Trivial Pursuits

I mentioned fanfiction before, and there is an author that I'm really into right now. She writes simply the best, true-to-series X-Files fanfiction I've ever read. Her name is Joann Humby and she has a lot of stuff archived at Gossamer. Two serial fic's of hers that I highly recommend are Consequential Loss and Disconnected. I'm making my way through all of her stuff in my off hours ;-) Her Mulder and Scully are lovely, and her Skinner is tortured and her Krycek is ...well, let's just say he's fleshed out the way I always wished they'd have fleshed him out in the series. If you're looking for fic that is imaginative, original and plays like a really tight, excellant X-Files episode (or movie) in your mind, you should give her a look.

Good stuff.

On Fanfic

Oy.

First of all, I'm just going to say that I write what is in my head. I'm not a great writer, but that's good; I've got a goal that way, see?

Secondly, I get bored easily by the same old, same old, and my mind wanders to the different avenues, the little back streets, the messy little greasy spoons, precisely because they are the road less traveled.

When you're writing in a forum which is open to eeeevvvverrrryyybody and their brother, you are gonna get all kinds of stuff -- or you should, anyway. And all I was seeing was the same stuff over, and over, and over. I envision something...else.

My name at the forum is the same as here. And I'm not that prolific -- I've only got two stories -- one that is basically abandoned, and one that I just started. Both were based on popular shows... One, a dinosaur that's still limping along on the N_ _ network, and one that put Fox (both of them) on the collective consciousness's map. I cherish my stories, y'all, because writing is a dream that detoured in my life, and something that I am compelled to do... like breathing, right?

If I think the former nurse turned doctor and the rich boy doc who feels called to Africa really, truly belong together... and I write it in my little fanfic and that bugs.. well, you're entitled to be bugged, but get over it. I watched it faithfully, and that is what I thought should happen. If the powers didn't exactly agree with me, so what. Their's is a money game, so I understand. Gotta squeeze that teet as long as the cow is still standing, right?

If I think the dirty double agent who doesn't like to be discarded like somebody's bad prom date (and -- what a shame -- lost one of those enormously attractive arms) and the inscrutible doc from Quantico with the creamy skin turned alien chaser make for more interesting possibilities in my little passion play, who CARES? The show has been in the can for FOUR YEARS. The double agent doesn't even talk about his time shillin' for the mytharc anymore and the inscrutible, beautiful doc with the delicate skin is busy setting up housekeeping in London and doing stage plays. Meanwhile the Favored One, the Agent everyone loves best, the one everyone thinks the lady doc should have ended up with is busy parody-ing Agent Fox, painting charity pictures with his butt aided by his very, very funny wife and enjoying being a dad.

I don't think my doofy little fanfic is bothering any of them, really.

So every.single.person.writing.x-f fanfic thinks MSR is a religion... I don't. Never did. Can't make me see it that way... (oh, yeah -- here's more treachery: it ended for me at the foxy one's disappearance. The truth wasn't out there after Season 7)

Besides, it's so much more fun when there's lots of variety.

So, as far as my stress-busting creative pursuits are concerned, Bad boy double agent? you go for it, boy -- enough skulls, get you some skully in your closet.

And Doctor Former Nurse, if you're going to stay with the Croatian, get him to lighten up.

I'm cozy in the rocket

When my head begins to get too big, full of notions that I'm a true individual, that I listen to all sides of an argument before making an informed, personal decision... That I'm not a follower of the crowd, that I trail-blaze my own path, that I don't acquiesce to the press of popular opinion...

Something comes along to knock that self-satisfied impression right out of my head.

The feeling that we are individual, and special is a not-uncommon feeling; everyone wants to feel that way, a few of us actually do... Most of us, though, are shocked to find out just how like we are to our neighbor.

Usually this feeling is brought about by some life-event, like marriage or a very first job search or, going back even further, getting that first car. Invariably, if the money issues forth from the pocket of the parents, the car will be a sensible one with good gas mileage and absolutely zero cool factor.

But if we've saved up our own money, we are as likely to pick a car low on internal advantages, and high on looks as we are to hate our parents with a seething passion at the ripe age of 15. But then, "cool" is a priviledge of the teen years, and the desire for it outgrown as surely as the ignorance of the importance of good gas mileage evaporates, upon footing the cost for the first month's supply of that hungry machine.

It's usually the detritus of life that sways upon the cool factor -- the stuff that won't make a bit of difference when life begins that steep slope toward the inevitable-- the stuff that is engineered to be hot right now, and passe 15 minutes hence. Cars, clothes, shoes... the term "planned obsolescence" comes to mind. "Style" is perpetuated by it, spring, winter, fall and summer clothes lines thrive on it, and where would Bill Gates be without it?

There are some things, though, that even within the confines of planned obsolescence, transcend the bounds and appeal to a wide swathe of people and have some staying power... Jeans, for instance. Hi-rise, boot-cut, low-riders, ripped, patched, bleached, scorched and yes, even the whole-heartedly despised mom jeans-- despised even by the very moms encased uncomfortably within them-- there are as many styles as there are bodies to fit into them... One positive, universal appeal of jeans, though, is the fabric from which they are crafted... If there is anything better than cotton denim I haven't experienced it yet... and, interestingly, the very thing that makes jeans so wide-spread in their appeal also ensures the extremely slim possibility of their ever being "planned" into "obsolescence."

Jeans are to the clothing world what the humble potato peeler is to the kitchen gadget industry; it's just not possible to "build a better mouse trap" in either instance.

Television shows, however, are in another realm altogether... Other than the ridiculously ever changing clothing lines that the fashion industry foists upon the hapless, vapid fashionista, they are far and away the most lacking in any crumb of longevity. Once the industry discovered that syndication produces Midas-ian wealth, the aim switched from crafting an entertaining show as long as it appeals to the public, to "keep it on air and wring every last drop of creativity, freshness, intventiveness, and plausibility until it remains a mere shell of what it was at it's inception. I have more gripes than I care to recount in detail, so I will just toss out some "knee-jerk" words -- XFiles, Seinfeld, ER (a pox on you, tptb), Alley McBeal... all shows which became colossal disappointments in their endgame.

Also, it has nothing to do with my point, but I would feel remiss if I didn't mention, briefly, at the extreme opposite end of the wading pool -- the shows which were cut off before they should have been -- Sports Night (what the heck happened there?), Once and Again, Flying Blind (hello. did "Dharma" first. and did it BETTER), Futurama (come on; for a sophomore effort it beats the hell out of American Dad, any day. And while I'm on the subject -Seth, be careful, your crappy Dad, is killing the creativity of your far superior Guy.)

The disillusion abounds. You get to where you numb yourself to the gi-normous dearth of quality, creativity and innovation, until one day, you take a page from your husband's play book, and start channel surfing... and lo and behold you come across... blue jeans. Not just any old k-mart version, either...but real 501, button fly, gently used in the seat and knees, washed to softly perfect...perfection. The kind of jeans that, from all evidence, just sputtered right out of the factory, like, yesterday, but have the unmistakeably old soul of a pair of Miner 49ers.

Before you know it, you're hooked. Bad. You can't wait for Sunday nights at 10 (9 central, ABC) when you can get your weekly fix of this very good thing. You're cruising along, enjoying the sheer pleasure of having discovered something rare -- something actually creative, and fun, as well as moving (gag) ... but then you discover that the whole world (all six and a half BILLION people) are watching, and appreciating, and digging what you're digging.... And you don't feel quite so special anymore... but you know what? You don't care.

Because it's JEANS man.

O brother, where art thou?

He's my brother. And I haven't heard from him in a long, long while. We used to be close; I would listen to his girl woes, and he would listen to my advice. Somewhere along the way, though, he didn't like who I'd chosen to become, and he cut himself out of my life.

For a long time this cut me to the bone; I was proud of him, and worried for him. I wanted all these good things for him --a relationship with a nice girl, a good job which fulfilled him creatively (he's a phenomenal artist) but most of all, I wished him peace. With himself, the world and our past.

Now... I just feel sad that he doesn't know his nieces. He met our oldest, who asks about him every so often, when she was only a year old, and has never met our youngest. She rarely asks about him... but I know she wonders about him. We've built them a life which is full; full enough to compensate for a missing piece which probably doesn't want to be found.

He's a very unique individual... maybe he's even felt pidgeon-holed by people around him... maybe he's struggled with the same fears I've struggled with... I don't like to be put into a box, and labeled neatly. The box may constrict the life right out of me or be too big to fill from one moment to the next - who needs that, right? I don't want to be defined. I just want to be.

But he stuffed me in a box many years ago... I don't know what was happening in his mind, but I think it went something like this: our mother was dead, he had unresolved feelings and thoughts about her, and he transferred them to me.

Eww. I get a little squicked just thinking it -- much less typing it out. But it's my version of what happened. He, no doubt, has his own. Neither is the real truth... but somewhere in the middle, I guess.

He's a non-entity in our lives... he's a persona non-grata (although he extracted himself) he's... he's a phantom. A living dream state... someone I remember... but with soft edges, and dim color -- like an old photograph from the 70's or something. He chose to give me up; not the other way around... and yet, I'm the one who feels the guilt. And the loss.

He's out here, somewhere, in blog-space. Hey, Bro. If you're ever in the dust-bowl, look us up. We've left a candle burning for you. There's a couple of little people here who'd really like to know you.

Been a Long Time...

The Holidays were a whirlwind.
They seem to go by faster every year. Is that because I'm getting older... or is time, actually, speeding up? I don't know, but at this rate I'm going to be 110 next year.

I made no New Year's resolutions this year... because last year's was to never make New Year's resolutions. Again. Ever.

It's the first successful New Year's resolution ever I made. Yay! me.

Happy (belated) New Year, everyone.

I wish...

I was nicer
it didn't depend on how others treated me
I felt good enough for that to be enough
my roof didn't leak
my yard never needed mowing
I had unlimited time to show my kids how much I adore them
I exhibited more grace... and less confusion
There was such thing as time travel
And that I wouldn't screw it up, if there were
there was time to sew everyone who was cold a nice, warm quilt
no one was plagued by fear
everyone had enough to eat
shoes were free
shopping for bras didn't cause aneurisms
Mulder and Scully never "hooked up"
there was no such thing as (you fill this one in)

But if wishes were horses... we'd all be knee deep in crap (thank you, Romano)

I'm sitting here at (checks clock) 2:26am, wishing there was no such thing as writer's block coupled with deadlines. Sometimes, the words just won't come. I'm currently in training to write on demand, although it's more speechwriting than actual "writing" writing. Once a week I have to prepare a speech of sorts, and I write the script beforehand. I like the structure of the script, although I really need to get away from that because it's usually so stale by the time it's delivered. And stale don't move people.

I think the difficulty (I use the term loosely -- not many of us truly have "difficult" lives...) of my task is compounded by the recent speed reading I applied to a nifty little book entitled Leadership and Self-Deception Getting out of the Box. What a great book --but it's pretty profound, and it's temporarily vice-gripped my mind. Can't stop thinking about it. I highly recommend it to anyone. Period. Anything you do in life can be positively influenced by the principles contained in this slim yet impactful book. (Yeah, "impactful" doesn't sound like a word to me either but what do you expect --it's after 2am)

That was the end of this evening's PSA

Here's a modern day tale: Once upon a time, there was a person who wanted more than anything to be a writer. But deadlines caused performance anxiety, which led to the crippling fear that nothing would issue forth from the fingertips, which became a self-fulfilling prophecy for the Writer to Be, and the WtB changed courses... embarking on a mad voyage down the paths of least resistance. WtB realized years later what could have been but fought indecision and fear in enbarking on the long forgotten dream of the past. Caught up in the inertia of self-doubt, the WtB felt powerless to change the patterns of the past.

Moral? Don't be like WtB. Wishes may be exercises in futility...or they can be the bridge to something greater than you've ever imagined. Never stop wishing.

Peace; and good night.

Time Passages

Every year around the end of October, I get pensive and tend to dwell too much on the past. My mother passed away at the end of October. So every year around that time, I start taking stock of my life...

I think mostly about guys. Yeah, typical. I'm sorry I cannot report a fixation on the more profound topics like politics or religion... Nope; for me it all comes down to the dudes.

Not just any dudes, either. No -- this is the short list of Guys Who've Had Significant Influence On My Life.

Mostly, I remember one guy in particular... but this isn't just one of the guys on the Short List... no this was the Big One. The First Love guy. Every woman's romantic journey starts somewhere, and most of us mark it by the first guy we dated, or the first guy we crushed on. And that's okay. When I compartmentalize them into neat little categories I have to name Patrick Phelan as the Point A on my romantic Odyssey. Even if we were only nine at the time... and he "liked" my friend more than me. Okay, he didn't know I was alive; but let's not split hairs.
And then there was Richard. The first...okay, the ONLY, high school relationship. But that was more an experiment in endurance than anything else; the central theme being who could get out alive, through the haze of smoke (both the legal and the illicit) and the after-effects of ill-gotten beer.

No; for the real Point A in my journey of sexual awakening, I'd have to give that honor to someone I never even kissed. No, really. And I was 17 when I met him, too -- well-past the age when a kiss is any big deal.

This guy towered over me -- I'm pretty short (5'0") and he was easily 6'4. He was a lot older than me ("but well within range," my fevered teen-aged inner romantic always whispered) and he was the counselor at a private school I attended in my last year of High School.

Oh, man I fell so hard for that guy. I would dream up reasons to go and have "office time" with him... which wasn't hard to do, as I was from a pretty unstable background and lived in a youth home at the time I met him. And before I go any further let me clarify: no, "office time" isn't a euphemism for sex. (Hey, man, I'm talking spiritual stuff here...)

He was patient and kind, and listened with longsuffering endurance to my breathless ramblings... and it didn't hurt that he was gorgeous and in a band, and had longish hair, and had biceps that were cut like a lumberjack's (only without all the dirt and grime.)

Long story short, I graduated, and his band hit lean times, so I didn't see too much of him for a while.

Until I went to a small two-year college in a Dallas suburb, and in the middle of my - oh, who am I kidding, I don't remember which semester- Suffice to say, that he ended up on a construction crew on campus, the offices of which were located in a trailer which I could see right out my dorm bedroom window.

Oh, the misty-haloed fantasies the view of that trailer sparked... white steeds, armored Knight -- something along the line of Buttercup's jump from the window at the end of Princess Bride...(only, not into Andre' the Giant's waiting arms...)

I visited him every.single.day. And brought him a loaf of my homemade banana bread with me... because it was his favorite. It didn't hurt that he wore those sleeveless undershirts almost every day (Oh! I got to see so much of his skin!) due to the hot working conditions. And he looked like a bronze god from working in the sun all day... and his brown hair now had natural blonde highlights in it the likes of which would make Bon Jovi fire his hairstylist...

But... it was his soul I was falling for; no, really! It just came in a really. fine. package.

And just when I was at my absolute worst point -- too far gone for any kind of therapy-- his job ended, and he was no longer outside my dorm room window.

But that wasn't the end...

We attended the same stadium-sized church, and he was on the youth staff there. So, yeah. I saw a lot of him still... And the memory is fuzzy, yes, but I recall getting more than one phone call from him at the dorm payphone (we weren't allowed phones in our dorms).

One in particular, I'll never forget. It was when he called to tell me that he was moving on... going back home out west. I was so crushed that he was leaving, and being the stoic that I am, I couldn't let him know I would be hurt by this knowledge, so I basically told him to have a nice life, and hung up on him. Nice, huh?

I went on to dodge a couple more phone calls from him after I'd graduated and gone back to the youth home... including one in which he'd tried to tell me he was getting married. Our mutual friend filled me in, though... letting me know that his intended was the same height...had the same hair color...and even the same first name as mine...

Coincidence? Maybe. Or maybe he was just trying to bury the memory of the besotted little teen-aged girl whose attentions made him feel like Superman.

I mean, what guy doesn't want to be Superman, right?

first days

I've been through this before; I should be jaded and take it in stride this time around. In some ways, I am; the feelings are dulled, a little bit. I've been in the same position before, although with the oldest one, not the youngest. I'm still the same person, repeating half-remembered rituals of pick up and drop off... and yet, this time is so much more poignant. Even though the "shine" may be off the experience, this is the last time I will have this "first."

Today, our baby went to Kindergarten.

(Well... yesterday, actually as I got interrupted while trying to write this.)

She loves it, too. And now that our baby, our youngest, has successfully entered the dawn of her school career, I realize that we are on the downward slope of life -- blink and we'll miss something.

Remember that scene at the end of the movie Parenthood? (love that movie, btw) The scene where Gil and Karen's youngest child has just ruined their daughter's school play? And there is a montage of all the family members enjoying the simulated roller coaster sensation? I never got that. Well, I got it...but with this being the last time I'll send a child off to kindergarten, I finally get a deeper meaning of the whole "roller coaster ride that is life" thing, and it is this:

The slowest part of the ride is also the shortest -- the ascent. When you are up fifteen times a night with a newborn, and bombarded by an endless cascade of diapers and teething, and just get one (reluctantly!) out of diapers when another is on the way... Well, you get the picture; it seems this phase of your life is an eternity, and you wonder if you'll ever get a good night's sleep again... And it does seem like the longest stretch of time in your life... until you get the last one in kindergarten, and before you really clear the sleep (deprivation) from your eyes, you've hit the top of the ascent...

And there is this breathless moment, where time seems to stand still for the tiniest moment... and then WHOOSH! your flinging down the technically longest part of the ride... but it doesn't feel that way because it goes by so damn fast.

I used to shrug off the advice of people who would tell me, "enjoy them while they're little, dear; they will be grown before you know it..." and I'd think, "yeah, yeah; I got it..."

Boy, was I arrogant. Seriously.

Oh, I tried; I did... up until my youngest hit the terrible two's (from which she has yet to emerge, imo.) and from then, everything but this moment has been a blur. I just sent my baby off to kindergarten...

And I feel a... breathless sensation...

Maiden voyage

First time blog....and my mind is a blank. Typical. Too many thoughts, usually. Can't get mental peace enough to fall asleep. Hopefully this will change, as I'm usually un-shut-up-able.