Blue skies

In spite of all the noise and gnashing of teeth about women being brutalized and mutilated for supporting McCain (a "B" cut in a woman's cheek with a knife that turned out to be a hoax) and the minor furor over military absentee votes in Virginia not being counted because the law was not followed, regardless of their voting preference, I'm looking forward to the next few weeks. All the political hoopla will be over and I will get to spend an afternoon with my favorite and best male friend. He's so excited and happy right now it's infectious.

He is leaving a rotten job full of hassles and idiotic corporate practices for a dream job full of challenge and opportunity. What's not to like. I'm really excited to be even on the fringe of things because he has been miserable for a long time and this is a giant step in the right direction. I hate seeing friends beaten down by life and work and unable to appreciate the smallest joys, like a brilliant autumn sun on a clear bright day or spending time talking and catching up.

It has been a long road for both of us, but some things -- and most especially some people -- are worth the wait. We're taking things one step at a time and getting comfortable with each other again, but it's not a difficult or hard process because we are now and have always been friends. We've both changed over the past few years, but the changes have made us better able to see the value in a deep and lasting friendship, and that's always worth the hardships. We didn't see where the path was taking us, but it's good to find that our separate paths led us back to share the same path again.

Life is about decisions, sometimes decisions that will break your heart and leave you battered and bloody and wondering why you should keep going, but those decisions will make the difference between finding out what's more important and what's not even worth considering. It's like choosing food from a buffet table. You don't have to eat everything and sometimes a little of what you want most is enough to fill you up. Besides, a little of the best is better than eating everything.

My grandmother used to say that sometimes my eyes were bigger than my stomach. She was right in more ways than one. I know what I want and while it isn't what most people would choose, it's just right for me.

That is all. Disperse.

Hip shots

I am all for political debate and commentary, but I'm really tired of the crap that is spewing out of both camps. Get real people. If you read the history books or the Constitution or even knew the laws that you're citing you might have a chance of winning the hearts and minds of the voters, but this campaign has gone beyond ridiculous.

1. It does not matter where McCain or Obama were physically born. They are still Americans because one or both of their parents were American citizens and thus being born on American soil is not necessary.

McCain was born in the Canal Zone which was the same as being born on American soil because it was sovereign American territory. He was born to two American parents serving overseas on a base in the Canal Zone, and probably at Coco Solo naval base because it has the biggest and most well equipped hospital, and therefore his citizenship is not in question.

Obama was born to a mother who was an American citizen. Whether or not he was born in Hawaii is not an issue because he was born to an American citizen.

The only time it matters whether or not someone is born on American soil is when both parents are citizens of a foreign country. Got that? Good. Move on to something really important like issues that will affect the American people for the next four years.

2. Religion is not a good issue either because, unless you're brain dead and completely unaware, Americans claim several religions, including Wicca, Pagan, Muslim, Hindu, Catholic, all the Protestant branches, Judaism, B'hai, Buddhism, Taoism, Shintoism, Atheism, Agnosticism and many more. Whether Obama was a Muslim and became a Christian should not matter. All Muslims are not evil and all Christians are not saints or even good. The Constitution guarantees the right to choose your religion and worship as you choose, even if that religion is abhorrent to other religious beliefs. This is a non-issue and should not be a part of the debate or even a reason for dislike and dissent. Keep to the political topics that the President will have to handle and leave religion out of it. Unless you're going to ignore or rewrite the Constitution, find something else to complain about. Got it? Good. Move on.

3. Work has been very busy for me of late and I haven't had a lot of time to post, so this will have to do for now. With a delivery of books to be read and reviewed, articles to write, book contracts to look over and negotiate, stories to edit and write and a social life that includes time with my best male friend, LJ has been low on my priority list. There are only so many hours in a day and sleep is a must if I intend to do any of the above. I have taken the time to send some of you postcards about the latest Cup of Comfort book on the shelves right now and I hope they got to everyone all right. Let me know if you would like a postcard and/or a personal note.

The two latest books on the shelves, bringing the year's total to six so far, with more to come, are: Cup of Comfort for Families Touched by Alzheimer's (Bedside Stories) and Chicken Soup for the Soul: Empty Nesters (Silence). Both stories have my byline: J. M. Cornwell. Go out and get your copy or borrow one from the library. All comments are welcome.

4. My mother, Beanie and Carol were in New Orleans last week and I got to play tour guide by cell phone, sparking an idea for a story that may well appear in the Last Word in Smithsonian Magazine early next year. We're still negotiating editing and terms, but things look good.

5. The Evil One (my best male friend) has led me down the primrose path once again and turned me on to True Blood and it has turned out to be a fascinating show. I've added it to my short list of Dexter, Desperate Housewives (no groans, please) and Californication. I'm being talked into trying Heroes again, but the show left me cold at the end of last season. Heroes second season was nowhere near as good as the first, although there were moments that were intriguing and seemed to fizzle. I'm not sure I have time for another show since I picked up True Blood and I'd choose vampires over enhanced individuals any day, unless they were X-Men or Spiderman or Superman, which I don't think is going to happen any time too soon.

The Evil One has also spent a great deal of time making me laugh and that too is more important than posting on LJ when my time is at a premium. Laughter is, after all, the best medicine.

6. One other thing has taken my attention and that's the alleged 12,000-year-old pyramid hiding under the dirt and rocks in Bosnia at Visoko.

And then there are the review books, three of which need to be read, reviewed and turned in by Tuesday next week, two profiles, and a book contract for one of my novels. As you can see, time is limited, but I'll keep checking in from time to time and see what you all are up to and post when I can.

7. It snowed today in Colorado Springs, a big, heavy, wet snow that drew me outdoors to enjoy the crisp autumn air and the golden sunlight glinting off the melting white expanse. How can I write when there are such wonders to enjoy?

That is all. Disperse.

A very liberal dose

It's becoming an alarming trend that liberals are willing to shut down and police free speech making it not quite so free and much harder to obtain. Free speech is free as long as you agree with the liberals. First it was politically correct speech and then hate crimes, can thought crimes be far behind? Liberals, my Aunt Edith.

In your face politics with political aspirants for the country's highest positions telling followers to get in the opposition's face and argue with them, shout them down if necessary, now that is the way to sweet reason and changing minds. Add in ACORN's heinous voter registration tactics and you have more of this. Now that is change you can believe in whether you want to or not.

That is all. Disperse.

More lemonade, please

There are times when life sucks rotten lemons and times when it's more like lemonade. This is a lemonade day.

A few years ago a very close friend, my best male friend, threw me a big curve and everything fell apart. He surprised me a few months ago with an unsolicited and heartfelt apology. On Friday last, he gave up the goods and told me a tale of mistakes and heartaches that resulted in a roller coaster weekend followed by the best lemonade day of all today. I have my friend back.

The old saw about not knowing what you have until it's gone isn't always true. I knew what we had before he disappeared and I missed him terribly while he was gone. Mostly I missed the awful jokes and horrible puns and his quirky sense of humor.

There are times when you meet someone (in this case know someone for dog's years) that gets you as much as you get them. The conversation is effortless and flows from one subject to another, hop skipping from tangent to tangent without missing a beat. We have so many common interests and I've picked up a few along the way, but the best thing about all this is that it feels like we just talked yesterday instead of more than a year ago. That's the thing about really good friends. You might have a falling out or disagree about something and part, but eventually the wound in your life and theirs never heals and nothing really feels right.

We still have some fence mending to do, but if I died tonight, I would die happy because we're back together as friends. I can't wait to show him the cottage and share some time and maybe a movie or two together. For me, the holidays came early and they brought friends, the best part of life.

That is all. Disperse.

Hands

I watched The Bone Collector last night and one part of it struck a nerve. When Angelina Jolie touched Denzel Washington's hand while she thought he was asleep, it was the most erotic and intimate scene in the movie, which is pretty amazing when you consider the movie wasn't supposed to be erotic or intimate. It was brutal and bloody and difficult. But watching her touch his fingers fastened onto the wooden board that held his computer mouse gave me chills -- the really good kind -- and that deep down ache that pulls the focus inward.

As I thought about that scene later, it occurred to me that the most sensuous part of the body, aside from the mind, is the hand and fingers. We understand and process so much information from the sense of touch through every millimeter of our skin, but the hands can be brutal and uncaring and oh so sensuous and intimate, conveying so much in even the lightest of touches.

My favorite scene in Persuasion by Jane Austen with Amanda Root and Ciaran Hinds isn't when they kiss but when he first takes her hand. He holds out his white gloved hand and she puts her hand in his slowly and softly. Then his thumb holds her hand in place with a slight caress of the ball of his thumb on her hand and then they kiss, but the closeup of their hands touching for the first time is magic.

There is power in the touch of a hand and even Shakespeare got that one right when Romeo and Juliet first meet and touch hands in a "...holy Palmer's kiss." It is touch that first tells us that someone is interested: a brief caress of fingers to cheek, patting a shoulder or a knee, reaching for another's hand to comfort and console, brushing away a stray eyelash, making contact in some way that breaches our personal barriers. Even in pulling a girl's hair or slapping a boy on the arm for some slight brings two people closer and says so much about what we feel.

I remember once while having lunch with a friend, he told me that things were not going well at home. I instinctively reached out to touch his hand to console him and he responded by holding my hand, his thumb making little circles on the space between my thumb and forefinger. It was such an intimate moment it surprised us both because it happened instinctively.

A newborn baby waves its arms around but what it is really seeking is contact, to touch and be touched. If you think about it, it is our hands we have to watch when we're around people who evoke strong emotions, putting them in pockets or hiding them against the chest when we cross our arms. We show empty hands to prove we have no evil or violent intent. When we cry we hide our eyes in our hands and brush away the tears. We emphasize a point by beating a fist on something or someone. We gesticulate and emote with our hands, saying as much, and sometimes more, with our gestures as we do with words. Hands clasped in prayer or meditation, hands folded in laps, sitting on hands, running fingers through our hair or someone else's, stroking, caressing, feeling, holding, slapping, pulling, touching say more than words and say it clearer.

We hide behind language to mislead, lie, mask and entice, but hands never lie. Eyes are the windows to the soul, but hands are the doorway to the heart.

Alzheimer's moments

I may not have mentioned this before, but the latest Cup of Comfort book containing my story, Bedside Stories, is on the shelves in your local bookstores. So you will know what to look for, here's a picture of the cover.




That is all. Disperse.

More good news

Sometimes I forget when I've submitted a story or book because it takes so long for the publishing community to respond. That was the case yesterday when I received an email to let me know the editors loved the story I submitted for the prestigious 24/7 anthology. I got in. The book will be published next year and my story will stand alongside internationally and nationally known writers.

It never gets old finding out my work is published. I still get a thrill every time someone compliments a story or an editor buys what I've submitted. My heart swells with pride when I see my name printed. I hope that feeling never gets old and I never become so jaded I can't find the joy.

One of the principles involved in the case over Andre Norton's copyrights left in her will contacted me yesterday to tell me the verdict is in. The appellate court overturned the previous verdict granting Andre's copyrights to Dr. Victor Horadam and granted them to Sue and Ollie Stewart, Andre's friends and caretakers in the last years of her life. Sounds like someone in the Tennessee court systems knows what they're doing. Sue is sending me the appellate court's decision so I can add it to the articles I've been writing, but you heard it here first.

Last night was one of those nights I decided to turn in early. I had worked hard all day, ran an errand that took me an hour, came home, ate a little something and went back to work for another four hours. When I was finished working I was finished. I decided to get undressed, put on my comfy gown and climb into bed with a book, and that's what I did. Except my mind still buzzed and whirled with ideas, so I wrote for a little while and then I read, falling asleep with the light on and the book still open on the bed.

I woke up and turned out the light. It was black outside the window and the man who drunkenly serenaded me on Saturday night was silent. All I heard was the soft swish of leaves against each other as a night wind whispered softly through the barely opened window breathing cool against the warmth of my skin, telling stories of far Arctic lands where snow and ice glisten blue under the moonlight and polar bears prowl the silent tundra. Even in the darkness under the warm covers the urge to set in writing the stories whispering on the wind wouldn't let up, so I got up and wrote a little while longer, writing until the urge eased and the night wind murmured a lullaby that soothed my burning thoughts. I turned out the light and went back to sleep, sliding into the soft, warm cocoon of dreamless sleep. It's the best sleep I've had for a long time and now I feel languid and warm, despite the cold, and wish to dive back between the still warm covers and sleep.

Productive day

I'm feeling very productive today because I got all the laundry done. I may be single and work at home but it has been a month and I'm out of underwear. The mail man and the neighbors prefer me to be dressed when I go outside the house. I also did the dishes. Yes, I have a dishwasher but it doesn't load and unload itself, drat it!

I stripped the bed and made it with clean sheets and moved the bed so I could get to the books that fell off the bed and between the bed and the wall. You'd have to see the cramped little bedroom to understand. My queen size bed just fits in the niche with just enough room for books to fall behind the bed. It's a major undertaking just to make the bed, let alone excavate fallen books and magazines. And no, I didn't find any money. Drat again!

I have also spend a good part of the day doing some marketing -- that is writing marketing. I've been finding new places for old articles and stories and rewriting some ideas to slant them for other markets. I've also written another article for Writers Weekly, which will bring in a few dollars, and worked on some stories for Smithsonian magazine. Like I said, it's been a productive day.

I also spent some time discussing literature with my favorite Missourian whose mom and dad are my second and third favorite Missourians and listened to Beanie rail at me for not answering the phone when I was at a crucial part of writing. She can be such a brat at times. At least I called her back.

I usually like to take it easy on the weekends because Sunday night I bag up the trash and take it out so I don't have to do it early Monday morning. I also put out the mail that needs to go Monday (usually DVDs from Netflix). Tonight I will put out a brand new contract for another anthology and a promised article. I'm quite pleased with the finished result and I always enjoy breaking into new markets.

It's quiet right now. Even the mouse has decided not to run around tonight, probably since I've decided to stop putting her food in the trap she keeps ignoring while she dines. I cannot understand what is wrong with it. It was quite effective on my thumb when I breathed on it and it nearly snapped my big toe when I walked past it. Unfortunately, it does not seem quite so intent on trapping the mouse.

I have determined the mouse is a female. The other trap caught her mate quite handily, but then everyone knows that females are smarter and wilier and males let their greed overwhelm whatever common sense lurks in the dusty corners of their brains.

Nothing works. I've jimmied the trap, put down potato salad (she loved it, but in small bites), tahini (got stuck under the trigger and kept it from springing the trap), butter (it was the last little dab and I needed to clean the dish), pancakes and corn muffins, and even peanut butter (organic, of course). At first I thought she had abandoned me but then the peanut butter began disappearing a few nibbles at a time until the trap and trigger were licked clean and not a hint of peanut butter remained. A dust ball blew across the trigger when I swept the floor and the trap snapped shut. Mrs. Mouse has even drug the trap across the floor and wedged the wire mechanism under the stove so it wouldn't work even if she danced on the trigger. Like I said, it's a female mouse. No male would go to that much trouble.

In the meantime, while I contemplate how to rig the trap so it can't be moved and will finally evict the Mrs. Mouse, I'm going to take out the trash and mail, take a shower, and slip between clean sheets before it's time to rise and dimly glow for another week of work.

That is all. Disperse.

Essence of freedom

When I read my cousin Ellen's email a few days ago and formulated my reasons for being wary of Sarah Palin I realized that I had made a common mistake. I had fallen in with the herd and forgotten the actual meaning of freedom. I also realized that my dislike of Palin is more about what her beliefs say about her and her ability to reason intelligently than anything else.

I don't oppose teaching creationism in the schools as long as evolution is taught as well. That may shock some people, but it shouldn't, especially if you know me. It goes to the heart of what freedom really means. How can anyone judge the arguments if one of the major points of the discussion is missing? How can anyone judge the validity of creationism versus evolution without seeing them side by side with all the facts and figures, theories and conjecture? You can't. No one can.

What I find so frightening about Sarah Palin is that she seems like an intelligent woman, except when you get to the subject of her religion and religious beliefs. I have no problem with people believing whatever they want and worshiping or not worshiping whatever gods they choose. I do have a problem when religion overrides common sense and empirical scientific data. Thinking like Sarah Palin's is what made Leonardo da Vinci hide his work and research and made Galileo recant his statements about the earth being round and not flat. Thinking like Sarah Palin's, and anyone who allows religion to dictate science, is what has killed more people and caused more deaths than anything else, including greed and rampant testosterone poisoning.

Freedom is about being able to say what you think and believe what you will without having to hide for fear of censure or death, and that holds true for every American, except those who choose public office. Elected officials represent the entire population of their constituency and not just those who agree with them. Elected officials should be and must be blind and deaf to anything but the welfare and protection of all the people they govern. Nowhere is this more important than in the offices of President and Vice-President. As a private citizen you may believe what you wish and speak your mind without fear of censure or punishment. Publicly, you are neutral, the voice of all the people, and especially the voice of those whose beliefs are in opposition or different than yours. This is the essence of what Jefferson meant when he wrote about the separation of church and state.

It's not about whether or not to allow prayer in schools or religious mottos on public buildings as long as it does not exclude any American. The people who built this country believed in Judeo-Christian religions. That is no longer true. While our forefathers and the people who were present at the birth of these United States believed in one god we live in a country where people believe in many gods and no god among those who still hold to Judeo-Christian beliefs.

President Bush has made a lot of mistakes, but he has also done a lot of good. His biggest mistake was making decisions based on his religious beliefs, beliefs that exclude nearly half of the population. This cannot be allowed to continue.

When any elected official bases his decisions on his personal beliefs and needs he damages the whole country and breaks faith with the people who ignored their own beliefs to vote him into office. A politician needs to be a wo/man of the people first and an individual last. The President and Vice-President speak for the entire country and not just those who believe the same way and to do anything else is self-serving and will bring this country down because only tyrants and dictators consider their own beliefs and needs before the people's.

It is difficult not to consider one's own feelings in a position of power when it seems as though the people have put their faith in you, the person. That is what makes politicians rip at each other's personal beliefs and drag each other through the mud. That's not what elections were meant to be. Yes, it's about popularity in a sense, but it should be about a person's ability to put their own needs and concerns to the side and do what is best for all concerned. What elections have devolved into is a continuous round of "Don't do as I do; do as I say." We are supposed to ignore the man behind the curtain pulling the strings and be awed by the spectacle in front of us.

It is the rare politician who puts his beliefs on hold and acts in the best interests of the people who elected him -- and those who didn't elect him. That's the problem. Politicians forget the very basic tenets of freedom, to govern in a way that protects all the people, most especially those who were in opposition, and yet that is what elected officials are supposed to do.

We have seen too much personal animosity and exclusion based on personal beliefs in the politicians who are currently in office and among those who wish to be elected. That has to change. I don't mean saying the words without understanding the meaning or promising change without a definite plan of what and how to change, but change at the very roots of how things are run. It's time to remember (if you ever knew) what freedom is all about and what it really means. Freedom is easy to say but a hard concept to put into action because we are human and we think of ourselves first. It's called the survival instinct. Freedom is a hard mark to hit, especially when you don't know what it really is.

When I interviewed Benson Wolman many years ago, he taught me the true meaning of freedom. Benson Wolman was a Jew and a lawyer who faced the justices of the U.S. Supreme Court to defend the rights of the members of the Ku Klux Klan to raise a cross on the Ohio Statehouse lawn. When I asked him how a Jew could defend people who would eradicate him and his people from the face of the earth if they could he told me that his rabbi taught him the true meaning of freedom. Freedom means not only speaking and writing and believing as you choose but defending the freedom of people who chose to believe something else even if that something else was dangerous to your very existence. Benson Wolman was the very essence of freedom and freedom few understand and even fewer practice, as we have seen from the current candidates for President.

As much as it angers us to hear Rev. Wright damn America and spew filth from the pulpit, it is his right to do so. It is Michelle Obama's right to be ashamed to be an American and to be a bigoted racist who sees white people as the enemy. It is Barack Obama's right to go to Rev. Wright's church and sit in a pew and nod his head when Rev. Wright vent his spleen and damn America and all white Americans without apology or explanation. It is not, however, Obama's right to censure and demand and get punishment for people who oppose him as he has done in several states throughout the country. If someone chooses to wear a button or hat or sash or shirt or put a sign in their yard that makes fun of Obama or publicly states they are against him being elected president, Barack Obama has no right to complain or to deny them their right to speak. It may hurt him personally and offend him, but as a candidate for the highest office in the land he must be blind. The same goes for Sarah Palin and John McCain.

I don't care what they do in their private lives as long as it does not hurt or impact the rest of the country. A healthy America is an America where people can voice their opposition, complaints and personal beliefs without fear or censure or punishment. A healthy America is one where the President and Vice-President act for the good of all Americans and not those who voted for them and believe as they do. A healthy America is one where elected officials work for the common good and not to line their own pockets or get rich from the hard work and sacrifice of the rest of the country. A healthy America is one where elected officials at all levels are blind and deaf, instruments of the people who speak for us all.

This is not a perfect world, but we are far from where we should be over 200 years from our beginnings. How can we bring freedom and the rights of all people to the rest of the world if we cannot get it right in our own back yard?

Vote as your conscience dictates but take a closer look at the man behind the curtain pulling the levers and strings to manipulate the spectacle in front of your eyes. Can we really afford another President who cannot understand the basic tenets of freedom for everyone, even for those who oppose him? Can we expect such a person to stand for us all when he can't even face the dissenting public during a campaign? I know we can't.

The candidates look on running for office like it's a popularity contest. It is and it isn't. It's more than that. It's about proving to the people -- all the people -- that you have their best interests at heart and will put aside personal agendas and animosities to do what's best for every single solitary American without regard for personal beliefs. It's about the greater good. It's about putting the people and this country first. If a candidate cannot put aside his or her ego and put the country first, then s/he has no business running for office.

The way I see it, that leaves only one choice, the candidate with a proven track record of putting the needs of the many before the needs of the one or the needs of one group first.

Obama mania

I usually don't discuss politics here, but the more I read and hear the more I realize that maybe it's time I did say something. Avoid if you're not interested or you don't want to be exposed to free speech.

I have serious doubts about a candidate that can't keep his statements straight or understand the meaning of the words his wife and he are using. There has been a lot of talk about where Obama got the money to run for congress, pay off his college debts, buy a $1.6M house and run for president. According to his wife, Michelle, he used to wear ratty sweaters and was the very essence of the down-at-the-heels college professor still paying off his and his wife's college loans. His first book, Dreams of my Father, was published in 1995 but it wasn't until after his speech at the 2004 Democratic National Convention that an editor from Crown Publishing decided to buy the rights and publish the book in paperback, except Crown already owned the rights, which says that until Obama was recognized on the national political stage his book wasn't important enough to be noticed for nearly ten years. Celebrity has its privileges and those privileges netted Obama a publishing contract with a three book deal and a $1.9M advance. I won't go into the publishing nuances and workings to explain that an advance isn't paid all at once and that Obama's agent got at least 15% off the top or that the advance wasn't paid all at once, but I will point out that Michelle and Obama have both stated that the royalties from the publication of his book paid off their college loans and bought their house and that an advance is not the same as royalties, or that you don't start collecting royalties until the advance is paid off or that none of this happened until well after 2005.

Does it sound like I'm splitting hairs? Need I remind you of the lawyer who once told the American people, "I did not have sexual relations with that woman."? Talk about splitting hairs.

Obama ran for Congress and after one year of service as a senator he was stumping for president. I have to wonder if this isn't a case of the which comes first, the chicken or the egg or, in Obama's case, wanting to serve his state as senator or use it as a springboard to running for President. He certainly has done very little work as senator and a lot of work running for president, including disassociating himself with long time friends, confidantes and spiritual leaders, nearly all of whom have publicly stated they knew they'd have to bow out of the picture in order not to hurt Obama's chances. I don't know about you, but that sounds a lot like premeditated planning of the first order. It isn't as though most of the people who have run for president haven't put it on their schedule: get degree, run for Congress, pick up shirts at the dry cleaners, run for president. Most of them did. It's a calculated move not a movie where a law professor or temp agency worker gets picked up, dusted off and put in the Oval Office. That doesn't happen in real life -- or does it? But most of those who followed the accepted route to the White House at least serve out their first term or two before hitting the campaign trail or finish out their contracts before setting their sights on the next rung on the ladder.

Why is it that Americans lose their minds and follow blindly behind any candidate just because he's young -- or at least relatively young? Are we so enamored of youth we forget that with age and experience comes (hopefully) wisdom? And it isn't just youth that draws the voters (and the political heat) but being different, like being a woman or a black man. Are we so anxious for any kind of novelty that we jump on the bandwagon without checking to see whether it has a sturdy bottom or wheels or is actually going somewhere we want to go?

Clinton preyed on our watercolor memories of JFK and the Camelot years, that were more like Camelot after Mordred than before (think Cuban Missile Crisis, among other debacles), and mobilized the vast resources of the Hollywood glitterati to put him in office. He appealed to our desire for flash over substance and that's what we got -- a lot of flash, side-stepping, double talk and scandal, reminiscent of JFK's well known and documented appetites and indiscretions that were very indiscreet. Then came Hillary, although she didn't quite make the grade, and now Obama, a young bi-racial man who is a very charismatic speaker as long as he has a script or teleprompter in front of him.

Obama took the Democratic National Convention by summer shower with Hillary fighting and kicking the whole way, but was it his charisma, his youth or the fact that he is bi-racial that won the day? A combination of all three? Is he the flavor of the month because he's different or because he has the goods or just talks a good game? It's the big pink polka dot purple elephant in the middle of the room that no one wants to talk about. Are people voting for him because he's not white, because he's bi-racial, because he's black? Is it all about political correctness or about him being the best candidate for the job?

We're on the verge of electing a man to office to defend the Constitution (it's in the oath of office) who suspends the freedom of speech whenever it might make him look bad or someone dissents. He's a lawyer, a former law professor running for the highest office in the land and he has no more respect for the Constitution than that? Isn't he supposed to uphold the law, fight for the law, fight for the rights that govern this country and all public offices? Isn't he supposed to be able to take a few body blows from people who don't like him and don't agree with him? Or is he above the rights and freedoms that have made America and Americans unique for over 200 years?

Personally, I don't trust him. There are too many unanswered questions and too much double talk and hemming and hawing for my taste. Even if I could get over my doubts, I cannot get over the fact that this is a man who has publicly said that his supporters should get in the opposition's face and shout them down. This is a man who wants to jail and fine people who don't agree with him. This is a man who leaves his friends by the wayside whenever they conflict with his primary objective -- becoming President. I have no doubt that he will pick up his friends again if he becomes president and will flaunt them in the faces of everyone who believed him when he said he didn't know his pastor and spiritual advisor hated America and all white Americans or that his ties to felons and monied Muslims are none of our business or that he is willing to rush through a bailout of Wall Street without looking into the details of what that bailout will mean to the taxpayers who are counting on him to see to their needs just so he can get back on the campaign trail. Even in a court of law, doubts like these are enough to set a defendant free, but evidently they are not enough to slow down the Obama-mania.

Even Clinton, although his motives are far from pure, has all but publicly thrown his support to John McCain. He'd pretty much do anything to get back to the White House and the Secret Service that keep his revolving door revolving for his sexual liaisons and so he can stop listening to Hillary whine that she put him in the White House and now it's her turn. And then there's Joe Biden who would have gone with McCain if McCain had asked him first, like any good political whore.

The difference between a whore and a prostitute is that the prostitute asks for the money up front before screwing you.

If none of that gave me pause, what a friend told me when she met Obama on her front porch when he was in her neighborhood did. She said he had a limp and moist handshake like holding onto a dead, wet and slimy fish. Obama asked her how long she had lived in her house. She told me that was enough to convince her he wasn't the man for the job of President. He was more interested in making small talk for the cameras and reporters following him around than asking her what would have give him her vote. He didn't ask her how long she thought she could afford to live in her house under the present economy. Sound bytes instead of sound thinking.

Obama is great when you give him a script and, as one fellow journaler often says, a gaffe machine when he ad libs. It is unfortunate he can't script the four years of his presidency should he be elected and he certainly can't script that 3 a.m. call on the red phone, although that my not be an issue since the Muslims in Iran and all through the Arab world are so enamored of The Obama.

And let's not forget that Michelle Obama, the potential First Lady, is the same person who said that she was ashamed to be an American, the same person who got an education and preferential treatment because of the Civil Rights that so many people, black and white, fought for in a country where she can freely and publicly speak her mind even to be negative and ashamed, a country where she got a first class education, is the the beneficiary of her husband's advance and royalties and has held some very lucrative and powerful positions. As First Lady, she is ambassador to the world and a shining example of what it is to be an American, even if she is ashamed to be an American.

If the only reason you're voting for Obama is because of the hype, the youth, his charisma and the fact that he's bi-racial, it's time to step back and take another look. Or maybe you should just shake his hand while standing on your porch as he makes small talk for the press. After all, being personable and charismatic is so much more important than experience and ethics and standing behind the Constitution you've been elected to defend. It's all about change, not a change of politics or business as usual, just a change of face.

That is all. Disperse.

Stand still

A phrase has been running around my mind all day: The tyranny of beauty. I keep trying to catch it and I've gotten close a couple of times, but it slips away at the last moment. It feels like the beginning of a story, or maybe it's the theme or the title, but it's not going away any time soon.

Another phrase tags in once in a while, but it's not one of mine. It's a phrase from a book I just finished. "She's no better than she should be." It's a New England phrase, and I think I know what it means, but I'm not sure. How can someone be better than they should be -- or worse? It's a snide way of saying someone isn't as good as they look or act and that there's monkey business going on behind closed doors, I think.

I just finished reading Peyton Place and Return to Peyton Place last night. It took me a while, fitting it in between working hours and review book hours, but it was really good. I had read Peyton Place once before but not the sequel, although I have seen both movies and recently saw them again. I always want to check out the book to see how close it is to the movie and, as always, this one was quite a bit different. So I checked out Wikipedia because I wanted to check out a theory -- that the character of Rita Moore in the book is Lana Turner in real life. There are similarities. I couldn't find it on Wikipedia but I did find out that they were completely off base about the novel version of the sequel. The movie sequel plot was given as the novel, which is why people shouldn't trust Wikipedia so much; they are often wrong. But I digress...

I checked out the Internet Movie Database and there was nothing about whether or not Lana Turner was the model for Rita Moore, but the characteristics fit and she had, in fact, just married again before Grace Metalious wrote the sequel. It was interesting to see how the author dealt with the difference between writing a screenplay and a novel (something few authors enjoy since their work is utterly changed and diminished by Hollywood) but the author, in the character of Allison MacKenzie, was given instruction on the differences and why. It is similar to what I read in an interview with the author of Becoming Jane Austen when his book was given the Hollywood treatment.

Both movies were sanitized and some of the more brutal and overtly sexual aspects of the book were softened or taken out altogether. Although Doc Swain was in the first movie, and in both books, he was left completely out of the movie sequel, as were several other characters. The reason for Mike Rossi being fired was changed to refusing to take Allison's book out of the school library when the actual reason for his firing was that he was related to Allison who wrote such a horrid and obscene book. The school board hired Mike back when his replacement turned out to be incompetent, but I guess since Hollywood decided to put more emphasis on the town's reaction to Allison's book, Samuel's Castle, than the author did in the book, it only makes sense. Constance MacKenzie, Allison's mother and Rossi's wife, did not call the book obscene nor did she shun Allison because of it -- or make her big speech at the end to Roberta Carter who was humiliated at the town meeting. Connie was behind Allison 100% from the beginning and biding her time for Allison to get over the fact that Connie had lied to her about being married to Allison's father.

So what does this have to do with the phrase that keeps running in circles in my mind? Nothing. It has to do with the second phrase and not the first. I know what the tyranny of beauty is, but not how it's going to end up in the story. Ever have that happen, get an idea that refuses to make itself into a proper story without a lot of chasing and wrestling?

It sometimes takes a while for an idea to gel enough for me to get a clean story out of it, but this is not the same thing. This is the glimmer of an idea, like a word on the tip of my tongue or the name of an actor or someone I'm supposed to know, that refuses to jump the synaptic gaps in orderly fashion so that I can pin it down and go on to the next item on my list -- or write the story that's brewing. I guess I'll have to let it steep a while and figure out what it has to do with small town Midwestern royalty.

That is all. Disperse.

Dark and light

I read an article by a Colombian artist who combined music (Chopin, Tchaikovsky, etc.) with her art, painting pictures that were evoked by the music. She recently did a series of 24 paintings inspired by 24 of Chopin's pieces that were a series of light and dark, twelve of each. What surprised (and hurt) her was that people like the light paintings but didn't like the dark paintings -- just like in relationships.

When in full hormonal haze of beginning love, whether it is with a potential lover or a friend, we bask in the light, the good things about the person, ignoring or finding excuses for the darkness, and it's how we conduct every relationship. Wanting to see only the good is probably what causes most of our neuroses because no one is all good. Everyone has a dark side, a shadow self (as one old friend called it), that we either hide from the world or, more often, from ourselves.

The light doesn't last forever and as it goes we become more and more disenchanted with the person we claimed to love and stand by forever until more emotional and relationship fires break out than we can ignore or stamp out, and then things end. Everything we liked about the person is now overshadowed by the darkness, by the faults and flaws that we couldn't get past. Oftentimes, it is a single flaw or a single dark moment that we use as an excuse to destroy a relationship forever, and that includes friends. We can't get through the darkness and back into the light so we dwell in the darkness, and we're all guilty to one extent or another.

About the only relationship that survives the darkness is family because we are bound to them from birth until death. We disagree and even hate one another, but when the chips are down we close ranks because they are family. It's too bad we can't do the same for lovers, spouses and friends.

There have been times that friends have bragged they don't mind of their friends disagree with them (usually a best friend). It's just a disagreement and won't break the relationship's back, but like a rope constantly wearing away against a rock or nail the relationship invariably breaks. We say we can only take so much and we seldom think of the many times our friends have put up with our faults and flaws and stuck by us because we were looking for a reason to walk away -- even run away.

I'm as guilty as anyone else. I've walked away from people I cared about because I thought it was the right thing to do to minimize the damage, but it was damage to myself and not to the other person I worried about. And I've had close friends walk away from me for what I still think are stupid and silly reasons. In spite of how some of my family have treated me, I still talk to them and care about them, even when I have vowed many times that it would be the last time I ever spoke to them or saw them. I always come back because they're family. They're an integral part of who I am and where I come from.

No one can live happily or at all without a past to anchor us to reality. Even amnesiacs who can't recognize themselves or their friends and family search endlessly for some scrap of memory that will link them to the past and to how they gained the knowledge that has stayed with them about how to drive a car or cook a meal or do their job. It's funny how the mind works to protect us from danger and pain. It's not so funny how we protect ourselves -- our darker shadow selves -- by pretending all is sweetness and light and there's nothing wrong. It's not healthy and it's not balanced. We all need balance in our lives.

The hardest thing in the world is to love someone you know isn't perfect and has some very dark aspects to their natures that are inextricable from the light parts, but that is what true love is all about -- accepting someone warts and all. To love someone who has done their best to trash your personal and/or professional life is true love and true friendship and so few of us stick around after the first hard test. No wonder this world is so mixed up and in so much pain. We can't face the darkness. We want only light.

In the northernmost reaches of the planet near the poles, there are months when there is only light and months when there is nothing but darkness, and people go mad, become depressed, commit suicide and murder, and languish for lack of balance. We accept the turning of the day from light to dark and back again because it is natural. We even accept, although with less tolerance, the times of the year when the light holds sway and then slowly gives up its dominion until the dark holds dominion, but we cannot accept it in the people we profess to love and care about. We would do well to take a good look at the people we have cast aside for petty reasons and see whose darkness it was we couldn't tolerate. It is the first step towards balance and acceptance of the shadow within us all.

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.