Year turning

Anniversary means year turning.

Another year has turned and brought me back to this day that I remember fondly, not for the planes that crashed seven years ago but for the bittersweet moments I shared four years ago today. Those moments have been on my mind a lot over the past few days and a message yesterday brought them all back with stunning clarity.

Four years ago I thought I'd be in a different place than I am now, but I'm not unhappy with where I am. Checks arrive in the mail in payment for articles and books and unexpected windfalls arrive just when they're needed. People I love and have loved return and share their time apart. Through it all the one constant is the writing.

A few nights ago I was reading in bed, engrossed in the words and world spun with such artful grace that I didn't notice the slow beating of my heart. I had been upset a few moments before by a phone call and was getting back to center with a book, as is often the case. Outside in the darkness, summer's heartbeat worked its magic and my heart beat in time with it. That's when I realized that crickets singing in the night perform this miracle every time they sing and I had missed it until that moment. Cricket song has the same rhythm as a strong beating heart untouched by care and contention.

Since that night, I have fallen asleep feeling the blood coursing through my veins and arteries and my heart beating in time with the summer's heart, slowly lulling me to sleep with a rhythm as old as time and older than humans walking on this earth. No wonder the Chinese believe a cricket in the house is good luck. Even one cricket singing it's summer love song would be enough to pull us back toward the center with a strong and slow beating heart that smooths away the daily irritations and readies us for healing sleep.

There are four years of healing sleep between me and that wonderful day I shared with such open joy and optimistic dreams and yet the past pulls at me and reminds me of what could have been. It is those moments, preserved like bright treasures that remind me how lucky I have been and how blessed I continue to be. As long as I remember those moments, the turning year will keep me centered and content like the summer's heartbeat.

What if...?

My mother and I regularly discuss politics, especially the current candidates for president. She has gone from being a lifelong Republican solidly in the Obama camp to waffling back and forth between Obama and McCain and, finally, to deciding that she is going to write my name in on the ballot. I've been writing in Pat Paulsen for the past four elections since I'm not happy with the usual suspects pretending to the throne. This year I may write in my name, too.

That brings me to the thought that has been running around in my brain for the past few days. I mentioned my mother writing in my name on the ballot in a comment on someone else's blog and someone read it and said he'd vote for me, too. What if a real grassroots candidate with no ties to big business, the rich and famous (or infamous), lobbies, oil or arms dealers would run for president? Is it possible to use the power of the people and the vast resources of the Internet to get the word out between now and election day to create a campaign for a write-in candidate that would make enough of a showing to show the Powers That Be that they are on the wrong track and the change we want to see isn't about beautiful and moving rhetoric or religious posturing or being a millionaire but about someone who is of the people, by the people and for the people? Can we move the vast resources at our fingertips to put a real person not beholden to anyone's money or special interests in the White House?

Can it be done?

Privates

Another of the people on my F-list made their journal "friends only" yesterday and I caught in mid comment wen it happened. I was able to make my comment later and didn't lose the friend, but I've noticed that more and more of the people I read regularly are making their journals "friends only". It's easy to see why (sort of) she did; she has had a lot of negative comments about her postings on health issues (too much drama) and her femslash (nasty people out there) fan fiction. She almost deleted her journal, so closing her journal to people on her F-list at least keeps her from disappearing altogether.

She is one of a growing number of people who have gone underground for various reasons: trolls, hiding lies about themselves and other people, protecting their jobs.

Trolls infest every corner, crack and crevice of the blog world waiting for their chance to pounce and flame or just read and feel superior to the writer. I've known some bloggers who keep trolls around and use them to stir up people to build up the number of comments and get a good debate (flame war) going. There are the trolls and their patrons, comment whores more intent on how many people they can draw to their blogs and how often comments go over the hundred mark than anything else. They are the drama kings and queens of the blog world who add and subtract the people on their "friends" list according to how many comments are made and whether or not the "friends" are in or out of favor, which brings me to those who hide behind their "friends only" blogs to lie about themselves and people they have known.

The liars love drama, especially drama that brings them lots of attention and comments, and are not unlike comment whores, although comment whores are more indiscriminate. They whore for comments and comment in every one else's blogs like a nickel, dime and quarter whore racking up points so they are at the top of the list when people use those nifty little widgets that count how many comments people make. The liars are the real world equivalent of a gossip who spends most of their time trashing their "friends" or wailing about how they are maligned and misused by others and must thus close their journal to public traffic. This is especially strange considering most of these people are writers or whose work involves communication. Most of the liars make up fantastic stories about themselves and their lives (and enemies) because their own lives are so boring that no one would read what they wrote or comment sufficiently that they made things up. One of the people on my F-list was about to meet one such liar in person and was stunned when the truth came out. She felt violated because she really cared and had no idea the author was faking her life on the blog.

The ones who protect their jobs behind the anonymity of their locked blogs just want a place to vent and carry on discussions and conversations with people are just people who want to reach out so they will know they're not alone, which is why most people create blogs in the first place.

It is understandable that people want to lock their posts from the trolls that infest cyberspace, but nothing remains hidden for long. People have the uncanny ability to take what they find and share it, copying and pasting a locked post with a friend who doesn't frequent the blog. Once that happens, it's like throwing a pebble in a calm lake; the ripples keep expanding.

There is a sense of accomplishment and connection with the rest of the world that blogging gives with its almost instant gratification from people with their comments and commiseration that can be intoxicating, and for a writer it can be pure catnip. It's always been that way. Critics either make you feel like you're walking on air or they bring you down so far you have to dig up to reach bottom, but it takes time. It is probably why Emily Dickinson kept her poetry in a trunk to be opened and published after she was gone so she wouldn't be raised to the skies or dashed to the depths of hell.

Every writer who puts themselves and their work on display has to decide whether or not they can handle the praise and the rotten vegetables that will be heaped upon them. Even when a writer thinks they're prepared for the worst -- and the best -- they find they really didn't know how bad -- or good -- it could get. It eventually comes down to why a writer writes.

Do you write for yourself because you can't contain the words inside and need to get them out where you can see them, play with them, arrange and rearrange them? Do you write for adulation? Do you write to educate, inform or entertain? Do you care whether anyone reads what you write? Do you write because you think writing will make you famous and rich and adored? (You're probably delusional or unbelievably needy.) These are the questions you should ask and answer before you put your work on display.

No one, not even people who never believed they would be famous and hid their journals from prying eyes, ever really believed that what they wrote about their more private and intimate thoughts and feelings wouldn't see the light of day. They knew in their heart of hearts that some day (preferably after they were dead and forgotten) someone would find their journals and read them, perhaps even publish them for posterity, otherwise why bother to keep a journal in the first place.

Journals, even those here in cyberspace, are part of the unfolding history of the times. They are brief moments on the Mobius strip of time that offer a glimpse of what it is like to be alive, a minute spark of history that lives on long after the living fires have been extinguished. Without these glimpses into the hearts and minds (and even the lies and fantasies) of the people who passed this way. Death and time will wear away the rough edges and give the words a polish they never had when they were written. Journals are lasting evidence of intelligence and stupidity, honor and perfidy, integrity and dishonesty, and the nuts and bolts of every day life at its most basic. Journals are the training ground of budding writers and poets, the out of town tryout of novels, stories and plays, the anvil against which the words are tempered and made stronger or cast back into the fire to be reformed and reshaped. Journals serve a purpose now and in the future, one that we may never fully understand but one that will bring meaning out of the chaos of forgotten ages. To hide that is a shame and a loss that diminishes us all and one I hope more writers -- and bloggers -- reconsider.

It takes courage to put yourself on display and deal with the mobs that will inevitably gather from time to time to pelt you with obscenities and lies, flames and rotten vegetables. It takes no courage to stand up and lie to make yourself look better or create a persona and a life that will hide who you really are, but even liars serve a purpose.

One thing I have learned over the years is that being open and honest about who you and have been makes it more difficult for the trolls to dig up the dirt and throw it in your face. No one is perfect. Everyone makes mistakes. (Clichés and bromides, but they're true.) But none of us is completely unique. There is always someone who will read your words and find some common thread or experience that makes them feel a little less lost and alone. We are all connected and journals and blogs are proof. Journals and blogs are living history.

At the very basis of this phenomenon is one free speech. When people hide behind locked journals they give in to censorship. They allow someone else to dictate their life and how they live it. This is not to say that some things shouldn't remain private between friends, but to censor yourself because of someone else is the first step on the road to book burning and the end of free speech.

As with everything else in the universe, free speech has a price -- allowing people with differing opinions the right to speak freely even if it means another person's feelings are hurt in the process. It's all part of the give and take of freedom and conversation. There are going to be idiots and morons and people who learned their logic and manners in the gutter, but to give in to the morons and idiots and guttersnipes is to give up the freedom to speak and write as you choose.

That is all. Disperse.

Getting off the map

Some time during the night I was awakened by the sound of someone walking through the old dead leaves and bushes outside my window. This has happened before and it turned out to be a gang of alley cats (not with TC) racing through the broken slats of the palisade fence surrounding the yard next door. Either a dog or a big rat was chasing them because they streamed through the gap, one after the other, like spring thaw on the Colorado River. I counted six cats, but I am sure there were more because it took me a while to figure out what was going on and open the blinds enough to see. What was moving in the narrow space between my cottage and the fence sounded much bigger. I suppose it could have been raccoons, but I doubt it.

In addition to the possible Peeping Tom, I have had another intruder in my home in addition to the usual convoy of ants and spiders climbing out of the shower drain and through cracks under or above the front door. This time, it's a little gray mouse who has abandoned furtive and moved directly to unwanted guest. I even caught the little beggar reaching up to climb into the cabinets under the sink where I've no doubt he was heading for the drawers on the far side of the dishwasher where I found plenty of little black mouse pellets when I moved in and began opening drawers. I told him no and he bolted for the space between the washer and the cabinets to crawl out through the tiny space around where the gas pipes come into the cottage.

I didn't have this much traffic when I lived at the apartment over on Kiowa and, except for George who was a quiet and gentlemanly ghost (at least with me) and my mother and sisters visiting for a week, few visitors stayed more than a night or two. And now this. And there's more.

While talking with Carol last night, she and her daughter Shanna have decided that it's time my mother moved in with me. I'm holding the line that I don't have the room and don't own this house so I can't build her a separate apartment -- even if there was room, which there is not. What's really going on is that my jealously possessive mother runs off everyone (Dad's brother Don and now Carol's daughter Shanna) who dares to stay with them for more than a night because she wants it to be just her and Carol, just like she did with Dad. I think Carol invited Shanna to stay when she got out of the hospital as a buffer between her and Mom and it worked -- to a point. "She ought to be bow-legged from riding me so hard," Shanna complained to Carol and me on the phone last night. I told them that if she wasn't bow-legged from riding me all those years, she probably won't ever be bow-legged because I'm wider than the little wisp of skin and bone that Shanna has become.

Live with me? I don't think so. She's not on my lease and no one who visits for more than a couple of weeks is allowed to be here. Thank all the gods for leases.

After a year of no communication, an old suitor popped up a couple days ago and he wants to move in on me in a different way. I told him last year that I am not interested in dating anyone who is that much younger than I am and I draw the line at five years younger. He keeps insisting that he likes older women and I in turn keep telling him that someone in their thirties would be like dating one of my sons, all of whom are in their thirties. The very idea that I would want to date someone that much younger is ludicrous. I am, after all, not Demi Moore, and he's not Ashton Kutcher (who is not my type in the least). Friends with benefits indeed.

And the visitations don't end there either. My oldest son has decided he wants to move to Colorado Springs and stay with me for a couple of weeks until he gets things sorted out with a job and a place to live. I love my son, but I don't trust him. He burgled my home several times, one time twice in the same week, and although he says he's changed, he's shown no evidence of it at a distance and I don't trust him to stay here and not make off with something of mine while I'm asleep or running errands. The answer is no. I told him it's a free country and he can move wherever he likes, but he cannot stay with me. He can visit here and have dinner occasionally if he wants to build a relationship, but I'm not comfortable having him stay here.

He's my son and I love him, but I'm not a fool. Every time I've allowed him to stay with me things came up missing. Money from my purse, my stereo and over 100 CDs, my first computer with all my stories and journals on it (none of which is retrievable), the radio from my car when I allowed him to borrow it for a job interview that was really a drug buy, my tool box and all my lovely tools, and the list goes on. It feels like the frog and the scorpion and I'm tired of getting stung mid river and drowning.

I don't know when this cottage became Mecca to so many people and animals, but I have to get this place taken out of the travel brochures and off the itinerary. I love having guests and visitors -- for dinner, for lunch, for brunch, for a movie night, for a few hours -- but the rest of the time I like my privacy, peace and quiet. I don't like the idea of moving everything valuable into my bedroom and locking the door and sleeping with one eye and both ears open. It's exhausting. I'm exhausted enough with the Peeping Tom at my bedroom window and I'm not about to open the blinds or give up the fresh cold breezes that caress my hot body at night, which is why I sleep with one of my sharpest daggers under my pillow.

I've slept with a dagger beneath my pillow for many years, ever since the incident one hot summer night when I had moved the bed under the window and woke just as someone was cutting the screen to gain access.

Mistakes, I made quite a few, but I seldom make the same mistakes twice. No matter what my heart tells me, my head is in charge.

That is all. Disperse.

Hey, nonny, nonny

I am in a mood today and nothing would do but to put on Much Ado About Nothing wherein Ken Brannagh, his wife, Emma Thompson, and Emma's mother, Phyllida Law, take on some of Shakespeare's characters. For all of you seekers of nudity, you won't wait long for tantalizing buttocks and glimpses of all parts male and female at the beginning. My personal favorites have nothing to do with titillation but with the dialogue, especially the verbal jousting between Benedick and Beatrice. The plot is thin but there is much to like and laugh about and that's why I feel the need to restore myself by watching and reciting the dialogue (yes, I've seen it enough to know almost the entire play).

I needed the fun and silliness of Shakespeare today since I received a list of members of my graduating class who have died. It's sad to see that so many people I shared three years (and sometimes more) of school with people who have died. It's sad. Cancer, murder, burst aneurysm, fatal car accidents, drugs, etc. Some I knew died shortly after graduation and some within the past five years. It's inevitable, but I don't have to like it. I've lost too many friends to the grim reaper.

This weekend, we nearly lost my niece from septic shock. Shanna is is not yet 31 and she spent the first part of the weekend in ICU near death. She's better now, but not out of the woods. It is at times like this I wish I could be with my family. They keep me posted but it doesn't help. I've lost so many family members in the past two years and I'm not dealing well with it. I'd be easier with my own death than the death of those I love. It's a selfish feeling, wanting to know those I love and who are part of my life are happy and well, but not a feeling for which I will apologize.

And so I turn to the skirmishes of wit between Benedick and Beatrice.

When told she may end with a husband who has no beard she replies:

What should I do with him? dress him in my apparel
and make him my waiting-gentlewoman? He that hath a
beard is more than a youth, and he that hath no
beard is less than a man: and he that is more than
a youth is not for me, and he that is less than a
man, I am not for him.

I feel the same. A man with a beard would indeed be like lying in the woolens.

That is all. Disperse.

Stretching the muse

There's something about comfort food that helps me think, especially when it's a meatloaf sandwich and a glass of cold buttermilk. The house still smells of meatloaf cooking, but not the meatloaf my mother always made. This meatloaf has freshly made soft bread crumbs, tomato juice and bleu cheese along with the usual onions, Worcestershire, eggs, salt, and pepper and I use a combination of pork and ground sirloin. Mom's meatloaf was so different, a thick, cohesive mound of crushed crackers, egg, salt, pepper, onion and hamburger topped with catsup with peeled and quartered potatoes and chopped carrots and onions sizzling in the juices all around the meat. A whole meal in a casserole dish. There was never enough meatloaf left for sandwiches afterward, not like the turkey at Thanksgiving and all major holiday meals when nighttime visitors to the kitchen piled onto white bread white and dark meat slathered with Miracle Whip.

For everyone else, but Dad and me, the drink of choice was chocolate milk -- or white milk in a pinch, not the buttermilk I loved, that my grandfather taught me to love the way he taught me about horseradish and tablespoons full of vinegar and liver with onions, things I could not and did not get at home. There were foods my mother made that I wouldn't eat -- chicken and dumplings with the dumplings made out of quartered can biscuits you popped on the side of the counter with a sharp rap that surged out of the spiral split. They tasted slimy and doughy and inedible, tasteless globs boiled of floury paste without the minty taste or smell of school paste. Even the shreds of chicken in the glutinous broth made me nauseous just to look at it, a gelid, heaving mass of pasty mounds and shredded pale flesh that sluggishly slopped against the sides every time the ladle dipped out a stringy, slopping portion onto more can biscuits hot and fragrant from the oven slathered in butter. All I could think of was creamed chipped beef on those oven baked biscuits nestling melting butter fragrant with grass and sunshine.

Cooking is a joy these days with a gas stove I understand and easily adjust to the perfect level. Quiche and cornbread and meatloaf and home baked bread for sandwiches or fresh bread crumbs. Now I need a toaster. It's next on my list of things to buy. I also have to replace the mixer Beanie got me for my birthday this year and a balloon whisk, but I'm satisfied with my food processor. That's how I made the fresh bread crumbs. The new cookbook detailed how to make fresh bread crumbs and I have to say I will never go back to stale store bought again.

I needed something to keep me alert and not slipping into a soporific slumber so a half glass of Merlot was out of the question and cold buttermilk was just the thing. I have a chapter to write and it's not getting done now while I'm writing this, but sometimes I just have to go where the muse leads me while the words and scenes percolate in my mind until they're ready for the page.

Tonight, the muse led me through memory and food and contentment, quieting my anxiety and trepidation at tackling another chapter as it changes form just a little and moves toward the denouement and closing. It helps to stretch the literary muscles before tackling such a project, like a little yoga to loosen the joints and warm the ligaments before hefting weights or stepping off into a nighttime run. It lubricates the gears and makes the task a little easier.

Rainy Saturday

The dishwasher is swish-thumping and the kitchen is clean. I even cleaned the stove. All I need to do now is clean the bathroom, take out the trash and vacuum and I'm done with my Saturday chores.

I feel relaxed for the first time since summer became so hot. It rained all day yesterday and all last night, singing it's lullaby to me as I drifted away in sleep. I woke to more rain and the forecast predicts even more rain tomorrow. The air is cool and wet and I want nothing more than to climb back into bed with a book and listen to the music of rainfall on the leaves and roof and feel the cool, wet air drifting through the window to caress my cheek as I sleep, sending me soothing dreams. What can I say? I love the rain. I always have. I also love snow.

As a small child, I'd run outside, hold my arms up and turn my face to the clouds and spin, catching raindrops on my tongue, my skin soaking up the precious cool drops. I still do, although less so since I moved to the cottage since there is no grass to cushion and cool my bare feet. Such a small thing to give up for the wonder of rain making music, blessings from the elementals, for which I am very grateful.

That is all. Disperse. Go play in the rain.

Another writer?

For me, one of the best things about writing, other than getting checks in the mail, is helping another writer get started.

Last night, a good friend who has recently battled (and won against) breast cancer emailed because she couldn't find my number. She forgot to put it in her cell phone. (She calls them blonde moments since she recently went blonde. I call them Alzheimer's or senior moments, but she's sticking to blonde.) A miracle happened and she wanted to share it. I waited. And waited. And waited. She didn't call. I could just see her fumbling with her new cell phone trying to get my named spelled just right and putting in my phone number with some of the numbers reversed, checking it against the email and putting it in again, so I called her.

The miracle is that her twin sister, who has been in the hospital near death for weeks, is out of danger and has been transferred to a rehab facility in northern Colorado. It is a miracle because it didn't look like Glenda was going to make it. The doctors were talking about taking her off the machines, but Glenda rebounded and she's going to be fine.

As we talked, I told her the news about the two new books coming out and about writing. Her therapist suggesting keeping a journal to help her deal with the breast cancer and all the surgeries and she asked if it was the kind of thing that a publisher might be interested in. I told her yes and suggested checking out the Chicken Soup and Cup of Comfort web sites and that if she wanted to write about her experiences I'd be glad to help her navigate the publishing waterways. A writer may have just been born last night and that makes me really happy, not only for her but for the people whose lives she will touch.

She is such a funny and intelligent woman who has dealt with the worst that life can throw at you with grace and tenacity. That is something to write about.

That is one of the most wonderful things about writing, helping someone find their voice. I don't consider her a rival, but a sister of the pen. There can never be too many writers -- or readers for that matter. Good thing writers like to read, too.

That is all. Disperse.

Good news day

Today is the day for good news. I received the news that my story, The Bed, comes out next month in A Cup of Comfort for Families Touched By Alzheimer’s and Chicken Soup for the Empty Nester's Soul containing my story Silence will be out in October, along with a couple of other books. I'll post about them when I have more news.

Until then, here's a picture of one of the books.




That is all. Disperse.

Go buy a book or two.

Rain, rain, wine

I finally got what I wanted, days of rain and cooler temps. It rain Thursday night and kept raining on and off all day Friday, making me a very happy camper. But when it rained on Saturday and again last night, it was just what I needed to finally get some quality rest. It even got cool enough that I turned off the fan in the bedroom. As NoCompromises says, it was a symphony of rain and I a delighted listener experiencing the full performance, although there were elements of Wagner's entire Ring cycle to the repeat performances.

This morning in my usual email, I read about grapes, particularly purple and red grapes, and their health-giving, youth-supporting, longevity-producing capabilities. It's all about resveratrol and it is part of what is called the French paradox, the reason why the French, who eat such a high fat diet, remain healthy and have a low incidence of heart disease and stroke. It's the wine, specifically red wine, that keeps their arteries unclogged and free of blood clots. And I thought it was just because they were pickled in alcohol. Resveratrol is present in purple and red grapes in small amounts but producing wine concentrates it. You can get the same benefits by drinking grape juice, although there is a smaller concentration of the vital antioxidant and more sugar than necessary, so choose an organic juice, which will contain a fewer pesticides. Pesticides used in growing grapes commercially build up in the body's fatty tissues and cause a whole host of other problems.

I am not a big drinker, never have been, but I do have a case of wine still in the case that I have yet to open, which is probably why my fancy and easy to use cork screw is rather dusty right now (the case is dusty, not the cork screw). It was a gift when I joined the wine club where the case of wine came from and continues to come from four times a year. Anyway, I think I'll give the one glass of red wine at dinner every night a try and see what happens. Besides, all those wine glasses that I got as gifts for the house warming should be used once in a while, and it would be relaxing to sit down of an evening with a good meal, a glass of red wine and the sound of rain. When there's no rain, I'll listen to the crickets sing; that's just as relaxing.

That is all. Disperse.

Sharing Henry Miller

I knew what I was doing, or so I thought. I wanted a no-strings relationship, all the benefits with none of the hassles of legitimacy. That’s not what I got. What I got was two years of bliss and secrets and torture, and it all started out as fun.

The first time we talked on the phone, my bones melted, my pulse raced, and I was wet. His voice was a deep bass rumble, his words precise and intimate and all we talked about was Henry Miller and writing. He told me about his poetry.

He’d been going downtown to the Humidor for months, drinking shot after shot of Irish courage and still unable to brave the stage. There were so many young people there and he didn’t fit in. His laugh was rich and deep like decadent dark chocolate and suddenly I didn’t care if he was in his fifties and bald and conservative. Everything he said made me want him that much more. It didn’t matter that he was married; I didn’t care. His wife could have the privileges of marriage; I wanted him.

We’d met online and talked on the phone a few times, but I broke the rules for him, my rules. We agreed to meet downtown at the Humidor on Sunday and he agreed to read some of his poetry. Sunday couldn’t come fast enough.

We sat in the back of the room and smoldered, me smiling shyly, vibrating with desire and excitement, he with a half grin on his thin, pale lips, confident and potent and oh, so Republican in his tweed jacket, Bruno Maglis, white fringe of hair, and wire-rimmed glasses, his bald head shining in the subdued light. He wasn’t my type. I wouldn’t have crossed a crowded room to meet him because I wouldn’t have noticed him, unless I’d heard his voice. For that, I would cross midtown traffic at rush hour in a blinding rain.

Lost in each other’s eyes, tentatively touching, my warm fingers resting in his cold hands, heat radiating from us like a blast furnace, we came back to earth when someone called his name. Reluctantly, he let go my hand, took some folded papers from his inside jacket pocket, and walked to the stage. All eyes focused on him as he licked his lips, swallowed convulsively, and spoke to the murmuring crowd of hip hop teenagers and twenty-something urban guerrillas. Then it was just his voice throbbing in the sudden silence.

His poems were a mating dance of sex and words—cock, cunt, soaring, flying, passion drunk power—a declaration of freedom and belief in personal greatness that transcended the day-to-day responsibilities of job, home, and family. He read from the page, apologizing for not committing his poetry to memory, but no one cared. He finished and stepped down from the stage to silence that awoke with a roar of applause that thundered and shook the tiny subterranean bar. They mobbed him. Women touched him, young men hailed him, inviting him to poetry slams and tapings, adoring, worshiping, still applauding as he came back to me, sat down, and took my hand. I was proud and aroused and I wanted to take him right there.

Another poet walked to the stage and the mob slowly moved away, looking back at him to catch his eye and smile, nodding in approval. We stayed until closing sitting close, thighs touching, his velvet voice in my ear playing my nerves and senses until I was near orgasm. “I did it for you. You made it possible.”

Outside in the snow as the rain fell, encasing the world in ice, we stood beside my car, touching, moving closer, breath mingling, rain steaming as it hit us, unaware of anything but each other. His cold long fingered hands slid around my waist, burning me, branding me. I yearned toward him, silently begging him to kiss me, unsure if or when I’d finally give in, knowing I wanted this unremarkable man the way I wanted no one before.

“Are you free tomorrow?” His words fed the fires burning inside me. Yes, I was free. “I’ll bring Henry Miller.”

So drunk with passion and desire and need, it barely registered when I hit black ice and nearly crashed into the rear of a Chevy truck on the freeway, spinning and coming to rest against the guardrail facing oncoming traffic. It took only a moment to get the car started and back onto the empty freeway headed for home. The trip back passed in a hormonal blur. Nothing existed but his words in my ears and the insistent cold press of his fingers against the fiery heat of my skin. Tomorrow couldn’t come soon enough, but it finally came.

For two years of stolen moments and idyllic weekend business trips, we devoured each other, unable to get enough, always wanting more, until reality intruded. Holidays became long empty hours of mindless tasks to fill the void and the weekend trips didn’t come fast enough or last long enough. He introduced me to his cousin, his only living relative, and she hid us for a few weekends just across the border in Pennsylvania. It wasn’t enough. It was never enough.

It would have been enough if he’d never uttered those promises. “I’ll tell her I want a divorce tonight, tomorrow, this weekend, after this last family vacation.” He was always apologetic but he didn’t tell her. I didn’t want his promises; I wanted him, his time, his kisses, his body, his passion, his hands, his words. I didn’t need a ring on my finger or promises of “until death do us part”. I needed him. I only wanted him. I didn’t want legitimacy; I wanted passion. He needed, he wanted, more. I was content. He wasn’t. So I ended it and walked—no, ran—away.

Whenever I read Henry Miller or hear Miller’s voice on the tape he made of the record I gave him for his birthday, it all comes back: reading Henry Miller together, the kisses, the desire, sitting on the bed naked and sated eating pizza and drinking warm vodka, the aching need not satisfied with six or eight hours of sweat- and orgasm-soaked sheets, the poetry, sharing words—mine and his. I’m not sorry for loving him or needing him or desiring him. I feel no regret for sharing him with his wife or for telling him to keep sleeping with her when he had me to share his bed. I am ashamed of nothing and I won’t apologize for leaving even though he believes I abandoned him.

Great love requires great sacrifice, so does great passion.

Newsletter talk

A few hours ago one the of the hams who advertises his business in the newsletter called me to change his ad. It is a small change and one he makes every year at this time. I took the information and told him I'd pass it on since I was no longer the newsletter editor. "Well, that's not good. You're the best editor we've ever had," he said. "You are one smart and talented lady." I thanked him. Then he asked where he should send the money for the change in the ad and I told him there was no charge. It's a small change, a few words, no need to charge for that since the newsletter isn't a paying concern. He thanked me and told me he was going to miss working with me. That from a man who didn't like me very much at first because I left out his ad a few issues.

At that time, he called me and raked me over the coals, explaining his ad had run in the newsletter for over 30 years and I'd better put it back in. I explained that I didn't know anything about his arrangements and no one told me about him or his ad. He apologized and has been a sweetheart ever since.

This is the week for compliments and news about the newsletter. The printer told me the last time I saw him he was going to miss working with a professional like me who knew how to put together a newsletter. He and his wife said they'd miss my smile and funny stories and made me promise to call from time to time and visit once in a while. His wife, Barb, told me she read one of my stories in Cup of Comfort and that she couldn't help crying. She told all her friends she knew the author and that they had to pick up the book.

Then I got an email from a good friend who I had asked for input about the newsletter since I wasn't sure if he knew I had resigned. He said he started reading the newsletter when I took over and that it was "...more fun to read, more thought provoking, and I've wanted to read it over
again at times." He added, " You've had an impossible job keeping it going and have done admirably." I didn't think he was paying attention. I was wrong.

I changed the ad for Jess, made up a new one, and sent it to the president of the club to use for the newsletter. Over the past month I have sent him enough material to put together a fairly good newsletter, but it doesn't look like there will be an issue this month. He said he'd use the ad for the combined August/September issue. I was afraid of this, that the newsletter would fold when I resigned, and it still may.

Had I not volunteered to edit the newsletter three years ago, it probably would have died sooner, and it is sad to see it happen. I don't want to see the newsletter die, but I also don't want to be the one to keep it going alone, even though I have thought of putting together a quick newsletter and sending it to the president of the club to add the minutes and his column, which he always sent right at the last minute before the deadline. I am torn between needing to focus on my own writing and work and wanting to help them out, but I'm gagging my better nature and locking it in a soundproof room so that it can't get out.

The compliments are nice and coming from people whose opinions I respect, but the compliment I wanted and needed was for the members to be so excited they wanted to contribute and I'd have so many submissions I'd have to keep a backlog. It never happened.

Although plaques and certificates and the occasional congratulatory dinner are nice, they are not the reason I volunteered to edit the newsletter. I wanted to be a part of the community and a part of the club. It was my way to contribute. Sadly, I was the only one who really cared. It is beginning to look like I may still be the only one who cares and that makes me sad.

That is all. Disperse.

Sex, death and drama

There's a situation going on at my best friend's job. Evidently, a married woman, Bridget, and one of her co-workers, Jerry, have been having a very blatant affair. Several people over the past five or six months emailed Bridget's husband, Phil, who also works there, and told Phil what has been going on in plain sight. He tried to find out who was sending the emails but can't get a line on them because the emails are being sent from outside and the IT guys can't pin down anything specific. The addresses are all different -- as are the names.

On Monday, Phil confronted Jerry, took him in a conference room and slammed the door. Bridget has been crying off and on over the past two days and claims there has been nothing going on and neither she nor Jerry have changed their behavior. They still go out to lunch every day (for 90+ minutes) in an effort to prove there's nothing going on. Bridget and Jerry are caught in a trap of their own making and now Jerry, who has a history of affairs with other women in the office, wants out. He can't get out because Bridget is determined to hang onto him and her husband. Phil, meanwhile, has taken a week off from work because he can't face everyone.

My best friend is caught in the middle because she is afraid of history repeating itself. Many years ago, one of the supervisors killed his girlfriend and then himself because he caught her having an affair. What made it all so much worse is that he killed and himself at the office. It's all my best friend can do to keep the images of that horrible day out of her mind with all this going on.

Phil and Bridget want to know who is emailing and how the people know what's going on. Well, that's not hard to understand since Bridget and Jerry have been carrying on for months and everyone has been talking about it. Bridget thinks she can figure out who is behind telling Phil by planting different tidbits of information with some of the people she suspects in hopes that one of them will take the information and run to Phil with it. That won't work. She's just not smart enough; she hasn't figured out that everyone knows what is going on and have spread the word that she's up to something in order to throw the blame on someone else, or at least trap someone into taking the fall in her place. She's deluding herself. She's flaunted her actions for too long and too many people want to see her take it in the end. The damage has already been done and she has been rear-ended by her own actions.

Unknown to Bridget, Jerry had a relationship with another woman in the office, Pam, but they have not been together in years. My best friend knows Pam and Pam confided in her that she propositioned Jerry. She wants to pick up where they left off. She's in a bad marriage and so Pam suggested they get together again. Surprisingly, Jerry turned her down flat, but her offer reminded him that he deserves to be happy and the only time he was happy was when he was with Janine. However, he treated Janine badly and it isn't likely she will take him back.

Jerry has been in contact with Janine but he doesn't know how to approach the subject of getting back together. My best friend knows Janine, too, and she said Janine is determined to prove to herself that Jerry is being honest with her. She's going to keep him at arm's length until she is satisfied he is serious and doesn't want just to scratch an itch.

One thing is certain, Peyton Place has nothing on my best friend's office. Violence, murder, suicide, sex and betrayal are commonplace there and she often regales me with the tales. It's a wonder they ever get any work done with the constant soap opera. One thing I don't miss by working at home, is all the drama. Besides, I get the benefit of the drama without having to get too close to it.

Worth waking up

I was asleep, deeply asleep, having a wonderful dream and a loud jangling noise yanked me by the hair into semi-consciousness. I stumbled from bed and made it to the phone just as it stopped ringing, so I booted up the laptop and checked my email, thinking it was Beanie calling me and knowing if she did there'd be an email waiting. No email. After a little time, I checked my voice mail and it was one of my best friends telling me wonderful news of home and family. I was still a bit groggy, but awake enough for my heart to swell with happiness at the news. Her lost baby had been found and was safely home. She also made me laugh when she told me her seventy-something mom had been on her knees in the bushes the day before to help catch the baby (yes, it's a cat).

Her husband had been devastated because he felt responsible for the baby getting out and he was so happy when he pulled the baby out of the trap they set the night before. This is definitely news worth losing sleep over and I am so glad I got the call.

It's moments like this, even bleary-eyed and punchy from lack of sleep as I am, that make all the trouble and niggling irritations disappear as if they never existed. There have been a few moments like this recently, like receiving an apology and getting a picture of a good friend after hiking to the top of Pikes Peak.

I have said so little about my friends of late, focusing more on writing what I hope helps more than just me from the vast emotional archives of what my friends send me or call to tell me. I realize, as I found again this morning in my emails, that people I don't really know are going through the same things and think I'm inside their heads. The things we all believe are unique to us aren't really all that unique, like a pebble dropped in a lake sends out ripples that touch the shore at different points and different times. We tend to forget that we are all connected and our lives are mirrored in the lives of others we may never meet, and it helps to be reminded that we are not alone, that someone else (probably many someones) are going through the same things. There will still be those who believe their situation is unique and no one can know what they're going through, but I think that's because they need to keep the spotlight on themselves and hate the idea of sharing the attention.

So much has happened over the past few years, things I haven't had the time to share here, like a good friend's battle with breast cancer and then turning around and building her own business. Sometimes the emotions are too raw to put them on the page, so I don't.

It's an Aquarian trait immortalized in a line from Star Trek: "The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few -- or the one." Doesn't mean I don't take care of the ones or that I'm not there for them, just that I need the distance and balm of time to help me find a way to put it out there so that what I've learned and experienced could help the many. The one I keep for my private paper journals, just as I always have, writing in the moments before sleep and letting go of the sometimes overwhelming emotions so I can sleep, even if it means being awakened before I have to get up because a friend wants to share their news, good or bad. One thing my friends know is that they can call me any time if they need me and, now that I don't turn the ringer off to spare my housemates, I'll get out of bed and leave my dreams for them.

Poltergeist activity

Beanie is upset because some people at work won't leave her alone. No matter where she is, they're either nearby or talking loud enough for her to hear. They are making their presence known and felt. She can't understand why they're so bent on bugging her because she doesn't understand human nature -- at least in this regard. It's simple. When you're important to someone they need to make sure you don't lose sight -- or sound -- of them.

The relationship may be dysfunctional or just plain bad, but the idea of you not being in their lives, even on the periphery, is something they just cannot accept. It's what makes stalkers tick. They need to make sure you don't forget them. It's not always healthy. It often leads to ugly scenes and escalating actions to keep your attention focused on them. They're like wounds that never heal, scabs they keep picking to keep the blood flowing.

I've heard it said that if you let something go and it comes back, it was meant to be. I think if you let something go and it keeps coming back, the past is not going to die. It's like a ghost -- or more likely a poltergeist -- that you've acknowledged and released that has decided it is not better in the light. It's better where it can bother you and remind you of its existence, and that's because it cares and doesn't want your relationship to die.

People move into and out of our lives all the time. Some people stick around and, all too often, the ones we want to stick around don't always stay. It's hard to let someone go when they've been an integral part of your life. Even if it ended badly, if you never really got closure and things were never settled, it's like a poltergeist knocking pictures off walls and moving furniture and possessions around to remind you you're not alone. It's hard to end something if there really hasn't been an ending, if things were never really settled. Questions linger and there's a hole in the middle of your life that can't be filled by new friends or work or parties or clubs or all the self help books in the world. You can ignore it and hope it will finally heal but chances are it won't heal.

A lot of people, my mother included, try to fill the whole with things, the old shop till you drop therapy. That never works. Some people try to fill the whole with anger and unfulfilling memberships in clubs and organizations. It only makes the hole that much more noticeable. There are people who use sex, drugs and rock and roll to fill the hole. It doesn't help. And some try to fill the void with work. The work suffers and the hole gapes wider. Not even the pink suede elephant in the middle of the room no one acknowledges will fill the hole. And prayer won't help either. The only thing that works is finding or writing an ending.

In a way, it's like a literary story that stop in mid thought as though the world ended or the author died before he could finish, and it is probably why Hollywood movies are so successful. There's always an end.

Situations like these can also be compared to wars. There are the all out bloody and destructive wars with casualties on both sides where the combatants just drift back to their own countries and lives before a winner is declared or a peace treaty signed. Who knows when hostilities will flare up again -- or how often? Then there are the cold wars, covert wars that rely on spies and propaganda that go on and on and on until someone decides to bring down the wall or agree to a Détente. Neither situation is ideal because there's always a feeling of animosity and distrust between the central parties. In this kind of war, most of the damage is collateral. There has to be a peace treaty or a demilitarized zone set up where both parties know the boundaries and are willing to respect them, otherwise the combatants feel unsettled and living in limbo without any idea of what happened and if or when the war is finally over.

As long as the ghosts of relationships past keep intruding, one thing is certain: you are still important to them. I'm not sure if that is a comfort or a curse. At least it's power. Be careful how you use it.

Sweat and lubricants

Chili Bob called yesterday morning (he hates emails, says the phone is faster) and somehow we got onto the subject of lubricants. It's a subject that pops up on occasion and after all these years it still pops up. There are no taboos with Chili Bob and I'm glad we can talk about everything -- and have -- even when the subject is lubricants. Even Beanie mentioned lubricants the other day when we talked. Lo and behold, Beanie and Chili Bob were talking about the same one. Funny how different people from different sides of my life sometimes end up on the same page. If I believed in coincidence, this would be one coincidence too many.

Is there something about summer heat and longer days that stirs everyone's libido to a furious boil so that all they can think about is lubricants -- and sex? Or is something else going on here? Animals don't behave this way when the females are in season. They wait for cooler and shorter days to begin their taking their shot in the biological lottery. People don't have that excuse since we are pretty much in season all the time, so what is happening out there? Don't people realize that summer love is sweaty and sticky and should be reserved for cooler days when you're saving on the heating bill? That's the time to be in heat.

But then I remember summer romances when I was younger and my sweat glands not so well developed, days when I spent hours grilling in the sun dressed in oil and not much else, days dancing to whatever was on the jukebox during rest periods at the local swimming pool and the rest of the time in the water shrieking with laughter while pretending to be surprised when boys surfaced near us in the pool ready to drag us to the depths and steal a kiss or offer to walk us home and carry the towels. Maybe it's not so surprising after all that heat generates even more heat -- of the biological variety -- and lubricants are on people's minds.

Chili Bob also told me an old friend of his popped in to say hello and ask if he was interested in another go-round. I've warned him about that particular merry-go-round before, but he never listens. There are some relationships that should just fade into the background of imperfect memory; that is one of them. I have a few of those myself and one that keeps popping up when I least expect him, which is probably when I should expect him. He does have a pattern and it's never a good one. As far as I am concerned, that one should fall into the Alzheimer's abyss, along with some of the Xmas gifts my mother and mother-in-law gave me that weren't worth regifting and not even Goodwill would take.

There are other friends who pop up from time to time and should stick around longer, but they are always off on a new adventure or completely engrossed in some new ecological refit and don't have the time for more than the odd and very short conversation. Those are the ones I miss, but then I wander off from time to time, following the muse or on a bug hut of epic proportions and far reaching consequences, so I shouldn't complain. Must be the heat and the itching and the feeling that I'm melting into a steaming puddle of sweat that makes me so testy.

Oh, now I get it. That's why Chili Bob and Beanie mentioned lubricants. It was a hint to relax and smooth out the rough edges with a little something slick and slippery. I should have known. Time to get out the oil and a towel and find a pool. It's summer time.

That is all. Disperse.

Vampire activism

If you liked the show Moonlight and would like to see some other more intelligent and people savvy network pick up the show and keep it running so we can find out what happened with Mick and Beth and Coraline, go to Save Moonlight and sign their petition. Pass it on.

That is all. Disperse. Vote.

Time to end

It just never ends and it is partly my fault. I shouldn't pay attention when people let me know she's trashing me again. I thought she would have found someone else to trash by now, but since she's trying to keep people from finding out how shallow she is and how she lies and manipulates to keep them buying her books and reading her posts I guess I'm all she has, especially since her BFF disappeared after her husband's divorce and no one on LJ knows her. The drama is boring because she never says anything new and most of what she says is completely off base. It wouldn't do to let her know what she says gets to me from her best friends and closest relatives who think she is obsessed and has gone completely over the edge. But it's my fault for reading the messages. I should just ignore them since they won't listen when I say I'm not interested.

I stopped reading her blog over three years ago but she emailed to tell me that she continues to read my blog because she says my posts are "the most erudite and interesting" she has ever read. Personally, I think she said that to hide the fact that she's stalking me online, reading all my reviews, articles, stories and posts so she can keep track of my publishing progress and prove she's better than I am, a real writer as opposed to a writer whose stories are included in ten anthologies at last count. After all, I'm not the only name in or on the book, therefore, I am not a real writer.

The news of a literary agency approaching me to represent a series of articles and putting the book based on the articles up for auction is what probably sent her over the edge. I didn't put the news out there because of her. I put it out there to share the news with friends and to let other writers know that success happens when you least expect it. So why does she insist on using the same tired old line about me being deserted by friends, lovers and family when she knows nothing of me or my life? Is it because she has nothing else to use and she can't fault my writing? She has nothing left but empty and repetitious and very old personal attacks. Like I said, she knows nothing about me or my life or who my friends are. I don't mention them by name in my posts. I have other things to write about, most of them dealing with relationships and writing. I have neither the time nor the need to prove I have friends by writing about them and putting their names and personal information out there. If I wrote everything about my friends, I wouldn't have any time left to spend time with them. I have a full time job and a writing career and a life.

I need to go back to my old policy of not reading any emails sharing the contents of her posts because all it does is feed into her obsession. At least then I won't know when she reads one of my posts and decides it's all about her because everything is about her and I can't possibly have a life without her in it. Not everything is about her and she's not so special or important to my life that I can't find anything else to write about. If she sees herself in my posts, it is because she's looking for a reason to create drama. As far as I'm concerned, we are done. I wish her well. I hope her book is a success. I hope her life is happy because then she will have less time and fewer reasons to create more drama. Then maybe her friends and family won't feel the need to warn me she is still obsessing about me. It's time for it to end.

I've been done for a long time. I've kept her secrets so she need not fear me spilling the truth about her and ruining her life. It's time for her to get over it and move on. If she's so happy, she shouldn't need to focus on me. It would be best if she just didn't read anything I wrote. I don't read what she writes. I have far too much going on in my life. I even had to drop editing and writing a newsletter because I needed more time for my life and my work. That was important. Her obsession with me is not.

So, in the interest of making things very clear. She should go her way and let me go mine. I wish her well and hope she has much writing success and whatever she wishes she should keep to herself. It's time for this to end.

Belated birthday bash

Last night, the cottage was full of light and laughter, conversation and food. Nel, who used to live across the hall from me, and her sister DJ, Michael, Kim and some of Nel's friends came over for a belated birthday party, belated only because Nel's birthday was Thursday. Last night was more convenient for everyone. Dinner and a simple dessert of a layered cake with lemon curd between the layers and a simple lemon icing lasted about as long as snow on a hot August night and there was wine, beer and shots to drink, as well as lemonade, iced tea and water, most of which is still here.

This party was planned three months ago when I moved but last night was the first time everyone saw the cottage without all the boxes lying around. I could have used another bathroom, but we still had a great time, although a couple people mentioned me getting a stereo to play the music instead of my computer. After the food was gone and the presents opened, most of the crowd left and Kim, DJ, Nel, Michael and I kicked back and caught up while we sipped wine and Nel and Michael did shots of whiskey. Good thing they didn't have far to go to get home.

I got up early this morning to put all the glasses and dishes in the dishwasher and clean the worst of the debris, but there remains a feeling of revelry in the air. We made plans for DJ and Michael's birthdays in October and November and a Yule party in December and everyone's coming back here. It's a far cry from our usual quiet parties when Nel and I lived across the hall from each other, but there's much more room here and plenty of parking space to accommodate the crowds. And I got to meet some new people, people who were only names and to whom I can now attach faces and voices.

It's cool and quiet outside right now with a faint cool breeze that will dwindle as the sun rises higher in the sky to scorch everything and suck the green out of the grass. A cold shower is just what I need to perk myself up before diving back into work and laundry today, but I don't mind. I'm glad of a little calm after the storm of conversation last night.

That is all. Disperse.

Family vacation

Carol, Beanie and Mom are going to New Orleans in October for a week and asked me to join them. I can't afford a vacation right now and I can't take any more vacation time until November, so that lets me out. Beanie and Carol came up with the idea of the four of us planning another vacation next year and making it an annual thing, going somewhere new every time.

Mom has a thing for trains and I get monthly newsletters about train trips through Canada and Alaska. I suggested going on one of those. I also suggested a cruise to Alaska but Beanie doesn't like the cold. I reminded her that you can only take a cruise to Alaska in the summer months and that it is warmer then. I sweetened the pot with whale watching and the chance of seeing polar bears, seals, sea otters and walruses. That made a difference. Beanie said if she likes New Orleans she wants to go again when I can go with them and show them the best spots. I gave her a list, but there are quite a few things she won't be able to do with Mom along.

I'm surprised they didn't include Jimmy now that he won't be towing Bobbie along with him. She doesn't get along with anyone in the family and has complained that Beanie flirts with Jimmy. She doesn't have any close relationships with her siblings so she doesn't understand or get close family relationships. Beanie and Jimmy are close. Since Carol and I got married and moved out it was just them, like they were the only kids in the family. They have fun together and they like each other. That's not flirting; that's family. Good thing she isn't my spouse or she'd complain that Beanie and I flirt with each other. We're just really close and always have been.

My grandson Jordan turned nine two weeks ago and AJ and his wife are moving back to Idaho. Actually, AJ's wife and he kids are already in Idaho and he's still in South Carolina, probably something to do with his postoperative care since his back surgery. David Scott is buying his first house and called to ask me some questions. He's so emotional you'd almost think he's a woman sometimes. I got him calmed down and hopefully thinking clearer. That's what family is for.

Jordan isn't the only one with a birthday in July. Jimmy turned 48 a week ago, although he claims that he stopped at 45, so he's 45 plus tax. I don't think he's comfortable heading closer to 50, but it's inevitable. But nearly 50 and starting over again after a divorce is always a little bit scary. It happened so fast I'm not sure he's taken it all in. He's another emotional male, but mostly with blushing. Beanie sent Jimmy a cookie bouquet at work the day before his birthday. I can just see him going down to the reception desk to pick it up. When he took the bouquet I know he blushed as red as a beet from his chest to the roots of his hair. He's blond going quickly gray so it should have been a very fiery show. I wish someone had taken a picture. That's one I'd hang in the hall with the other pictures of my family: Beanie sleeping on my couch when she, Mom and Carol visited two years ago, Mom standing in front of a Lucky Dog cart in New Orleans, and Dad in his uniform when he was young. I also printed out pictures of my Sri Lankan family: Upali and his wife, two sons and daughter. Maybe that's where we could all go next year: Sri Lanka. I'll have to suggest it to my sisters and Mom.

In the meantime, I have work to do, books to read and writing on the new book to do. Good thing life doesn't stop or I'd have nothing worthwhile to do.

That is all. Disperse.