Even in the cold, a whiff of anticipation scents the air.
Even in the cold, a whiff of anticipation scents the air.
Here we go again, trying to get back to regular posting. What’re the odds? During this most fraught month of the year, pretty good. Not today, for I’ve used up my brain cells sorting through the papers on my desk. But isn’t that a good sign? Yeah.
So, for now, an image and a promise.
Watch this space.
A funny thing happened on the way to walking my dog: I lost my phone. I can still almost feel its weight in my jeans pocket, have looked everywhere inside the house and out, and it’s definitely gone. That little contraption of metal and plastic that holds more info about me and my life than should reasonably be carried around has escaped into the world.
I’m not even one of those souls who constantly carries a phone with me. Can’t count the times I’ve left it on the table and then needed it while I’m out and about. But slowly, over the years, I’ve become dependent on the thing, have gotten sophisticated enough to connect to some apps, have begun to feel the migration of brain cells to pocket or bag.
And now it’s gone.
I called the company, suspended the line, ordered another phone, knowing full well that when it arrives, I’ll be bitching about the set-up hassle. And I’ll go back to carrying the thing around, fitfully, and missing the pictures I took with the old one. Feeling stupid for not protecting my property. Hoping no villains have absconded with bytes and bits of my info for their nefarious ends.
Maybe I’ll use the event as a plot device in the latest book. Maybe I’ll come up with a clever bit of business that’ll make the whole experience worth while.
Not bloody likely.
I’ll go through the drill, replace info and leave some hidden. And this time I’ll buy one of those signal finders that locates the errant phone. And I’ll try not to take the technology for granted.
I’m baaaaaaack. I’ve been nursing my psychic wounds (my candidate lost) along with the respiratory virus that will not let go. I almost feel compelled to write a horror movie screenplay to destroy the thing, but haven’t had the energy. And now we’re near Thanksgiving and the swoop into The Holidays.
Good news: I corrected the galley proofs for Wisdom Court Book 3, All in Bad Time. The cover’s been set and we’re getting close to liftoff. Of course I’ll let you know when. I’m excited and hope you readers out there are, too.
Life goes on, my mom always said, and Scarlett O’Hara chimed in with “Tomorrow is another day.” I hope all of you are well and busy with creative projects. I’m planning to continue posting more often since I developed a taste for it during the Halloween marathon. Here’s to a wonderful Thanksgiving for us all.
I’ve been revising like a fool, hoping the revisions aren’t foolish. Thus have Twitter & Facebook lacked for much attention, and I haven’t blogged in a good, long while. So, here’s to spring, my dears, with all the tumult and drama our Colorado springs usually have. Here’s to venturing out to plant seeds and seedlings, even though we know the likelihood of hail and destruction for a few more weeks. Here’s to doing good work and getting enough sleep and finishing the tale.
I’ll be back soon with more reflections about life, liberty, and putting words on the page. Send me good vibes, please, so I’ll see my way clear to the end of the story.
This morning I returned from the drive to school and got out of the car. A choir of sparrows and chickadees was rehearsing in a nearby tree, nearly drowning out the city-sounds filling my corner of Capitol Hill. Cars grumbled and a truck roared; a motorcycle spewed a raspberry at the skateboarders dodging potholes. A saw whined from a construction site down the street.
A flick of motion overhead caught my eye. Three gray geese skimmed the roofs across the alley as they headed south. Silent, swift, gone before I could do more than let out a breath of appreciation. Their wings sliced through cacophony with synchronized grace, leaving behind the discord.
I wanted to be like those geese: fast, focused, fully engaged in flight. Following where ideas led, turning aside for no interruption, stopping for nothing. For a moment that yearning cut as sharply through me as their wings had cut through the noise.
And then the day went on.
Wish I were riding an inner tube, straw hat on my head, jug of lemonade attached to the tube with a string. I’d have a book resting on my belly and the water would rock me like a cradle. The sun would go behind a bank of clouds and the current would turn me toward the weeping willows bending over the river. Would I see an owl peering from a thick old stump? Eyelids heavy, I’d check it out later.
Honeysuckle and flowering elm would perfume the air and my thoughts would thicken like custard. With closed eyes I’d see the deep purple of meditation and hear the droning of bees gathering pollen from the Bouncing Bettys.
Would a fish swish by my foot? I’d wiggle my toes in the cool water and swish it back. A mourning dove would grieve from a tall cottonwood and I’d wonder what secret sorrow moved her to weep.
And then I’d sleep the thick, caramel-rich sleep of a childhood nap. I’d drift through it, serene in the summer day, content to rest and do nothing.
I’m climbing out of jet lag from my trip to Worcester, MA. Got back Friday and have been searching for brain cells while enjoying the cloudy, rainy weather. It was raining when I flew out of Boston, so you can thank me for bringing the moisture back home in my suitcase. You’re welcome.
I like Worcester a lot, despite having had every person I told my destination look askance. “Worcester!?” It’s not as impressive architecturally as Boston, but it has a style of its own, with many big frame houses and lots of greenery. I loved their art museum, which has an impressive collection that includes paintings by Sargent, Monet, and El Greco, and a twelfth-century Chapter House brought over from France, stone by stone, reassembled inside the museum. (Services therein conducted on Sundays.) The Tower Hill Botanic Garden in nearby Boylston was pure pleasure, from the walk through the woods (where we came upon Pan!) to the folly perched above a path, to the marshland pond where birds could be watched from a rustic gazebo. It provided time out of time, and when did you last find that?
I had a lovely visit with my son and his girlfriend, a gifted chef who cooked the most wonderful gluten-free and vegan food. Their two tiny dogs amused me and kept me from pining for my two dachshunds. It was a restful, relaxing vacation during which I read ebooks and watched vintage X-Files episodes and slept. (And we went to see “The Conjuring”, which is a pretty decent ghost story.)
Now I’m back and it’s time to return to the issues at hand: finishing A Signal Shown, Book Two of the Wisdom Court Books; and finding nooks and crannies for the belongings of our daughter and her two kiddos, who have moved into Victoria Turtleshell along with their two cats. Our little ark is full: of laughter, tears, books, hope, good intentions, and fur.
It’s nearly August and I’m filled with energy and plans. The next adventure has begun. Cheers!
We had the visit from our son. Ditto from the old college friend.
I gathered all the relevant info and we completed taxes over the weekend.
I’m not sick anymore. I’m not on extra taxi duty for the grandchildren anymore.
We survived the incredibly over-hyped blizzard of 2013, April Edition.
I dumped all my cookies and got my Mac to work faster.
It’s too early to plant stuff, unless I cut up the sprouting potato in my kitchen and put pieces into the ground, sans a full moon, and of course with a tip of my hat to St. Patrick, upon whose day potatoes are supposed to be planted.
The laundry falling over the edges of the hamper is just too lame to consider a real excuse. It is entirely possible to type while nude, and I have clean blankets to wrap around myself when my teeth start chattering.
It’s time to get back to the book.
Kicking, screaming, eyes rolling back into my head, I must go back into A Signal Shown, the second book of the Wisdom Court Trilogy. My characters are standing in the wings of my mind, arms folded over their chests, toes tapping impatiently. Even the spirits haunting Wisdom Court have threatened to move to a different old house if I don’t give them some attention.
It’s not that I hate the book. On the contrary, I love it. I’m crazy about my characters and I know they have tons to tell me about how the plot has thickened while I’ve been Taking Care of Important Things. And writing will make me feel better because it helps control my inner virago, the one who monotonously shrieks, “Tell me a story, tell me a story. Tell Me Now!” Her I’m not so crazy about.
No, I’ve been riding the U.S.S. Avoidance for a while and it hasn’t pulled into port. Much as it pains me, I’ll have to jump over the side and swim to shore. If I can steer clear of subsequent grooming rituals, as well as word games to “get my ducks in a row,” I’ll actually get to the computer and Start Again.
First I have to copy edit this blog post.
2013. I wake up this morning far too early, the thought of a new year dropping into place as I listen to the furnace and feel two dachshunds against my back. I give thought to events in the last year, losses and gains, joys and sorrows. I think of those who are no longer here, sad at the dwindling list of cast members in my personal drama. My mind picks up speed, whirring into time machine mode.
1959. A memory flashes of my thirteen-year-old self, crouched along with classmates on an open playing field at Casey Junior High School. The air raid test sirens have caught us outside with no desks for shelter, and the gym teacher tells us to cover our heads with our arms. I sharply recall the moment I realize odds are I’ll never make it to thirty. Soviet nuclear attacks will take out Boulder early, and all the desks and cradling arms in the world won’t save me. And why am I thinking this today?
2012. Sunday night our granddaughter and grandson are here and we decide to make the gingerbread house we’ve talked about all through Christmas vacation. We mix the batter, bravely soldiering on without molasses, pressing the smooth dough into the silicon mold I had the cunning to order on-line. As the pieces bake, I remember the winter when our children pressed against me while I measured and sliced pieces of dough for walls and the roof, my eyes crossing as I tried to translate the recipe into supplies for 3-D construction. They squabbled over who would use which piece for what, just as the grandkids now announce how they’ll build their house, voices rising in the oven-warmed air. The crispy house rises on its foil-covered cardboard foundation, and the memory of that older cookie cottage recedes as the brave new structure is adorned with frosting and gumdrops and sprinkles.
1956. I’m in the backseat of our Ford Crown Victoria with my brother Mike, and Dad and Mom are up front. We’ve had New Year’s Day dinner, maybe roast beef with potatoes and carrots and parsnips cooked by Dad and a mincemeat pie baked by Mom. We’re out for a drive, and when Mike says he’s still hungry Dad steers the car toward Twinburger, our favorite drive-in restaurant. I can almost taste the tangy red sauce on the BBQ burger, my favorite. The Flatirons have a dusting of snow and the delft blue sky stretches over Boulder. We drive farther east, catching sight of a rabbit in the stand of trees beside the road. I smile now, thinking Mike & I were probably giving each other the fish eye, just as my children used to battle over the line between their places in the backseat of our car. I think I remember the satisfaction of believing we could go on forever in that car, together.
2013. The morning is winter quiet, and even the birds are sleeping in. It’s cold here in my garret and I reach for the wrap I keep nearby. Each January I feel such gratitude for what has gone before, such hope and possibility for what is to come. The present, the everlasting now, is sharpened by a sense of loss. It is that combination, I suppose, that makes me who I am. I wish the world a happy new year, knowing it both will and will not be.