Woman Writing Whorishly

Get a Flu Shot

2010-11-15T08:56:00.000-08:00

It's always good to journal one's feelings on a regular basis. The "regular basis" shouldn't become an obsession or be something that causes anxiety when we fail to journal ... just ordinary "regular" like cleaning house or deleting old e-mails (when was the last time I did that? Cleaning house, I mean.)

However, journaling about physical feelings when those feelings include wanting to keep your head between your knees is easier said that done ... even if you put the laptop on the floor.

This is the season and the reason for the season is the virus-carriers that we can't avoid. The recent high temperatures acted like growth hormones for germs; then we came outside to bask in the sun and pass germs to each other. In other words, it's our own fault that an unfortunate number of us is sitting with our heads between our knees.

Add to that the fact that I didn't get my flu shot. By this time of year, I usually have responsibly shown up for the needle. I do the other "right" things , those that the CDC included in their Suggestion Number Two on their website, http://www.cdc.gov/flu/protect/preventing.htm

Number Two from the CDC

Cover your nose and mouth with a tissue when you cough or sneeze. Throw the tissue in the trash after you use it.
Wash your hands often with soap and water. If soap and water are not available, use an alcohol-based hand rub.*
Avoid touching your eyes, nose and mouth. Germs spread this way.
Try to avoid close contact with sick people.
If you are sick with flu–like illness, CDC recommends that you stay home for at least 24 hours after your fever is gone except to get medical care or for other necessities. (Your fever should be gone without the use of a fever-reducing medicine.)
While sick, limit contact with others as much as possible to keep from infecting them.

However, my fault lies in Suggestion Number One (Get a flu shot) and Suggestion Number Three (Use prescribed anti-virals in the first two days of illness.)

So, if you prefer to have your laptop on your lap rather than the floor, you might want to follow the suggestions of the CDC. Also, if you intend to get a prescription within the first two days of illness ... don't get sick on a Friday.

Clean Up Your Mess!

2010-11-06T09:26:00.000-07:00

You remember when you were a child and you weren't allowed to leave the house until you cleaned up your mess? That was so unrealistic. That's not the consequences you will experience as an adult. As an adult, if you make a mess, someone is going to throw you out. Vomit on the bar? You're out! Three strikes? You're out! Cheat on the spouse? You're out! Take too many pain killers? You're out!

Maybe our mothers had the right idea. However, once we are old enough to define our defiance as other people's consequences, we reject the childhood consequences that actually made sense.

I think we should say to the duly elected representatives, "You're not allowed to leave the House until you clean up your mess!" The recently elected Republican representatives would have to get to work cleaning up their Republican doo-doo from before. To the president, "You're not allowed to leave the White House until you clean up your mess!" Yes, I realize if that had been implemented during the last presidency, we would be stuck with Bush until hell freezes over. Or maybe it would have gotten folks shoveling the ice cubes down south to Satan and the mess would have been cleaned up a lot sooner than it's going to take to clean up his mess now.

I think returning to the "You can't leave until..." consequences should become the law of the land. It might make politicians, bankers, stockbrokers, clergy and other screw-ups think more carefully about what they do.

Simple Thoughts

2010-10-27T14:49:00.000-07:00

S & M

When I was pretty and menacing,
I wasn't manipulative -
Tried, failing miserably.
Such a dismal shame.

Hustle of Dawn

Aerial aerobics
of geese.
Aquatic jet streams
of ducks at sunrise.
Shimmering white veils
of snowy egrets.
Heron's harangue
disturbing the sun.

Emotional Eater....or Not

2010-07-26T17:00:00.000-07:00

I know a woman who belongs to Overeaters Anonymous; she refers to herself as an "emotional eater" and frequently repeats one of the many cliche sayings that are part of any twelve-step program. "One day at a time" and "This too shall pass" are biggies amongst the many mottoes. There's more to the programs than just the sayings, but they work. ("It works if you work it.") Maybe some folks could take a drink or overeat while saying "This too shall pass;" however, the irony and the bathroom humor would crack me up. I'd probably blow the Bloody Mary or Boston cream pie out my nose. Anyway, as I was saying, this woman is a self-proclaimed "emotional eater" which begs the question....what is a non-emotional eater?

The non-emotional eater can't order from a menu. "I could care less what your specials are. Bring me anything. I just don't care."

Or the non-emotional eater might respond in a Mr. Spock-like monotone. "I'll have lamb, specifically the posterior cut of a young sheep; sheep being akin to the Greek term, "élaphos." Please don't confuse my use of the word, lamb, as meaning 'a gentle person'. I do not want the posterior end of a gentle person, nor do I want a slice of Christ. In addition, I want three-ounces of a form of a cultivated cruciferous plant, Brassica oleracea botrytis, whose leafy stalks and clusters of usually green buds are eaten as a vegetable known to the common man as 'broccoli.'

The non-emotional eater would break his Jewish mother's heart. "Who cares that you spent four hours in the kitchen with the air conditioning broken leaning your crutch against the counter while applying a tourniquet to the hand that got caught in the meat grinder? I don't want to eat dinner with you. I'm just not feeling it."

If a person has a pulse, they must be experiencing an emotion of some kind, unless the person is in a catatonic stupor. Maybe even the catatonic schizophrenic is feeling something; he just isn't going to tell us what it is. "Frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn," is a statement of emotion.

Therefore, I question the self-diagnosed label "emotional eater" as having anything to do with indulging in excess amounts of food. Personally, I feel emotional after I've indulged. "I am so happy that you shared a quart of Rocky Road ice cream with me. " "I'm miserable and embarrassed that I stepped up to the AYCE buffet for the third time."

Personally, I lack discipline in several areas of my life, and I am well-disciplined in others. However, I don't identify myself as an "emotional procrastinator" anymore than I am an "emotional hard-worker." While it's true that emotions motivate people toward action, I don't think that the emotion is an adequate descriptor of the action. Being non-emotional will probably not restrain someone from a habitual behavior, unless the person is catatonic or doesn't have a pulse. I'm perfectly capable of nonchalantly, apathetically approaching the buffet for the third time.

Vibrant But Not a Beauty

2010-01-27T07:33:00.000-08:00

She was vibrant, but not a beauty. At first I didn’t notice anything at all about this woman working at the fabric store.

I handed her the four bolts of fabric and requested a quarter yard of each one. As she unrolled the first bolt and measured my meager request, I told her that I was making the first quilt for myself. Not wanting to appear a novice, I added that I had made other quilts, but this was the first one just for me. “I already have lots of fabric, but I liked these.” She glanced at me and we both laughed. Quilters always have lots of fabric, but always want more. “My quilt will be a variety of browns and dark reds.” Then I added, “I like those colors.” She nodded as she snipped a perfect cut. Feeling a little foolish about filling the silence with chatter as she worked, I decided to just shut up.

I watched her as she rolled and pinned the remaining fabric back onto the first bolt. Then, without looking up from her work, she said, “The darker colors help me to find my center, to feel grounded.”

There was a moment when I couldn’t respond; I could only look at this woman. I was trying to process this incongruency, a haggard-looking woman and a Zen-like observation. She was probably ten years younger than I am, but she looked much older. She was far too thin, no make-up, and her thin wisps of mousy brown hair hung down in her face as she leaned over the fabric. Her faded jeans hung straight, no hips, no thighs. As I stood in a moment of suspended reality, her words echoed in my mind. “The darker colors help me to find my center, to feel grounded.”

Suddenly we were both animated, sharing with each about the projects we had done and the ones we intend to do. She continued to cut, fold and pin as she talked about a wall hanging that she had seen and wanted to make one similar to it. It was a quilted wall hanging, a grand piano with a long-stemmed red rose lain across it. She talked about its elegance and that she wanted to make hers in black and red silk.

As she talked about the sheen of the silk, the contrast of black and red on a white background, the way black and red combinations pull together all the other colors in a room, I looked again at her hands. Her hands were dry and rough with several scabs and scars, probably cut and poked by scissors and needles. As if she knew my thoughts, she told me about the hand quilting she kept nearby when she was at home. “You have to be very efficient and disciplined to quilt by hand,” she said. “Otherwise, a project would never be finished.”

When she handed me the four carefully folded pieces of fabric, I thanked her for the conversation. Thanking her felt so inadequate. I felt lighter. I felt centered. I had been in the presence of a wise woman, a vibrant woman, though not a beauty.

Insulting a Sweet Potato

2010-01-12T13:03:00.000-08:00

I spoke to a sweet potato yesterday. Insulted him, really. I looked him in the eyes and said, “Oh my, you’re an ugly little fellow.” He didn’t reply, as far as I know. After insulting him, I immediately stuck him in the microwave so he really didn’t have time for a comeback. If he had a second or two to think about it, he might have said, “Beauty is ephemeral; my sweetness is eternal.” That would have put me in my place, of course, but then I would also have had to deal with the reality that not only had I insulted a sweet potato, but had been humbled by one as well.

As it was, I had only to come to grips with the fact that on the third day of being housebound by a very deep snow drift across my driveway, I had finally succumbed to cabin fever, the “talking-to-vegetable” type of cabin fever which is considerably more tolerable than becoming a vegetable-while-talking.

There has been an odd variation of snow depth in my front yard. There are areas where I can see tufts of grass, still green, poking through the snow. In other places, there are snowdrifts over a foot deep. One of those snowdrifts stopped just before coming up against the door of my Ford van. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have been able to get in the van each of the three snowbound days to know that the battery was still charged (a moot point, since I couldn’t go anywhere.) There was over a foot of snow in front of my van.

Occasionally, I entertained thoughts of bundling up and attacking the problem with my snow shovel (assuming the storage shed was free of a snowdrift.) Then I found it more entertaining to cook and bake (and eat) as well as to read and quilt. I enjoyed what I was doing and got a lot done.

However, I didn’t think about writing more than a nanosecond or two (does the second nanosecond really need to be mentioned?) I know that some writers find inclement weather useful to their craft. For example, Tom Robbins (Even Cowgirls Get the Blues) wrote in his book of essays (the title was something about geese, maybe ducks, flying backward?) that his hometown, Seattle, is a perfect setting for a writer because of the dismal weather. That works for him but apparently not for me.

To write, I need to be un-bound. Lacking the discipline to write because I should write, I need to be free to choose to write. I need to know that while I could breeze off into the day with a bundle of impulses and no objective at hand that I, instead, freely chose to set up my laptop on my table. (They should be called tabletops because it’s ridiculous trying to keyboard on wobbly, flabby thighs.) I write because I choose to write. (This is of no help in actually finishing my novel, but such is the price one pays for freedom.)

Therefore, I didn’t write this entry for my blog (even though every day in my planner since the first of the year includes the message to myself to blog) until the evening after my grandson and I dug out the driveway, scattered salt over the icy patches, and rewarded ourselves with oatmeal cookies. No sweet potato pie. I’m giving the ugly little fellows a break until the next blizzard.

Descendants of Survivors

2009-09-25T08:12:00.000-07:00

We are the descendants of ancestral human survivors. We can all agree with this statement (which I may have lifted, but don't remember the source) regardless of our confidence in the evidence of scientists or our faith in the dogma of theologians.

The conscious thought that we exist (at least until we no longer exist) is the raw material with which we establish ourselves as thinking, feeling, behaving organisms on a planet whose origin is unknown and its future unsettled. The only certainty is our past and maybe our present (except that as I typed the word "present," it, too, became part of my past.)

However, at no other time does the past assume such importance in our consciousness as when we acknowledge the passing of someone we love. This week, I attended a funeral service. During the meal following the funeral (there's always a meal because it take so much energy to survive the present...or was it the past?), my relatives (LOTS of cousins) and I talked about our past...mostly the silly things like the near-drownings as children, the joys of humiliating each other, and more somber events like remembrances of actual loss.

So much of the socialization of my cousins and myself (being shaped, poked, and cattle-prodded into adulthood) was a shared process and the process was influenced by so many of the same people. Yet the twenty or so people sitting around the table looked to me to be so different from one another (other than the baggy eyes, a persistent, pervasive family trait) and, in some ways, looked to be strangers to me. For all the talking, what do we really know about each other and what secrets will we carry with us until the time of our own passing and (bed, bath,) and beyond?

A few months ago, I tagged along with my mother to a writer's group that she has been attending for the last five months. During this same time, I was trying to start a local writer's group and was completely unaware of her group and writing activities. Isn't it ironic that two closely genetically related people, both interested in communication, both living in the same small town failed to communicate this information to each other before?

One of the most tumultuous relationships I was in was with a man who was a manager of human resource managers. At the time, I was working as a psychologist. In other words, we both worked in fields whose essential feature was communication. However, our relationship was stormy because our problem was a failure in communication. (Go figure.)

Back to the past, what exactly do we really know about our ancestral human survivors (cave dwellers or more recent twigs on the family tree)? Perhaps they survived because they wore masks, kept secrets, realized that the present moment (no matter how joyful or sorrowful) passes as quickly as it came, and because they didn't spend a lot of time dwelling on their awareness (unknown to other animals) of (bed,bath, and) beyond. The cave dwellers buried the dead, had a meal, and made a few markings on a wall...as I've just done...and hoped that their descendants treasure the past, enjoy the moment (now in the past), and try to not screw up the future any worse than they did.

To not communicate causes inconvenience at the least and failed relationships at the worst (though some of them ought to fail), but sometimes its better not to know too much. Knowing too much about each other and (bed, bath) beyond takes all the thrill out of survival.

There is an old saying that the shoemaker's children has no shoes. I think this saying may be applicable to communication, but I'm not sure how to say it. The End (but not yet bed, bath, and beyond.)

Foreplay Is Not Just For Sex

2009-07-24T14:50:00.000-07:00

Writing coaches recommend journaling or some other kind of warming up activity before writing the REAL thing. Here are five other things that need a warm-up activitiy (besides sex.)

Warm up before taking a prescription drug. Just pop a few of anything you might find in the medicine cabinet. Then try opening that child-proof cap on the prescription bottle. This sometimes works for celebrities and sometimes not.

Warm up before brushing teeth; prepare the gums for the assault of bristles and sweet-tasting sticky stuff. Scrape the gums (gently) with a piece of fine sandpaper and rinse with Mountain Dew.

Warm up before mowing the lawn. Push a lawn chair up and down the yard making sure that you are making parallel indentations as it flattens the blades of grass. This warm-up may actually delay the need to mow.

Warm up before paying your bills. Shove other paper items addressed to your creditors into the big, blue mailbox and work on your technique. (Practice power walking techniques if the mail carrier approaches.)

Warm up before asking for a promotion. Begin by asking for more toilet paper in the ladies room (regardless of your gender); work up to asking for more knee space under your desk, and eventually ask for the boss’s job.

Alrighty then, I’m ready to write (right after I take my meds, brush my teeth, mow the lawn, pay my bills, and apply for a publisher’s job.)

Mind-Catching

2009-07-17T14:34:00.001-07:00

I hadn't intended for my blog to become a series of "book reports", but because I've been doing more reading than writing, it seems to have come to this (at least for now.) It wasn't until I finished Mind-Catcher by John Darnton, and then went to his blog, that I realized I had read the first of his books, The Darwin Conspiracy which was, at the time, another one of my favorites (overlooking the fact that it was truly a work of fiction, hardly biographical, except that he spelled Darwin's name correctly.) I humbly forgive Darnton his license to fictionalize Darwin (and to use the word opprobrium twice in Mind-Catcher.) So, here is a review of the most recent of my "personal favs," Mind-Catcher (2003) by John Darnton.

The personal appeal of Mind-Catcher was that it is a wonderful meld of my passion for the study of the brain from an anatomical, mechanistic point of view and my interest in whatever may exist beyond the physical, what some may refer to as the supernatural. Others simply state the meld as the "mind-body" problem. (This was also referred to in the non-fiction memoir My Stroke of Insight by Jill Bolte Taylor.) I don't remember who said it first, but I like the explanation that the mind is what the brain does. In other words, while the miracle of who we are results from the neural connections and electro-chemical processes, we are nevertheless the miracle.

The characters of the story are both miraculously good and miraculously evil. In other words, they are human. The father of the comatose son who has been the model single parent now wallows in an alcoholic cesspool and belabors his own self-centeredness in violence as well as verbiage. The villain in the story has his compassionate moments and I reluctantly sympathized with the villain's abused childhood which left scars on his adult intellectual genius.

For me personally, I felt most strongly attracted to both the egomaniac male neurosurgeon that unwittingly set the stage for the genius villain and the compassionate, spiritual, self-aware female neurosurgeon who was willing to set aside professional conduct for doing what was right for the father and son. The neurosurgeons are two sides of the same coin and if do-overs were possible, I would do whatever I had to to become a neurosurgeon. (Maybe in the next life.) Do-overs occur in the Mind-Catcher for all but the villain whose punishment perfectly fits the crime. Do-overs and justice sound like cliche denouements but this book is a thriller from start to finish. Yes, I know the last half of that statement also sounded very cliche, but most book reports are.

Baba WaWa and Other Important Voices

2009-06-18T11:50:00.000-07:00

www.youtube.com/watch?v=6HOMtOzoVM8 - (Barbara Walters on Gilda Radner's Baba Wawa Impression)

I recently finished reading Barbara Walter's autobiography, Audition; yes, I read all 600 pages and savored each page. It is a mix of popular and political history, a mix of the personal and the persona. It is about family and friendships, fortunes made and fortunes lost, and, of course, about the interviews of the famous and the infamous.

One of the couples that she mentioned who were among her favorite interviewees was not Brad and Angelina, but it was a couple whose names I don't remember (though, of course, Walters did.) What is memorable about them is that they are both blind and deaf. They are a successful couple that raised successful grown children. Nevertheless, the husband said that while losing his vision took away "scenes", it was losing his hearing that took away "people."

We often take for granted the subtle nuances of voices that cause us a shift of perspective, or a confidence and renewal in our relationships. A voice can endear someone to us. We are proud of the quiet one who, at last, asserts herself in a clear and confident voice. We wrap our hopes around the leader who, at last, shares her fear and uncertainty. We share and hold dear the whimper of regret and plea for forgiveness after a moment of disagreement with a loved one.

On the other hand, we question the future of a new friendship when we hear a groan of resentment or a slap of sarcasm. We listen more closely to know whether or not we want to hear still more. We note the pretentiousness of a lie and the squeamishness of deceit.

Remember that it was Barbara Walters who wrote the book "How to Talk to Practically Anybody About Practically Anything." Although I have admired her for a long time, I think she titled that book incorrectly. I think that what she could teach us and what we all need to improve is "How to Listen to Practically Anybody About Practically Anything."

Let's add a subtitle as well. "... And to appreciate it."

My Own Bucket List

2009-05-30T10:09:00.000-07:00

Last night I watched The Bucket List. I especially like both actors, Jack Nicolson and Morgan Freeman, so I knew it would be good even if I had known nothing else about it. Of course, as most everyone knows by now, the movie is the story of two men who have each been given less than a year to live and their attempt to fulfill their dreams before they kick the bucket.

After the show ended and I had shed tears at the appropriate moments, I watched one of the special features on the DVD, the one that included an interview of the writer. I was a bit surprised to see that he was very young (or does everyone now seem very young to me?), but his "older" wisdom became more credible after I learned that he had interviewed several older people (including celebrities) about what they might include on their bucket list.

Reminded that I had created my own bucket list a few years ago, I pulled out the notebook that I had begun in 2000. Several things were going on that year. I turned 50 years old and celebrated 20 years clean and sober. I was also dealing with some age-related issues that included thinking about what possible reasons there were for why I was still alive and, at the same time, trying to accept the uncomfortable fact that I would someday be a corpse. It seems that it should have been either one issue or the other, but complex issues are rarely that tidy so I was working on both at the same time.

My "bucket list" was titled "100 things I want to do before I die." I only had seven things on the list, and there was some redundancy even among the seven. What I had in common with the characters in the movie was that I included skydiving on my list. In fact, skydiving was first on the list which is especially incredible because I have a psychopathological fear of heights.

Skydiving does seem to me to be the ultimate existential experience. I can imagine being suspended between life and death, simultaneously reveling in the thrill of life, the force of wind against my gravity-driven beating heart, while contemplating the possibility of becoming a crumpled pile of bloody flesh, bones, and excrement.

Existentialists consider the fact that we live "with a sense of disorientation and confusion in the face of an apparently meaningless or absurd world" according to Wikipedia (which someone pulled from a couple old, obscure textbooks.)

It is by embracing and accepting those very psychic conflicts that validates our free will, our choice of a world perspective, and the behaviors that are congruent with our individual Weltanschauung. (Damn, I love that big word!)

Skydiving, then, is the appropriate metaphor in action for the anxiety associated with wrapping one's arms around life. For a couple hundred bucks, I could not only mark skydiving off my list, but could move onto the rest of the list and accept those that are redundant as just part of the absurdity of being alive.

Demons, Overload, and Chilling-Out

2009-03-17T15:44:00.000-07:00

Why do we do this to ourselves? If we are old enough to at least be out of high school and beyond adolescent angst, we should know how futile it is to do battle with demons whose only power is what we allow them to have.

And yet ... I can feel the paralysis beginning. The bottom of my right foot feels like its on fire and there is a mild tic beneath my left eye. The foot-thingy may be neuropathy and the tic-thingy may be Bell's Palsy. The mental paralysis itself (yes, it's all in my head) is not serious enough to warrant a diagnosis. It is, however, serious enough for me to take note of its onset and to think about an appropriate treatment plan. These "symptoms" are really just a physical acknowledgment of the fact that I'm feeling a wee overload of stressors.

Having recently been diagnosably ill, I feel like I have lost one entire week of my life and a second week has been reduced by the fatigue of getting over the first week. My students have less than half a semester remaining to fully benefit from my amazing instruction. I anticipated having several chapters of my Great American Novel written by the end of this week. Add the fact that I intend to move in less than a month (having a whole bunch of crap to unload or move with me) and I have stirred up a nice batch of demons.

In reality, most of these demons are bearers of good news disguised as demons. The good news is that I am recovering from a non-life-threatening illness; the semester is more than half completed; I have been writing more in 2009 than in previous years; and I am moving away from my neighbor-from-hell to a lovely, peaceful spot on a lake where I can de-stress on a daily (moment-to-moment) basis.

The treatment plan for dealing with the demons is the same one that I have known about for many years.

1. Change how you think and you will change how you feel.

2. Count your blessings.

3. Breathe deeply.

4. Know that this too shall pass.

5. Having done all that is possible, let a Higher Power do the rest.

Last but not least, share the blessings with others.

Central Illinois Writers Group on Facebook

2009-02-28T10:52:00.000-08:00

I just set up a group in Facebook. The name of the group is Central Illinois Writers Group.

Hopefully, this isn't just another one of my attempts to find the Holy Grail of Writing in something outside of myself. I have another post on this blog about my pursuit of the Holy Grail; in that post, the Holy Grail I referred to was the attempt to find the "right" book about writing that would release my muses from hiding and set free my innate writing talents. Consequently, I have a couple boxes full of books about writing and not a single book on my shelves that I have personally written.

Between the search for the perfect book and the Facebook group was my registration for an online creative writing course. Of course, the course came with a textbook (as if I needed one more book about writing.) Worse, the book is the only source of information for how to improve my craft unless you count the other online students who have the same textbook that I have.

On a more serious note, I do have a great deal of confidence in the power of a group. Magical things happen when people come together that couldn't have occurred otherwise. When I think of this group-magic, I'm inclined to have a visual picture of the members of the group and I can hear their tone of voice and read their body language and facial expressions.

I've contacted a few people about starting an offline (face-to-face) group and have had enthusiastic responses until we discuss the actual getting together. I think the problem may be that they are on their computers with their Facebook groups and don't have time to go eyeball to eyeball.

It was over fifty years ago when the psychologist, Rollo May, said, "Communication leads to community, that is, to understanding, intimacy, and mutual valuing." Today, May might have said, "Communication leads to Facebook." I don't know if he would have included the rest of his original statement.

It remains to be seen whether or not the community made up of social networks leads to understanding, intimacy, and mutual valuing. We should hope that they do because there is no shortage of them and the numbers will continue to grow.

Their growth may validate another quote from Rollo May. "It is an old and ironic habit of human beings to run faster when we have lost our way.

(By the way, I took the above picture of the writing table in Lincoln's Home in Springfield, Illinois. It is the only home that Lincoln ever owned and the one that he anticipated returning to at the end of his presidential term. There are only a few items in the house that actually belonged to the Lincolns' and this writing desk is one of them. Most items in the house are from the Civil War era. It was well worth visiting and I will be visiting Springfield sites again soon.)

Dear Mr. Vidal

2009-02-21T14:36:00.000-08:00

I'm currently reading Gore Vidal's memoir, Palimpsest, published in 1995. I can't imagine anyone having a more interesting life than his with his many personal, political, and literary connections. However, an interesting life must also include unhappiness different than that of an ordinary life. If there is no difference in the weight of unhappiness, there is a qualitative difference.

The thing about unhappiness in the context of an interesting life is that it has a sting that reminds a person that he or she is very much alive and that there is a discrepancy between where the person is and where the person wants to be.

The unhappiness in the context of the ordinary life is more like a case of having chiggers than having been stung. Chiggers have to be choked out, killed, suffocated, or covered by nail polish (the usual home remedy.) Then, the nail polish serves as a constant visual reminder of the ungoing assault. Of course there's the itching and the scratching, neither of which are particularly attractive for the scratcher or the observer.

Unhappiness in an interesting life resembles the sting of a bumblebee. A sting requires having the stinger removed and healing then can immediately begin.

One has to wonder about the accumulation of scar tissue at the site of the stinger, assuming that, as in real life, the person having an interesting life is stung more than once. Would that layer of scar tissue protect a person from future assaults or invert the pain at a deeper level rather than merely the surface level if the attack was by chiggers?

Perhaps, Mr. Vidal will provide the answer to that question before the last paragraph of his life.

Let's pandiculate!

2009-01-21T09:29:00.000-08:00

Pandiculate may or may not be a verb. In any case, it has very little to do with a panda and, if it did, the meaning would be obscene.

According to dictionary.com, pandiculation is a noun and pandiculated is an adjective. There's no mention of a verb, but there ought to be. The noun and the adjective refer to the instinctive stretching (as while yawning) or is used to describe something that is stretched.

Pandiculate must be the verb form meaning to stretch. As long as this word is apparently my own creation, I am going to expand its meaning (to pandiculate its meaning?) to include going beyond one's comfort zone, to reinvent oneself as smarter, more important, and more, uh, pandiculated. To pandiculate is to be more useful, to more of service.

This was the message to Americans in Obama's Inauguaral speech. Beyonce tearfully said, "He makes me want to be smarter." I want Beyonce to be smarter, too, smart enough to not degrade women by looking like the women that some of the rappers are degrading. Anyway, I do understand what she was saying. I'm sure many of my own generation said something similar after John F. Kennedy said, "Ask not what your country can do for you, but what you can do for your country." This country has been yearning for a leader that asks us to give up our childish ways, to do something for one another. In other words, we should pandiculate.

So, let's pandiculate!

The Biggest Loser

2009-01-07T15:47:00.001-08:00

The "You on a Diet" doctor/author got my attention

2009-01-07T15:01:00.001-08:00

I was watching PBS when it featured one of the doctors of "YOU" fame (You: an Owner's Manual, You on a Diet, You Beautiful You.) It wasn't Dr. Oz; it was the other one. Let's call him Dr. R. So, Dr. R. said, "If your waistline (measured across the belly button) is larger than xxx (nevermind what that was; I don't want to fully self-disclose), then your health is as much at risk as if you were just told that you have breast cancer." Then he went on to say that if a woman received that diagnosis, she would want to immediately take some action, anything that is required. (He had a similar paradigm-shifter for men, but I don't remember what it was.) I have heard all the health crap from my own doctor, heard it in the media, read it in articles, but this statement by Dr. R. got my attention.

Then I watched The Biggest Loser last night and Bob the Trainer (kind of like Bob the Builder but taller and thinner) looked straight at me and said "America, why are you watching this show while eating ice cream? Put it down!" And he kind of yelled at me a little. So, I put the lid on the jar of peanuts. (I know better than to keep ice cream in the house.)

By the time I was watching Biggest Loser, I had already written a "food plan" to automate my eating as Dr. R. had suggested. Peanuts were on my plan as a snack. (Chewing reduces one's appetite and peanut-snackers lost significant weight during a study at Duke University. To rationalize further, I eat very little meat so I need the protein.) Nevertheless, Bob did not have to repeat himself. I heard him the first time, so I didn't have another bite to eat for the rest of the evening.

Julian the Trainer yelled at me too, but I think she is so hot and so cool (makes sense to me) that in my fantasies, she and I could share a banana split. However, neither Bob the Trainer nor Dr. R. are my type (yes, I do like men but not necessarily those two.) I'm not attracted to authoritative men, but I usually respect them as long as they remain authoritative and not too authoritarian. So, I respect both Bob the Trainer and Dr. R.

I also found it appealing that the Biggest Loser had pledged to donate to the nation's food banks, matching the pounds that Americans pledged to lose. I was conservative and pledged to lose 20 pounds by the end of April. I didn't want to fail in meeting a larger pledge because Bob the Trainer might yell at me again.

If you can be supportive in my weight loss without yelling at me, I'd like to hear from you.

Analyzing My Motivations to Write

2008-11-13T12:53:00.000-08:00

The following are responses to questions that I came across in a book about writing:

As a creative outlet, writing keeps my brain and spirit synchronized. Sometimes my brain is very active with cognitive busyness, but it does so at the expense of my languishing spirit. At other times, my spirit lifts as if on wings of a fairy while logic struggles in vain to be productive.

Writing is like doing a puzzle or solving a riddle; it's about making the pieces fit. Writing fulfills my need to have a project in the works. To complete a project would create a deficit; I don't like feeling that I don't have something in the works. So as long as I don't complete anything, I don't feel deprived.

My motivations for writing include the hope that readers would find a new way of thinking, be touched on an emotional level, would laugh, and/or be entertained or motivated to action as a result of reading what I've written.

Regarding the past, I wanted to be an "author" when I was a little girl; I always said "author" rather than writer because I thought an author creates, and a writer "just writes." Oh, if only I had been correct that a writer "just writes." Or maybe in that simple view that children have, I really was correct. My current delays, hesitation, and procrastination in writing are because I've forgotten that a writer "just writes."

Regarding the future, in response to the question, "What do you do for a living?" I would like to say that I "just write."

I don't know that I have expectations for fame or money. If I truly believed in the attainability of those goals, I would be writing more as well as more often. I wouldn't turn down money, but I don't think I want fame. I would have at one time, but now I think I'm content to sit back and watch others thrust themselves into the limelight.

I don't think I write in order to work through any lurking demons , but I do find that insight occurs as a natural by-product of writing. But, no, I don't think that's my purpose in writing.

It's becoming a bit clearer to me that I would like to make money from writing. I think there is a certain reluctance, a Bohemian mindset, that wants to deny this, but given the options of fame, money, or processing trauma, I'll choose money.

Also, I do like the reactions of others to what I'm writing. That's probably a part of why I wanted to write a blog. Sometimes when I write, I'm writing "to a reader." Sometimes the reader is me.

In summary, my reasons for writing are 1. as a creative outlet 2. having a project to work on 3. touching others 4. getting others' reactions 5. money

It would be more pragmatic, if I reversed the priority of my motivation to write: 1. money 2. getting others' reactions 3. touching others 4. having a project to work on, and 5. as a creative outlet.

Interestingly, at the center of each list is the desire to touch others. So, there you have it. If you have read this far, you must be at least a little touched, one way or the other.

Inexplicable Indignation

2008-10-23T11:23:00.000-07:00

Occasionally, I have seen someone "blow" for no apparent reason. Things were going along fairly well, at least in my mind, and then "the blower" initiates the inexplicable indignation with the words "I cannot believe this." Obviously, the blower does believe it or believes enough of it to become the black hole that sucks the energy out of anyone within hearing distance. Next, the person spins around asking "Do you believe this crap?"

This scenario has become a common social interaction especially in the workplace. In the workplace, there is a captive audience (itself, a universe of potential black holes) and a lot of crap.

I usually respond to the "blower" in mild support, nodding and uh-huh-ing while hanging on to my mouse. So long as I have my hand wrapped around the mouse, I am connected and safe by virtue of numbers. Everyone else in the world who has a hand wrapped around a mouse at that moment is my ally. The real danger can occur when the blower cuts a co-worker away from the pack and herds that person toward the hallway.

In the hallway, not only is the co-worker alienated from allies and, therefore, vulnerable, but now other energies will be sucked out into the hallway contributing to the toxic mass and all hell breaks loose.

This may very well be the true nature of hell: toxic gasses of inexplicable indignation.

Hey you, you Haiku

2008-10-17T17:12:00.000-07:00

Affirmations hope

Endure the groan of winter

Leaves in denial.

Loud librarian
Militant or messenger
Chastises children.

2008-10-16T11:55:00.000-07:00

One of the things that differentiates the working class from the capitalists in Twisted Roots is where they spend their money. For example, there was more than one place to buy a tire and where you went said something about who you were.

A member of the working class would buy their tires from the Rural Roundup which had tires for every size vehicle including tractors and combines. If you were neither working nor had class, you bought a tire that would last only as long as the piece of crap riding on the tire. (Here I'm referring to the car, not the driver.) That kind of tire could be gotten just about anywhere, such as at a rummage sale or, if you were lucky, you might find one discarded in the alley behind some of the better homes in town. If you were really lucky and a little loose with your morals, that tire might be inside of a garage whose door had been carelessly left open.

However, if you were a member of the capitalists in town, you would call up the Tire Emporium and they would send a man to change your tire at the location where you need it. Then about 30 days later, the Emporium would send out an invoice for the cost of the tire and the labor. Although there might be an advantage in the convenience, the tires at the Tire Emporium cost about twice what the same tire would cost at the Rural Roundup.

Gil Garrison, the mayor, managed to find combine convenience with savings when he found himself stranded behind the Historical Society with not one, but two flat tires. It was unlikely that the tires had just gone flat on their own, but even without the slash marks, Gil might have been experiencing a little paranoia due to the fact that it was late at night, the Historical Society had been closed for the last five hours, and the Laurie, the Society's youthful director, lived on the second floor of the old house. He had to think of someone that he could call that had a few of his own skeletons in the proverbial closet in case questions might arise. Gil was relieved when Tom from Terry's Corner answered the phone and was willing to bring one of his own spare tires over to the Historical Society.

There was hardly room for a pair of slippers in Tom's closet.

Charlie's Column

2008-10-13T12:00:00.000-07:00

The large house now occupied by the Historical Society had small panes of stained glass in the second floor windows. After dark, the flashing lights of the railroad barrier across the street made the stained glass twinkle like a kaleidoscope whose barrel was being turned by a hyperactive child.

Charlie could see the reflection of the colors on the computer monitor as he scrolled through the database. Laurie, the director of the Society (though she had questionable credentials) had developed a database that was supposed to be a geneological reference for the town's citizens. Having sent three or four smoke rings into the air, Charlie put his cigar on the edge of the table and tugged at the cuffs of his white starched jacket.

He had set up yet another column on the database for a family characteristic that hadn't occured to Laurie, but to Charlie, this particular characteristic was of intense, professional interest. To convince Laurie of its inclusion, he had rationalized the additional of the column as important in identifying people in the old family photographs that had been donated to the Society. It apparently hadn't occurred to Laurie (or she chose not to pursue the issue further), so she didn't ask how knowing the dominant hair color of the family would be relevant in identifying their ancestors in what were black and white pictures.

Her lack of interest was fortunate for Charley who had his own agenda for knowing the dominant hair color of the citizen's families. With only a small fraction of the families included in his own column, he already had noticed a pattern that might be of interest to Gil, the mayor. Or not. In either case, working on the database made him privy to the argument that took place on this particular evening. That argument would be of extreme interest to the mayor.

Mayor of Twisted Roots

2008-10-11T11:57:00.000-07:00

At least, no one was trying to cut Charlie's nuts off. Charley, could be aloof and particular about certain things that no one else in his barber shop or elsewhere seemed to care about, but still he was respected. Some folks even liked him in a lukewarm sort of way.

On the other hand, Gil, the mayor, was always in anticipation of being castigated. Despite his best efforts, he couldn't please some of the people all the time and none of the people some of the time. What got him re-elected over and over again was that he was the mayor in a population of really lazy folks.

It wasn't a physical kind of lazy; unemployment was actually very low in Twisted Roots, unlike most of the rest of the Midwest. There were some folks that held jobs that shouldn't have been working in the first place. One example is Peg-leg Porticia who worked at the lumber yard. You got to give her some credit, not meaning to be disrespectful to the physically-challenged. If a man wanted a twelve foot two-by-four, Porticia would hobble all the way out to the back building to fetch it. But once she was out there, she had to radio back for some assistance because she couldn't climb the ladder, let alone bring the wood back down with her. Anyone within fifty feet of the radio base, if they could make it out over the scratchy static, could hear her call for "customer assistance." It wasn't the customer that needed assistance at all; most folks with both legs could have got their own wood. Still, Porticia insisted on making the attempt explaining that "laws and statues" wouldn't permit customers to fetch their own lumber. No one questioned what statue she might be referring to and what the aforementioned piece of stone might have to do with fetching a piece of wood.

So, there it was. Most of the citizens of Twisted Roots were a lot like Peg-leg Portia except that their disability didn't extend itself to the physical. This, in turn, made Gil's perpetual re-elections likely to continue.

Gil probably got his intelligence passed down to him from the owners of the now-defunct coal mines that originally settled in and developed the area. Most the investors in the coal mines had made their money there and then moved to Chicago to build their homes along the lake. Only Gil's great-grandfather, Albert Garrison, had felt it his civic duty to stay in Twisted Roots. Besides, Grandpa Garrison had invested a lot of his coal money in cattle and a meat-packing plant that employed the surviving coal miners and then their descendants.

Those descendants built their modest homes on the ground above the coal mines, drank the river water despite the runoff of the the waste products from the meat-packing plant. They weren't any new families moving in so most of the ones that lived there had a really close relationship that replenished the town's population.

Not much else needs to be said to explain the nature of the citizen's laziness.

A Merry Heart Doeth Good Like a Medicine...

2008-09-30T12:41:00.000-07:00

You know I couldn't read a serious article without wanting to inject some humor into it. So here goes ...

I finished reading an article titled "Is Laughter the Best Medicine or Any Medicine at All?" that was presented to the annual meeting of the Western Psychological Association. You can read it for yourself if you want at http://www.psichi.org/pubs/articles/article_81.asp

The author attempts to clarify the relationship between health and laughter, if there is one, particularly in response to a mythology that has evolved based on the 1960's experiences of Norman Cousins. Cousins had a serious illness and he found some relief in a wide range of positive emotions, including laughter. Apparently, some of what Cousin said about the therapeutic effect of humor, creativity, confidence, etc. has been distorted, giving some people the idea that Cousins laughed his way to a cure of a serious illness which was not the case.

What was most interesting to me in this article were the various attempts to operationally define terms such as humor trait vs. humor state, laughter, mirth, etc. Also, there was a mention in the article of several "humor tests" used to measure whatever it is that humor actually is. The tests included the Sense of Humor Questionnaire that includes subscales such as Habitual Sensitivity to Humorous Messages and Habitual Tendency to Permit or Suppress Emotional Impulses of Joy. Then, there is the Trait Cheerfulness Inventory and the Coping Humor Scale.

Amazingly ...

the author didn't find it necessary to define laughter as she felt that one either laughs or doesn't laugh. However, I disagree. So, of course, I decided to operationally define laughter for myself.

Disconcerting Lines of Development resulting in Lactose Expulsion via the Olfactory Orifice:

blowing milk out of your nose caused by an unanticipated burst of laughter.

Post-Learned-Autonomic-Response Spasms of the Diaphragm: hiccups after an intense bout of laughter.

Short-term Stoppage of Spasms due to Asphyxiation: laughing so hard you can't breathe.

Spastic Disposition Resulting in Descent of Fleshy Protuberance: laughing my ass off.

I will continue my own less-than-serious empirical investigations and hope to share a few more definitions. I'm also hopeful of designing a test or two to measure laughter. It should be the equivalent of a sobriety test except that you are forbidden to leave your house if you don't fail the test.

In the interest of furthering research, I hope you will share as well.

A Bailout, Charlie-Style

2008-09-26T15:26:00.000-07:00

Speaking of bailouts, such a conversation was taking place in Twisted Roots between a local boy and Ted who owned Terry's Trading Corner.

“Well, no, it’s not that I mind paying," the young man said as he adjusted his John Deere cap. "But, damn it Ted, I think you should have told me how much these repairs was going to cost me before you went and fixed my car without an okay or something.”

Charlie had been taking in this conversation while he filled the tank of his cream-colored Cadillac. Charlie screwed the gas cap back on and, with his monogrammed hankerchief, he wiped a drop of gas from the chrome strip. As he walked toward Ted and the young man, he took out his comb and ran it through his jet black hair.

“I'm not a lawyer, but I think you could get arrested for that." Charlie's words startled Ted who hadn't heard Charlie's footsteps. "You didn’t even give this man an estimate?”

“I don’t mind really," said the young man. "But I ain’t got enough money. I’m coming up short. Ted won’t give me my car keys ‘til I pay the whole bill.”

“Well, you should mind, son, cause this man has taken advantage of you being young and all.” Charlie continued, “How many mechanics have you had to deal with in your lifetime?”

“Just Ted. My daddy did business with Ted. So I started coming here. Been coming here ever since. My daddy said Ted is the kind of mechanic you can trust. Ain’t many of them. My daddy said most these mechanical types might would tell you all kinds of lies. But not Ted.”

Charlie turned and looked down at Ted. He stared Ted right in the eyes while he slowly shook his head from side to side. Ted looked away, then looked back a couple times as if he was about to say something but had changed his mind. He was a scrawny, dirty man, and he was feeling might scrawny right about now. Charlie was rocking back and forth in his Wingtips still staring at Ted.

Ted looked down at the ground where his foot was grinding a cigarette butt to smitherines. “Well, in memory of your daddy and all, if you could just give me what you got today, we will just call it even.”

Charlie raised his head back with even more indignation, looking even taller. “Ted, you know damn well when the meat processing plant pays out. You do work there, don't you boy? Figured you did. So, this boy is going to need a little money left to tide him over ‘til then.”

By the time Charlie had finished with Ted, the bill had been cut by about a third and the boy paid half of that today with the promise of paying the rest next week. Then they all left Terry’s Trading Corner...Ted's tow truck, Charlie's Cadillac, and a quieter 1983 Grand Prix that had finally got a new muffler.

I Need a Bailout

2008-09-25T13:16:00.000-07:00

I need a bailout. I have been neglectful of my responsibilities to my fictional characters, greedy in the use of my time, wasteful in my keystrokes, and just another typical lazy American thinking I can get by on my arrogant attitude and pollyanna optimism.

It is so much harder not to write than to write. It is so much more effort to flog myself for not writing than it is just to sit down and write. I need a bailout. I need someone to pick up my lazy wrists, flop them on a keyboard, and bring my neglected characters back to life.

I took a look at Charlie today. I realize you don't know him, but you could when his story is published, assuming I ever finish it.

Charlie has dark, oily hair and very long legs and arms. When he sits in one of the barber chairs and stretches his legs, his feet are clear over on the other side of his shop. He puts his hands behind his head to take a little snooze and his elbows nearly graze the yellow ceiling tiles that are stained by years of his ever-present cigar.

Charlie learned his trade at Bethel Estate, otherwise known as State Prison in Bethel. He secretly enjoyed sculpturing stubborn nappy hair into billboards for gang signs and coaxing thin strands of blonde static electricity to lie down with their brethren. The aroma of hair and shaving products and the glistening shine of scissors and razors tickled his delicate senses. Cutting hair was a reprieve (we dare not say “escape”); it was a time-out from the smell of urine-stained beige and starched blues. It was a place where men could laugh and joke with each other, sometimes even directing their jokes at the ever-present eyes standing a few feet away. But Charlie’s pleasures were hidden, restrained behind the boyish face, and masked by his best attempt to look stern and worldly in order to survive in a stern and other-worldly environment.

By the time, Charlie arrived at Twisted Roots, many years after learning his trade, the stern and worldly countenance would be a constant veneer. Deprivation of love would starve his full face, smiles would be rationed to only a few, and his olive skin would yellow and sag from the weight of sins unforgiving and nearly as many unpunished.

It was from his careful observations of people that Charlie learned to fit into the town’s population as if he had been there all his life. For some of the younger folk, it seemed as if Charlie had always been there, perhaps conceived from some anonymous donor and immediately full-grown.

Charlie has an important role to play in the strange town of Twisted Roots. Regrettably, no one may ever know about his contributions and retributions if his story is never finished.

Please support my cause. Please, please support the Filed and Forgotten Universal Character Keeper (FFUCK) Act and give me the bailout, however undeserved. Thank you, and once again, God Bless America!

SECRET RETREAT

2008-06-27T13:34:00.000-07:00

"artwork by Jane Luce"

"There was in me a secret retreat. Words and cadences haunted it like song-birds in a magic wood." ... Edith Warton, First woman Pulitzer Prize winner in fiction

Back in the days when I was more adventurous, I attended to internal stimuli in a spirit of discovery. In other words, I meditated and I did it with a sense of adventure, anticipation, and the expectation that something wonderful would present itself.

I remember that I once meditated with the intent of discovering my "animal shaman." Native Americans did this, I was told, so I, too, would be open to an introduction to an animal that would guide my meditation and open doorways to a new and wonderful enlightenment.

I began my meditation in my usual way, visualizing myself walking down a primitive staircase that twisted and turned, descending into a dark cavern. Just before I was on the floor of the cavern, I imagined myself lying on a smooth, black stone from which I could slide the rest of the way into the cavern.

When I arrived at the cavern's floor, I looked around for my animal shaman, and then saw a large dark creature sitting upright with her back to me. I was startled at first, but the animal continued to sit quietly, apparently not concerned about my playground-slide-entrance. As I took a deep breath contemplating my next move, the animal slowly turned in the barbershop-swivel-chair toward me. Our eyes met, and hers were large and gentle.

While I began to realize that I was in the presence of a spiritual being, I was at the same time having some real doubts about whether this was really my animal shaman. After all, I was pursuing a Native American meditation. This animal was large and kind and seemingly wise, but how could she be mine? She seemed to be on the wrong continent though I suspected the spiritual world didn't have the same geographical divisions as Planet Earth.

Yet, there she was. I was in pursuit of an animal shaman that a Native American might cherish, or at least recognize. I was thinking of maybe a doe or a rabbit or a song-bird. There she was ... my animal shaman was a baboon!

The baboon and I engaged in some meaningful conversation, most of which I really don't remember. But when I think of my "secret retreat," the caretaker is a large, dark baboon whose memory brings me a moment of peace and amusement. What more could I have asked for?

KEYBOARD ENERGY

2008-06-05T10:09:00.000-07:00

I'm writing again after a too-long absence. My fingers on the keyboard take on a new energy when I'm blogging rather than during other activities. When I'm working, the keyboard is just a tool to be used. When I'm blogging, it feels more like I am the keyboard's tool and the keyboard is using me. To be needed is a good thing.

Backspace gives me a workout any time I'm writing. He has been lonely lately without me to push around. Backspace enjoys the determined reach of my right pinky in the same way we enjoy the outstretched arms of a loved one. The left pinky doesn't offer the same experience because Escape really wants to be left alone. Escape isn't touchy-feely; touchy-feely is the last resort.

Shift is a dancer. She is well-rehearsed, agile, loose, and limber. She really hasn't noticed the difference between whether I'm blogging or working. because she gets her exercise regardless of my intentions. For Shift, dance can be work and play at the same time. Her name is really a misnomer if you are thinking she is shifty in a Chicago kind of way. Not only is she essential in a big way, she has taught me to network. Check out Caps Lock and you'll see what I mean. ESSENTIAL!

The key that presides over these activities is, of course, Control. Control is not an easy reach, not to be used for frivolous purposes. Control is Escape's twin brother, slightly larger and more dominant than Escape. Control hangs out a lot with Alt and Delete; that says a lot about why Escape is the way he is.

Then there is Alphabet. Who doesn't love ABC's?

I know I shouldn't have a favorite but I can't help myself. I'm very fond of Enter. I can't quite put my finger on exactly why. Here again, I think her name is a misnomer. I think her name should be More. Want to continue? Want more? Just press Enter.

See how that worked? And who doesn't want more?

A QUESTION OF BALANCE

2008-05-14T09:01:00.000-07:00

On the question of balance, for me it is the essential question.

I am not a person that adopts moderation into her life. Whatever I am doing is all that I am doing. Of course, I can multi-task. Research has shown that women are much better multi-task'ers than men and we have to be or, at times, we choose to be. However, even when I am multi-tasking, my attention is primarily focused on the one all-consuming task while the minor tasks are done mechanically by rote.

This question of balance is more of a problem the more time I have available. When pressed by a work schedule, appointments, obligations, and recreational plans, I have to relent to the clock and the calendar and I do multi-task at times. It is when I have the freedom to stay in my tunnel-vision world with one all-consuming task that balance becomes non-existent.

Even now with about 45 minutes of free time, I find myself engrossed in trying to figure out the perfect word, re-checking my punctuation, and staring deeply into the computer screen in front of me visualizing the finished blog entry. If I would move along and just get the damn thing written, I would have time to get something else done in this 45 minute pause in my day. That, I think, is what a person who understands the need for a balance of activity in her day would do. I say that with the certainty that children have when they can only imagine what a grown-up might do.

This summer, it looks like I might have more free time than I can deal with productively. I have several tasks: hustling money to carry me through to fall, finishing my novel that I'm convinced will be finished before the next frost, doing arts and crafts to keep me creative and for charitable work, and maintaining my house and yard more successfully than I have in the past several months.

The rational part of me suggests that I need A Plan. For example, I could block out times for these pursuits on a calendar. The part of me that knows me best knows that itself might be a waste of time. Those blocks of time will be contingent on what the hot topics are on The View, what my grandchildren want to do, and which of those legitimate and necessary pursuits blocked out on the calendar take over parts of the calendar that they are not entitled to according to The Plan.

I have A Plan for my garden. Within that plan, I have an area that perennials are allowed to take over in any way they choose. The area is right in the middle of the garden but the perennials are not to go too far north or too far south. In fact, one of my activities this summer will be to put some clear restraints on the heather that threatens to take over the entire garden if it is permitted.

Perhaps I need to block out some time in The Plan on my calendar for my perennial life. The perennials in my life are habits I'm not likely to change, people too precious to exclude from my calendar, and impulses that threaten to take over my entire life if permitted. My perennials are essential in my life just as they are in my garden. I just need to maintain them in their special place in the center of my life, encourage their continued growth, but just not too far south or too far north.

That might not be exactly what grown-ups do, but its my crayola version of balance.

Be Optimistic - wikiHow

2008-05-12T10:26:00.000-07:00

I really like this article so I want to share it. Moreover, I need this article so I'm posting where I need it most ... where I write!

Be Optimistic - wikiHow

How to Be Optimistic

from wikiHow - The How to Manual That You Can Edit

While being skeptical can be a healthy way to avoid getting taken advantage of, being pessimistic - that is, always assuming the worst - can have major negative consequences on your life. Seeing only the negative aspects of any situation can cause you to miss opportunities, neglect problems that need to be solved, and fail to take action that would otherwise improve your relationships and quality of life. Optimists, who are so much more at peace with the world, train themselves to look for the light at the end the tunnel. If you've always had a pessimistic worldview, it can be difficult to shift your focus, but it is possible to start seeing the glass as half full. Not half empty.

Steps

Let go of the assumption that the world is against you, or that you were born with a gray cloud over your head. It is an assumption that has no basis in reason or science. To believe that the universe or a spiritual entity has singled you out and shifted the world order just to make your life miserable is both self-centered and illogical. Be humble and stop pretending you've got the world all figured out. Sometimes bad experiences lead to good experiences, and you can't predict the future, so you can't assume it'll always be bad.
Look for the source of your pessimism. Deep-rooted negativity can often be traced to childhood experiences, when growing minds observe their circumstances and make presumptions about how the world functions. If all you saw growing up were disappointments, betrayals and failure, it's no surprise that now it's what you expect from the world as an adult. Sometimes we pick up a flair for pessimism from a parent who made negative assumptions about the world somewhere along the line. Either way, the sooner you can attribute your pessimism to a unique set of circumstances rather than the state of the world itself, the easier it'll be to change your perspective.
Understand that the past does not equal the future. Just because you've experienced pain or disappointment in the past does not guarantee that it's all you'll experience in the future. There were many things in your past that you couldn't control, and everybody comes across unfortunate circumstances at some point in their lives - you're no exception. But there are also many things in life we can control to one degree or another, and therein lies the possibility of change. A day or week that starts badly will not necessarily end badly. Do not make a bad start turn into a self fulfilling prophecy for a bad ending.
See yourself as a cause, not an effect. You don't have to be a product or a victim of your circumstances. Stop thinking about what is happening to you and start thinking about what you can make happen. If you're not happy with the way your life is now, set goals and move on. Use your past negative experiences to build character and make better decisions, instead of letting pessimism turn you into someone who avoids risk at all costs. Sometimes it is necessary to take risks to receive rewards. Moreover, taking no action is taking an action. It is better to play to win rather than merely to avoid losing.
Accept pain, failure and disappointment as a part of life, not the entirety of it. Life involves taking many risks every day, and not all of them will end positively. That's what defines risk. But the flip side is that some actions will lead to good results, and it's generally better to have a mixed bag than to have nothing at all. Ideally, the good stuff will outweigh the bad, but you'll never reach that point unless you put yourself out there and hope for the best. When in doubt, remember Lord Alfred Tennyson's words of wisdom:I hold it true, whate'er befall;I feel it, when I sorrow most;'Tis better to have loved and lostThan never to have loved at all.
Be thankful. Everyone has something to be grateful for. Make a list of the good things that have happened to you. If nothing instantly springs to mind, you aren't trying hard enough. The key to being an optimist is recognizing the benefits and possibilities of any situation, and understanding that it could always be worse. If all else fails, think of how life could be worse, and flip the thought process to recognize what you do have. For example: "I'm flunking out of school" can turn into "Well, at least I have a chance to go to school, and I still have time to turn my grades around." Get a notebook and a pen, and write down all the good things that you have. Every time you are feeling negative, read through them and remind yourself that it's not all bad.
Use positive affirmations. Write down short statements that remind you of what you're trying to change about the way you see the world. Put them in places where you'll see them every day, such as on your bathroom mirror, the inside of your locker, on your computer monitor, and even taped to your shower wall. Some affirmations to start with are:
- "Anything is possible."
- "I create my circumstances, my circumstances don't create me."
- "The only thing I can control is my attitude towards life."
- "I always have a choice."
- "Look at the little things in life that are good and it will make your life a WHOLE lot better"
Remember that life is short. When you feel pessimism clouding your judgment or you start to feel down about the future, remind yourself that every minute counts, and any time spent brooding guarantees nothing but less time to enjoy whatever life might have to offer. At its core, pessimism is impractical because it causes you to spend time dwelling on things that haven't happened yet and aren't guaranteed to happen, and it prevents you from getting things done. Pessimism breeds indecision. It's a waste of time, and time is a limited resource that you can't afford to take for granted.
Be a balanced optimist. Nobody's suggesting that you become an oblivious Pollyanna, pretending that nothing bad can or ever will happen. Doing so can lead to poor decisions and invites people to take advantage of you. Instead, be a rational optimist who takes the good with the bad, in hopes of the good ultimately outweighing the bad, and with the understanding that being pessimistic about everything accomplishes nothing. Prepare for the worst but hope for the best - the former makes you sensible, and the latter makes you an optimist.
Keep a List of Motivational and Inspiring Quotes. There are so many brilliant and well-spoken quotes, lyrics, sayings, anecdotes and hyperbole present generally throughout history along with the same that specifically target your personal tastes. You have a certain song that you feel speaks to you? Search for the lyrics and check it out more in depth, perhaps you can pick out a couple great lines, write them down. Maybe during a particularly tough day someone mentions some saying that gives you a rare boost of motivation, write it down. For example some 'fortune cookie' ones:
- Even the longest journey begins with a single step
- Life has a way of reminding one that it can be worse
- Until one understands the low and darker side of life, the appreciation of the awe-inspiring highs will remain stagnant

Tips

Look happy. Studies have shown that putting a positive expression on your face can actually make you feel happier and more optimistic about the future.[1]
Practice by conveying these ideas to others. If you hear someone being pessimistic, counsel them based on these steps. Sometimes it's easier to understand a perspective if you explain it to someone else first.
Always make the effort to try and find something good in every bad situation. It may be relatively minor in the scope of things, but there is always something positive to be found. It may seem silly at first, but as it becomes a habit, you will see that your attitude begins to change.
Make a list of the things you want, imagine yourself already having them, and use the subconscious mind to put your optimism to work.
Actually the world doesn't look down on you, your mind plays tricks so you think it does. Never let anything look worse than it is. It always has a way of getting better. Smile and don't let little things bother you..

Warnings

Avoid negative people. If you can't avoid them, learn how to not let them get you down.
Don't let your negative feelings control you.
Don't confuse pessimism with depression. Depression can make everything look worse than it is.
You can only change you. You can't change other people.
While it is true that you create your own circumstances, accept that the past is the past. Don't let negative circumstances trigger irrational guilt.
The past is the past. It's over. It's done. Let it go.
Realize that it's not about what happens to you, it's about how you react to what happens.
These steps are important because you can't always rely on other people to make you happy. After all, you won't be with other people forever, you'll be with yourself forever.

Sources and Citations

↑ Feeling and Facial Efference: Implications of the Vascular Theory of Emotion. Psychological Review, 96(3), 395-416.

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Beauty or Brains?

2008-04-29T12:11:00.000-07:00

This ad for Palmolive Soap says, "Most men ask, 'Is she pretty?', not 'Is she clever?'" The ad goes on to say, "Brains or beauty? But why choose? Combine beauty with cleverness, charm with wisdom. Develop your beauty to bring out the sweetness of your personality. That's what thousands of girls have done - and found new happiness as a result."

Where, or where, to begin with this one? I'll begin with the ending, the last couple lines of the ad. "Note carefully the name of the wrapper. Palmolive Soap is never sold unwrapped."

It seems wrapped a little too tightly, in my opinion. There is no room in this ad for the possibility that a "girl" might choose brains over beauty. There is no room for the possibility that the "girl" chooses not to be sweet because she is less vulnerable as she is. Heaven forbid that she be entirely disinterested in men in the first place.

This musing isn't intended to be bitter though it might come across that way. It is, in fact, entertaining to read vintage advertisements because they say so much about where we have come from and how far we have yet to go. It leads me to wonder what nit-picking and finger-wagging will come from readers 100 years from now when they look at our products and what the ads have to say about who we have been. (Will there even be a readership or will it be an audio-visualship or a tactileship or a smellyship?)

Some things, perhaps, shouldn't have changed in the past few years. An advertisement in a 1922 copy of the Breeder's Gazette (a newspaper for farmers in case you're wondering) says of the "new" Dodge Brothers Business Sedan, "... one that offers weather protection and comfort the year round; a car dignified in appearance and economical to run." Something other than horseback that is economical to run? That's what I call a "concept car".

Another thing that has to be said for the vintage advertisements is the quality of the artwork. There is real beauty produced by hand and pen and ink rather than keystrokes on a computer or a digital camera. Even the photographs of over eighty years ago are quite amazing considering what the photographers had to work with at the time.

It's just a shame that some of the brains and beauties of days-gone-by weren't as valued in their time as they are today. Maybe this means our value will appreciate as well.

Jumping, Spinning ... Earthquake???

2008-04-18T10:18:00.000-07:00

In my last blog, I mentioned that I might jump and spin the following morning. It wasn't actually the next morning that got me jumping, but this morning at 4:30 a.m., I jumped and spun when the 5.2 earthquake shook me and the dog. Because I experienced our "big one" here on the Madre Fault in Illinois in 1968, I immediately realized what was happening. However, since it wasn't accompanied by the huge explosive sound that I remembered from 1968, I nearly talked myself out of believing it was happening again.

Of course, I then blamed the dog for the fact that my bed was shaking. In the past, she has intentionally bumped up against my bed in order to wake me up, and, this morning, she was clearly up against my bed as closely as she could manage it. Nevertheless, I couldn't really blame her for the fact that something on my dresser continued to rattle.

There is an interesting bit of synchronicity involved in this blogging and jumping phenomenon. That is that my friend, Joanna, on her most recent blog, wrote about our changing weather patterns here in the Midwest and noted that the one weather event least likely to be predicted with a high level of accuracy is the tornado. Granted an earthquake isn't a weather pattern (as far as I know), but it's interesting that while I was thinking about jumping up in the morning to begin the day, she was thinking about the unpredictability of nature's events in the Midwest. If you would like to read her blog and, perhaps, her next prophetic entry, you can find her at http://sceamingyawndog.blogspot.com/.

You can continue to find me here with at least my fingers on the keyboard doing the jumping, spinning, and pouncing ... I hope.

GIVE US THIS DOG ...

2008-04-16T08:38:00.000-07:00

My dog is very much in tune with my schedule, or should I say "my undisciplined day." Every morning, I hear her stir in the living room when my alarm clock goes off the first time. Her "stirring" is just the changing of positions on the couch because she knows I'm a long way from getting out of bed. There's a bit more stirring the next time I get up to smash the snooze setting. She begins to get her hopes up when I go into the bathroom, but she knows that it is not a given that I'm going to stay up. However, her excitement explodes when I finally come into the dining room to shut off the second (emergency) alarm clock. She jumps, she spins, she pounces. She knows this is it!

The day has officially begun! When she sees me slip on the laceless taking-the-dog-out sneakers, she smiles (really). She romps to the back door and stands wiggling her behind, sniffing at the crack in the door frame. The world has awakened, a new day has begun, and the sun has risen in brilliant splendor. There is new stinky stuff to roll in, new pedestrians to frighten, and new grass on which to defecate.

After putting her in the back yard, I come back inside the house, closing the door between me and smells, the pedestrians, and the sunshine.

I pop a couple pills with my Diet Coke and wonder what she knows that I've overlooked. Tomorrow morning, I'll jump, spin, and pounce ... maybe.

HATE IS NEVER AMUSING

2008-04-12T13:00:00.000-07:00

I am never surprised when a person expresses hatred across the board. That is what hateful people do. They hate themselves and everyone else. I get that.

I am, however, surprised by a member of any minority or oppressed group that expresses bitter, angry words or actions toward a member of an oppressed group outside of their own. One might think that someone who has been a victim of hatred would have a special sensitivity regarding the feelings of another oppressed person. It doesn't seem to work that way. I receive the cruelest, sickest "jokes" via e-mail from a person who has probably been many times on the receiving end of similar nastiness.

Apparently, sensitivity is overridden by pecking order. It is as if this mean-spirited "jester" feels a need to "even things up" but is too cowardly to confront the individuals that ridicule him.

Why have I not confronted this person regarding his meanness? Up to this point, I have ignored and deleted the cruel words that apparently amuse him. I have tried to retain a morsel of respect for him as a person. I have tried to understand the pecking order and the fact that he is a target in the pecking order as well as a participant.

Today, understanding has worn thin. I'm feeling hateful and I'm tempted to blame him for making me feel that way. I refuse to join the pecking order.

P.S. Since venting about this, I contacted the person and asked that I not be forwarded any more insensitive "jokes" as my patience has worn thin. I received a very gracious reply. Perhaps, if we all became proactive (belated as mine was) in dealing with the barrage of hateful, forwarded e-mails, we will reduce the number of uninvited spam-and-slam crap in our inboxes. It's worth a try.

Abuse and Neglect of Characters

2008-04-11T17:24:00.001-07:00

The movie, Stranger than Fiction, starring Emma Thompson as a writer whose main characters were always killed by the end of the novel, explored the writer's responsibilities to her characters especially regarding the ending of their lives. However, even when it is not a matter of life and death for the characters of fiction, does the writer bear some responsibility for the characters' well-being? What if the writer is guilty of abuse and neglect of her characters?

Every thirty-eight seconds, a fiction character is a victim of psychological abuse. Psychological abuse occurs when the writer toys with the emotions of a character, arousing a warm flame only to douse it with ice water. For example, the character experiences joy and rapture having just met the man of her dreams with whom she will share a forever-and-ever ending. Then, invariably the writer steps in and dashes all hope by introducing the dream man to the wealthy widow who just moved in next door. Another example is the noble story of surrender and acceptance of a character deserted on an uninhabited island. He learns to survive, cope, and even thrive with only a chimpanzee by his side. Again, the writer is so presumptuous that she will send a helicopter in to return him to the pampered wife and child who were yet to notice that their breadwinner hadn't returned from his business trip. As pathetic as these circumstances are, there is an even more despicable affront to characters by far too many writers. These writers, whose immense numbers are difficult to estimate, are guilty of neglect.

The neglect of characters usually starts with a relatively benign act by the writer such as filing away a chapter in a three-prong folder or saving a file on a flash drive. While these acts appear to be responsible and even conscientious, the worm soon turns. The character waits for the writer, unaware that the writer, whether intentional or not, will not return. The character fails to thrive while in the file cabinet. Hidden away from sunlight and social contact, the character begins to shrivel and fade. What was once a well-developed character having contradictions, strengths and foibles becomes reduced to scrap paper. On the flash drive, the character waits behind documents recently opened. The longer the character waits, the further she falls behind other, more pretentious documents, like spreadsheets, for example.

What can be done for these neglected characters? Is there any hope? There is, but it involves a difficult form of treatment. The character cannot simply be returned to where her story left off. If there is to be any salvation for her, she must suffer in order to be saved. The writer must put her in some precarious situation in which only the cruelest wordsmith would be willing to abandon her a second time. Either the character must be immediately immersed in a powerful, threatening series of events that threatens either her existence or the existence of a loved one, or the character must face a competing character in another book by the same writer and be willing to grab the limelight, outshining the competitor, and subsequently once again securing an honorable place in the writer's note cards.

If writers have a heart, which they claim they do, they must no longer avoid looking into the pale faces of their forgotten characters. The abused and neglected characters, the forgotten leaders of tomorrow's best-selling list, deserve to be given their God-given rights and privileges. Write your congressional representatives today and ask them to support the Filed and Forgotten Universal Character Keeper (FFUCK) Act. Thank you and God Bless America!

Fearless Moment

2008-04-02T12:47:00.000-07:00

When does the fearless moment occur? Where are we when it happens? Why is it that the fearless moment usually lasts for only a moment and then we return to our normal state of anxiety? Is being fearless overrated? Is it so bad to be in a state of anxiety if that is indeed our normal state? Aren't these just artificial labels for the purpose of ... what purpose?

We are like drug addicts that have once experienced that perfect high and spend the rest of our lives trying to re-enact it. We think of those moments that we felt like King Midas and everything we touched turned to gold. There were those moments of perfect synchronicity when the planets are correctly aligned and we are blessed with miracles. We recall those rare experiences when time seems to slow down and we are acutely aware of our every perception within every second. Of course, then there is that illusive zone where creativity thrives in spite of our fearful nature.

We analyze those seemingly sacred moments in an attempt to induce the birth of just one more. We tell ourselves that we could do so much more, enrich our lives and the lives of others, if only, if only, we could ... Yet, for all our efforts, we stop and ask ourselves, "When does the fearless moment occur?" and there is no answer. We sit quietly and we wait. In the waiting, we find breath. Like a butterfly that hovers nearby, the fearless moment seems so close. We see it, we reach for it; we reach for it in the belief that to grasp it is to have safety, to be fearless. However, the grasping fingers tremble. The fearless moment is gone.

New Sins from an Old List

2008-03-10T13:27:00.000-07:00

The Vatican has released a new, more modern list of sins. The new list includes sins relevant to bioethics, stem cell research, drug trafficking, cloning, and responsiblilities to the environment. Apparently, the Vatican feels the Ten Commandments need a make-over.

Here are a few more sins to upgrade the old list:

1. Thou shalt not text message while in a conversation with someone present. Even if you are nodding your head and saying uh-huh occasionally, the person present knows that he or she is being ignored and that someone else has your attention.

2. Thou shalt not view pornography on a computer in a public place. This is not a commentary on pornography per se, but if others see you looking at pornography, then they have this visual of you and what you most likely would be doing if you were not sitting in a public place, and people would prefer the pornography minus the visual that includes you.

3. Thou shalt not talk to strangers in restaurants. The strangers are there to eat and visit with their friends and family. They did not go there for you to intrude. The next "sin" probably applies to you as well.

4. Thou shalt not call customers, patrons, or other unrelated people "hon" or "sweetie". It is disrespectful to other people to force terms of endearment on them.

5. Thou shalt not make noises unnecessarily while in a bathroom stall in a public facility. While some noises are unavoidable, singing, whistling, or excessive groaning make you seem mentally imbalanced and make other people uncomfortable.

6. Thou shalt not continue to talk to someone while they are walking away from you. Obviously, they aren't interested in anything else you have to say or they would have stayed around for more of your pearls of wisdom.

7. Thou shalt not tell another person how blessed he or she is. One person's blessing is another person's burden so don't presume to know which ones are which.

8. Thou shalt not send out "holiday" letters at the beginning of a new year. You know better than to think other people really care about your long list of accomplishments and amazing travels. If they want something to make themselves feel bad about their inadequate lives, they will watch Access Hollywood.

9. Thou shalt not look to the car next to you at a red light. It's just creepy, so keep your eyes on the road. This also applies to elevators and escalators.

10. Thou shalt not tell another person to smile. Especially don't tell the person that a smile improves one's appearance. Non-smilers are usually just fine until they are told that they are ugly and a smile might help.

I don't know how the Almighty limited her list to just ten; there could easily be more than ten on my list. I guess that's what makes her the Almighty instead of me or the Vatican.

The Zone

2008-03-05T12:36:00.000-08:00

Creative people often speak of having "entered the zone", a place where time loses importance and the focus is exclusively on the creative process. They allow the muses access to their subconscious mind, to freely dance and play with their own words, longings, and experiences. Furthermore, they trust that some beneficent force will act as a screen, filtering out negative influences while allowing the cream of the collective unconscious to flow in.

Those of us who are amateurs wait hopefully for the muses to guide us into the zone. Sometimes we manipulate the time of day or our location or the use of tools (a computer or notepad?) to seduce the muses into giving up their inspiration. Other times we grit our teeth and close our eyes in an attempt to force the arrival of anything that might pepper our blank slate.

I confess that I expect the muses to arrive by way of a mail order catalogue. I will read every entry in the writer's book club flyer searching for "The One", the book that contains the secret to writing and will reveal itself to me for $19.95 plus shipping and handling. More often than not, I'm disappointed when it arrives. Either it demands work ("develop your craft") or attempts to entrap me in structure and terminology when all I really want to do is write something worth reading. It's not likely that I will, in this lifetime, do anything worth being written about by someone else. So the remaining alternatives for me seem to either be forgotten or to write.

Often these books on writing are a collection of personal experiences of writers about how they "broke into publication." One entry in one of the several books like this that I own is my favorite. Both the title and the entire article is "Just Send the Damn Thing In."

I also like to read quotations from writers. The Nebraska Center for Writers has on their website (http://mockingbird.creighton.edu/ncw/quotes.htm) an extensive list of quotations that are categorized according to craft, editors and critics, publishing, reading, teaching, and the writer's life. I could spend days perusing this website. It's loaded with wisdom and inspiration.

For example, Alice Walker said "Writing saved me from the sin and inconvenience of violence." She lost an eye when her little brother shot her with a BB gun. Maybe what she intended was that writing saved her from doing violence. That I understand completely.

Grace Paley, a proficient writer who died within the past year, said, "The best thing is to read and write, no matter what. Don't live with a lover or roommate who doesn't respect your work. ... Write what will stop your breath if you don't write." I have learned the hard way to avoid talking about writing to anyone who is not supportive. It's bad enough to have an inner critic but when it becomes externalized and tangible, even writing may not be enough to save me from doing violence.

I like the Nebraska website. It's free and I don't have to pay for shipping and handling. However, it's cost is in spending time outside the zone. It's only during the time in "the zone" that I can't breathe unless I write.

POV (Prisoners of View)

2008-03-02T16:51:00.000-08:00

The point of view (POV) in a story is an important element of writing according to those who claim to know something about writing.

A story could be told in first person. According to some writers, the story in first-person is the easiest to write because it is the one that we have most experience with in our everyday conversations. This says something about our self-centered nature if, in fact, most conversational statements begin with "I".

The story could also be told in third-person; the omnipotent, omniscient narrator tells as little or as much as the reader/listener is supposed to know at any one time. This is what many people think they are doing in everyday conversations while they are overusing the pronoun "I".

The limited omniscient POV tells the story as understood by one of the characters. This is what the "I" users are actually doing. The stream of consciousness POV not only tells the reader about what the character is consciously aware but also about the character's unconscious processes. I've decided not to comment on this one, but will instead invoke the Fifth Amendment. The objective POV follows the action and the dialogue, leaving the readers/listeners to interpret for themselves motives and internal conflict. Isn't that what journalists used to do before Fox News?

Moreover, the story might change from one point of view to another as long as the reader/listener understands whose head or heads that he or she is in. Now, isn't that simple? The best way to keep the reader informed in this more complex style of POV, of course, is stay in the same POV for the entire scene or chapter or conversation.

In other words, it's all about perception. As characters on the world stage, perception is reality and vice versa.

I'm glad I was able to take time out of my busy day as I am, in fact, able to clear this up for you because this is the way I see it ... so should you.

Common Sense Tells Us

2008-02-27T09:16:00.000-08:00

This might be an appropriate time to look back at another time when it appeared that the rights and aspirations of black men were in conflict with the rights and aspirations of both white and black women.

In 1866, Elizabeth Cady Stanton and Susan B. Anthony formed the American Equal Rights Association. The organization was dedicated to universal suffrage, voting rights for white and black women and black men.

The Fourteenth Amendment was ratified in 1868 extending protection to all citizens against unjust state laws. Furthermore, the Amendment defined "citizens" and "voters" as "male."

In 1870, the Fifteenth Amendment enfranchised black men. The National Woman Suffrage Association (NWSA, led by Elizatbeth Cady Stanton and Susan B. Anthony) refused to to work for the ratification of the Fifteenth Amendment, insisting that it be scrapped for a Sixteenth Amendment which would have provided universal suffrage (to include black and white women as well as black men).

However, Frederick Douglas, who had previously seemingly supported voting rights for not just black men, but also black and white women, broke away from Stanton and Anthony over the NWSA's position of universal suffrage, in order to secure ratification of the Fifteenth Amendment, voting rights for black men only.

In 1872, both Susan B. Anthony and Sojourner Truth showed at up at polls to vote (in New York and Michigan, respectively), but were turned away. Anthony was, in fact, arrested and brought to trial for attempting to vote.

Several women attempted to use the Fourteenth Amendment in the courts to secure the right to vote, but they were unsuccessful. The Women's Christian Temperance Union became an important force for women's suffrage, but would see no immediate results of their efforts. (The liquor lobby feared if women had the right to vote, they would prohibit the sale of liquor.)

In 1878, a Woman Suffrage Amendment was introduced in the United States Congress. The wording remained unchanged but it wasn't until 1919 that the Nineteenth Amendment finally passed both houses and was ratified on August 26, 1920 ... This was fifty years after Frederick Douglas broke away from the women's suffrage movement in favor of securing the vote for black men, leaving black and white women still without the rights of citizens.

I admit that my nerves are rankled by a history past and the one forthcoming. Can't we all just get along? ... at least long enough for common sense to prevail? Common sense and a sense of fairness seem to have once again been overshadowed by self-centered arrogance.

Is it Barack Obama's assumption that he is entitled to be the presidential nominee at this time? ... rather than a woman with more years of experience working for all Americans and working for us since Obama was in high school in Hawaii? ("Barry" in the multiethnic classroom and "Barry O'Bomber" on the basketball court.)

Is it also an assumption that women will someday have their first woman president ... perhaps fifty years after this election? Oh, golly, I can hardly wait!

The Blogs of Others

2008-02-15T12:56:00.001-08:00

As I was considering what I wanted to write, I looked at the blogs that a couple of other folks have imposed on the cyber-psyche and I have to admit that it was a little scary.

One of the blogs that caught my eye was a gallery of doodled-on post-it-notes. That was kind of cool but then I realized that post-it-notes are most readily available to a person while they are at work or sitting in a classroom. So, this blog was an admission that when they were supposed to be doing something productive, they were doodling on post-it notes. It was probably during this "work-time" that he/she decided it would be cool to post them on a blog.

Further into the blog, I saw that other people were also contributing their doodled-on post-it-notes most likely doodled and posted during their "work-time". Is there a growing epidemic of doodling? Have we become so bored with, first, computer solitaire and ,then, video games that we are now reverting back to a simpler, more basic vehicle for avoiding work ... doodling? Will we next take up carving wood chips to avoid work? Or will we just browse the blogs of the doodlers?

That reminds me. I need to shop for a pocketknife so I'm ready for the next cool trend.

Post-Super Tuesday Notes

2008-02-06T10:13:00.000-08:00

I confess to being a recovered Republican. I was in a mixed-race family: one Democrat and one Republican. That made every race interesting. But that was back in the days when Republicans were compassionate and not just in word but also in deed. It was actually possible to be a fiscal conservative and a social moderate. My Republican step-father cried when Martin Luther King, Jr. was assasinated and it broke my step-father's heart to see the rioters burn themselves out of their own homes. He was my example of a kind, but cautious Republican.

However, the first Bush and the first Gulf War rehabilitated me. Somewhere, I had been told that Democrats start wars and Republicans end them; I am a pacifist through and through and I believed that lie. Now, I know better and I have been a Democrat ever since.

When Obama first announced his intention to run for president, I was excited for my own state's senator. I was happy with his anti-war rhetoric. The rhetoric continued but without much substance. He said he was the voice of change but the rhetoric hadn't changed. It was still more style than substance. So, I got over being angry at Hillary for appearing to support Bush the Sprout.

I also remembered my roots. I didn't mention that I managed to balance my Republican-leaning with my strong feminist principles. It didn't make sense to me that women could become automonous individuals while still depending on Big Brother in Washington to take care of them. (I'm now older and realize that we all need some help; sometimes we needs lots of help.)

So, yesterday, even though I knew that most other Democrats in my state would be voting for Obama, I proudly went to the polls and voted for Hillary. Once I was alone in my car, I started to cry. I thought about being in high school in the 1960's when the length of a girl's dress was deemed acceptable or not by the male coaches. After lunch, we all went to the gym. If the length of a girl's dress was suspect, the male coach would have the girl get on her knees on the gym floor. If the dress didn't touch the floor, he made the decision to send her home to change to a longer length. That might sound trivial but I haven't forgotten how demeaning it was just to watch that happen to another girl.

It was also during that era that a man could beat his wife without interference from the police as long as it happened behind the doors of the man's "castle". If an employer asked for sexual favors from a female employee, she had better agree to it if her income was needed at home, which it almost always was.

I am proud, so I cry. Hell, I am thrillled to have voted for Hillary. I understand why she gets the votes of women over 45 years old while Obama gets the votes of the younger women.

We remember. So does Hillary. The girls in the class of '68 thank you, Hillary!

Hitchcock's McGuffin

2008-01-15T11:49:00.000-08:00

According to a story in Harper's Magazine by Art Spiegelman, Alfred Hitchcock called a plot device, which has nothing to do with the story yet to be told, a McGuffin. The purpose of a McGuffin is just to ignite the telling of the story.

I tried to think of an example of this (I thought about it for about 20 seconds) and I couldn't come up with one. Rather than expend any more brain energy, quite naturally, I Googled an image of Alfred Hitchcock. One of the pictures was of Hitchcock standing next to a suggestion box holding a large, sturdy noose. He has one hand above the knotted noose and the other on the loop of the noose.

Now I see that this picture of Hitchcock could itself be a McGuffin and that a McGuffin is also much like a writing prompt. (I referred to a writing prompt in a previous blog.) It could be used in various genres. For example,

Romance: She noticed the strength of his sinewy hands holding the noose in a way she never had when he was cleaning her septic system. The kindness in Reuben's eyes let her know that he was there to save her from the evil dental hygienist who had only been after the inheritance from her dead husband. She stepped into his arms and the noose draped around their bodies creating a bond that would hold them until death do they part. It was then that she learned that her little brother had joined a circus and her parents, on their deathbeds, pleaded with her to find the boy and bring him back to visit their graves.

Spy thriller: Little did Ingor Spitowski know that Filmore had known her about the key that she carried in her shoe that opened the door leading to the President's vault at the end of the tunnel. Filmore had tempted her to the roof with promises of hemp by-products. But he had to keep her alive, wriggling in the noose, until she told him where she had hidden her left shoe, a pump previously worn by Barbara Walters on the View. Once Barbara's shoe was recovered, the interview with Putin began with questions about his chest hair exposed during his recent vacation at the beach.

Horror: too obvious

Anyway, I like the idea of using images as prompts. I also like using Google as a substitute for original thinking. Who doesn't?

Writing Prompts

2008-01-12T12:42:00.000-08:00

Some writers, or so the magazines for writers tell us, use writing prompts in order to loosen up the nuts, grease the wheels, and jumpstart the creative engine that is responsible for selecting a few words from a lifetime accumulation of blah blah blah and put it on white paper. The writing prompt might be "Write a story about a priest, a rabbi, and a minister that walked into a strip club." So once it is written, what happens to the story ? It could be filed away until there is a demand for religious erotica. It could be folded into a thong-shaped cross. (Actually, isn't a thong already in the shape of a cross?) Most likely, it is tossed into a wastebasket, but how inspirational is that to begin each morning trashing one's hard work?

On the other hand, there is a spiritual truth involved. The response to the writing prompt is an idea that has been cast into the ooze of the universe thereby creating a ripple in the ooze. The movement of molecules in the ooze's ripple creates heat, in other words, energy which loosens nuts, greases wheels, and jumpstarts the creative engine. Ideas are manifested as keystrokes and keystrokes cast out ideas creating more ripples of ooze. The universe is forever and irrevocably changed by a few words about a priest, a rabbi, and a minister in a strip club.

Maybe it's not such a bad idea after all. So, there was this priest....

A Friendly Report

2007-10-10T12:24:00.000-07:00

I want to talk about a friend. We both work at a...hmmm...school.

Depending on what I say about her, my comments might be construed as gossip, gross exaggerations, backbiting, belittling, praising, or promoting. Some might say I am just sharing news or reporting. Others might say I am deflecting attention from those many risque rumors about myself (I wish!) or that since I'm so hopelessly boring (aw, smack!), I can only say what is going on in the lives of others. If the previous statement is a good indication (which it is), whatever it is that I have to say about my friend, I'm going to reference it to myself.

What I most enjoy about this friend is that she is not me. In many ways, we are very different and I like that about her. First, her world is larger than mine; she makes it so by reaching beyond the immediate locale and the present moment in what she says, does and how she thinks (if I can presume to get into her head.) She is more well-read than I am; this doesn't refer to an ingestion of classics, but to the fact that she reads what she likes and when she likes.

Second, she can pull off being a perfectly sane and stable rebel; this state of mind seems oxymoronic or, at least, unusual. But she pulls it off, sliding through wispy and yet sure-footed in her own way daring others to trifle with her while dodging everything that would rattle a less stable person. Like my friend, I do rebel, but usually I am slapped down for my efforts. Of course, then I get back up just to see if the same thing happens a second time...or fourth, sixth, or whatever.

Third, she is a real blogger. I am a blogger-wannabe; as with many things, I am a wannabe. I wouldn't have blogged this much if not for her encouragement. I wouldn't have known how to get started. So it's thanks to JSK that I blog (for better or worse.) You should check out her blog, in fact. Go to http://sceamingyawndog.blogspot.com/ to read what a worldly, sane rebel has to say. Tell her I sent you.

Lost July

2007-08-05T11:47:00.000-07:00

Where did July go?

There never again will be a July, 2007 and it might be just as well.

Fortunately, there were no tragedies in my immediate family, but it did seem that we were painfully aware and often painfully empathetic towards those who did suffer.

July should have been a month during which families laugh, play, rest and re-create themselves in a good way. For too many, the families were downsized by some calamity and they were forced to re-create their existence without a child, without a brother or sister. Here I speak of local issues without even addressing the sadness in Iraq or Afghanistan or other areas of the world where calamities are a daily occurrence.

August is burning gratitude into our skin and into our hearts. The sting of mosquitoes reminds us that we are vulnerable and yet largely unaffected by our surroundings. My garden is thick with weeds but the unintended flowers on the choking vines of the Morning Glory reveal a humble beauty in the midst of neglect.

It is cliche but honest to mention that this summer will come and go with the next one to follow regardless what our intentions, oversights, and actions might yield. We believe that the space that we fill has importance and consequences and that others will remember. Yet, our impact on this world is only a whisper that blows away in the next warm breeze.

I was reminded of this when a customer in my daughter's consignment shop mentioned that she had heard that a person is remembered for no longer than three generations. The woman in a heavy Southern accent said, "I just can't believe that folks won't remember me." Then as she left the shop, she shouted to us, "Now, don't you ever forget me; don't you forget ______."

Sadly, I've forgotten her name.

July Jitterbug

2007-07-29T13:53:00.000-07:00

Anxiety is a friendlier condition than depression...it just drops by unexpectedly, sometimes introduces shadowy friends that sit passively but unpredictably in the corner of the room.

Jest a-fusing

2007-06-18T18:28:00.000-07:00

June is nearly over which means this year is half over. What have I accomplished in the past six months? Is there really any point to that question?

Here is another of my artsy-fartsy projects. This was one of my favorites and it sold. At least I can visit the guys while I'm here. It's fabric images and strips fused onto burlap.

This summer has become much busier than I had envisioned. There's very little time for fusing; even less time for being confused. Maybe there's just less time to realize that I'm confused.

I'll give that some more thought in the fall when I, again, have time to be confused and to know it.

Creative Channel vs. Channel Catfish

2007-05-14T10:35:00.000-07:00

Here is where my creativity has been channeled over the last few months.

No, it's not what you are thinking. I don't personally know these guys but I wouldn't turn down the chance to know them, Biblically or otherwise. Of course, that would just be for the sake of research for something interesting to write about...remember I'm a woman writing whorishly, not a whorish woman writing. Actually, I paid for them (I would have to, wouldn't I); they arrived at my front door in a brown envelope. Then I quilted a frame around each one.

I made these and several other wall hangings for an art show to benefit the Greater Champaign AIDS Project. Before you assume I am a philantropist, I should add that I had the benefit of 50% of the proceeds and GCAP received the other half. I really appreciate my friends that introduced me to this project and saw to it that I went through with it, actually getting my contribution in on time.

The two shirtless, sexy cowboys shown above both sold! Imagine that! (Can you say Brokeback Mountain?)

I'll add a few more with future posts...especially the ones that did sell so that I have an opportunity to see them again.

As for catfish, the weather is warm and the fish are calling our names. My grandsons and I will be on the muddy banks several times, I'm sure. There is no such thing as failure in fishing which is what makes it such a pleasure.

The soil for my garden is nearly ready for planting. I'm at this much later than last year. That might be because last year was my first garden in several years so I was really anxious to get out there and dig in. This year, the memory of how much work is involved in gardening is a little fresher.

So many creative pursuits, so little time. Speaking of which, I got things to go and places to do (you know what I mean)...

Creative Crap

2007-04-11T09:29:00.000-07:00

I am so grateful to those who remind me that I haven't done any additional work on this blog despite my declaration to write whorishly. I can see in this first sentence what the problem is...I just referred to this as work. My declaration was to write freely, lustfully even, playing with words and the joy of tapping keys. This freedom from the inner critic must be the source of all creativity. Perhaps that's why some of the most mentally deviant individuals have been the most creative.

For those of us who may not be mentally deviant (notice I'm inserting some doubt in this statement), there must be a method to this creativity (even play has some rules). Some intelligent anonymous person once said that all learning begins with play and I would add that the reverse must simultaneously occur. So play must include some method.

In the past, when involved with dream groups as a member or as a dream coach, I used a technique intended to help the dreamer let go of their mental restraints so that they could explore the meanings of their own dreams. The question I used for this technique was "If I were from Mars and had no idea what __________ (fill in the blank with something associated with the dream) is, please explain it to me."

For example, if the person had an eagle appear in their dreams, I would ask them to explain to me what an eagle is as though I had no preconceived ideas about its meanings. The person might say, "It's a bird" and I would respond with "What is a bird?" The person might tell me that a bird is something that soars from place to place enjoying an expansive view, a birdseye view, of the terrain. Or the person might respond that a bird is a filthy creature whose droppings spoil statues in town squares. The person's response always opened up further questions such as "What advantage would there be in having an expansive view?" or "What is a statue and why would someone want to keep it clean?"

This line of questioning and probing would continue until some symbolic meaning was revealed to the dreamer relevant to their own answers. As in the examples used, the dreamer might determine that they need to look at the "big picture" rather than be bogged down in worrisome details or that they felt "shit on" when, in fact, there was no personal insult intended.

The purpose of recalling this dream interpretation method is to explore my unconscious about what it means to write. Is it work? Is it play? Is it something entirely different yet to be revealed. The interpretation of creativity for the purposes of this blog is about being a writer.

Woman from Mars: What is a writer?
Me: It's someone who not only writes but finishes what she set out to write.
WFM: What does it mean to be finished?
Me: To have something ready to send to a publisher.
WFM: Why is it important to be published?
Me: That's how other people have a chance to read and critique my work.
(Uh, oh, I just shit on myself!)

What Women Really Want

2007-03-19T12:11:00.000-07:00

March 19, 2007

Sigmund Freud was perplexed by the nature of women.

Because I'm equally perplexed, Sigmund and I might have gotten along.

However, while Siggie was entangled with theory and terminology by which he could describe and explain women, I am more bewildered by my own interest in what he might have thought about women. In fact, I am puzzled about why I am interested in what anyone else thinks about what I do and say. I'm most interested in why I become paralyzed as I ponder what others might think about what I write.

This isn't to say that I have no anti-social tendencies. Actually I do have a few which one might think would relieve me of any concern about the concerns of others.

Nevertheless, it's frustrating that I so often allow the opinions of others (Freud, my obnoxious neighbor, whomever) to influence me.

Don't think I'm a doormat, because I'm not. But, compared to men (and who else can we compare ourselves?), myself and many of the women that I know more often edit our words depending on the effect we think that they might have on others.

Editing certainly has its place especially as a product nears completion. (Some of my best friends are editors.) But I'm not nearing completion. Despite having been around for half a century (or so), I like to think that I've barely gotten started. It's too soon for editing! I have pages yet to write and shelves to fill! I should be composing, not editing!

Books about becoming a writer (and I have many of them) often suggest liberating oneself from the inner editor. That sounds easy enough, but liberation usually comes at the cost of property and casualties. I'm not certain what it is that I have, so I don't know what it is that I might lose.

You might be wondering at this point why I would worry about losing what I didn't know I had anyway. Good point.

I think the time has come to do battle, to become a warrior, to liberate myself from all the critics, both real and imagined. I not only think it! I now know it! I am a warrior of words, a warrior of will, and a warrior of whatever-the-hell-I-wanna!

Before you read any further, (and bless your heart if you got this far), this might be the time to warn you that I am going to write profusely and profundity be damned! My fingers will caress the keyboard wildly and indiscriminately! Then just as it seems I have exhausted my lust for linguistics and my creative juices have been reduced to a trickle, from the lips of this warrior a battle cry will arouse the spirit within..."Yes! Yes! I am a woman writing whorishly!" (Stick that in your Oedipus Complex, Sigmund.)