[Found this ~unpublished~ post originally from 22 April 2010 while peering behind the curtain. Bumping it up]

 

I am a new day rising
I'm a brand new sky
To hang the stars upon tonight
I am a little divided
Do I stay or run away
And leave it all behind?*

*Times Like These, Foo Fighters

Oh, can I tell the universe how much I love certain music?

I've read recently that as a(n aspiring) writer, I should be this observer who reports life, 'real' life. That the urge to write is like an alien springing from my chest -- okay, my words, not 'theirs' -- and while it's spilling it's afterbirth all over the dinner table, I have to get it down on paper. That the world needs what I have to say. That a writer is someone who LIVES and tells about it.

Like Terrence Mann, heading off into the mystic corn field, "I'll write about it; it's what I do."

But when I look back on my whole entire life -- and there seems to be a whole lot of it, at this point -- I haven't so much as lived and told, as listened and lived. I mean through music. Like the songs are the blood running in my veins. I don't think I can say what I'm feeling. Maybe it's as pathetic as I am never really living unless I'm listening to music. Losing myself in it.

When I filled out my profile for NaNoWriMo this past November, I listed under 'Favorite Authors' Trent Reznor's name. I chewed my thumb nail over it, even. Because, I mean how tragically hip, right? How 'cool' and 'edgy' to list arguably one of the most influential artists on the alternative/ industrial/ rock/ dance(?) music industry as a 'favorite author'. Seems calculated to get my a$$ kicked in the schoolyard, really.

The only way to be truly honest was to list his name, though.

On the way home from running something up to my daughter's school, I heard Foo Fighter's song Times Like These, and sat in the garage until the song finished up. Thinking about my love for Foo Fighters, and NiN, and Boston, and Yes and Mute Math, and Weezer, and Squeeze and Keane, and Airborne Toxic Event... Of how my innermost self is expressed through the music that I love... How they seem to be speaking inside, through, out from me, all at the same time. And I'm aware that every single thing I want to say has already been said and so much better, too, through the music that my insides respond to.

And yet, I still feel this damning urge, this grotesque twisting need, this consuming inferno of want to... tell.

I feel damned, in a way. Wanting so badly to write and sitting down staring at a blank screen for 45 minutes before I finally give up and curl into a ball, picking my eyebrows out and chewing my hair.* I'm not unlike that dude in the old Twilight Zone episode who finds himself the only one alive with mountains of books around him and 'all the time in the world, finally, to read'... And then his glasses fall and smash. Or like a woman who, after nine months, feels an overwhelming urge to 'PUSH'... only to discover that her pregnancy was hysterical, and there's nothing to push out.

I'm going out of my mind, with the need, but there is nothing, nothing, nothing there. It's impotent rage, hopeless belief; it's being all wound up and no ball to pitch... It's the worst kind of hell and for what? To do something I learned to do in first grade? Put the pencil to the paper and make the letters. Or high school -- put your left hand on 'a,s,d,f' and your right hand on 'j,k,l,;' and tippity-tap. And I run screaming from it. Because I know. I KNOW I am a spindly vacuum with a loose lid. A black hole, supermassive in my infinitesimal -ness.

If I was just, or decent, or any kind of a philanthropist or humanitarian, I'd crunch this up and toss it in the dustbin give myself the same permission I give other humans: the space to fail and do it again, and again, and again...

Driving Miss Crazy

My mother owned the road. When she perched in the driver's seat, every other driver on the road, in deference, parted their vehicles in two undulating lines to the left and right of her path. She sailed, swan on placid water, through the line unassailed to her destination, where she landed gently, slid the shifter gracefully through prindle and descended from her coach in a cloud of beatific satisfaction.

At least in her mind.

My experience, as her shotgun passenger, resonated differently. Her majesty was not pleased with the subjects occupying 'her' road, and made her displeasure quite known. Her tone of voice, her mode of expression, her posture all signified livid, unmitigated aggression towards her fellow travellers. I learned the rankest cuss words, not from my peers in the schoolyard, but right there, shotgun passenger seat to my mother's road rage. I experienced my first one-fingered salute, not from a loosely cobbled gathering of disaffected youth or a peace protest or a rock concert, but right there, sitting next to my mother as she navigated her personal Mad Max-ian pot-holed hell.

She always felt, I think, she'd been born to a chauffered car, but found herself saddled with the soccer mom duties of the mere plebiscite.

You know that queer mix of embarrassment and superiority every kid eventually feels about their parent? I'd get acute pangs of it toward my mother's wild gesticulations and loud profanities while pressed into piloting the family sedan. I guess I was shocked by the realization that my mother, from whom I'd learned the bedrock principles of 'Right and Wrong,' turned out to be as much of a fraud as I at the 'actions speaking louder than the words' thing. It informed the very beginnings of my foundational mistrust in all authority. Poor mom. Probably had no inkling she was shaping a closet anarchist.

My mother's dead lo these almost seventeen years; her impotent wheelian rages stifled, blanketed by the softening of almost two decades of inactivity. She went -- maybe not gently, but certainly -- into that good night where no one impedes her progress on the road by driving too slowly, or too fast, or erratically or by not using their %$##^#$% blinker! I suspect her drivetime plays like Singin' in the Rain instead of Beyond Thunderdome, now. In short, she is at peace, finally, behind the wheel.

But sometimes, usually when I'm behind the wheel, oddly enough, I'll hear it. That string of profanities and wild ravings; I'll see in my peripherals the surreptitious hand ...uh... signals. I'll feel the faint recognition in my spine, the slow slide down into the seat for concealment, the complex embarrassment mixed with equal parts superiority... the recognition of The Drive down Her Road. I'll think to myself "Mother!"

And I realize, with a growing sense of shame tinged with the vaguest beginnings of forgiveness... I am just like my mom.

Desert dry

Still reading. Not much writing at all. Trying to figure out if I'm meant to be an author, or a writer.

To me, an author implies commercial success -- however modest. Anyone can "be a writer". You need only write every day. (So, as of right now, I'm not even a writer.)

Right now, I'm reading Anne Lamott's Bird by Bird. Although written in the mid-90's, the advice is resonant and I'm getting a great deal from the instruction. Mostly reaffirming what I learned from other books on writing, but with Lamott's own unique voice supplying. I think I'd enjoy studying under her -- she seems very organic.

I'm already pretty whimsical in my writing pursuits. If 'the spirit doesn't move' then neither does my pen. If I'm not feeling it, I don't even glance at the laptop. What I need is to harness that wayward childishness and learn to channel it into a daily practice.

Easier said than done.

Pfft.

Okay, so I've done very little writing since NaNo '09 wrapped. I've written a few things by hand -- a prose-poem kind of thing about Christmas; a little piece of observatory prose; and pages and pages of book reviews -- but my fingers have nary tapped the keyboard of my laptop or Dana for anything other than surfing. But my time has been well-spent.

For I have been ...reading.

Yes the twin Sun to writing for a Writer is Reading. I'm a very uneven reader. My F-i-L and S-i-L are both very consistent readers; always with a book, steadily making their way through stacks of 'books to read' and polishing them off regularly. I've long wanted to be disciplined in my reading like that, but alas -- as with most other areas of my life -- I'm more like a mad dasher.

I can read like a sum'bitch when inspiration hits me. I can devour 300+ page novels in a single day -- and still have the clothes washed and dinner on table -- if I'm really of a mind to. And have, several times. The problem is, I have to 'feel' like it.

That is the single biggest hurdle in my life for anything worthwhile I wish to pursue: I wait for the 'feeling' to hit me. I have to be inspired, motivated, driven to do whatever it is.

For instance, in the month of December after NaNo '09 ended, I devoured eight books. Daniel Silva's latest Gabriel Allon book, The Defector, Brad Thor's The Apostle, Sara Bird's How Perfect is That, P.J. O'Rourke's Peace Kills, Haggai Carmon's Chameleon Conspiracy, Lee Child's Gone Tomorrow, Tim Gautreaux's The Missing, and Michael Connelly's 9 Dragons. I'm rounding out that list by currently reading Steve Galloway's The Cellist of Sarajevo.

All of the books are very different, although some fall into my currently favorite genre of Thriller/Adventure, and I'm learning a vast deal from all of them about story structure, conflict and tension and characterization. In the rest of my posts for this month, I'm going to examine in detail some of the stuff I think I'm learning.

If the inspiration hits to actually write a post. I wonder if there's any novels out there that can teach me to be consistent and disciplined....

Trouble Letting Go...

I'm still in NaNo land -- reading forums and following cool links to all sorts of writing inspired challenges and stuff -- things I didn't have time for when trying to corral 50k/30d.

Here's one -- test how fast you can type:

67 words

Typing Test

There's a little disclaimer at the bottom informing the user it's not 100% accurate ...so I'm gonna go with that! 57 words/m? Oi, I'm SLLLLOOOW. Jim is faster than me!!! (Pam Beesly would laugh through her nose at me.)

Edited: so yeah, went back and improved by 10 words... if I keep up the improvement rate, (+10 words every day, times 330 days)... Uhm, uh... I could do next years NaNo in like, uhm, less than five days. Yeah.

(Someone who knows how to do algebra? Ples, halp?)

"...it's, like, better than losing?"

You know, Joe Fox says that The Godfather is the "i-ching, the sum of all wisdom, the answer to any queston..."

Well, I dispute that. To me? It's Bull Durham. There's always a pertinent quote to be culled from that movie.

Anyway: I won! Now, I'm going to have a much deserved movie night with my family, without who's patience I could not even attempt to write 50,000 + words in 30 days. Thank you, Chris Baty and Co. for a wonderful "30 days and nights of literary abandon." This aspiring author totally appreciates what y'all do.


I'll see y'all in a week or so...

More Ignominious Self Aggrandizement

I like big WORDS and I cannot lie...

I'm not exactly tearing up the field, but I'm holding my own.



Staying just a little ahead of the daily goal, my word count is healthy even if my plotline is anemic.

Editing. It's what December is for.

Shameless Fist Pumping

I already put it up over on my Writer's Group blog (Pens and Pages Writer's Group) but I'm going to put it over here, just because I need all the dangling carrots I can get:

(Link broken)


Lot's of Wrimo's swear by it. And I'm not sure I've EVER written like my life depended upon it before. So, yesh (as my Jr. High-er says.)

If I procrastinate again? I'm settin' that sucker to "kamakaze" and throwing some Hail Mary's baby!

Weezer is the Funniest Band in Rock

When I'm pounding on boards or sanding floors or puttin' graphite on doors,
to make the time run smooth, and get into the groove, and really enjoy what I do,
I hum.

And at least 60% of the time the tune that ambles unbeckoned into my head?
Sum'ing by Weezer.

I love these guys. Enjoy.

http://

Oops I did it again...

I think I'm beating a dead horse with that title...it's been a looooong time since Ms. Spears could be considered an innocent, if flirtatious schoolgirl...

Showing my unhipness aside, I'm doing it again. Hopefully, in about 26 days, that badge'll change to "...2009 WINNER!"

I'm cooking along, with a respectable bank of words right now, suffering a smidge here and there of that form of anxiety particular (it seems) to writers: self-doubt...but I just tell Self Doubt to shove it! Heheheh.

I Want To Pass It On...

Hee -- I love that song; every time I hear it, I'm back in front of a campfire, swaying and singing in harmony.

Anyway... I found a WONDERFUL Writer's Blog, and (see post title) to everyone who happens by this Siberian Blog. (Yes. I am in Siberia. 'S why no one visits me. **pout**)

Anyhoo, without further adoo (poet; didn't know it) the Aforementioned (love those big words!) Blog:

http://www.musik-therapie.at/PederHill/index.htm

Go there; Live, Learn & Prosper.

Namaste (because I am just that much of a poseur)

(Actually...I'm painstakingly refinishing a floor and there just might have been a little too much inhalin' of the fumes. We're still running the tests. Get back to you with the results in a later dispatch. Ooooh -- cliffhanger! Now you HAVE to come back Bwahahahahahah)

Balance

So, I've pretty much made my peace with the Wii Fit. I'm hopping on every morning, give or take a couple here and there, trying to have some semblance of a fitness routine.

I'm also writing pretty regularly. Mostly it's fits and starts, drabbles here and there, waiting to be spit shined to posting-ready.

I'm also pretty consistently keeping house -- nothing like I used to, but then, I was kind of a clean freak back in the day. But my house is relatively tidy, mostly dust free and regularly wiped and vacuumed, so I'm at peace on the subject.

I'm also regular in my guitar practice. I'm managing a little book and a little tab every day. I've almost got the acoustic opening to Crazy on You by Heart down. So, that's good. I think I'm about ready for an electric. (cover your ears, bebe's, heh-heh-heh)

I'm juggling these balls pretty steadily -- nothing Cirque de Soleil ready, of course, but mostly managing.

The only thing I don't seem able to shim in is regular blogging.

The NaNoWriMo is fast approaching, and although I've gone b*lls out in the two previous years with 50-50 success rate (won '08, didn't win '07) I've actually got a rough plan for this year! I'm excited by the story idea and I will be posting the chapters (as I've finished, so they will be largely unedited. Fair warning) up at my FictionPress account at http://www.fictionpress.com/~solard. Here's the brief synopsis posted at nanowrimo(dot)org:

"The civil war in Heaven left the angelic population devastated. Those choosing to follow Lucifer in his revolt found themselves doomed to walk the earth, caught between the spirit and the tangible world. Those choosing to remain loyal to the High King continue the good fight to this day in battle for the souls of humankind.

There remained a few, unable to make a choice, which were doomed to an unspeakable fate. Sentenced to reincarnate until the End of Days, they remain heavenly souls bound to earthly bodies; neither human, angel nor demon, they know neither the blessings of heaven nor the tortures of hell. They are the Nephilim.

Near the end of the war, with the heavens in turmoil, Zephan makes the fateful decision to escape the choice between serving a King to whom his loyalty wavers and the deplorable Lucifer, arrogant leader of the the Fallen Hosts. At the last possible moment, he seizes his chance, impulsively reaching for the hand of Aziel, dooming her to the same fate; to walk the earth as Nephilim, despised by heaven and hell alike."

If you stumble upon this post (I feel like Lt. John Dunbar, sometimes ;-) I hope you'll go check out NaNoWriMo, and my FictionPress account. You're welcome to read my novel, and tell me what you think. All comments welcome, even "flames". (Hey, you gotta let the little ones get their aggressions out in safe ways, after all. Heh.)

Act your Wii Fit Age, not your shoe size...

Wii Fit can kiss my butt.

I have reached almost 100 days on that sucker, and I've not budged from between a two pound weight variance (and no, I'm not saying how much). Up/Down, Up/Down, Up/Down, on and on and on it goes. I gain and lose the SAME. TWO. POUNDS. every time I step on that stoopid little talking, sweat-inducing board.

And man, is that thing ever chatty. Mouthy little artificial intelligence exercise dominatrix. You wobble ever so slightly and that thing admonishes you in a smug female voice -- and you can just see it's perfect little geek-wet-dream-cartoon-never-happen-in-nature-body -- that "You're a little shaky!" Well, Duh, Byte-for-Brains! I'm being JUDGED every single nano-second I stand on this White Board of Condemnation! I'll be doing fine -- for me, that is -- until the smarmy voice intones, "You're swaying a bit!" and then I'm like, "Ya THINK?" as I topple off the side, and the Wii goes, "BOINK!" in a cartoony verbal slap at my inadequacies.

The hate. It Burrrrrns.

If you don't stand on Her Majesty just so, she measures you the entirety of the exercise as being "off balance" and lemme tell you... I wasn't particularly 'off balance' until I introduced myself to that unctious little White Platform of Fail...but now? I'm contemplating Wii-hicular Homicide. I plant my feet on her so carefully...and look at the light yellow circle, expectantly...hopefully, even -- "Maybe this time...?" But my little red dot (which makes me think of lasers...attached to the scope of an M16...pointed at that judgey little yellow circle... yeah...) will be off center. GAHHH! What do I have to DOOOOO?!?

I think that perfidious white nightmare would make an excellant clay pidgeon. Now THAT would be a nice workout, yeah?

Heh. The kicker? I primarily do the Yoga exercises... And isn't Yoga supposed to be like, Zen and stuff? Aren't you supposed to be "loving the body you have now" and breathing into the poses with calm serenity? Releasing your anger and all that crapola? Yeah... No. It MAKES me angry, I tells ya! I cuss my way into the Warrior Pose (eh, I've known PLENTY of 'warriors' who work 'Blue'), I grit and gnash my teeth through the Tree Pose, I gripe and mutter through the Dance Pose....

Oh, yeah. I'm Zen. If by Zen you mean "Homicidally maniacal." That little (*&%%$#@)!! Makes me want to rip it's console out by the root and toss those little Wii Rem--




........Hey...what's this?

..................................The Balance Board's batteries are low? Oh NO! I'm sorry, honey!! Mommy didn't mean it!! I swear -- look! I've got some Double A's right here, fresh from the package... please don't lose all my stats, sugar! I will make it up to you, I SWEAR!!

The Road to Hell...

I had every intention of submitting a blog post a week. I had intended to write a synopsis of my NaNo '08 novel. I had intended to write character studies of the characters from that '08 novel. I had intended to write the latest chapter of my just for fun, X-Files-inspired story-with-no-apparant-end epic. I had intended to sketch out the next chapter of my unfinished NaNo '07 project...

Instead, I read.

Sometimes intentions can be the road to a personal private hell. And sometimes they can be the road less traveled and sometimes they can be what we wanted but was never intended to be.

I've started another just-for-fun project...and I no longer feel guilty for them. All writing is practice, and, although I've not been doing what I'm meant to be doing...I am writing.

So, here is a half-baked blog post, just so I can cross an item of my "I had intended to..." list.

When I was your age...

I remember back when I was a kid and my parents were still together, one of the things my parents enjoyed was going to see Clint Eastwood 'spaghetti westerns'. I guess they were produced in Italy or something and thus they were called by that name. Anyway, I was no older than 10 -- that's when my parents split up -- so Clint Eastwood wasn't even a name to me, just squinty eyed glare and thin cigarillo poking out of his grim mouth. It wasn't so much the movies I remember as the venue. They dotted the landscape when I was a kid, but you don't see them around much anymore. As a matter of fact, if you played a variation of "punch buggy" -- slugging your seat partner every time you saw one -- you'd likely fall asleep waiting for the opportunity to get in a 'legal' hit.

What I'm talking about is Drive-In Movie Theatres. Those unmistakably tall and wide screens lit up to five or seven stories tall, giving real heft to the phrase 'larger than life'. It's small wonder I recall Clint's squinty glare and his cigarillo -- they were as big as the family station wagon on those screens.

My husband shares the delight and nostalgic 'awwww' that I feel when we happen upon one of these cherished relics of our separate but oddly joined past. They conjure memories of too much sugar, swing sets set in sand with the screen looming too closely behind, fast friendships made at the foot of those surreal screens meant only to last for the night... The feeling of freedom at parents close enough if the need arose, yet far enough out of pocket to give us our first thrill of independence. Not to mention the giddy joy of watching the stars at the same time you watched a movie from the hood of your car.

We are lucky enough to be caught in a triangle of Texas towns that gives us a choice of not just one, but two Drive-Ins. Oh, there are more -- this one in the picture that I snapped on the way to Grapevine TX, and another down the road a piece (that's a good Texas phrase) featuring a gapped-tooth stare from the sheet metal slowly dropping off the screen's facade occupied by a herd of cows that think the car corral (auditorium, maybe?) makes a good wind break.

I never fail to feel a little sad when I drive by that one.

But back to the picture. You can't see it, because we were driving too fast, but the audience section isn't bermed and ready for cars -- it has rows and rows of benches! Can you imagine? Where did the cars park? And how did you listen? Or, maybe the benches were just the 'front rows' with plenty of room for cars behind. I dunno.

Still... it must have been one heck of a Drive-In in it's day, huh?

Now With More Pictures

We stayed at the Gaylord Texan in Grapevine this past weekend. The Gaylord Texan is a large hotel which houses a 4.5 acre atrium. The atrium features small scale replicas of the Alamo, the San Antonio River Walk and a 9-story oil derrick. Throughout the atrium winding around the landmarks, lush gardens abound. We had a fifth floor room with a balcony overlooking the atrium. I took the picture from our balcony the first night.

The local model train group built an exhibit in the atrium which includes The Hogwarts Express train, the Polar Express train, a bullet train, an old fashioned steam train,a very realistic subway train and a couple of others, too. Right next to that, a large scale platform in the shape of a guitar hosts another group of model trains. In the center of the promenade up on a bridge in the shape of a figure eight, another model train runs periodically. They must like their trains in Grapevine!

Our first (well, only really) day we spent mostly at the beautiful outdoor pool-- not quite olympic sized, but adequate for getting in some laps -- with a line of man-made waterfalls that spill into the pool the entire length. Mostly sun worshipers dominated the space and my little fam felt a tad out of place. The indoor pool seemed basically deserted. Odd; usually it's the other way around -- lot's of family splashing in the outdoor pool while the indoor is occupied by the serious swimmers and adults who want to 'see and be seen'.

Most of our recreation consisted of walking the indoor grounds, and with 4+ acres that was plenty of exercise, lemme tell ya! The hotel literature says they keep that atrium at a steady 72 degrees, so the walking was pleasant, comfortable and free of the clammy sweat induced by walking the (equally beautiful but steamy) outdoor grounds. Outside, the hotel boasts it's own vineyard, honoring Thomas Volney Munson, the Denison, TX expert on viticulture who -- no joke -- saved the European wine industry in the early 1900's by exporting three ship-loads of native Texas rootstock. For this service, Munson was awarded the Legion of Honor, Chevalier du Merite Agricole.

Not bad for an 'Merican, eh? And a Texan to boot.

I suspect Pete Townsend visited the Caprock of Texas

My fam and I just got back from a camping trip in an area the locals refer to as the Breaks -- that's the edge of the geographical feature called the Caprock in the Texas Panhandle/ New Mexico area. The land 'breaks' off along a rough line and if you're standing on the east side of it you can see for miles and miles and miles >;-)

We had a great time roughing it and testing our limits against the harshness of the landscape. The rain lashed at us when the sun wasn’t burnishing our skin and the wind blew hard, rattling our tents and our nerves.

But the sky! Oh, it unfurled like a canopy beneath our campsite, stretching like infinity.

Coming from the east coast, I was used to seeing the sky obscured by tightly packed buildings, suburban sprawl or, when we could get far enough out, veiled by a covering of trees. My mountains were the Blue Ridge Mountains. I'd traveled several times through them to my father's place in Texas. Traveling those mountain roads was like driving through a green tunnel.

Even living in Tyler TX, ensconced in the Piney Woods ecoregion, I never got the sense of myself spinning in space on this big rock we call Earth at roughly 800+/- miles per hour, tethered only by that vaguely understood physical law called gravity. As a child I viewed the sky framed by familiar structures, safely seated on the hood of my parent's car. My horizon consisted of my neighbors' rooftops.

It wasn't until I came to the Texas panhandle, surrounded by miles of flat, sparse landscape that I fully apprehended that sense of "Whoa. That sky up there? It's big." I remember likening the vista to a vast soup bowl of inky, star-studded anxiety. It unnerved me, trying to comprehend that many stars in the night sky.

The only comparison I had was the awe I'd felt summers at Virginia Beach, watching a horizon comprised only of ocean and sky, and the smallness I would feel in relation. But I had the high rise resorts just behind me to help quell those overwhelming feelings.

I felt really unsettled for months after I moved here. I couldn't bring myself to look up very often -- even though, as a tween amateur astronomy nerd, I would have sworn that I'd gladly give my freedom for the typical night view most natives take for granted in this part of the country (and I cherish my freedom, yo.) I thought I'd never get comfortable with the limitlessness.

Then I went back east for a visit. I hated it. I couldn't get used to not seeing as far out as forever. I didn't like the buildings obscuring the view of the sky. I felt hemmed in, surrounded, suffocated.

It gets under your skin, this wide open, windy, parched, richly-colored, rugged land. Sometimes, you just have to go away to realize it.

To everything turn, turn, turn...

So I head out at 7:30 am to Abernathy by a very circuitous route, hugging tightly to the back bumper of the yellow school bus carrying half of the sixth grade band, lest I get hopelessly lost. Band competition: one of those inevitable yet unplanned for things in your visions of the future spent raising your kids.

I lamented to my friend Di that I'd have to miss the May PPW meeting as in my parental "Rock-Paper-Scissors" game of life "Kid" always beats "Selfish Wants." Plus, I had to drag my Youngest, as the love of my life was scheduled to work that day. Joy. I envisioned a recalcitrant child stonily harrumphing through the whole day-long event. My visions were not far from reality, either, but more on that later.

Di said, (and I love this about her -- her optimistic viewpoint that everything, EVERYthing can be used as a writing prompt!) "Ooooh, what a GREAT opportunity to get some good human-behavior observations down on paper!!!"

Isn't that cool? She looks at all situations as just one more potential writing exercise ;-)

Anyway, I said, "Oooh," back and thanked her for the gentle, optimistic reminder, packed my trusty, beat-up notebook into my purse and suddenly looked forward instead of askance at the prospect.

The day was rainy, chilly and generally miserable and Youngest, against my protest, had worn my old dojo robe over a tank top, shorts and sandals as a defense against the elements. (Notoriously under dressed, that one) Plus she had to go into the building sans dojo robe as it's really (no, really) not appropriate for public display.

She grumbled throughout the entire competition -- "I'm cold," I'm hungry," "this is boring," "are we leaving yet?" I attempted several times to appease her by running out to the car to get snacks we'd packed and an extra t-shirt I keep in the car, but she would not be appeased. She's nine, bless her heart. (If you are southern, you know what I'm really saying when I use the phrase "Bless her heart....")

After our sixth grade band performed their portion, I turned to Youngest and said, "Okay, chicky, they're done. You wanna stay in here or go out to the-," She cut in "To the car!"

We made our way out there, me gripping her tight to my side to try to keep her from plunging her sandaled foot into the puddles and the wind whipped us both inside the warm car without too much trauma. Through my crazy ninja-mutha skillz, I actually got her smiling again, (Yes. I do rock, thank you.) which turned out to be a good thing, because the band took their sweet time eating a school-provided lunch of which we two little lost souls were left out. (Oldest forgot to hand in the note explaining that her mom would be tagging along. Harrumph.)

I get home, and a couple days later Di asks, "So...did you get anything good written down in your human-behavior study? And, because I have a really short attention span, I said, "Huh?" She reminded me about the writing I was going to do at the band competition and I said, "Oh, yeah, that."

She said, "...what?" like she knew what was coming, and I told her the recaplet of the sojourn and how instead I spent my time entertaining Youngest. She commiserated, and we went on to talk about whatever meandering things we usually expend an hour on the phone hashing out.

Well, Di, I'm happy to tell you that Chance gave me another...well, chance. I attended the Spring Band Concert last night, and was able to get a mulligan on my Human Behavior Project, with the added bonus of the rest of the Jr. High band and High School bands too.

Here's what I observed: (names changed to some inane nickname to protect the innocent ;-)

Master: A voice like a strung willow branch, plucked; high, a bit tinny but not unpleasant. Unhurried yet abbreviated movements, controlled and devoid of dominance. He offers a smile of distracted elegance while his eyes take in all, registering neither disappointment nor relief.

Apprentice: Her brow creased in alarm, hand emerging slow as a turtle's head in tentative welcome. A smile spreads slow and reaches her eyes; her brow, however, misses the "all clear" sign.

Junior Officer: Is this the willow branch upon which Master's melodic voice is strung? Like a linear sigh he seems too insubstantial for gravity to hold him! Bending inward protecting wisps of logic and strength embedded in almost painfully thin veneer. Walking sheet music, "blink and you might miss him," he conceals more than the ink hieroglyphs scratched upon his surface. Close your eyes and open your ears. You'll see him as he is.

Trombone: His voice must have room, more than even the Tuba. Sliding forth, testing outer limits followed by eventual retreat to familiar places. He has vague ideas of the notes to play but -- unlike the other brass with buttons to press -- must feel his way to make the notes true.

Confidence came late but once he discerned the 'sweet spots' the underbrush cleared and the path -- which he thought he'd have to trail blaze -- had been there all along, waiting for him to find it. Distractions tempt him to unsure ways; will he lose the path or blaze new paths all his own?

Horn: He is uncomfortable with his voice. To cover, he's ever watchful of those who speak out confidently, counting mindlessly with sure toe taps, understanding the melodic scratches on the page. Fearful of playing a wrong note, unsure of the symbols others read with ease, he can hear it but cannot see the music.

Maybe he will surrender for a while, lay his voice aside, revel in the physical knowledge of pure sport. One day, on his way to the court a black line like the readings of a heart monitor will catch his eye. He'll stop, tilt his head, prick his ears and stare, focused on the line until the meaning emerges from the blur. He'll hear and see. His fingers will twitch out the interpretation of the line like a heart monitor read-out. The court forgotten for a while, he'll allow his hand to find his voice again.

People Concerto in A minor, by Grief, Good. ;-)

the path

"We can do this the easy way...or we can do it the hard way"...

Those words have been spoken in some incarnation in a lot of movies by a lot of different heros. John Wayne, all the dudes that interpreted Wyatt Earp on screen, heck probably even Bruce Willis said something near it in his Die Hard movies -- although not nearly as memorably as his Yippee-ky-yay M*****F*****. (You don't get many catch phrases as good as that one. Well, maybe Ahnold's "I'll be back," comes close. But I'm chasing rabbits, now -- back to the point)

We can do this the easy way or the hard way... Like we have a choice. Most people can do it no other way than the hard way -- and I know. I'm a people. Who usually does "it" the hard way. Someone much wiser than me said, It is only through the hard times that one grows...(or words to that effect.)

It's the high winds that bend the juvenile trees (almost so far that you'd swear they were going to break) that actually strengthens them and helps them grow tall -- if they don't break, that is. Heh -- that's another one, what don't kill ya, makes you stronger. How many times have I had that phrase shoved at me by some stalwart old fart...who, I begrudgingly admit, knew better than me? How many times since I've started to become a stalwart aging fartlet have I said the same thing to other young saplings who -- I know looked at me like I was just as crazy as I thought the old farts were who were saying the same thing to me?

I had a friend who told me that you have to beat the tomatoes to get them to grow. That probably doesn't make sense to anyone who hasn't planted a bunch of tomato plants and anxiously watched them suck your water bill to over three thousand extra gallons a month only to appear to swoon every single day in the harsh sun of a typical TX panhandle afternoon. But if you have? Well, you know exactly what my friend was talking about -- it may not actually do any good... heh. But it sure makes you feel better ;-)

Is it true? Do the beatings you take in life make you stronger? I pondered this today as I had a pretty frank conversation with my soon-to-be twelve year old...about a very difficult period in my life. I found myself at one point in the conversation saying that although I was pretty strong when I was in high school, I went through a terrible period in college wherein I surrendered everything that made me "me"....but that now, I was much stronger than I'd ever been before the terrible period with the difficult people in my life and I was actually -- if not exactly grateful -- I was at least thankful that I learned from it, and grew...and that I would never just let someone strip me of my self-worth again.

I don't have the abject terror of being unloved the way I did then... perhaps because I stumbled upon someone who loves me unconditionally --- and allows me to love him back the same. I don't need approval the way I -- even subconsciously -- did then because I've learned (well, more accurately I'm in a constant process of learning) that I need only stay true to my core values and I need no other approval. I no longer see the necessity of perfection in myself...I only have to give my endeavors my best. Sometimes my best is half-assed, and that's okay too as long as I don't make a habit of it.

My husband -- before we were even dating, when we were just two friends who worked in a dinner show together -- used to nab me by my sleeve as I was storming out the stage door for a smoke after I flubbed a cue and he'd look me in the eye and he'd say, "Let it go. If you focus on what you messed up, you'll blow the next cue...and the next...and the next. Concentrate on the moment and you'll do fine."

He was right. When you concentrate on the moment -- whatever it is -- give it your focus as if it's the only thing happening right now, as if there's no other concern in the world, you'll do fine. Will you make mistakes? Sure you will... but in the end, you'll regret only the things you didn't do, not the things you tried and flubbed.

Maybe that is the "hard way" -- ranging around, giving your best, getting messy, making mistakes, flubbing your lines and staying on stage in spite of it -- because of course the 'show must go on' -- pitting your wits against the wind and raising your fist and saying "Give it your best shot!!!"

Live wild. Live hard. Live like you mean it. Let the wind blow, the rains lash, the elements nearly break you. And then feel that powerful sinew in you grow.

Malconent in the Middle

I guess I don't have as much to crab about as I thought I might, lo these many years since I started blogging. That was the reason I started to blog - to get my bitch on, and dump it squarely somewhere so my husband wouldn't have to listen to a constant stream of complaint.

But looking back over the posts I've made -- I haven't really complained all that much. A real "Huh." moment for me, actually.

Dare I say that must mean I'm...happy...? Ugh. For a post-modern, slow-maturing, aimless, caught-between-Gen's X-and-Why-doesn't-really-fit-in-either Gal, that's quite a shocking realization.

I practically ™'d Miserable Dark Girl.

sigh. I guess I'm like most people -- much cooler in my own imagination than I am in actual living color. Much less a dweeb, much hipper, more insightful and deep, than anyone out there gives me credit for... Heh. Right.

But one thing I can say, without reservation, pride or prejudice, is that I think by myself, for myself. Sure, I pick up as much imput as I am humanly able -- and I don't stick to one source, either; I crib from everything left, right and center that I can find.

Once I've let the mash stew for a bit... I form my opinion. Which usually ends up coming out something along the line of, "Well... I see both sides -- I really do and can honestly say I think the truth...is somewhere in the middle."

I'm so middling it's probably the topmost reason I'm so damn boring.

Conflict in the Middle East? I see both sides, I really do...and I think the truth is somewhere in the middle -- but only one side might be willing to step to the "middle" if their damn dance partner wasn't so willing to blow it's own children up as a statement that they don't particularly like the style of music.

American politics: Left? or Right? I see both sides... I really DO (and have at various times in my life been on both of them) but I think the truth is somewhere in the middle -- only, politics is so much more fun when we can gain power by demonizing the other side and placating huge swathes of complacent, uninformed people with meaningless platitudes in order to maintain that power! (and yeah, I think it happens on the left and the right.)

Okay...here's another tough one. Abortion: For? or Against? Heheheheh. I guess you know what I'm going to say. I see both sides... I REALLY do, and though it horrifies me personally, and I don't think I'd have one myself (can't really say, as I've never been pushed into that particular corner, and don't really WANT to be, thankyouv,v,much) we've traversed too long a road to try to repeal Roe v. Wade now and I cannot, would not in good conscience impose my moral stances against someone's own right over their own body. It's so impossibly sticky, that my stance is the best "lesser of two evils" I can hope to ever come up with...

See? Middling. Horribly, horribly middling. But it's the best I can do. And I'll tell you, it IS a stance, the middle. Some people might say that it's no stance at all...that you either have to be right or left, pro-Palestinian or pro-Israel, for Abortion or against it... And maybe they're right.

But I don't think so. (Lookit. You've GOT to have enough weight in the middle to keep the seesaw from clunking down hard one side or the other...s'all I'm sayin') I think that mind-set is what got the world into this kind of trouble in the first place.

Look. If there's a God, a Creator (and I, personally, believe) then that God gave the human creation one very precious gift: Free Will. Left it up to us, to muddle along as best we could in a divine love so intense that it would rather we evolve, slowly and painfully -- maiming, warping and killing ourselves along the way to finding the path to not just surviving...but THRIVING -- than to ever IMPOSE upon us, like a dictator or tyrant, its own Will.

Some think that is the height of uncaring, dispassionate, ambivalent feeling. And sometimes... I do too. Sometimes I think, Ah, God...can't you come down here and make us all get along? Make all the paths straight? Make all the wrongs right?

Then I think... do I really want to be an automaton? It's like in my parenting -- which I do unevenly, sporadically and to very mixed results, I might add (my kids are great thru no fault of my own, btw) -- though it kills me, almost literally, I have to let them make some mistakes and (more importantly) to face the consequences all on their onesies if they are going to learn, grow and survive.

But I'm only human. I still stick my hand out in front of them when we are somewhere high up and they step too closely to the edge... (they are 9 and almost-12) I still remind them -- every single time they take a bike ride -- to watch carefully at all road crossings. I still -- God love 'em -- clean up their more minor messes -- both literal and figurative -- for the umpteenth time...because I'm not omnipotent, omniscient or omniwise. (I made that last word up) I have myself all fooled up that I actually possess a modicum of control.

I can get away with "imposing my will"... because I don't have all those nifty "omni-" gadgets at my disposal. I can still claim ignorance for meddling and keeping my "creation" from learning valuable lessons the old-fashioned way... thru trial and, unfortunately, error.

In God's big arena, though, error sometimes has devastating, far-reaching consequences.

But it ain't like we haven't been warned or (in human-parent vernacular) nagged sufficiently either. Can we really claim no culpability in the whole mess?