Category Archives: Random Thoughts

Those random things that happen in a day and end up here.

A moment of geese

04 Monday Apr 2016

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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.

Three Greylag Geese coming in for landing over a field in formation

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.

 

Summertime, and the livin’ is wishful

01 Wednesday Jul 2015

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a reflection of sky is in the quiet river

a reflection of sky by mycola

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 wish.

Lazy days and Mondays always leave me mumbling, “Wha’?”

29 Monday Jul 2013

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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!

All of my excuses are gone…

11 Thursday Apr 2013

Posted by in Ghosts, Hauntings, Random Thoughts, Wisdom Court, Writing

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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.

Time is, time was, time is yet to be…

01 Tuesday Jan 2013

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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.

Everything’s swirling…leaves, opinions, my head…

22 Monday Oct 2012

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…And the pace is picking up though we crunch through piles of gold toward the next part of the year.  (Have you ever noticed how much I like ellipses?  And parentheses! Where the hell would we be without them?)

My favorite color scheme is in effect now, yellow leaves bright against the deep blue sky, and black branches offering red and orange tributes to the sun.  Light shines  with force as the days shorten.  Desperation as the season ends?  A few last claims of “But I’m not tired!” before the fractious continent returns to real time?

We continue to batten down the hatches–wrapping the fountain, tucking in the plants, filling cracks against drafts–and the big project, the new roof, will begin before too long.  Wonder what kind of posts I’ll produce with all that activity just above my garret.

I’m looking forward to the peace of snowfall.  The quiet of decisions made.  So many activities abate in the cold, and surely this year the lessening of frenzy will result in new lucidity, to say nothing of rich, lurid plots.  One can hope.

For now I shake my head against the noisy, whirling air and let out a breath.  All will be well.  After winter scours the land spring will come again.

You turn around twice and…

07 Thursday Jun 2012

Posted by in Avoiding writing, Life, Random Thoughts, Uncategorized

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…almost a month has passed!  This is not how one takes over the world through blogging.  But it’s summer, and time has taken on the illusory consistency of syrup, flowing slowly, allowing moments for nurturing flowers (along with the weeding!).  And visits from relatives (along with catching up on chores so no one finds out how slovenly my life is!).  Ambition stumbles over notions of lying in a lawn chair.  The brain begins to hum golden oldies and eyelids lock at half-mast.  Even reading slows as really pondering the written word requires unlocking those lids to escape from the sun’s rays.

Huh?  Where was I?  Oh, yeah, so I’m still totally going to take over the world through blogging, but we had some bodacious thunder storms last night and the sky’s getting cloudy.  Maybe I ought to turn off the computer in case of lightning and find a comfy, safe spot with the dachshunds until we know for sure about possible weather events.  We could think about the importance of such things, and maybe catch a few zzzzzs.

Yeah, that sounds good.

Screw the confetti, anybody got a drink?

02 Wednesday May 2012

Posted by in Ghosts, Hauntings, Random Thoughts, Writing

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I just finished the last dot-the-Ts, cross-the-Is revision.  320 pages of deathless prose.  EDGE OF THE SHADOW is a lovely pile of pages.  And the ongoing tradition I’ve always had was played out again today: every single time I’ve completed a book, something’s gone wrong with the printer during the last gasp.  This time it was the toner that ran out two chapters short of a complete print-out.  I have no idea why this should be so but I’m almost awed that something similar has occurred every damned time.  Continuity is a humbling force.

Now I will foist my literary child upon those kind souls who’ve agreed to read it and give me honest feedback, bless them.  I’ll have time to figure out my step-by-step plan to publication.  That means getting my two mysteries formatted for e-book phase, and determining how to go about getting the previously mentioned EOS into print, be it electrons or ink or both.  Research!

For right now, I’m quietly happy to have it done.  It’s taken a long time but I still love it, now more than ever.  I’ve had a lot of fun researching ghosts and their haunting ways.  Sitting in my third-story study, I’ve more than once heard strange sounds and found myself frightened by the words I’ve just typed.  Heh-heh.  Good times.

Okay, we can throw some confetti around, but hold the flashmob

14 Saturday Apr 2012

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Yesterday–Friday the 13th–I crossed the finish line, slid into home plate, delivered the secret message to the troops–unfortunately the cliches keep coming.  I don’t know if anyone noticed, but I stopped writing posts, kept my FB appearances to a minimum, attached the electroencephalograph sensors to my head, and got to the end of the book.  (Throw confetti here.)

Yes, I have to wander backward to fix some bits here and there–set up a couple of plot elements that don’t show up until the middle, don’t you know–but I got to the last page.  I got to type THE END at the bottom, and sit here and think, “Is that all there is?”  (It’s been a long time since I finished a book by bursting into tears and calling all my friends.)  But I did Tweet & put a brief mention on FB.  Some attention must be paid.

It wasn’t till later that I poured a glass of wine and toasted the gods of writing.  And felt thankful for being a writer instead of a wealthy financier.  (I’m stupid that way.) Today I’m re-potting some plants and enjoying the warmth ahead of the storm headed our way.  I won’t look at the last chapter until Monday.  I’ll start putting in the set-ups and checking for mistakes. If the writing gods are merciful, it will be a quick run-through.  If they aren’t…I’ll jump off that bridge when I get there.

Circumvention, like circumcision, means shortcuts–ewww!

23 Friday Mar 2012

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Never look a gift analogy in the mouth. (Seriously. Too gross.)

After the last post, so filled with angst and obscure Word issues, I hit “Return” a few times, typed in “Chapter Twenty-Five,” and kept going. There’s more than one way to skin a Header command. (Geez, that sounds even worse than the post title.)

The new Last Chapter continues wending through the moors of invention, and, after consulting the runes, I’m back to scaring myself because the only way I can wrap up the book is to pull ghosties and ghoulies out of the closet–as in storage, not sexuality. Today, whilst receiving a wonderful massage–thanks again, Karen–and gently pushing out of my mind the guilt from not posting here often enough, I realized I’ve passed up many possible blog posts about my writing process.  I’ve been hiding it in the closet, too, along with discarded characters, weak descriptions, and failed plot elements.  It’s so dark in there, I have a hell of a time even finding the damned process.

I’ve thought it better to occasionally sound as though I know what I’m doing than to let people see the disorganization and interruptions, the endless flailing for a decent sentence, the bizarre rituals to crank up what passes for my imagination.  Writing has always been for me a hodgepodge of hard work, wishful thinking, and some small talent. Regardless of what happens in the book business itself, the effort to put words on the page remains the same. Every time I get in a tizzy about self-publishing vs. pursuing agents, or how I need to format my two mysteries into e-book mode, my word-count slows and I feel bad.

The blog is a quick way to short-circuit angst and redouble my efforts to bring Wisdom Court to life. Every writer I know ultimately gives as advice the old, true saw: Plant your ass on the chair and your hands on the keyboard.  Write. We can’t sell what we haven’t finished.