Think you know me?

I have a chakra cleansing and balancing box I bought at the metaphysical fair a year ago September. I had loaned it to Nel because she needed it for help with her headaches and none of the tests she had undergone (MRI, CT scan, etc.) had shown any physical problem causing her pain. The box helped. Nel gave the box back to me the day before my mother and sisters came over to have me fix the salmon patties Mom had been talking about for weeks. I had showed it to Beanie earlier and explained how it worked. Beanie couldn't get the pendulum to move so I checked the state of her chakras and then did the balancing and cleansing while she inhaled the special oils made for each of the seven major chakras.

When Mom and Carol came over the next day the box was still out on the coffee table. Mom wanted to know what it was and Beanie opened it up and showed her, explaining what she remembered and asking me to fill in the blanks. I was a little apprehensive because Mom is such a hard line Freewill Baptist and the whole idea of chakras, etc., is pagan. Mom couldn't make the pendulum move either, so I showed her how it worked. She was fascinated. I was surprised, more surprised than when she commented on how much she liked my pentacle necklace with the amethyst in the center, a necklace I don't take off. I thought I knew her, but I realized that you cannot ever really know anyone completely.

People change. Ideas about religion and politics and even life change as we experience more, learn more, are exposed to more. Narrow views get narrower out of fear of losing touch with the realities that keep people anchored to a world they know, one that makes sense, and sometimes narrow views are widened and allowed to change and grow as we change and grow. By being open about my beliefs and my life, despite some reticence on my part to tread softly on dangerous ground, my mother has opened her mind just a little bit.

There was a time when I was afraid to acknowledge my beliefs or my lifestyle because of the punishment and censure that would certainly follow. I gave that up a while ago. Like Peter who denied Christ three times before the cock crowed (yes, I know about stuff like that) I denied my beliefs, beliefs that are a big part of who I am and what I believe. My denial wasn't verbal but silent. I wouldn't say anything that would give me away to my family or people who might judge me and call down the wrath of heaven, denial by omission. I talked about my faith with like-minded people and those who recognized me but not with people in my life who mattered to me, and the people who mattered to me didn't know me. I didn't allow them to know me. I hid behind silence. I don't hide anything about myself any more. I want people to know who I am and to have no illusions, and I have found that the people who matter to me still accept me despite my differences.

It is doubtful anyone will ever truly know me inside and out or that I will know anyone else that way. At least people will get pretty close to knowing me well because I no longer hide behind silence or in groups of like-minded people. I am an open book to anyone who takes the time to read.

Cockroaches and light

A few days ago I posted the review an author questioned and a link to the LJ post she made about the review (although very little about the review) with a laundry list of garbage she needed to air out. The next day the post was locked and made friends only so her admittedly public post that she refused to lock down in her own LJ could be read by me. She hoped that someone would send me the link or a piece of the post (which someone did) so that I could read what she thought about me. I was not surprised by her action before or after I responded simply by allowing her words to stand next to the review. I did take the precaution of copying the entire post and saving it so that it would still be available when she found out people were reading her public post and comparing it to the review that she failed to link or quote, either of which would have been fine with me. I have a copyright on my reviews, as does Author Link for whom I also do book reviews, but I am not ashamed of my words or my reviews and have been proud to have authors quote me in press releases, on their web sites and even on jacket copy. I am not afraid of the truth or the light.

Earlier today I received an email from the author who commented on the blog where I posted the entire copy of her post with the appropriate citations. She accused me of infringing on her copyright of the material and demanded I take the post down. I commented in return, not even a little surprised that she chose to comment on that particular blog rather than here on LJ where people on her list who also share me as a friend could read what she wrote. It is apparent that unlike me she is not willing to let her words stand the cold harsh light of truth.

I made the post private so it is no longer available to be read publicly and I await an answer from a legal consultant as to what constitutes copyright infringement in this case. However, anyone who has not read the post and still wishes to compare it to the review, which is public and will remain public, I will email a copy of her post in its entirety.

A short while ago this same author, who had sent me emails from time to time commenting on public posts here on LJ, wrote this to me:

"Yes, I still read your journal on LJ because I find it's one of the most honest and erudite around. Just had to say today's post was a memorable one -- and so true!"

The email was long and I will also email a copy of it to anyone who wishes the read the whole text. As it was sent to me, there are no copyright infringement issues.

I do find it interesting that someone who praises my honesty privately will take the time to defame me privately where no one except for her followers can see what is really going on without providing proof of her claims. I let the truth stand side by side because I have nothing to fear from anyone for my actions or my opinions. However, once the light is on she scurries for cover unwilling to stand by what she says, choosing rather to hide behind questions of copyright infringement.

Since we parted company more than a year ago I have not found the need or the desire to venture over to her journal to read what she says, although I heard that immediately after the break she made her journal friends only. After being sent a piece of the now infamous post about my review, I did go look for the rest of the post, and you have seen the results.

I lock very few posts and then only when it will spoil a gift or a surprise for a friend who reads my journal. Instead I prefer to write publicly and stand unashamed in the harsh, cold light of truth.

You have seen her words. She continues to read my LJ every day. This is not something she wants universally known and no doubt was pure flattery for the single minded purpose of gaining a glowing review for her book. Had the breach between us been mended or had I allowed myself to trust her, I would still have written the same review, which is not what the author wants to hear. Since she has failed in her task to woo me to her side and get a glowing review she seeks to hide the truth and her motives.
I have one question for her? If my opinion doesn't matter, why are you "fixated" on my one review?

In case you're wondering, the author is none other than LJ's own otherwise known as nocturnalmuse on DeadJournal aka Bev Walton-Porter.

If you're interested in the original post before she hunts it down and demands it be deleted, check it out.

That is all. Disperse.

Gifts that keep on giving

Mom was sick the entire time she was here, but she said it wasn't the altitude, despite the fact the same thing happened the last time she was here. Beanie sneezed and snotted the whole time. She thought it was because of Kittysocks next door. I don't have an allergy to cats but the last few days Beanie was here I sneezed and snotted. I seldom get sick. I've been sick all weekend with fever and insomnia and alternating bloody and snotty nose. Between the fever and going to the bathroom every 20-30 minutes (happens when I have a fever) I didn't get any sleep. I dozed from time to time sitting upright because I couldn't breathe otherwise. All in all, a wonderful gift from my family and one I can't return.

I did get some more good news this weekend. The new editor at Byline Magazine bought one of my articles. Two more anthologies have picked up stories I submitted and I got a tentative yes on another anthology. I need to do a little pruning, but otherwise it looks like I have another sale. Not too bad for working in a little writing during the week.

With the way is going I am going to have to pay off on my offer to cover a contest entry fee. I am happy about that. I haven't seen the stories but I know she's working hard and coming up with a lot of writing. That's good enough for me. I have thought about putting together a fund to help writers pay contest entry fees. Writers sometimes need one less excuse to keep writing and submitting.

I enter the odd contest here and there but I mostly submit my work to paying markets. With the raise I got from Author Link last month for reviews I write for them I am slowly but surely increasing my writing income. I still can't believe I've been a staff reviewer for Author Link for over three years now. Times goes by so quickly. So quickly in fact that it's nearly time for NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month to all you nonwriter types). I plan to finish one book and maybe even get another one at least halfway finished before the end of November. Two more books for me to send out and make the rounds. I did promise one editor that I would give them first look since they're publishing my book on Andre Norton in 2008. I may even see if I can buy back my biobibliography on Charlton Heston from the publisher who originally bought it to see if I can update it and sell it elsewhere. The publisher who bought the book was bought out by another publisher who shelved the series. It wouldn't take much work to do the update. They might not allow me to buy the rights but it's worth a shot.

I foresee a very busy winter if I can just get rid of this sinus problem and get some rest. Lots of work to keep me busy. Photographs to take, cemeteries to visit, books to write and edit and books to read and review. No matter how many times I tell authors how long it will take before I can review their books they tell me they're willing to wait, however long it takes. I have a lot of books to get through already and I certainly don't lack for reading material.

On that note, it's time for me to get back to it.

That is all. Disperse.

Growth

Over 25 years ago I put tooth picks in an avocado pit and suspended it over a glass full of water. It sprouted. When I moved away Dad adopted the plant and tells me from time to time how it is doing. Ohio isn't the best place to grow avocados but wherever Dad lives is. The little plant I left 25+ years ago is a tree taller than me or my father or even my brother.

Yesterday at the bus terminal Mom noticed a tree and asked me what it was. "That's like your tree. What is it?"

"An avocado tree."

"You should see how big it is. Your elephant ears and schefflera are huge," she said showing how big with her hands. I had seen how big they were. Beanie brought pictures.

In some small way, even though I am missing from family get-togethers I am still there in spirit in the reality of my plants and tree that Dad tends and keeps growing. I wasn't noticed when I lived closer but we seldom notice something unless it is missing and we always looking for it, not content with what we have. The missing factor extends parasitic tendrils to every part of our lives and how we view ourselves.

Seldom happy with what we have or what we are we search for the missing ingredient that will make our lives better, happier, more fulfilled.

In China the standard of beauty was small feet. Baby girls' feet were bound tightly to achieve the ideal of beauty. Pain and beauty were inextricably linked. We think we have evolved beyond such barbaric practices but we haven't. Look around. Women are having their feet surgically altered to fit into Manolo Blahniks. Putting your best foot forward takes on a whole new meaning. Women searching for that ever changing and always elusive perfect beauty are having ribs removed for a slimmer torso, liposuction, tummy tucks and all manner of plastic surgery to get what they're missing--perfection, a perfection defined by advertising campaigns. We buy the next miracle fluid, treatment, cosmetic to bring us closer to perfection while inside we stop growing and maturing. Women have borne the brunt of the pursuit of perfect beauty, but men are following closely behind.

Women like my mother, and female friends I have known, refuse to be seen without makeup, their best clothes and shoes or acrylic nails, even to the point of turning people away from the door or hiding until the unannounced guest is gone, unless they're lucky enough to have someone answer the door for them and offer their apologies for being indisposed. After all, who would want them as they are sans improvements? In some cases they are right.

There is nothing inside them. They have about as much depth as a drying rain puddle. While they spend all their time and money on the latest miracle product or procedure their personality and emotional depth stagnate. To cover for what is really missing they learn to mimic real emotions, keeping the surface calm and serene with occasional emotional outbursts that have more to do with guilt and manipulation than any actual emotional sensibility and feelings. S/he has such a lovely personality and is intelligent have become curses instead of compliments. It all comes down to surface appeal and faking the rest as realistically as possible without ruining makeup and hair. Don't look beneath the surface. There isn't anything there and there is a strong vested interest in keeping the facade intact.

I am reminded of Flavor of the Month by Olivia Goldsmith. The book detailed three women who hide their real identities behind surgical alterations and makeup and costume, something Ms. Goldsmith knew intimately. She died on the table while undergoing a face lift.

One of my cousins, a very beautiful woman, died a week after having liposuction when she threw a blood clot, all in the pursuit of someone else's idea of beauty. We all have our idiosyncrasies and feelings of inadequacy, allowing others' opinions determine our self worth.

In an over exposed, reality TV, tell-all world there is no room for anonymity or for letting our intelligence and words and abilities speak for themselves. We may no longer bind baby girls' feet. Instead we bind their psyches and souls, their intellects and personalities, forcing them into a painful and constricting mold of an ever changing acceptable form determined by those who do not know us and do not care, when what we should strive to achieve is growth.

That is all. Disperse.

Good news, really bad news

While I was at the bus station waiting with my mother and sisters to leave, Carol called Dad. He was just leaving the hospital after his appointment. Dad has been having some pain in his spine and pelvis and his PSA (prostatic specific antigen) has been rising, a sure sign of cancer somewhere. The cancer has metastasized into his spine and pelvis. Dad has a bioprosthetic bovine heart valve and cannot take chemotherapy. He also cannot take radiation therapy because he had XRT when the prostate cancer was first diagnosed. The solution is to remove both his testicles. It's an outpatient procedure and will eliminate the source of the hormone feeding the cancer. The up side is that he will stop losing his hair, so my best guess is that the hormone they're eliminating is DHT.

A local ham, George, died earlier this year from cancer. His primary was prostate cancer and the cancer metastasized into his bones. He was dead within a year of treatment and he lost his testicles, too. The outlook isn't good for Dad. He may surprise us all. I surely hope so.

At least there is some good news. I have been asked to contribute photos to a book on Colorado and for covers of some other books. I will get credit and cash. I will be rephotographing some sites photographed several years ago on my high resolution digital. This may also lead to some other jobs photographing local wildlife and scenery. I wouldn't consider myself a professional photographer, but it is possible I'll get better with practice. I've been told I have a good eye for composition. That's half the battle?

Well, the landlady just brought up a food bag and I sent her back downstairs with a few pieces of Beanie's oatmeal cake. We're both really happy, especially with elk soon on the menu. One of the neighbors offered fresh killed elk to the landlady and she asked me if I know what to do with it. Boy, do I. Fresh elk meat and a lovely landlady for a neighbor. Add a new baby next door at the Lon Chaney house within the next day or so and there's quite a bit of good news coming down the pike.

I want my parents to live forever, or at least until I'm gone. I know that isn't possible or even probable at this point but it doesn't stop me wanting them to hang around, even when Mom is in one of her evil moods. As there is a cycle of seasons, so, too, there is a cycle of life--and death. I know this and I accept the inevitability of death. Like the baby being born right now who will soon come home next door, life goes on. The elk nourishes many people, giving its life for continued life and health. My father and mother will die and there will be new lives to take their places, new lives that might even touch mine in some way. I can live with that.

Friday the 13th

It's probably appropriate in some alternate universe that my usually commercial-free television is haunted by commercials on this of all days. Beanie just can't stand missing her programs.

How cool is it that Friday the 13th comes during the month of All Hallow's Eve/Halloween/Samhain? Technically, Samhain is on the 21st, but I won't quibble about that. This is my favorite time of year. Caramel apples, popcorn balls and trick or treaters roaming the twilight streets in search of sugar rushes, trees and houses to TP and windows to soap. Unfortunately, there will be no bonfires and that is sad. I miss the bonfires and dressing up like goblins and ghouls and vampires and such.

This week has certainly been a long one. Beanie can't seem to sit still, which is probably why she has lost so much weight. Mom has been evil and Carol fixated on Starbuck's. Mom has been eating pancakes all the time and threatening to toss her pancakes at every opportunity. We didn't go up the cog railway because Mom couldn't get out of bed yesterday. They did find a local secondhand bookstore with plenty of books to look over and buy. They also took a quick tour of the shops in Manitou Springs and I showed them Miramont Castle in Manitou Springs (known around here as Witch Central). I also took them by the cottage I almost rented, the last house on the left in Manitou Springs. For dinner yesterday we ended up at Perkins. Mom did her usual near cookie toss routine at the restaurant, saying she was full "up to here" and couldn't eat another bite--until we passed a Dairy Queen. Mom wanted a hot fudge sundae to "cool her froat". I don't understand how hot fudge (or, in her case, extra hot fudge) can cool a sore throat, but we were past it. Mom did her usual whine and dance until I pulled into a gas station to turn around. "Oh, you don't have to go back there." I told her that if I turned to go back to the motel I would not go back to the DQ. She changed her tune quickly. We went back to the DQ for hot fudge with a little DQ soft serve for Mom and a small chocolate cone with sprinkles and a cup of extra sprinkles. I dropped Mom and Carol off at the motel and Beanie and I came home.

Today's the day though. This afternoon they board the bus for Denver and the Amtrak home, but not after a long trip to the antique mall downtown. I can hardly wait.

There is scarier news. The ham radio club has elected new officers. Even though the VP had another year to go on his term he is now the president and his wife is secretary. I'm so thrilled. Talk about your scary propositions. Mike and Susan (Pres and Sec) are the ones who gave me all the grief about cutting the deadline so close when sending out the newsletter, even though they are the ones who pick it up from the printer and mail it. I moved the deadline the 25th of the month and have the newsletter at the printer's and ready to be picked up by the 1st of each month but somehow they never seem to be able to get it out before the weekend before the club meeting, which they said was cutting it too close when I had the newsletter was printed and ready by then in months when the club meeting was on the 8th. The members had their copies of the newsletter two days before the meeting but it wasn't good enough. Club meetings are the second Wednesday of the month and some months that's very early in the month, the earliest being the 8th.

Oh, well, at least now they will have to talk to me directly instead of telling someone else who has to tell me. I hate all that backdoor crap.

That is all. Disperse.

When authors aren't professional

If you're interested in professional and unprofessional publishing drama or want to read the review and the comments and make up your own mind:
The review in question.

The ancient forms of astrology have more to offer than a guide for every day living. Astrology can help you or hinder you as a writer.

Sun Signs For Writers promises to do just that: make the best of your astrological sign to be a better and more productive writer. Fulfilling that promise proves to be harder than it looks.

Bev Walton-Porter combines her in-depth knowledge of astrology and her success as a published writer in Sun Signs, taking the basics of each astrological sun sign and offering tips and exercises to make the most of strengths and bolster weaknesses. The mix of writing how-to and astrology is a natural in theory. In practice, there are far too many gaps.

Sun Signs repeats the same information in several places, as though the author ran out of material and needed to fill the space to be consistent. The overall execution is inconsistent. Walton-Porter is methodical and steady in everything but the details, mixing metaphors and failing to link Dos and Don’ts with several of the signs, opting instead to recycle generic writing tips that apply to every writer regardless of astrological sign. In some areas the focus is too narrow, as if writing about a specific person, but opts for a scatter gun pattern in other areas, filling up space with repetitious information and tips.

In one section, Geminis are characterized as having difficulty with concentration and focus. Walton-Porter suggests moving from one subject to another to get through writer’s block, which would add fuel to the fire when it comes to lack of focus. Brainstorming is a good idea for signs that tend to be more rigid, like Virgo, but not quixotic and changeable Gemini. In the same chapter, Geminis are urged to focus on one task at a time and not allow their minds to wander, the opposite of brainstorming.

The graphics and art work are beautiful. The chapters are set up in logical and easy to read order, everything a reference book should be. Sun Signs for Writers has the ingredients of a solid resource but needs work to tighten up the gaps and broaden the viewpoint.

Personal asides offer a friendly bridge between author and reader but dull the point of a book meant as a general reference. Treasure Sun Signs for Writers for its art work and recycle it when a less flawed resource comes along, or when a revised edition of this one comes along.


The author's comments are copied directly from her Live Journal page verbatim. The full post has been edited to prevent further claims of copyright infringement and so that the terms of "fair use" can be met. The comments here pertain only to the review.

As per nocturnalmuse / elementalmuse: "...although there have been 9 top-rate reviews of Sun Signs for Writers, I find myself fixating on the one review written by a former friend who, for some reason, is on a vendetta to hurt me whenever she can find a way. I don't mind if you don't like the book, because there are many people who won't and I accept that. People are different and they have different opinions. However, trashing a book just to get to the author because you have a personal vendetta that you JUST WON'T GIVE UP FOR SOME REASON is beyond abhorrent. However, despite this person's prolonged venom toward me, I wish her well. I don't know what I ever did to her to warrant this crap. It's okay if you despise me, but if you cannot review my book without allowing personal prejudice (that has nothing to do with the book) color your review, then please be honest with yourself (and everyone else) about your intentions and don't review it. I expect some people not to like the book...but I hope it's because they don't like it for what it is and not who I am in my personal life.

...you were busy trashing me as a person and a writer. Trashing me as a writer is one thing; trashing me as a human being by using lies is quite another."

Nobody does it better

With a nod to Carole King for the lyrics, what she says is true. Nobody does it better, and writers are no exception.

Despite Shakespeare's enduring language, being the perennial subject of movies and inclusion in the curricula of nearly every university in the world, J.R.R. Tolkien despised him and considered Shakespeare a hack.

One of my favorite books, a birthday gift from Don, is Fighting Words. Even when the venomous quill pens of famous, and infamous, writers are employed in trashing their fellow writers, gems are dropped.

Excerpts from the book:

"The more I read him the less I wonder that they poisoned him." Thomas Babington Macauley on Socrates

"Aristotle invented science, but destroyed philosophy." Alfred North Whitehead on Aristotle

"Aristotle was famous for everything. He taught that the brain exists mainly to cool the blood and is not involved in the process of thinking. This is true only of certain persons." Will Cuppy on Aristotle

"Virgil's great judgment appears in putting things together, and in picking gold out of the dunghills of old Roman writers." Alexander Pope on Virgil

"As great a poet as Dante might have been, I wouldn't have had the slightest wish to know him. He was a terrible prima donna." W. H. Auden on Dante

"Chaucer, notwithstanding the praises bestowed on him, I think obscene and contemptible: he owes his celebrity merely to antiquity." Lord Byron on Geoffrey Chaucer

"Dr. Donne's verses are like the peace of God; they pass all understanding." James I on John Donne

That is all. Disperse.

Once more into the breach

I have been informed that a review I wrote doesn't sit well with the author. That happens. I have said, and continue to say, that that one man's trash is another man's treasure and that reviewing anything is very subjective. I am by no means the last authority on anything other than my opinion based on my experience. However, there were some comments aimed at me that are not subjective and those I will answer.

First of all, I love nearly everything Stephen King writes, almost all of which I have read, but even he hits some clunkers from time to time. J. K. Rowling, other than being a bit long-winded at times makes up for her wordiness by engaging the reader so much you forget you just read over 500 pages. I have never found fault with either writer and I look forward to their books like I looked forward to Xmas morning as a child. I don't care for Tom Clancy's writing but I'm not much into male escapist fantasy. I have the same problem with Clive Cussler, which the writer didn't mention. I adore the first chapter of Clive Cussler's books for the history he illustrates so realistically but he loses me down the road. A close friend and well known writer adored Cussler's books. I don't. I don't consider any of these writers hacks or sell-outs. I never have. I wish I had been as lucky and were as well read. And, yes, luck plays a very big part in being published.

Contrary to what the author says, I do not consider her a hack. I consider her a very good writer who has worked hard for what she has achieved. A lot of that shows in her current book, which I reviewed honestly. The structure of the book is easy to read and well planned. The execution, in my opinion, leaves a little to be desired. The focus was inconsistent, sometimes chatty and personal and other times vague and generic as if the author were filling up space because she had locked herself into a specific number of entries. I did not see, nor did the author relate, how some of the list pertained to a specific astrological sign and I gave an example. There were many examples, but I keep my reviews short and to the point so I don't belabor any specific point. Knowing the author's nonfiction articles as I do it was easy to see where her experience filled in the blanks but the author was writing a book for a specific purpose -- how to optimize your astrological pluses and minuses -- not publishing or writing in general. I see that as failing to follow through on the purpose of the book and the implicit contract the author has with the reader. I could go on.

I don't review books where I cannot separate my personal relationship from my professional opinion and that was not the case here. I did not publicize the review because I have not had time to do so, but the author commented (and then deleted her comment) hours after the review was posted. I guess my opinion mattered to her, just not the one I gave. I have given similar reviews to authors I have known for years, writers I respect. They have treated me with more professionalism.

The author also says that I should be writing my own books instead of criticizing those writers whose books are on the shelves. There she has a point. I spent the past fifteen years writing other people's books and allowing them to put their names on the books, taking my check to the bank and spending it. The words are mine but the fame and recognition is not mine. Does that mean I'm not good enough to get my own work published? Obviously not since the words were mine, as were the proposals that earned the contracts.

My review of the book was not a rave nor did I turn my thumb down. The book has a lot to commend it but it needs work to be the best it can be and I know it can be better. It is not sour grapes to yell tripe when tripe is served. The book is unique in its approach and its subject matter but it will not remain unique unless the author is willing to take a good hard look and see where the book could be better instead of descending to personal attacks and checking her opinions with friends willing to jump on her band wagon instead of looking at the review and my criticisms with a neutral and unbiased eye. Maybe the author would not be so "...fixated on this one review..." if she didn't see some truth. In fact, the author should have followed the advice given to writers under the sign of Aquarius and avoid self-indulgent run-on sentences with fifty cent words when shorter, punchier sentences would have been better.

The author also mentions holding out the olive branch of friendship as if it was a selfless act. Coming as it did after she found out I was going to review the book that olive branch could be seen as self serving. I have returned politeness for politeness, but it is this very attitude that keeps me from taking hold of the proffered olive branch. Honesty is not tolerated whenever it offers anything other than slavish compliments like those the author cites from her friends and those who say they know me and how I am.

I was willing to let the review remain unpublicized until now. Get the book from a friend or the library and read it for yourselves. Make your own judgment. Don't take my word for it. Don't take my word for any review I write because it is only my considered opinion. Remember only that it is my honest opinion and that I have no axe to grind. More prolific and better known authors have thanked me for my less than stellar reviews adding that while I pointed out some flaws I got what they were saying better than anyone else.

That is all. Disperse.

Decisions, decisions and windshield wipers

Ever make a decision and wonder if you did the right thing? Of course you have. I know I have. I did yesterday. I decided to walk down to the motel...

...in the rain...

...without stretching first.

Can't take it back now.

The Nike running shoes I bought made my feet feel so good and they didn't hurt even after walking a mile or three. Can't say the same thing for the rest of me. My calves hurt. My legs hurt. My ankles hurt. Today my head and sinuses hurt. My feet don't hurt. Who said that if your feet feel good the rest of you will, too, obviously didn't know much. If your feet hurt, the rest of you is bound to follow, but the rest of you can hurt even when your feet feel good.

I walked down to the motel to get a little exercise. I got a lot. Mom decided she wanted to go get something to eat but the KFC down the street was not open yet. There used to be an open KFC there. I ate there once or twice. They're revamping the store, so now it's closed--for a while. Mom and Carol had to check out the hole-in-the-wall bargain mart and found cough drops for 75 cents. I don't know what else they got. I stayed in the car. I am missing the shopping gene. When they came out Denny's was next on the list.

Before we got started I had to walk back home to get the car because Carol and Tracy couldn't get it started even after detailed instructions. I told Mom before I left that as soon as I got in the car it would start. It did. My car doesn't like other people driving him. Thieves wouldn't have a chance. Sometimes he won't start for me, but that's just to slow me down. There have been times when the delay he caused kept me from being in an accident or slowed me down when I was anxious or in a rush that would have put me in harm's way because cops were crawling all over the place and out for speeders. Speeding is why I have a car with cruise control. Keeps me from speeding because I do so like speed and it sneaks up on me the minute I quit paying close attention.

Since the driver's side windshield wiper arm still doesn't work Beanie kept jumping out of the car at stop signs and red lights to sweep the arm across the windshield to clear it for a minute. The rest of the time I was leaning over toward Mom's side of the car to see out a clear windshield. Yes, it was definitely fun times yesterday. The rain was a light mist when I walked to and from the motel but it rained more and more the minute I got into the car and put him in gear. Oh, well. I still think Beanie should have hung onto the roof of the car and worked the wiper arm. She had on a raincoat and she wouldn't have gotten very wet.

So, Denny's for dinner and then over to Wal-Mart so Mom and Carol could shop and Beanie and I could get the ingredients for oatmeal cake (she's doing that one) and salmon patties for Mom (I'm doing those). Mom offered to buy groceries for me but I don't like Wal-Mart and I don't know where anything is. It would have taken hours. I'll take the car over to the mechanic by the King Sooper's and get it fixed today and then go over to the store to buy some groceries now that I have a partial paycheck. They screwed me out of pages again. I'm just so thrilled to work my butt off only to get stiffed time and again. Still, it's a paycheck I can count on at least part of the time.

Tomorrow we go up Pikes Peak on the cog rail at 9:20 AM, providing Carol and Mom can get out of bed in the morning.

That is all. Disperse.

Pain, agony and Sundays

My right thumb is swollen, bruised and stiff. It hurts to move it and since I'm right handed that makes things interesting.

If I hadn't cleaned out the trunk and inside of my car I wouldn't have dislocated my thumb. Thank goodness I don't have to use my thumb to type. Thank goodness I don't have to work this week. Thank goodness my thumb went back in as quickly as it came out. It looked strange and happened so fast I didn't realize what happened. I thought I was seeing things. Looking at my thumb swollen all the way down to my wrist I know it was no dream, no optical illusion and no mistake. I dislocated my thumb. I guess the intense pain afterward and all last night should have been a clue.

It's cold and white outside. Yesterday's sunshine and warmth are gone and I can feel rain in the air. We're going to be stuck here in this apartment watching movies and talking and watching Mom dig through her things like an upscale bag lady hung with gold chains and gems demanding salmon patties. That reminds me I need to make a list and go to the store after I take a shower and put on some warmer clothes.

After Beanie took her shower yesterday she complained it was difficult getting clean because she didn't have a wash cloth to wash her stuff. I said she should have used my puff. Carol said, "You don't want her washing her stuff with your puff." Carol also called and told our brother Jimmy about Beanie washing her stuff with my puff.

Last night Carol called because she wanted Beanie to walk over to the motel so she'd have a smoking buddy. I have a strange family. This will be an interesting, albeit, very strange week, and it's only Sunday.

Can't sleep

Many of my friends and family complain about not being able to sleep. I don't have that problem. Scratch that. I don't usually have that problem, being blessed with the ability to fall asleep anywhere at any time, most while watching television or reading a book lying down. I don't need drugs, those television and books work just fine. Granted, I did go to bed early and fell asleep reading an article in The Writer and I woke up because of a very full bladder, but I don't feel like sleeping and I know from experience that sleeping is now out of the question. I don't get that feeling often, but when it surfaces... On the plus side, I did get about five hours of sleep and caught up on sending out review links to authors, so that is something.

Maybe that's the problem. I have writing and work on my mind, especially since I've been asked to write an article and teach a class on reviewing books, something I have done professionally for one company for 3.5 years. Maybe there's a book in there, maybe not. I have enough on my plate right now and don't have another clear spot anywhere...and yet there is a part of me that would love to earn a little more money teaching what I know.

That's something else that is on my mind. While talking to Lynn last night I learned that my BA in English could lead to substitute teaching and that I don't need a Master's degree or Ph.D. I probably would have to get a teaching certificate, but I have the credentials to sub for $100 a day, average. It would be a nice way to supplement my income but it would also mean buying clothes to wear to work and actually leaving the house to work, neither of which is tempting in any way, shape or fashion. Over the years I have gotten used to working in whatever I felt like wearing -- or not wearing -- and not having someone breathe down my neck or make me conform to more than basic work rules. I like having some autonomy and freedom with a regular paycheck, and I save money on gas and clothing and makeup and any number of items to repair and maintain on my car, which I currently drive about once a week just to keep in practice and give the car a workout. There are worse ways to make a living. I could be working for Wal-Mart like Dad.

And that's another thing on my mind: Dad. I called him last night to let him know I talked to Beanie. After telling him they were in Iowa when I last spoke to Beanie, I asked how he was managing with Mom and about how she acted when they traveled together. I got a shock. She talks incessantly and won't shut up between bouts of rummaging through her purse and bags, both problems Beanie mentioned when she said Mom might not make it here since she would be dead, killed by either her or Carol. Dad mentioned the bad word: Alzheimer's. There is a family history. Relatives on both sides of Mom's family had it. She's terrified of it. She may well have it. I keep chalking up the short temper, bursts of forgetfulness and rambling in the middle of a conversation to hardening of the arteries in the brain or just getting old, but in the back of my mind I hear, "It's Alzheimer's." I'll have a chance to see first hand and suggest some tests when she gets home, that is if she goes home.

Dad said he was having a fine time with Mom gone. It's quiet and she's not nagging or yelling at him while he's watching television or reading the paper. I do see his point, but if this is a sneaky way of dumping her on my doorstep in the middle of the night and making off like sneak thieves and bandits, it ain't gonna work. We discussed this before. She lives in Ohio near her three loving children and not here in Colorado. Suddenly I'm worried. Maybe that's why Beanie caved in and let her come along on the trip. They are planning to dump her here. Don't they know Colorado has laws about dumping? Well, I will just have to educate them.

That's it. I won't be able to sleep until they are gone -- preferably with Mom in tow. I don't care how much she talks or how often she roots and rummages through her purse and bags. I have the law on my side. She has to go home.

And I thought Beanie and I were close, that she loved me. Well, we'll just see about that.

That is all. Disperse.

Travels at five

When I was five Dad was stationed in Seaside, California. He was going to the language school there because he had to learn Spanish. We would go to Aberdeen Proving Grounds, Maryland after California and then back to Columbus to Fort Hayes for preparations, shots and such before going to Panama. Dad would go first and find a place to live and we would follow. I didn't know any of this at the time. I was only five. It was still an important time for me.

The year I was five we got a dog, a German Spitz, that killed the pastel colored chicks we got for Easter. Even then Dad had a thing for chickens. The dog was sold to a man who owned a furniture store and one day when I woke up Fritzy was gone. I was devastated over the loss of the chicks but even more so over the loss of Fritzy. To a child, everything is bigger.

When I was five my brother was born, a squirming, squalling creature who didn't like having his diaper changed and marked his displeasure, and everything and everyone around him, by urinating on them. He always missed me. Either I was too fast or not annoying enough, but he never hit me. He hit my sister, Carol, in the mouth the day Dad brought him home from the hospital. He also got Dad's chest, arced a spray across my grandparents and decorated the wall in dripping yellow.

When I was five someone told me that flowers were good to eat and I made myself sick on some of them and earned a spanking. That was the same year I ran away. For the first time in my life, I got angry and said I'd run away because I didn't want to be spanked any more. Mom told me to pack my suitcase and leave. I did. I remember packing my favorite book, a few play clothes and my hairbrush in my little brown suitcase and carrying it to the sun porch where Mom was ironing. The extension cord she had used to lash my legs a few moments before danced behind her in a brown dipping arc while she ironed the clothes. I told her I was going. She said goodbye. I walked out the door.

I'm sure she didn't think I'd get any farther than the road that went past our yard. She was wrong. I walked across the sprawling green yard, turned left and walked alongside the road. I wasn't allowed on the road and I would never cross it without my parents or grandparents with me. I must have been a sight to behold with my little brown suitcase bumping against my leg, a determined look on my face and red welts crisscrossing my legs. There were no tears in my eyes, just a fiery determination to get as far away from my mother as possible. I walked two miles and right into the next town where I was stopped by a kind police officer who picked me up, talked to me about why I was running away and took me back. I didn't get a spanking when I got home. After all, Mom told me to leave. She just didn't know I would.

We lived out in the country in what I remember as a big house on the outside and a small space on the inside where I shared a bedroom with my sister just off the living room where my father danced with us while Frank Sinatra and the big bands played in the background. On one side of our country house was a high fence surrounding the home of a Japanese man when I was five. Gram took me with her one day when she went to visit. I walked from an open, unstudied wildness into a fairy land of angles and circles of green and brilliant color marked with graveled paths and full of birds and butterflies. As I stood on the deck of the house under a roof walkway I was stunned into silence by the overwhelming beauty of the garden. I never suspected there was such beauty and perfection in the whole world and I wandered along the paths, my fingers bare millimeters from the flowers, trees and statues placed in perfect symmetry along the path afraid to touch anything for fear it would disappear.

My grandmother called me and I followed, reluctantly leaving a paradise I knew in my heart I would never be allowed to enter again. Gram had the cuttings our Japanese neighbor had given her and I had only the memory of what fairy land really looked like. I longed to preserve that vision the year I was five and hoarded the memory in a secret place in my heart, taking it out whenever I was sad or lost or feeling ignored. It was a memory I polished frequently and put carefully away.

That same year Gram and Grandpa got Cheela, a little brown chihuahua they took home with them once Mom was safely home from her long stay in the hospital. They drove from Ohio to California with us when Mom was pregnant with my brother and returned back across the country with their dog. I missed them terribly. I missed the smell of Gram's cooking and Grandpa's pipes and the way Grandpa let me comb his hair and light his cigarettes for him as I sat on his knee. Most of all, I missed the possibility of Gram taking me back to our Japanese neighbor's garden.

It didn't take too long to move into a new rhythm without my grandparents, a rhythm surrounded by family and my new brother and wrapped around with music. As the year spun from summer to fall, the music changed from Sinatra and Harry James to the crashing crescendos and melodious swirls and eddies of classical music. Rachmaninoff heralded Halloween while my sister and I dressed in beggar's rags and Mom painted our faces. Dad taught us a little rhyme we recited at every house before holding out our begging sacks. "Tonight, tonight is Beggar's Night. Don't be stingy and give us a bite." We came home with bright eyes and glowing cheeks spanked pink by the winds, eager to turn out sacks. We shared our booty with Mom and Dad, happily biting into candied or caramel apples and licking our fingers after crunching through popcorn balls. Sated and tired from all the excitement, we didn't protest when it was time to go to bed, dreamily clutching some special treat in grubby hands.

By Christmas we were back in Ohio, my sister and I sleeping on the roll away bed in Gram and Grandpa's living room and waking to huge walking dolls with brown hair for me and blonde hair for my sister and a glittering mound of presents. Our time with them was short before we moved on to Maryland and the snowy mounds and scattered forts at the edge of the long rows of military houses on base.

The last few weeks before I turned six were filled with snowball fights and new friends to make. Our quiet music filled life in the country became a noisy music filled life full of people coming and going, adults playing cards, drinking and dancing on the weekends and days filled with lots of other children and soon school and buses and books and fights and tears and a whole new world.

When you're five, everything seems more magical and wonderful, bigger and brighter. Even at this distance the views have lost none of their bright glitter. The rooms don't seem smaller or the land less grand because they remain only memories in this traveler's mind.

A writer's life for me

I have been so busy with work I have not had a lot of time to write and I have a ton of writing to do. I have articles to finish and books to read and review and more books come in each day. I wonder how all these authors got my name and email. It's probably due to being a reviewer for Author Link for the past 3-1/2 years and now reviewing for The Celebrity Cafe. I review for other sites, too, but I've worked with Author Link the longest. Good thing there is a library close by because I donate the books authors send me to the library. Some of the good ones I share with friends.

The funny thing is that I try to discourage authors by telling them how long my review list is but they are willing to wait -- even when I cannot in good conscience give them a good review. Reviews are only a small part of my writing but they do help pay the bills. In fact, my boss at Author Link emailed me on Monday with a laundry list of books she wants me to put on the fast track. That means putting the other books on hold until I get these done. Good thing I'm on vacation next week so I can catch up on my reading. Hopefully, I'll be able to catch up on my writing, too. I need to finish four stories for anthologies I've been asked to contribute to and I have to finish the editing on my book or I'll miss my deadline. I also want to finish writing the current book and get a little sleep. At least I don't have to drive anywhere next week since my mother and sisters are renting a car. I can sit in the front seat and read, especially if Carol is driving, so I don't have to worry about getting hit until after it happens. Nothing like an impending crash to unsettle my concentration.

I feel a little harried these days with everything on my plate, but I keep thinking about the pay-off. No more life as a wage slave.

Last week, I took a walk down into Old Colorado City with Pastor because I needed to get out and away from work and writing and everything else. I needed to smell the roses even though they are blown. Bancroft Park is just two blocks from here and it's a little haven of trees and grass and flowers no matter what time of year it is. Old Colorado City has quite a few little festivals throughout the year and October is the month for Scarecrow Days. Tourists from Iowa with their dead daughter's dog, Muffy were more interested in the ice cream at the Rocky Mountain Chocolate Factory than in the beautiful pansies and flowers. I was more interested in the sights and sounds and a closer view of snow-capped Pikes Peak than I had when I was at the grocery store staring at its beautiful snowy face in the Indian summer sunshine.

That is all. Disperse.

Constant change

I have noticed that since I got the digital camera I write less about what I see and take more pictures. For the first time in my life my pictures come out pretty good and I don't have to wait for them. Every time I look up from my computer monitor and look outside something new catches my eye and I run for the camera. Even last night, lying on the couch watching the original animated series, Aeon Flux, I glanced out the window and the clouds were purple and the sky was darkening and full of rose and copper fire. The colors changed from moment to moment as more charcoal and darkness muted the colors until the final blaze was a glorious mix of red, pink, purple, lilac, lavender, rose and copper, the clouds smudges over the fire filled horizon like the sun did not want to give up the sky and fought a final battle before sinking below the hills. That line of golden coppery fire in the deeps between the peaks beneath the clouds and the deepening blue of the night sky glinted off the stars as they winked into view. This morning, as every morning, was the same in reverse with the sun blooding the horizon and turning the skies and clouds every pastel shade every dreamt.

I notice light more than I did before and probably not as much as I once did when I painted, but light changes everything from the clear greens and yellows and oranges in the full daylight to deepening shades back lit with fire as the sun goes down the sky and slips below the horizon. Just before the sun disappears from sight the colors are richer and deeper from that last hint of fire as the sun goes down making everything an intricate tapestry of color and textures different from the morning or daylight views. Everything I see fills me with wonder and I run for the camera to catch the moment and freeze it in time, knowing that the next moment it all will be different and that moment lost.

I don't know if the camera makes me more aware of my surroundings or just makes it possible for me to capture it all. I do know I love taking pictures and seeing what I've captured when I upload it all to my laptop. I even took my camera downstairs to get a picture of the landlady after she finished candling my ears.

When we were out on the deck I saw Eddie puttering around in his yard and asked if I could take his picture. He said no and then turned around and showed me his overall covered backside and said, "Take a picture of that." He laughed and turned around, posing for a front side picture. He has such a great sense of humor and nothing ever gets him down, not even the lumbago that sometimes pushes his head toward his knees when he walks. Even then his smile is evident through the salty pepper tangle of his beard.

When my mother and sisters get here I will take pictures of them to remember them by -- or to make into dart boards. You just never know. I know I do want to show them the beautiful skies and hills and the purple mountain majesty of Pikes Peak and the Continental Divide. Did you know the "purple mountains majesty" of "America the Beautiful" was written about Pikes Peak and the Rockies? Now you do.

Everything is changing so quickly as time speeds by. The golden leaves are nearly off all the trees but a few trees are valiantly hanging onto their green skirts. Tangled branches and twigs once covered with verdant green are now bare, still reaching for the sky. Even the tree the tree hating orc wench who used to live next door was full of leaves and branches this year. With all the rain we have had, everything has been a lush and luxuriant green -- and there is more rain on the way.

Wouldn't you just know there would be rain the whole time my family is here? Even with the rain, I know the skies will clear and that brilliant Colorado blue will sport a few mare's tail clouds among the con trails before the clouds hunch over the horizon and spread their gray rags over everything before bringing the rain. I don't mind. Change is good and one thing is certain in life and in the weather around here -- lots of changes.

That is all. Disperse.

Closer now

I don't understand why people planning a trip expect the person they're visiting to finalize their plans. Doesn't make sense to me.

Beanie didn't even know when they were supposed to get here on Saturday and it looks like Carol is making all the arrangements, at leas that is what it looks like. They don't have any idea what hotel they'll stay in when they get here or what rental company to use for their car. They know when they're leaving on Thursday and how long they'll lay over in Chicago, but everything else seems a bit fuzzy. I called the bus terminal here to find out if there was a rental car agency near by (Enterprise just three blocks down) and called around town to find good rates on a hotel. It isn't that I mind, but you'd think since they have known where they're going and when they'll get here they should have figured all of this out, but...no. Only four more days until they get here.

At least we solved the issue of the oatmeal cake. Beanie makes the best oatmeal cake with broiled coconut-walnut-brown sugar topping. She was going to surprise me and bring it with her but I convinced her it would be better to buy the ingredients here so it would be fresh from the oven (the apartment will smell like oatmeal cake and spices) and Mom wouldn't have snitched the corners already. She can make it when Mom and Carol are at the motel.

Mom informed me yesterday that as soon as she gets here she wants to go to the grocery store and buy the ingredients for me to make her salmon patties with horseradish cream sauce. I knew that was coming. I also promised Beanie I'd make crab cakes and gumbo for her since she hasn't had them since I left Columbus, and that was seven years ago. You'd think the only reason they're coming to visit is for me to cook for them, not that I mind. Almost everyone in our family has a specialty.

Mom makes the best crazy cake you every had, which is definitely old fashioned death by chocolate. She has a special pan for it. She's not so hot when it comes to baked beans. They're good, but inconsistent, sometimes soupy and other times dry and nearly burnt. Mom's specialty seems to be desserts which is a feat when you consider she couldn't boil water when she married Dad. Now Dad is a chef extraordinaire and everything he makes is excellent. I can't think of anything that he doesn't make well or any one special thing; everything is special. Thanksgiving is Dad's day to really shine though. His turkey is always moist and flavorful and the dressing absolutely superb alongside Mom's baked beans (the bacon on top is always good no matter how the beans turn out). Mom usually adds a side of candied yams to the mix that turn out much like the beans, inconsistent but tasty.

My brother makes a really good peach cobbler. It's not nearly as good as Gram's but it's definitely close. He also does home baked breads that are surprisingly good. Beanie, of course, is the queen of oatmeal cake, which leaves me. Basically, I'm a really good cook and can make anything, except for Grandpa's homemade vegetable beef soup. I haven't cracked that recipe yet. Beanie would say my specialty is crab cakes and sausage-smoked turkey gumbo and Mom would say it's salmon patties.

The funny thing about the salmon patties is that about 25 years ago I had Mom, Gram, Aunt Joan and Dad over to dinner and salmon patties were part of the entree. I also made a lemon dessert souffle that had my Aunt Joan scraping the bowl when everyone had had their fill. Mom said she wouldn't eat salmon patties, that she hated them because Gram made her eat them when she was a kid. I asked that she try them and for the sake of being nice she did. The result is that she ate four of them and took the leftovers home, along with the horseradish sauce. Since then she has asked for them every time we have a family dinner (or when she comes to visit) and she maintains that if I would make salmon patties for the men I date they would all ask me to marry them. Maybe that's the problem; I haven't made any of them salmon patties, but there have been guys who have tasted my food and said they'd marry me sight unseen because of my cooking, which is a pretty decent compliment.

One guy I dated for a couple years told me once that he would marry the woman who could crack the recipe for his aunt's family dinner treat -- almonds. The first time he told me about them he got this gleam of naked desire in his eyes as he described the way they popped softly in your mouth with just a hint of salt. I asked him how they looked and if he had tried to crack the recipe and he had. He had also had both his wives work on the recipe but they couldn't get it just right. I have finally cracked the code. Of course, I can't tell him that because he's in Cleveland and I'm here and neither of us is budging, but I think for the holidays I may send him a tin of almonds anonymously. I don't need to know if he liked them because I already know I have figured out the recipe and I will not reveal it to him. It's really fairly simple if you know about food and how different methods affect ingredients -- and I do.

Food is on my mind this morning because of the landlady's generosity yesterday. She invited me down for grilled hamburgers (no hormones, no antibiotics, free range and organically raised) with melted Havarti cheese, sesame seed buns and salad. When it was time for me to go back to work she loaded me down with hamburger patties, pork chops, French baguette, caponata and some of her homemade vegetable soup. The smell of cooking pork while I typed was too much for me and so ...

Anyway, it's time for me to get back to work since the little baguette piece and pork chop are now gone and there is work waiting to be done. The air is scented with spicy smoked scented autumn coming through the windows mingling with cooked pork chop and almond dish detergent (I did the dishes while I cooked) and I'd rather curl up here on the sofa and drown in the scent but work calls. I have to get the jobs before the sharks back in New Jersey and New York beat me to it. No work, no money and thus no food in the house or a house to cook the food in. Funny how that works.

That is all. Disperse.

Shadow love

I watched Memoirs of a Geisha. The story is of the geisha houses in Gion and love between a poor young girl sold to an okiya (geisha house) and a wealthy and powerful man she meets as a child.

One of the things that struck me immediately is the description of geishas as shadow wives. They are an alternative to arranged marriages, an acceptable choice for men of money and power who must marry as their families dictate, not for love but for privilege, money, land, etc. These men find love with geisha, the wives of the evening. In many countries, it is acceptable to have a mistress, or several mistresses, when trapped in a loveless and/or arranged marriage. Even priests, cardinals and even popes had mistresses, although their religious vows dictated they must be chaste and celibate (not married). Kings, dukes, and all the royalty, unless they were lucky enough to fall in love with their chosen brides, kept mistresses. Even men lower on the social and financial ladder kept mistresses and it was acceptable. In America that is different.

You would think a country that began as a penal colony, land for sons who could not inherit and haven for people seeking religious freedom would be more tolerant in their views of liaisons outside of marriage. The Puritans certainly didn't have a problem with mistresses, although they were more into wife swapping than keeping mistresses. The only taboo was getting another man's wife pregnant, and vice versa. Many of the religious groups throughout our country's history believed in free love. Louisa May Alcott's father was minister to a group of such religious separatists who founded a colony based on free love, not unlike the hippie communes in the 60s.

However, as Judge Roy Bean once said, there is none so zealous and pious as a reformed whore. We seem to go through these free love purges from time to time, but it's like sticking a lid on a boiling pot. Eventually, the lid flies off and the boiling water overflows. We go from one extreme to the other: free love and then no love.

Many look at the decadent Europeans and other "barbaric" countries and their social practices of arranged marriage, pleasure districts and shadow wives and sneer. We should embrace these practices and allow men and women trapped in convenient marriages or financial marital liaisons to find the love they so richly deserve. It need not bother their wife or their children but should instead be seen as a healthy alternative to a difficult problem. One spouse retains social position and financial stability, as well as the name, and the other spouse spends time with the love of their life.

Mistaking lust for love and fearing loneliness, too many people marry without really taking the time to know the person to whom they pledge their life and fortune. We don't have arranged marriages, per se, but they are arranged all the same, for financial gain, financial stability, procreation and many other bread and butter reasons that are mistaken for love. Then lust fades, along with the endorphins and raging hormones, and all that is left is a deteriorating relationship between two people who are disillusioned and forced to ride it out or sneak around. There are children now or responsibilities and there are the wedding vows: Until death do you part. No wonder there are so many spouses murdering each other. It's that boiling pot again.

There are too few options and too much stigma attached to finding solace and love outside marriage. Maybe it's time we took the lid off the boiling pot before someone gets hurt. The ideal of love is attainable and can be sustained, but often it is not within the marital state. It takes maturity and experience and having lived life to realize the true meaning of love. Like rice in the boiling pot, it takes time and water to turn those hard kernels into soft, fluffy, edible rice. Without the right ingredients and sufficient time, you end up with rice flavored water full of hard kernels of rice or a mess all over the stove.

That is all. Disperse.

The bare truth

It's time to bare it all, and lots of us have already. Have you? It's for charity, breast cancer, specifically. It's a Boobie-Thon and mine are up there, too. Think you can spot them? Go donate a photo of your breasts, in or out of a bra, or donate or do both. It's a worthy cause. Men have bared it all for breast cancer, so why don't you?

That is all. Disperse.

That's what I meant

A friend once told me he hated shopping for cards for his wife because he couldn't find one that said what he really felt and he was tired of the usually sappy sentiments that took the place of what he really wanted to say. I wish I had known of these then. I would have steered him to the site. I doubt he would have had the balls to send one (in his own name) but he would have found just what he was looking for. I certainly did.

That is all. Disperse.

"Night time sharpens...

...heightens each sensation..." to borrow a line from A. L. Webber. It's sharp and cold outside but at least my sense of impending danger is not heightened, not in this neighborhood. One of the facts of life in taking care of the landlady's dog, Pastor, is that I have to go up and down the stairs several times during the day to let him out to do his business, to walk him, to feed him and to bed him down for the night. This afternoon I even had to yell at him for barking, something he doesn't often do when the landlady is home, or at least when he does bark it doesn't last long when she yells. He did have a good reason to bark. A fox was speeding down the sidewalk past the house obviously on the trail of fast food -- squirrel on the paw.

The other day the landlady and I noticed there were fewer squirrels this year than last year and it was drier and warmer. This year there are lots more foxes. It seems the cooler, wetter weather and the longer hold winter had on us this year kept the foxes denned and procreating, hence more mouths to feed and fewer squirrels to see. I didn't have my camera handy when I saw the fox and I was reminded of something Wes KØHBZ (another ham operator) mentioned. He said he was told when he became a photo journalist to keep his camera handy at all times, even when he went to the bathroom. The only problem with the digital is that it shuts off if it isn't used for 5-10 minutes, so I still would not have been able to catch the rushing fox anyway. I'll keep an eye out in the morning, which is when I traditionally see them.

Another perk of taking care of Pastor while the landlady, newly divorced as of last Friday, is getting laid in New Mexico celebrating her single status with an old friend I have free run of the downstairs apartment and did my laundry yesterday. I washed the sheets, unpacked the brand new pillows I bought and put cases on them, made the bed and washed all the laundry. Since I did the laundry two weeks ago, it was a much quicker task than usual since I only had two loads instead of four.

Pastor is a demanding dog at times and I have had to ask him to go lie down a few times when I was working earlier today, but other than being an attention hog, he is a pleasure to look after for a few days. I don't even mind grinding up his numerous medications to mix in with his food twice a day when the pay off is doggy hugs and reciprocal attention. Of course I know I couldn't have a dog full time because they need a lot of attention and have to be walked twice a day for a couple hours at a time and that would cut into work and writing time. I'd get exercise but I also wouldn't make enough money to keep us both, so it's a trade-off and watching Pastor for a few days allows him to stay home where he's comfortable and forces me to move around more. There are worse ways to spend a weekend. I know. I've spent many an awful weekend. This hasn't been one of them.

I also wrote a story this morning and had take a quick look before I sent it off to Chicken Soup and Cup of Comfort, one of which might actually buy it. She caught a couple of missed words in sentences that I missed, but I did cut the story down from 2100 words to 1000, so I'm not complaining. I'm glad she has such sharp eyes.

I've also been going over some books on my review list, making notes and getting ready to write my reviews, although I still need to fold and put away the clothes I washed, some of which I am wearing today instead of my usual weekend attire of long T-shirt and socks (panties optional) when it's cold. Otherwise, it's just a big T-shirt and nothing else. I've found the neighbors are less shocked when I take Pastor outside and I'm wearing clothes, even in the wee hours of the morning when the neighbors' eyes aren't quite open and they might think they're still dreaming. It's best not to chance it. I also broke the seal on a brand new Victoria's Secret lace bra. I forgot how it feels to have new silk, satin and lace against my skin that hasn't been washed a few hundred times over the years, especially when it's in a little smaller size than the last time and fits quite comfortably. Not that anyone notices these things, but I managed to get the new bras on sale in my favorite style -- front close. Like I said, it has been a good weekend.

That is all. Disperse.

Relationship alchemy

It is a cold and cloudless morning and I have been up for a while. I have Pastor this weekend and had to get up to let him out, fix his breakfast and take care of him. I will have him until Tuesday and at times it is a bit annoying to have to deal with someone else's needs since the only ones in this apartment who rely on me, other than me, are the plants, all three of which are still alive and thriving. The plants don't need much: a little sunshine, a little water, pruning the dead leaves, sometimes a lot of dead leaves in the case of the African violet. But it was nearly dead when the landlady gave it to me and now has only four leaves but they are strong and healthy and growing.

Plants aren't dogs and don't put their cold wet noses in your face when you're asleep and they need to go out. Plants need to be fed and watered, but not twice a day. I'm a little better with plants. So are a lot of people.

In our relationships with other people we mostly strive for fairness and equality -- mostly. What we don't realize is that even when we are being generous and giving someone attention there are subtle strings attached. The strings are expectations.

People say they don't have expectations, but they do and it's usually a quid pro quo situation. I give you this so that you will give me that. This and that, of course, are defined differently by each individual. Sometimes it's love and sometimes it's things, but always it's the expectation of time. I make time for you so you should make time for me. Didn't I cook you breakfast, buy you that great gift for [fill in the holiday or occasion], pick up your dry cleaning, clothes or medicine, pay the bills, etc.? It is as if we expect life to be a scientific equation: every action is characterized by an equal and opposite reaction. People aren't scientific and they're not experiments ... or at least they shouldn't be.

In some ways, our actions do have opposite reactions, but they are not always equal. What's more, we don't always realize what caused the reaction in the first place.

Figuring out reactions with plants and animals is easy. You forget to water a plant and it withers and dies. Forget to take out the dog and he will relieve himself on the carpets or in your favorite shoes. People are a little more complex. If you don't water them and give them access to facilities they can respond like plants and dogs, but more often than not they will respond in more complex ways, or they will get what they need for themselves away from home.

Let's say you are a generous person and money is no object. You will give up treats for yourself to save for a special gift for someone you love. In the abstract that is a sweet and selfless thing to do. In reality the gift is a trap; it has strings, lots of strings. The one who has sacrificed, beg, borrowed and stolen to give the object of their affections a gift wants to be repaid with time or attention. What if the other person doesn't have the time or freedom to give the desired attention? The giver is disappointed and either throws a fit or puts on a brave face and waits, hoping that the next gift will change the other person's mind, show them what they are missing. Like I said, it's a trap with lots of sticky strings.

In essence, what the giver has done is make the other person feel diminished, unneeded and resentful. How can they possibly return the gesture or even come close? The result is that the other person will distance themselves from the giver. After all, what can they contribute to the relationship that the giver cannot get for themselves?

The giver only sees that what they wanted -- more time with the other person -- they're not getting. They feel cheated and abused and taken for a ride without ever realizing they are the ones who have been doing the driving.

Even in an emotionally and verbally abusive relationship there are compensations. The abuser, for all his/her faults, is smart. They take away self esteem and autonomy but they make sure the abused feels needed. It may only be for keeping the house clean and making sure meals are on the table on time or paying the bills and providing an income, but they are needed. It's not a healthy relationship by any means, but it is a symbiotic relationship -- or parasitic relationship if you prefer. At least the symbiont/parasite realizes that if they kill the host there will be no place to live and no nourishment and they will die, or at least have to find a way to support and keep themselves. That's not what a symbiont/parasite wants. After all, why work to live when you can live and enjoy yourself at someone else's expense. The host realizes there is a problem and may even feel some pain or discomfort, but at least they are alive.

People need to feel needed, especially in relationships. You have to give the parasite and the damsel in distress credit. They know what they want and they know how to get it by making the host or the rescuer feel like they are contributing something.

Look around you. I'm sure you know someone whose relationship leaves a lot to be desired and someone is getting the short end of the stick. Whether it is a husband who pays for his wife's financial excesses month after month, a wife who takes care of her husband's needs and cleans up after his messes because he cannot be trusted to do it for himself, or a guy who keeps buying wonderful and thoughtful gifts for a girlfriend who cannot afford to reciprocate in kind, there is a payoff. The spend thrift wife probably keeps the home fires burning even though she cuts her husband to shreds with her vicious tongue and possessive ways, but without her husband working and paying the bills she wouldn't be able to live a comfortable life and would be thrown into the working world to fend for herself -- and their children. The thoughtless husband may not remember to pick up his medication or take his vitamins in the morning, but he takes out the trash, fixes what needs fixing and he works hard to contribute to keeping the home fires burning. The girlfriend provides love and time -- when she has time -- and a stability to the boyfriend's life that gives him a sense of belonging and home.

No relationship is perfect as long as there are two people involved. The best way to keep the gears running is to oil them with communication. Even if it means taking stock and realizing there is no reason to continue the relationship because the imbalance is too great, it's time to talk. Alchemy, like a relationship, works best when all the needed ingredients are identifiable and available. When one combination doesn't work, reassess what you have, what works and what doesn't and find out what it is you -- and the other person -- really need.

Cotton candy skies

I am not a morning person. However, when work is scarce I am up before the sun typing away in the darkness with only a little Victorian lamp Lynn and Chuck gave me last year when they came to visit. The landlady says she knows I'm up because she sees the light and she usually gets up about 4 AM, as does Nel across the hall who gets to work at 6 AM and works ten hours a day to keep body, soul, Kittysocks and Iggy together. When Nel is at work putting together seminar packages for reps who teach doctors who to put faces, jaws and heads back together, I am plugging away typing as fast as I can to put enough pages together to keep this roof over my head and pay for my laptop, furniture and digital camera.

While I'm working, the sun sneaks up the horizon and paints the sky in cotton candy colors, streaking the darkness with pink and blue on cloudless days. Some days, like last Thursday, I see a bit of white among the gold and my confused squirrel comes out to take a look. Most mornings are full of cotton candy skies.

The gold standard

As I sit here waiting for pictures to upload to the web so I can share them here, endings are on my mind. There was a time when I hated saying goodbye every time Dad was posted to another base and yet I was also excited. Each new post meant meeting more people and seeing a different part of the world or the country. As sad as it was to say goodbye to my friends, and even boyfriends as I got older, the adventure made it all so much easier.

Living as I have, moving from base to base and country to country because of my father being in the Army and with my ex-husband who was in the Air Force, I have never quite understood what it is like to live a whole life within a very short distance of where I was born, going to school with the same people and living in the same rooms decade after decade. I have lost or left behind many things and people and some of them are still a part of my life. Many, however, are not. I seem to be only able to live anywhere for no more than a couple years. Friendships last a little longer than that and I can say I have stayed in contact with my best friend from high school for more than 30 years. That is a long term relationship I managed in neither of my marriages.

Relationships are something else I have left behind when I walked, and sometimes ran, away. I miss the closeness and getting to know someone so well it seemed they would always be a part of me, and in many ways they are still a part of me, having helped me change and grow and learn what is and isn't right for me and in my life.

When I moved to Colorado I knew this would be the last place where I would live because I am finally home. I look forward to years seeing the same sights and driving and walking the same streets and I doubt I will move very far from this haunted apartment in the converted Victorian where I now live. I may not even move from here but rather split my time between here and a cabin higher up in the mountains (when I can afford one). I do understand the appeal of familiarity and there is much that is familiar here in this house. My landlady and Nel have become my neighbors, my friends and my family and I look forward to sharing my life with them. Other people have come into my life since moving here and have drifted or been asked to leave. That is also familiar from my wandering years. I know that few people ever stick around for very long even when they first promised they would always be there. One thing I have learned is that nothing is permanent. I have also learned that nothing true will ever go as sure as nothing gold can stay.

I remember that poem from The Outsiders and from the movie. "...nothing gold can stay."

Nothing Gold Can Stay
by Robert Frost

Nature's first green is gold,
Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leaf's a flower;
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf.
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day.
Nothing gold can stay.

It took me a long time to figure out just what the poem was saying. It was as if Frost meant that anything gold has only a short life and that even the golden chain of friendship will break. Now I see a different meaning.

Gold is a soft and malleable metal, much like friendships and relationships in the beginning, but gold is enduring and durable. It lasts. Even though dawn gives way to day and day to dusk and back to dawn again, the sun is still there, golden, fierce, strong and enduring. The Earth changes its view, turning slowly around and around, glimpsing the sun as though over a retreating shoulder. So, too, with friends and lovers. If the love is as enduring as gold it will last even when we turn and walk away, catching glimpses here and there over our shoulders. Turn and walk back and the love remains. The gold is still there with fresh newness.

There are times when we need to walk away to get a fresh perspective because something isn't working or the timing isn't quite right. It's like retreating from the blaze of a summer sun in the desert or never looking directly at the sun without some protection to filter out its full majesty and power. So, too, with friends and lovers. There is a time to stand out under the full fierce gaze of the sun and a time to retreat under cover lest we be burned. One thing is certain. If the friendship or the love is made of that durable and enduring gold, it will still be there when the time is right and we have had the time to realize what a precious gift we let fall by the wayside. Walking away isn't the end, sometimes it is a beginning.

Autumn Equinox/Mabon

Seems like just yesterday when I celebrated Ostara and here it is Mabon, the autumn equinox. Although it is said to be on the 21st of September, it is really the time that day and night equally share the 24-hour period of our days and not just a date. The date is sort of a way of keeping track, but today is actually Mabon, autum equinox.

Blessed Mabon to those of you who follow a pagan pathway and happy autumn equinox to the rest of you.

That is all. Disperse.

Dear friend,

While I was taking notes at the board meeting I realized my handwriting skills have deteriorated badly. I haven't written anything in long hand for a long time, outside of quick notes that only I have to read and they are seldom legible to me at times. I decided to write more in my paper journal and to write more in longhand to keep my skills and muscle memory from atrophying beyond use. After all, what would happen if there were no computers, no laptops, no electricity to run them? How would we communicate then?

In this electronic age we seem to have lost the common touch, the intimacy of writing, actually putting pen to paper and writing a letter to someone. We can keep emails on hard drives, flash drives, disks and even print them out on paper, but how many of us actually take the time to do that? How many people have a folder or bundle of ribbon tied emails hidden away in a box and kept as keepsakes? I know I don't. I have emails in electronic format and a few emails I need for reference printed out, but there are no ribbon bound emails, or even large files of emails yellowing with time and age, languishing in a shoe box or cabinet or drawer here or anywhere.

While watching a movie last night as I ate my dinner I decided to send a close friend a letter. I wrote it out in Word the way I always do but decided that was too impersonal, too cold for what I needed and wanted to say. I decided to write the letter in long hand. I didn't know how difficult it would be and how the muscles and tendons of my fingers would complain at the exercise. I am used to writing in a kind of shorthand when I do write in my paper journals and it was a struggle to keep from falling into old habits while writing this letter. It took me an hour to write out three pages that fit on a little over one page in Word, but it is worth it. I wasted a few sheets that will go into the recycling bin and I even flirted briefly with pen and ink before deciding it was safer and would take less time (and my fingers and hand would rebel less) if I used an ink pen. Luckily, the ink pen I used, unlike most of those I have bought recently) didn't skip more than once. I had to go slow to keep from making the words completely illegible and to keep from writing in shorthand, especially since the friend can't read my shorthand -- no one can. I just finished and I am proud of what I wrote. I changed a few things from the original I wrote in Word and printed out, but it is finished and is a more intimate and personal letter than it would have been in email or printed out on plain white copy paper. I wrote the letter on parchment.

Letters written by hand are also a little less likely to be ignored. They are tangible proof of regard for the person receiving the letter and evidence that what you said took time to write and to compose. It is so much easier to type out the words and send them on the flashing energy waves that disassemble and reassemble them on the other end, but I'm glad I wrote the letter by hand. Maybe my friend will keep it in a box somewhere bound in ribbon or even string and read it once in a while. At least I know it will last longer than an email and will hopefully mean as much to them as it does to me when I wrote it.

New Review

If you like romantic movies with music, dancing and singing, check out the latest at Trash & Treasure Reviews.

Today has been a weird day. I'm still evacuating debris from my GI tract but it is getting less and less. The lemonade isn't bad but I really want something to chew, something with meat in it. Driving to the ham club board meeting tonight was torture because I had to drive past a whole lot of fast food restaurants, pizza places, and other emporiums and purveyors of food. The air was full of the lovely smell of grilled meat and my teeth were tightly clenched as I fought off the urge to stop and have something, anything, as long as I could sink my teeth into it. Making the same trip back home wasn't any easier and I was thirsty. I should have brought a bottle of lemonade to suck on to keep my mouth busy. I didn't. Lesson learned for the next time, although the next time I have to attend a board meeting I will be off the master cleanse and back on solid food. I need to think of something else. Something pleasant. I'll have to settle for visiting family.

Less than three weeks until the horde arrives. I suggested a trip to Grand Junction to Monument National Park to see the eroded sandstone formations and maybe some dinosaur bones. Carol didn't like the idea because it would mean a long day. After all, what is a vacation for if not for traveling and seeing the sights? I have a feeling that any suggestions I will make will not meet with approval. Mom is limited because of her frailty, except where antiques and shopping are concerned. I can sit cooped up in my apartment any day of the week and Carol and Mom can shop any time they want. I wanted to do something different. I don't care much for days spent shopping and window shopping. I can do that more efficiently and more comfortably online. I wanted to get out and go about and see some of the wonders in Colorado I haven't seen. So much for that idea.

That is all. Disperse.

Sunday hodge podge

The cleansing part of the cleanse finally hit my GI tract this morning at 5 AM. Must be the senna. I didn't even need the salt water flush to get things moving, just waking up and going to the bathroom -- again -- and there it was, accompanied by cramps and a bit of nausea from the cramps. Lovely. It isn't as if it takes a lot to get me moving since I move regularly anyway, but this felt more like an emergency evacuation. Now I know why I needed mint tea -- to calm everything back down again.

I have another quart of cayenne lemonade in front of me and my mind is churning with stories and articles and ideas for more of both. They haven't touched me and run away like we used to do when playing blind man's bluff as kids; they are sticking around. I wonder if the emergency evacuation had anything to do with my sudden clarity of thought and determination.

Kind of reminds me of the joke about the body and who was really in charge. All the body parts thought they were most important but they really found out who was boss when the anal sphincter refused to open and allow passage of debris. Fever fired up the rest of the organs and the brain couldn't think or order the rest of the body parts and functions around. As always, the asshole wins.

At any rate, I received my copy of Sun Signs for Writers yesterday and dove right into the chapter on Aquarius, my sign. Sagittarius was my next stop and then on to Ares. I'll go through the rest of the book chapter by chapter and reread Aquarius and Sagittarius but I have noticed a pattern emerging -- and not the pattern of the chapters and how they are organized. The pattern is in the the tone of the book. I have to see if the pattern continues before I make my final judgment, but it should be interesting to see what emerges.

I have been asked (actually told) to put together an itinerary for my mother and sisters to follow when they get here so they can see as much as possible. Mom wanted to go to Montana but where she wants to go is a 12-hour trip one way and I don't see that happening, especially since they aren't willing to spend any money for motels. I did want to go to Monument National Park and see the eroded sandstone formations and that is only a 5-hour trip to Grand Junction. We could go there and get back in one day, but it would be a very long day and would mean driving at night through Vail Pass and the tunnel, which isn't difficult if the weather is good. I'm not sure that will be the case next month since there has already been a killing frost in the higher elevations as of last night and this morning. I hope John didn't get caught out in the freeze since he said he was planning to hike this weekend. At least it didn't rain this time.

I have talked a friend who teaches special needs children to collaborate on some articles and possibly a few fictional accounts of her life at school. She sparked the idea during a phone conversation yesterday and, yes, she is the greatest con artist I have ever known. She knows how to con just about anyone out of the doldrums in the midst of the horse latitudes and back into laughter without the person realizing they were ever becalmed on mental seas. I know she helps me see the brighter side of things when I am feeling less than stellar -- and she calls me an optimist. Well, there are no rose colored glasses over my eyes, just the honest belief that eventually winds come even to the horse latitudes.

I also watched The Bridges of Madison County again. I thought I remembered Francesca having a younger daughter, one who was born of her liaison with Robert, but I must have been mistaken because she wasn't there when I saw the movie yesterday. I did miss the first few minutes of it, but I watched it all the way to the end. I still think the movie, and thus the book, over rated, and I remember reading it, although I fought against it the whole time Oprah and her book club gushed over it. There are moments that the story is sweet and romantic, but very few of those. The whole thing is a bit plausible. I doubt there would ever be a time a farm wife living near a small town in Iowa would ever be able to get away with having four days of intimate dinners, conversations, walks and sex without the neighbors knowing about it or that if the woman was so stifled by her farm life, having had to give up teaching because her husband expected her to raise their two children (at the point of the story well past needing to be taken care of) would balk at the chance to run away with a photographer who travels the world, especially if she loves him. It cannot have been only duty that tied her to the farm and her family or even just the thought of how it would affect her children, although that is possible. The motivations do not ring true. I'm not saying it isn't possible, but that it is highly improbable. There must have been something between Francesca and Richard, her husband, when they met in Italy after World War II to make her want to marry him and leave her home and everything she's known, and not just the security of being able to walk the golden streets of America because that would mean she was more interested in comfort and financial security than love, and that kind of person would have walked away from her family without a backward glance or she would have stayed if it meant she would have felt more financially secure where she was.

The story doesn't tug at my heart the way a good romance should and it certainly doesn't make the trivial mistakes and inconsistencies disappear because of the beauty and poignancy of the relationship of two people having found each other and faced the tortures of the damned to be together. I don't expect such grand love affairs in all the romances that move me, but there has to be an innate sense of rightness of two people getting together that makes the story worthwhile even in a little romance, like the ones penned by Nicholas Sparks. His stories have an intimate quality that Waller's story lacks even now. It's not wonder none of Waller's other romances made it to the top of the heap and were so easily forgotten. They didn't have that intimate spark that burns so cleanly and brightly at the center of little romances and grand affairs.