back at her apartment where I collapsed gratefully into a comfy chair in the darkened confines of her living room. I got up briefly to check email and dozed fitfully for a little while until she went to pick up her son. I called at the office and chatted for a little while. He also apologized for giving me his cold at the airport. I was certain what ailed me was the east coast assault on my senses and not a cold, but I was proved wrong. Between Typhoid Muse and him double teaming me, I got the crud that is currently making the rounds, and I got it with a vengeance. So much for clean and healthy living.

Due to illness my trip to New Mexico was postponed and rescheduled for the following weekend -- this weekend -- but had to be postponed again since I'm not going to be well enough to drive eleven hours and interview several people, take pictures, and meet with and not spread this virulent plague or drive off the side of a mountain to end the misery.

I stayed an extra day with the Muse and family, but girded my loins for the drive home Sunday. All I wanted was peace, quiet, and my own bed where I could wallow, lie, and otherwise moan, groan, and die in comfort. I roused myself yesterday to go down the mountain to the post office for money that did not arrive (they emailed and told me they didn't have time to keep their promise -- no surprise there), went to the Snooty Coyote for NyQuil gelcaps, Kleenex, and two Snickers bars (comfort food for the dying), and came home to wallow, lie, and otherwise moan, groan, and die in my own bed.

What have I learned by this little excursion into the bowels of hell?

1. You can be sure that carry-on luggage will arrive safely with you, but it will take on the gravitational pull on your nerves, mind, and body of a massive black hole event horizon.

2. The distance from the deplaning gate to your connecting flight gate is in direct inverse proportion to your level of fitness and the time between connecting flights. In other words, the fitter you are the closer the connecting flight's gate, and vice versa.

3. No matter how much you weigh you will feel at least 50 pounds heavier when sitting in the cheap seats of a commercial flight. You will also feel like you are welded to the hip and thigh of the person jammed into the seat next to you and like you're hanging out in the aisle and impeding the progress of people going to and coming from the restroom.

4. Vacations and business trips exist to remind you that there is no place like home.

That is all. Disperse.

Whinge

I left home with the best of intentions and really great plans; what I got was something entirely different.

When we last read the she had a new attitude, which has been adjusted with expectations severely downgraded.

somewhat reluctantly picked me up Tuesday morning to take me to the airport very surprised that I had only two pieces of baggage: my little backpack and my purse. I explained I was only going for two days and didn't need more. He pulled up in front of the terminal, gentlemanly got my backpack out of the back seat, handed them to me, and hugged me. I added a kiss that was returned in the manner of kissing one's smelly old aunt or a much disliked spouse. Oh well. He got in the car and drove away and I headed for the ticket counter to pick up my boarding pass and was informed I was singled out for special treatment -- the extra special, new and not improved pat down where they unpack your baggage, handle your bras, panties, and other private tools, toys, and things and then proceed to run their rubber-gloved hands over your body and into intimate places most husbands won't go to make sure you aren't concealing some nefarious plane crashing or terrorist paraphernalia. They also confiscated my manicure scissors, antique scissors from my sewing kit, and a handy dandy fold-up tool that includes a pair of pliers, two small screwdrivers, inch-long scissors, nail file, knife that wouldn't cut cold butter if it was hot, bottle opener and corkscrew. They informed me that if I had put them in luggage to be checked I could have kept them. They said they were unpacking my things because they saw a hair barrette on the scanner, which I do not own and was not carrying. Right.

After putting my clothes and shoes back on I made my way to the gate to wait for two hours for my flight to be called and met a Catholic astrologer who has a book in mind but doesn't have the skills to pull it off, although, as she mentioned vehemently several times, she is a passionate writer whose writing touches everyone who reads it. Okay. I've heard that one before at least 4000 times. Apparently she has figured out that astrology can be used to find victims of stranger kidnap and has documentation that she has pinpointed several victims, but the police, FBI, and law enforcement refuse to pay attention to her claims. The project sounds interesting and I'll take a look at it when she gets back, but I'm not promising anything one way or the other. A friend recently told me to look out for a job that was too good to be true; this may be it.

When our flight was called we boarded a puddle jumper (a very small commercial jet where first class is just a word and not a plush, roomy, partitioned off section of the plane), to Cincinnati where my parents were waiting at the main terminal a couple miles away. I boarded the shuttle, aware that I would have to go back thru security once again, and talked with my parents for about 15 minutes before hustling back down the escalator and thru security (taking off my shoes and jacket and loading my carry-on luggage into a tray to go back thru the scanner), boarded the train, caught the shuttle, and raced back to the gate in barely enough time to board the plane for La Guardia in another puddle jumper. After another grueling trek thru the maze of multiple airport terminals, I scanned every driver with a sign and found my name on a card held by a very dapper and elegant gentleman who eased my backpack from my cramped and claw-like hand and told me to follow him to the parking lot to a very classy black limousine.

Living in the mountains in the fresh clean untainted air has made me very sensitive to the odors of civilization and this was no exception.

I was violently assaulted by the driver's cologne (that was Felix), air freshener and the stench of New York effluvia in all its rank richness. I could barely breathe. He dropped me at the motel and I wearily climbed the great pyramid of Giza steps to the second floor, found my room, dropped my bags, and unceremoniously fainted on the bed for three seconds until I realized the room was the temperature of equatorial Africa at the height of the dry season. There were no visible controls on the air conditioner cum heater and I called the front desk. The night manager told me it was remote controlled and where the controls were located. After blearily fumbling around I figured out how to start the A/C and fainted across the bed once more, coming to briefly to shuck my clothes and crawl beneath the sheets, ask for a 6:30 a.m. wake-up call, and passed out again. I may have wakened in the night and have a sketchy memory of sitting on blessedly cool plastic and porcelain, but it could be a false memory. Six-oh-my-god-thirty came all too quickly and I wavered between waking and blissful oblivious for a while before dropping to the carpet on all fours and crawling to the bathroom to take care of the necessary ablutions that would hopefully bring me back to life. I made it most of the way back to life, but not all the way; however, it was enough to make me reckless enough to brave the New Jersey stenches and traffic.

It was nearly 8:30 and I was watching Serendipity on the flat panel in the lobby of the hotel while savoring a banana, poppy seed muffin, and orange juice and waiting for my turn at the motel computer that I realized the expected taxi to take me to the office at Silent Type had not arrived. I asked the desk clerk if it had come and gone and they explained they forgot to call. Great. Once called the taxi arrived about 10 minutes later and the driver asked me where I was going.

"Silent Type in the Mack-Cali building," I replied.

"Which one?"

"There's more than one? I thought you people did this all the time."

"We do."

"Okay, then you should know which one," I said, certain he would suddenly remember his job.

"Which one."

We were back at square one. I explained Felix pointed it out and it faced the freeway that led to the front door of the motel. "Oh, that one." He drove off and delivered me to a building that didn't look like it fronted on the highway.

"Are you sure this faces the freeway?"

"Sure. Here, sign this."

He handed me a clip board and I signed. It had been explained to me before my little trek that Silent Type's arrangements for accommodations, transportation, etc. were all included in the cost of the room and that they had put lots of new employees thru this routine. Someone forgot to tell the driver because several minutes and one trip to the fourth floor of the Mack-Cali building at 1 Bridge Plaza proved I was in the wrong building. I called the office and they oohed and aahed over my dilemma and told me they'd send the taxi again. I got the same driver but he got me to the right building this time. First day of training and I was late. Could things get any worse?

Shouldn't have asked because they got lots worse; it just took a little while.

That first day I signed lots of people, shook lots of hands, listened to lots of gossip about people I didn't know and would never know, read lots of paperwork, and finally got down to business. I actually got to do a little work, all of which had to be checked by my guide thru the training process. First day and I get the worst dictator on staff; at least that was out of the way and I knew what to expect. I briefly met the owner of the company (briefly meaning for two seconds) and soon the day was over. They advised me to go downstairs a little ahead of time because New Jersey cab drivers do not wait for passengers. I waited nearly 30 minutes before going back upstairs and checking to see if the cab had been called. It hadn't. The secretary oohed and aahed while she called the hotel who called the taxi company who assured me that I would not have to wait more than 10 minutes. It was 15 minutes in the brisk, freezing breeze that did little to dissipate the foul funk of what passes for breathable air on the east coast.

Three minutes after getting in the cab I got out at the hotel, went into the lobby and made sure they called while I stood there to arrange for a cab for the morning, trudged up the side of the mountainous stairs, fumbled with the key card, kicked the door closed, dropped my bag, fell across the bed, slid to the floor on the slick bedspread and curled into a fetal ball. One more day of this and I would need my manicure scissors back to run screaming thru Jersey poking out the eyes of every taxi driver and airline worker I could find. This is how domestic terrorists are made.

I had saved half my tuna sandwich from lunch and since I couldn't find, and was too tired to look, any place that delivered, that became my dinner as well. I comforted myself with the thought of fruit and muffins and juice in the morning to quell the rising scream of hunger and sleep deprivation and overall discomfort, shucked my clothes, and crawled beneath the sheets to surf the idiot box. That palled quickly. I am out of the habit and there were no good movies on the one movie channel available that didn't have a commercial every 3.5 minutes. I turned to Tolkien and fell asleep somewhere in Fangorn forest near the Entwash. I roused sufficiently to dial for a wake-up at 7:00 that came at 7:23 the next morning after a night of fitful dozing in a too-warm room between bouts of sexual screams, moans, sighs, and squeals from the next room. Sleep, food, rest, and sex deprived is not a good way to be when others are enjoying, loudly and all night, what you lack. And so it was. I prayed for morning and release from the nightmare my adventurous trek had become. Frodo and Sam had it easier and I would have gladly traded places with them on the orc-infested plains of Gorgoroth, but I was certain they would realize they were getting the fuzzy end of the lollipop on that deal.

To be continued...

You just can't trust anyone any more...

...especially friends like Bev who can't admit that my car is faster and I'm a quicker driver, which is pretty amazing since I had not been in that part of town before, but in the penis equals car and speed contest, I am better and I won.

We did have a good day and a lot of fun. We ate at Fargo's, and the pizza was pretty good, but the carrot cake was better. Of course the muse will say that I forced the chocolate cake on her but you can tell by the teeth marks on my nails and fingers that she nearly took my hand off reaching for the cake. Do not ever let your hands get too near the muse when chocolate is involved, better to put the plate down from a safe distance and push it toward her with an electrified cattle prod to preserve your digits and anatomy.

It is also best to make sure you are wearing your seat belt when she is driving and hang onto something stable because she drives like a demon. Best to wear a blindfold so you don't know how close to death you have come.

Of course I had a little fun with the kids when we got back from our afternoon jaunt. I banged on the door and yelled (in my best penal code voice), "Open up. This is the police." Jon opened the door and read us the riot act for upsetting him in that way. I still want to know what he was doing while we were gone that he was worried about police knocking on the door. The muse did mention that it was not a good idea in this neighborhood, but I figure it's like turning on the lights to see if the roaches are going to run for the baseboards and shadows. Unfortunately, no one else came out of their doors with their hands up.

We still have two days before I get on a plane for the first time in over 20 years and fly across the country so I am sure we can find some trouble -- or fun, depending on your point of view -- to get into. And there will be rituals performed, incense burned, and incantations incanted tomorrow and Monday. I still haven't decided if I'm going to lead the full moon ritual, but you never know. Might do me some good to bleed off a little energy and pass it around the coven circle since I don't get to do that very often and most of my energy ends up swirling around the pine trees and wilds back up in the mountains where they're probably still pinging off the rocks, animals, trees, and mountaintops.

Well, this is two posts for me today and I don't want to wear out your friends page or run out of material, although I seriously doubt that will be a problem here in the land of the muse with all the laughter, talk, and magick to be shared, not to mention the writerly talk, which tonight ended in the muse saying that an idea I ran past her needs a book and is too big for a short story. She may be right, but I haven't worked out all the logistics or plot yet. There is still a big hole near the end I haven't filled and there is another novel I promised Rick I would finish and give him to read. I suppose that means I should finish the novel before I start on another one with a hole in the plot, even though it does come at the end and I might come up with it once I begin the writing process. You just never know. Then again the muse might be tempting me to walk the grassy path knowing there is quicksand a few feet away so she will be able to say as I sink out of sight that her car/penis is bigger than mine.

Silent Saturday

Everyone here at 's place is asleep, except for me -- and the cats who are just cat napping. The sun fingers the closed blinds looking for a way to get in and I am awake and a bit congested. Strange dreams chased me all night, dreams that I still remember despite their kaleidoscopic changes. Cleaning oilcloth covered tables and yanking off ants with their mandibles deep in my flesh who are determined to get the crumbs of food I'm washing away. Strangely intelligent men with bi-racial daughters asking questions about divorce so they can marry the woman of their dreams. Pools of water that anemically suck at me while I hang onto a granite-faced wall to flush out the pool. People I've never met discussing the night attire of women in pictures, women I know and whose over-sized clothes I pull away from their slender bodies to demonstrate how they fail to fill out the semi-transparent silk gowns. Expounding at length on divorce law and how to obtain a real quickie divorce without going to Mexico, Haiti, or the Dominican Republic (I did a series of short articles on divorce for a law web site recently) and running the risk of having your divorce ruled invalid. Walking silent moon bathed streets in unknown cities and passing pockets of shadow full of chattering people. And the dreams continued.

I wonder if all those dreams could possibly be the result of an enjoyable night of Constantine at Tinseltown in Colorado Springs followed by a wandering drive, after being separated from my friends I was following, down to the Broadmoor and the really ritzy side of town, then back onto I-25 and down Academy to Constitution where I stopped at a Sinclair station to ask the name of the restaurant and directions. came to the gas station and gave me directions and I followed her (sort of) to this little Chinese place off Powers where we had a feast and much laughter. talked to the service staff and asked them to sing happy birthday to me in Chinese, but I got away unsung. They must have forgotten and I didn't remind anyone. Then we went next door for a bit of ice cream (mmmm amaretto) and then back to the apartment to talk and enjoy a few quiet moments. As usual, the muse and I stayed up past midnight while poor , who also served as navigator to the restaurant after my solo trek, stood huddled in his blanket with a pleading, mournful and somewhat toe-tapping-you're-keeping-me-from-sleeping look on his face.

All in all, the contemplative drive from my mountain aerie to the Springs accompanied by some really good music on a sunny and peaceful day, and despite the hassle of traffic slow downs and congestion (worse than the one in my head and sinuses today), and a good time with great friends made up for the rotten birthday I had the day before. Well, that, and a quick chat with , who insisted that he did NOT forget my birthday the day before but rather did remember and just didn't send his natal day wishes until the time had passed because he was busy, early in the morning and before I left the snow-flocked fastness of my little secluded hideaway, made my day.

I debated stopping to drop off some books to but demurred since the traffic was so horrendous and I was behind schedule, and since I will see him Tuesday morning when he drops me off at the airport for my trip to New Jersey.

But this morning when the muse clan wakes from their television-accompanied night of dreams I have been threatened with apple fritters at Krispy Kreme and a chat with a notorious female of malign purpose who, I have been informed, will attempt to charm me and throw me off her fetid track (but will fail miserably). There will be a trip to various marts for business and a jaunt thru the local environs and dives so that I may learn a little more about my soon to be adopted home. Tomorrow will dawn somewhere beyond the darkened windows here and I will be off in the dark to Aurora for a hamfest where I fully expect to buttonhole some experienced hams and soak my psyche and dreams in the magic of electronics and radio for a few hours, a trip I am looking forward to with relish -- not to be confused with hot dog relish which is a much different condiment altogether.

I think I'll hop back in bed with Tolkien and finish Frodo's latest adventure while I wait for the house to wake. In the meantime, may your day be what you wish and may you find something to smile about.

Getting kicked...

...is no fun, especially when you have to pick yourself up without help, and I've been kicked a lot lately, which is pretty apparent in some of my recent posts. However, this time I'm picking myself up, dusting myself off, and focusing on a different horizon for a change, and it is out there.

The sun is bright and the clouds are a brilliant soaring blue with mare's tails whipping across the sky, whisking away snow, and pain, and sadness.

I am going to the Springs this weekend and will be gone for about a week. I also have to go to New Mexico for a story and interviews next weekend, but in the interim between trips I will be staying with my good and dear friend, elementalmuse, and her kids, both of whom I adore. I may sneak a chance or two to update while I'm there, but most of the time will be devoted to getting back all the energy I have expended on so many other things and people. I plan to see a few sights in the Springs, walk a few trails, and commune with nature in the Garden of the Gods. I need to get back to the source. I will also share energy with a very wonderful group of people who belong to Shadow Myst and meet some new faces while we mingle energies and stories for a little while. Then it's off to New Jersey for some training, a lot of reading, and maybe a stroll or two along unfamiliar pathways.

When I get back next week, just before I journey to the source of ancient powers and beauties and share a meal with the indomitable Mentalfuse just to shake up his world with a little intensity and a lot of shared laughter and smiles, I'll reconnect with some beloved energy.

I have been upset and hurt and in a lot of pain lately because of someone dear to me who is dealing with his own pain. Instead of being a good friend and a loving support I have focused on the wrong horizons. Time to change the view, take off the blinders, and see the horizon anew.

So to my beloved friend I offer bright blessings and love in this time of confusion, doubt, and fear. May my insights light your path and show you that ignoring your problems and not taking care of yourself, punishing yourself for things you cannot change and should let go, will only drag you deeper into despair. When you're ready to lift your head, take a deep breath of the fresh air of hope, and step back into the light I will be waiting to walk beside you on the path.

Just when you think it's safe...

...to count on life again you find it isn't.

The next two weeks are going to be very hectic for me, so hectic in fact that I was rather looking forward to the change of pace, but as usual the flies have mated and spawned in the ointment, and all on my birthday. What a wonderful gift.

Sound a little less cheerful than my usual mood? You're right.

In the past few weeks although some things have settled down and I have had good news it seems that the warm spell, like last year's non-existent summer, are short lived. The news I was expecting today that all would be well and the drought was over came with a huge surprise, that the drought continues unabated. So now what do I do? I keep on breathing and walking and taking chances and living. There are no other options.

Lately I have been described as intense and a little like looking directly at the sun, which can blind you. However, I wonder if that's really a bad thing. Isn't it better to know where you stand with someone than to constantly have to guess or to play mindless, childless, and often destructive relationship games only to find the person you thought you knew was a simulacrum, a construct, barely human? It could be that I am too basic, too clear, too honest, and too focused, that I look people directly in the eye when talking to them and I make my wishes, thoughts, and desires known, that I don't do ambiguity well and that what you see with me is exactly what you get. I always thought those were positive attributes, but I have been told they are not.

I understand how difficult it is to face up to what you feel and believe and think and tell people exactly that, especially when it isn't rewarded in any way, shape, or form, but what are the options, subterfuge, lies, dishonesty, hiding? Eventually the truth will come out and then you get to spend a lot of time shoveling raw sewage, which is seldom pleasant unless you have no sense of smell at all and don't mind wallowing in filth. I used to be the same way, ignoring things and hoping they would get better or go away, but they never did. Instead they presented me with bigger problems that grew exponentially out of control to the point that they became unmanageable. Ignorance is not bliss, especially when you have to wake up eventually and face life.

Okay, so I can be intense and I am focused, and I look people directly in the eye, and I am exactly who and what I appear to be, there are worse ways to be. Look around.

Truth has become an option instead of the rule of thumb. Honesty is something to bargain with, a tantalizing bit of bait to dangle and pull away when the mood strikes or when the fish/person is hooked and it's too late to spit out the hook because it's deeply embedded, not to mention costly when you wish to disentangle yourself. Lies have become disinformation and strategy. Evasion is commonplace; after all who wants to piss someone off or hurt their feelings when you can side step the issue and play free and easy with the facts?

It's not for me, this wholesale devaluation of honesty, truth, integrity, and motives, so I guess that means I will continue to be alone in my ever shrinking world of truth and justice, and that will have to do this time around. There are worse things than looking directly at the sun and blindness, apathy and fear are just a few of them.

As for me, I will continue to be bold, intense, forthright, and unstintingly honest whatever the cost because the only other option is more of the same halfway attitudes that passes for living.

Happy Valentine's Day?

Valentine's day is an awful day if you have no one to share it with. But when you do...

It is also not a good idea to thank someone for sending you two dozen beautiful red roses without checking the card first. I got a shock and I'm still not sure it's a good one. I thanked someone for the beautiful roses only to be told they didn't send them. Embarrassed, I searched the box for a card that had slipped into the bottom. They were from Don and included a dinner invitation for tonight.

Now what do I do?

Sunday slow down

It's a beautiful sunny day and the first time it has been above 20 degrees for weeks. Snow is melting and plopping wetly onto the piles of snow under the roof. I may even get enough energy up to shovel the deck today out in the warm sun. But in the meantime, acoustic guitar and Michael Johnson are playing on the computer and I'm going to go downstairs and fix a real breakfast: ham, eggs, and fresh cut mango. Then I'm going to sit in my favorite chair in the sunshine, listen to the music, and leisurely enjoy myself before I have to finish cleaning house and doing laundry.

There are worse things in life than a leisurely Sunday morning alone in the silence and solitude of my mountain cabin, like expecting your lover to take the time to come visit and share a birthday and Valentine's celebration and ending up alone.

It's a 40 day

My youngest sister turns 40 at exactly 7:30 PM tonight -- that is if you count birthdays by the exact moment of emergence from the warmth and comfort of the womb into the cold and brightly lit world.

HAPPY 40TH BIRTHDAY,
BEANIE!

And one more thing...

I finished opening the mail just now and found the results of my tests, the ones I've been waiting to see for over a month. No cancer. No cysts. No nothing.

They apologized for the mistake. An apology is nice, especially when it doesn't change anything, and it has about as much meaning, too.

One of those days...

...a beautiful day, actually, with lots of things for me to do and see.

A quick shower and combing out my hair showed me that the hair is growing back in and I have arrested the falling out process. But I had lots of other things to think about, mostly errands and getting out of the house for a while. The trip to the post office was uneventful, but at the post office I found lots of good news, a little money, and even more good news, which propelled me on my way in to Fraser to the library, but I was early so a trip to Starbucks to use my free drink coupon was in order.

Chantico is the word of the day. It is a decadently rich and smooth and nearly orgasmic silken libation of chocolate that I can still taste. Utterly and completely delicious. I wish I had more. The cup is really small but the taste is lingeringly, unbelievably large. Mmmmmm, chocolate.

Off to the library to finish my chocolate power drink until they open and then a quick, short walk to the door to pace and wait for them to open -- it was past 10:00 by my watch anyway.

Then into the hallowed halls where soft murmurs of sound wrapped me in camaraderie and common cause. A small fine to pay, books and movies to reserve, and a measured, hawk-eyed scrutiny of the shelves to pick up books, check available magazines, and sit at a computer not my own to peruse, search, and otherwise track down books, subjects, and information for use in writing and reading, and other nefarious purposes.

The library here in Fraser is small and vastly incomplete, but it is worth the trip just to enjoy the feeling of delving into dusty archives and playing hide and seek with books and words along the sun dappled aisles between the stacks.

And now off to look up more books and reserve more reading material. It is a very good day and it's not even noon yet.

That is all. Disperse.

Aaah, back in control

There is nothing like a day spent in the library among the dusty stacks and leather and plastic clad spines of portals that take you to different worlds. I'm boning up on Michigan trivia to write a whole bunch of articles for pay for a book about...you guessed it, Michigan. I've been so focused on things I can't change or affect and wallowing in self doubt and confusion, so it was time for me to move on to something I can control -- writing and researching and writing some more.

I hate being out of control. It's an ugly feeling. Of course that doesn't include being in free fall high in the sky above clouds and anthill towns and tracks, but that's a different story. I mean feeling like I'm free falling through life without a net and without a crash helmet, parachute, or soft landing spot. But no more. I'm back up on the horse.

And I have a host of things to catch up on. I have plans to make for a trip to Alamogordo, New Mexico to do an article on a seniors only Harley motorcycle club in two weeks and a trip to New Jersey for job training in a little over a week. I also have to practice taking some decent pictures on chrome but may opt for the digital version since it's easier and faster to see when you screwed up. I'm going to make a stop in Albuquerque to see an LJ friend and share a Mexican repast, lots of eye contact and talk, and I will get to hear his voice and he will hear mine, and I will get to see his much praised and vaunted green eyes.

On March 1st I will stick around in Colorado Springs long enough to see and hear Michael Johnson and bask in the sound of classical guitar.

Walk into the fire...

Fantasist and novelist, H. Rider Haggard, wrote several larger than life tales, among them King Solomon's Mines, featuring Allan Quatermain, and She, about an immortal goddess, an Egyptian princess of ancient lineage who found the secret of immortality and spent the long centuries waiting for the reincarnation of her murdered lover. Even Hollywood has taken Haggard's tales for their own, casting Ursula Andress as She.

In Haggard's tale an English gentleman of mixed descent named Leo inherits an ancient artifact that leads him to a lost city in the depths of Africa where he finds Ayesha, the immortal queen called She Who Must Not Be Named. He falls in love with her beauty and grace, wit and intelligence, but is awed and frightened of her power and her unshakable control over her people. She is an intense woman who intrigues and excites Leo even while he is frightened of his feelings for her and his overwhelming attraction to her.

Ayesha tells Leo, and provides proof, that he is the reincarnation of her murdered lover/husband, Kallikrates, and she offers to make him immortal so they can be together forever: beautiful, unchanged and powerful.

The secret of Ayesha's immortality is bathing in the cold blue flames of a cosmic fire, arresting the decay and ravages of time. Leo loves Ayesha even as he is overwhelmed by her so he follows her along a treacherous path to the cave where he will join her in immortality. Even as Leo approaches the fire his fear overtakes him so Ayesha walks into the flames, taking his hand, urging him to join her, and he finally follows. However, Ayesha ages and dies in the flames, withering into an ancient mummy in his arms, leaving a terrified and trembling Leo to gape in horror. His fear to venture alone into the flames cost him his love, and he must wait for centuries until Ayesha is reincarnated and they can be together again.

Leo fears Ayesha's intensity even as he is drawn to her. She is all he has ever dreamed or desired and yet he fails her, fails himself, in taking that last crucial step, unwilling to trust completely in love and walk alone into the heart of the blaze, scared of making a necessary change that will unite him with his one true love, his soul mate.

Women are called the weaker sex, and yet when you look at the world as it was in Haggard's day, and even today, you will see strong, intelligent, and exceptional women everywhere, women who brave the heart of the fire every day of their lives, beckoning for their men to follow, to be with them.

Was Haggard writing a fantasy or was he voicing some universal truth that resonates even now? Did Haggard fail the woman of his dreams, the bright heart of his fantasies? Did he realize too late that he must face his fears and take the final step in order to attain all he deserved and desired?

We all crave intensity, overwhelming and heart stopping intensity, but in order to touch it and make it our own we must fearlessly walk alone into the heart of the cosmic fire. Will you brave the flames for true love?

The good depression drug

When I'm down I cook. I frequent a site where we exchange recipes and talk about our personal lives, problems, wishes, and desires. Tonight I decided to do something with the chicken in the fridge. Here goes:

Chris's Golden Mushroom Chicken

Boil your favorite chicken pieces or a whole cut up chicken for 20 minutes. Add a little salt and reserve the broth for chicken soup or beans or whatever. Arrange chicken in a casserole dish or roasting pan. Cover with one can golden mushroom soup, sprinkle on shredded mozzarella cheese, cover with tin foil and bake in a 350-degree oven for 30 minutes. Take off foil the last five minutes and let the mozzarella bubble and brown.

You can add diced potatoes (Chris's favorite idea, but add another ten minutes of cooking time) or add sliced red pepper and black olives before adding the golden mushroom soup.

Sprinkle with fresh grated parmesan cheese before serving, dig out the good china, silver, and crystal, dish up your favorite vegetable and salad, pour your favorite wine or beverage, and dig in.

The only problem with living alone is that when you cook something special there's no one to share it with and you eat it for several days. Still, do something nice for yourself anyway if you live alone and make a really special meal like this one. Add a decadent dessert, like my favorite apple-cranberry crepes with cinnamon cream, kick back with some great music and treat yourself to a luxurious evening of pampering. Better than Prozac, Xanax, or any other pharmaceutical drug. The only side effects are a warm glow of accomplishment, a soothing and relaxing evening, and maybe an extra pound or two if you over indulge, but you can always walk it off in the fresh air the next day and increase your endorphin production. To really kick up the endorphins, make the dessert chocolate.

Enjoy.

The bottom line

Many years ago medical insurance was a rarity, but it was a boon to people who could not afford to be ill when specialists were hideously expensive. Now all doctors are expensive. Medical insurance has become more expensive than the cost of buying a car or a house or food and people have to choose between a roof and food on the table, gas in the car to get to work to earn a living to pay for the roof and food on the table, and buying medical insurance. It's a simple equation really.

Doctors inflate their prices to cover the cost of their education and the poverty of their student years, to pay for their roofs and food on the table and gas to get to and from work to buy roofs and food, and to pay for malpractice insurance because everyone wants to get rich quick by suing doctors/hospitals for every imagined mistake, real or fantasy, and to pay for incompetent doctors' mistakes who should never have been licensed in the first place. There is also the cost of trials on drugs that need more drugs to offset side effects that will need more drugs to offset more side effects (the cycle goes on ad infinitum, ad nauseam) and tests that aren't necessary, but lucrative, and more doctors and hospitals...and the list goes on.

Because of this obscene cycle of bottom line conscious doctors and hospitals and insurance companies majors surgeries that require more attention, time, and care end with an overnight stay, at best, and a lot of uneducated and inexperienced family and friends taking care of the patient, not to mention those without such a network of familial and friendly support taking care of themselves or hiring nurses and health care workers at their own expense (the cost sometimes partially defrayed by insurance). One of these major surgeries is a mastectomy that ends with an overnight stay and then home to recuperate on your own.

This is a travesty of justice and a clear breach of the Hippocratic oath, not to mention common sense. If you agree, go to Lifetime TV and sign their petition. I am not talking about a tonsillectomy or removal of a hangnail or even an appendectomy, but a mastectomy, major surgery, life threatening surgery.

Doctors and hospitals and insurance companies are watching the bottom line on their fiscal reports, more interested in profits than health care or human life. Let them know the bottom line on the humanity report has been drawn and they are over the line. Speak out. Let them hear your voice. Let the government, insurance companies, doctors and hospitals know that their greed will no longer be condoned and that humanity will no longer lie down and take their actions without rising up and being heard.

That is all. Disperse.

Snowy days

It was snowing when I woke up this morning and the salty fall reminded me of going to Hot Sulphur Springs last week. It's the first time I have been that far west of Granby since I moved here. I thought it was a busy little spa town. That's not what I found.

On the way there I drove a black ribbon highway between dazzling fields of snow and ice where bushes like herds of dark humped buffalo straggled aimlessly through the fields, up and down the hills, topping fluffy drifts and ice sheened slides glinting in the eye-searing glare of the winter sun. I drove the main street of Hot Sulphur Springs in less than a minute even though I drove less than 20 mph looking for my destined street. I blinked. I missed it. About a mile outside of town I realized there would be no road or driveway where I could turn so I stopped, looked both ways, made a hurried Y turn and headed back to town, (town seems too big a word for such a small and seemingly insignificant almost village collection of old west style buildings puffing anemic trails of wispy smoke into a dazzling blue Colorado winter sky).

Weaving a way down through the back road (there really is only one), I stopped a lone man sliding along the snow-packed track that passed for a street and asked him where Hemlock Street was then drove two more streets, almost to the edge of what passed for civilization, and quickly found my destination. Ninety minutes later I was back on the black ribbon heading home to my little aerie at the top of my mountain, safe and warm and content to gaze out at the snow powdered trees and rocks out my deck windows.

There is no place like home even when the home will soon no longer be yours and all you will have to remember these times are well fingered watercolor memories and vignettes like these.

This is not the way to start a day

I was blissfully, happily, and deeply asleep when the phone screamed at me and yanked me back to this world where I stumbled, nearly blind, to the phone for an unavailable call that just had to be answered. It was the secretary for the new job I just got, the one for medical transcription that will let me stay home and work in various states of disarray and deshabille (if I wear anything at all) but for which I must fly to New Jersey, land of toxic waste disposal, landfills, and The Sopranos, two weeks from today to take two very expensive and at my own expense days of training. Oh, they will send a car to pick me up at LaGuardia airport in New York and take me back and they will ferry me back and forth from the hotel (way too expensive for my tastes) to the job for training, but I have been informed everyone is happy to put themselves out for training that could very well be accomplished online because they are a family. Somehow waking me rudely from needed sleep is actually what my family would do so maybe they are telling me the gospel. At least after weeks and months of being told I'm over qualified (employer speak for you're worth more than we want to pay and you probably wouldn't stick around long anyway) I have a job that pays a hefty salary every two weeks.

So here I am trawling blogs and journals to see what everyone else has been up to while I have been pupating.

One friend is awake at 4 a.m. because of his and his wife's colds and another is writing about self absorption that does not seem to me to be self absorption at all but focus on his work and his livelihood. That's not self absorption.

As I told him, self absorption is focusing on clothes, shoes, handbags, belts, and personal appearance to the point you must turn a room or two into a closet to house your things, working endless hours at a very good paying job to make more money to buy more things for yourself and thinking of no one but yourself to the exclusion of anyone or anything...not children, friends, spouses, lovers, family, or even passing strangers or the people who offer their service to you. You don't look anyone in the eye and you couldn't give a description of your own family because you don't look them in the eye or even know who they are, which is evidenced by the fact that the last time you remembered their birthday or bought them a gift at Xmas it was the kind of gift that you would buy for a charity drive. That is self absorption.

Of course you could argue that even having a public online journal is akin to self absorption, or that keeping paper journals is focusing too much on the self, but that is not necessarily the case. A journal is also a place to explore the world and your views on the world which you must look in the eye, study, devour, and catalogue in order to write about. Yes, writers are peculiar people and most of us are research hounds who love the thrill, the exhilaration, the sheer joy of delving deeply into the archives of life and coming up with insights, thoughts, and story lines that will one day bear fruit, and sometimes diving deep into the pool of memory to resurrect, relive, and otherwise chronicle the lives of people who will not always walk this earth. That is fascination and curiosity and love of knowledge, not self absorption. You may disagree if you like and tell me I'm out of my mind, and you would likely be right--most writers are somewhat out of their minds, especially when they're writing, or they would not be able to create and people such fascinating alternate realities, but we are far from being self absorbed.

Trail a writer and watch their expressions, body language, and interaction with the world around them and you will find them life absorbed. To be sure there are clothes hounds and writers who are devoted to acquiring wealth, material and financial, but while they are self absorbed momentarily they are most obviously life absorbed especially when they're writing, researching, and editing, or simply giving a bit of their knowledge back to the vast pool of information from which all writers--and people--dip their cups. Writers can tell you the intricate details and mental workings of someone they met five minutes ago with insights and acuity that would stun the subject of their intense scrutiny as well as their families and friends who do not know them so well. Writers are nearly psychic about people and events in the near and far future--look at Jules Verne and many other so called science fiction fantasists for proof.

My family has always looked at me as though I were a cuckoo in their nest or a changeling left by gypsies and called me a dreamer. As I told them, and tell them still today, without dreamers and their dreams we would all still be eating raw meat or lightning struck animals still smoking and charred from nature's electric attention while we huddled deep in autumn's drift of leaves in some dank and wet cave instead of communicating in a heartbeat's time with people around the world with flashes of light.

Okay, so maybe this is the way to start a day.

Ten short days

Ten days from today I hit the half century mark. Yes, folks, I am actually going to be 50 years old and I love it. There are some things about it I don't love -- like not being able to share it with the man I love, but into every life and all that rain-on-my-parade blather.

Sometimes it seems he and I are completely in synch and other times facing off across a great distance and having to shout across the mountaintops to even be heard. Life isn't perfect and love doesn't solve everything. Ask anyone who has truly loved--or thought they did.

There are times when a few hours of passion is enough and other times when it makes the silent hours of waiting too difficult to bear. Time and distance lend enchantment at times, but they also make the loneliness louder and more painful to hear and feel.

The first half century of my life has been marked with joy and pain (a lot of pain sometimes), but in the last few months before this natal celebration of golden proportions I realize that passion and life and even the act of living is fraught with pain and without that pain we would not know we live at all. I am not a big fan of pain but I can--and do--endure its venomous sting because the moments of pleasure and happiness, the feeling of sinking deep into passion's embrace for a moment outside of time, is worth all the pain.

For my birthday wish I want more passion and less suffering and pain. Anybody know to whom I make my desires known? If so, give me their email or snail mail address and I will storm their crenellated towers.

In the meantime, enjoy the moments of happiness and never look back.

I'll shut up now.

The Hours

Two years ago I went to see The Hours with a friend. It was the first of many movies we saw together. I left the theater a bit unsettled and pensive. There was something about the intertwining of the lives of the three women portrayed that left something with me. I decided to get the movie when it came out on tape and bought a second-hand copy the first chance I had.

The movie is about three women: Virginia Woolf, Laura Brown, and Clarissa Vaughn. Since these women lived in different times it would seem they had nothing to bind them together. Virginia Woolf's book, Mrs. Dalloway, is the tie that binds.

Woolf decided to tell the story of a woman's whole life in a day and Mrs. Dalloway is the result of that vision. It is a tale of a very confident woman who chose a life of society and parties and safety instead of a life where passion ruled her days as well as her heart. Shortly after the War to End all Wars, WWI, Clarissa Dalloway throws a party, one that will end in disaster and someone's death.

The Hours begins with Woolf's day, the day she began writing Mrs. Dalloway, segues to a pregnant Laura Brown's day in Los Angeles in 1951 where she wakes up and picks up Woolf's book and reads the first sentence--"Mrs. Dalloway said she would buy the flowers herself."--and on to 2001 to the beginning of Clarissa Vaughn's day where she decides to buy the flowers herself for the party she is throwing her friend Richard who has just won a prestigious poetry award. Each woman's life is defined by the book and one day, telling the story of their lives in that one day just as Woolf envisioned it in her book.

I watched the movie again the other day and it struck me that Woolf's words to her husband Leonard at the end of the movie define not only the book but the lives of the three women: "Someone must die so that the rest of us should value life more." This from a woman who took her own life because she could not bear the burden of her mental illness any longer and saw what it was doing to her friends. She died so that those she loved would value life the more--and have a life to live. Death is the current that runs through each of the character's lives. It is an ever present specter that haunts their thoughts and steps.

At the end of the day someone is dead, but the story is not finished because Woolf must also decide Mrs. Dalloway's future. In so doing the futures of all three women are also decided. Woolf writes her strongest book. Laura Brown sets the course of her future. Clarissa Vaughn sees and finally knows true happiness. And in the final moments of the movie the real theme is revealed.

Death is an ever present specter in all our lives, although we manage to ignore him quite handily until he is about to put his skeletal claw upon us or someone we love. Then death becomes all too real and we realize we can no longer postpone the inevitable. What follows is a frantic binge of life.

All too often we mortgage our present for the future, a future that may not come, but a future that will surely end in death. Death is the only sure bet. But we postpone thinking about death until it touches us and continue to pile up our treasures for the future and old age, forgetting to live in the moment. We don't value life.

We put up with unhappiness and discomfort waiting for some bright future that may never come. We live for appearances, doing what looks right but never feels right. We follow guidelines and paths set down by others even when they aren't right for us. We do everything but what our hearts tell us to do. And we lose life, letting it slip through our fingers believing that there will be a tomorrow and a tomorrow after that, and so on, when we will finally be able to do what we really want to do, what stirs us and makes us happy. Too many of us are dead inside and just haven't figured that out, walking dead who haven't the sense to lie down in the graves they have dug so carefully and furnished so well, like the Etruscans who left only their beautiful and well appointed tombs to show the ever existed.

We furnish our tombs with the latest and most cutting edge technology, the brightest and most expensive furniture and tools and toys, with fancy china that never makes it out of the cupboard because it's too nice for every day, with 500-thread count sheets that lie in plastic in the linen cabinet, and beautiful clothes for special evenings that are continually postponed until later. We spend money on vacations to exotic locales and fill the days with an itinerary that leaves us breathless and gasping for a moment's rest. We trim the verge and mow the lawn, lavishly casting chemicals and fertilizers about, ruthlessly waging war on ants and bugs and crab grass that spoils the look of the perfect lawn. We richly furnish rooms that no one is allowed inside. We collect toys and lures and all manner of things just to leave them in the boxes because they're worth more that way. We work longer hours for bigger, fancier, and more expensive houses, cars, and luxuries that we never enjoy. We put everything into our tombs without ever having lived. We choose death in life when we should walk away from all that makes us unhappy, from living for someone else or someone else's expectations.

One of the characters tells another that when he dies she will have to face living.

Who has to die to make us value life and face living?

Googling

Ever Google yourself? I did this morning because I was searching for an article, profile actually, I wrote that was translated into Polish I wanted to show a friend. I found more than I expected--much more.

I found out there are a few notable scientists and literary characters who share my nom de plume. I found out that I had won honorable mention in a contest with one of my stories, Daytona Summer. I found out some of my work has been republished without my permission or notice. I found lots and lots of links to stories and articles and essays I've written. But the most surprising bit of all, besides the contest, was finding out that I have been quoted in a book in the very first paragraph. I was called a biographer.

Granted, I have written lots of profiles, but I've never been called a biographer. This is also the first time a book has even openly referred to me or to my work even though I know some books have taken their inspiration from articles I have written.

If this is the tip of the iceberg that's going to hit my life this year, it's a bloody big one.

I was contacted last night by an Indian publisher (in India of course) about publishing some of my work, a couple of novels in fact. I was also given some information about a Canadian publisher who is interested as well. Pretty good. An American writer who will be published internationally before I'm published here in the States. Being translated into six different languages is one thing, but a novelist read by millions of Indians and translated into Bengali is pretty interesting. I guess this newborn year has lots of surprises in store for me. I love surprises, don't you?

I'll shut up now.

The power of the people...and the BLOG

If you want a look at what blogging has become and where it just might go in the future check out the Free Republic reporting of a Time magazine article about the phenomenon of blogging and what it has done to Dan Rather's news career.

However, in one quote in the article, ham radio has been relegated, spuriously, to an "...embarrassing hobby...", which it most certainly is not and has never been.

Most of you know that I have been studying to pass the exams for my ham radio operator's license. In the course of that study I have learned more about electronics and history and people than I ever thought possible, opening a whole new vista for me of ideas and science that was denied me because I'm a girl. My family had strange and archaic ideas about what a girl should and shouldn't be interested in and I have never been mainstream or typical of that mind set. I'm still not.

For instance, how about a quick look at one ham operator's point of view or a closer look at an Indian ham operator's point of view at the heart of the tsunami devastation. And don't forget, the ham operator in question is a housewife.

Talk about your "...embarrassing hobb[ies]..."

That is all. Disperse