Flu Memories

Happy to report this post is long over-due. Getting better meant getting busy and this blog got lost in the bowels of my hard drive. But here it is...

Day 6 of the dreaded flu. The one I was urged to get a shot for.

This is the first day I am upright in a chair, spurred on by an e-mail about insufficient funds in my checking account. Another worry to being sick means no work and no income so that $34 means a lot right now. Weakness couples with wariness. My body ached in a way I have never experienced in my 42 years and never having been 42 before I suppose age may have tweaked this issue

Mark fell victim first. He complained of a naggy cough that I attributed to an earlier hike, knowing down deep if it was the flu I was next. No quarter. Black flag flapping over my head.

I went through Monday unscathed. Tuesday dawned and as I plotted my work for the week, a cough cropped up. Nothing special. Almost passable as an allergy. It followed me through the day, deepening, growing insistent. I cancelled my Tuesday plans, describing the symptoms to one friend who groaned; “Oh no, Laura, that’s how the flu started with me.”

And for me as well.

Sleep was broken and I am not sure if the weird visions were the result of actual REM or lucid thinking (all were freaky Yellow Submarine-esque). Fever followed with chills and sweats but I was so sick I could not muster the energy to kick blankets off . Even my ankle bones hurt. The worst part was the cough. You never know how much you need abdomen muscles until you have to hack. I feel like I have been working out to Abs of Steel when in reality the only position I can manage is supine on my couch with my eyes closed listening to the Jodi Arias trial. That was a big deal too. I know how sick I am when I absolutely don’t care what’s on TV—much to Mark’s delight. He recovered faster and was able to rejoin the living but I am still firmly planted on the couch, too fearful of relapse. Because only this morning I woke up with a temperature and a high fever and segued into feeling almost (dare I say) good this late afternoon. Relapse is high and I don’t care for a repeat performance. At all.

But the flu also has (eeep!) blessings. Being sick forces indulgence. Read. Watch some bad TV. Read. Let others take care of you. Read. Contemplate the things you take for granted, daily walks, coffee with friends, writing on a whim. Read. And rest to your heart’s content.

 

And read.

Even this 500 word blog is tiring me out.

Advice For the Gentle Reader

 

 

A few words of advice. 500 words. Or 475 to be exact.

Advice is flung from all directions when you’re a writer. Some is good. Most mediocre. Vaster amounts are bad. Here goes my twisted version of it.

Gentle Reader, (that’s how one of my rejection letters started), to be a writer, you must read. As much as you can. Get into a book. Read classics. Read graphic novels. Re-read the books you should have read in high school. Read new books. Read old. Read crappy books (up to page 100 and if it still sucks toss it. That’s what Oscar Wilde told me.)

Second: Blog. Personally I have a love/hate thing with blogging. My life is not that exciting to relay on a regular basis. Friends plead for a blog about my job but I still need the money so I’m not doing that today. Blogs should be short and full of content, if not for you, Gentle Reader, than for me. The practice of blogging regularly puts you out there. Hell, you might get discovered by an agent via blog, just like I thought I might get noticed by a French modeling agency strolling the Santa Anita mall as a zitty teenager, but it could happen.

Thirdly: Get into a writer’s group. Groups shatter the bubbles you ensconce in while writing but it needs to be an arena of support and a safe dry run for your work. If you don’t experience this then find another group. There is nothing worse than writer’s groups where one jerk usurps all the time with their hideous prose and talks smack about other peoples. It took time to find my current cadre and I’ve been with them over 4 years now. Yeah, I felt weird joining a group called Moms Write because my kids are the hairy 4-legged variety. But we meet on days I don’t work, at human hours in the morning and seriously, all the women in Moms Write completely rock. I am never bored with their readings. And maybe because my ego’s a bit on the tender side, they like my work too, enough to tell me when to tweak it or toss something out.

Fourth: Send your darlings to slaughter, a.k.a. submit. This advice I received from an author as she signed her book for me; ‘the difference between a writer and published writer is persistence.’ So since I am wrapping up a novel, it might be nice to have some work published. Or I can wait for a bored literary agent to troll this blog and believe me worthy of ink and paper. Those first stings of rejection suck but that doesn’t mean your work does.

So there you have it. We’ll depart on this last bit of very useful advice and I will leave you alone.

Gentle Reader: Go write.

 

Noon Girl

I miss getting up early. A simple enough problem with an easy solution;

Get up early.

Here is my first world dilemma:

 

Lately I have lounged in bed anywhere up to 10, 11, even 12 o’clock. My body’s demand for 8 hour slumber muffles alarm clocks and has serendipitously drained my cell phone of battery. Getting up at 8 a.m. is a feat right now. My bones protest. Coffee prods movement but the brain is lackluster and here is why I am whiny.

 

I am a writer who likes to write in the morning. The best sentences are milled before the sun is up.

 

The cause is my bread and butter job. My shift ends at 2:30 a.m. I do not get into an actual supine position until after 3 a.m. and to lull my noisy brainwaves I need to read. I'm lucky there (as my knuckles drub a piece of nearby wood). Reading rapidly thickens my lids no matter how good or bad the material maybe. Same with movies. It doesn't matter the content. But I don't watch too many movies anymore.

 

I long for the days when work forced me up at 4 a.m. to make my 6 a.m. shift but the flip side, for the writer, was the adjustment to my bio rhythms. My blood was geared for the same bat time same bat channel every day. There was satisfaction rising with the sun, a mug of strong coffee and a fresh screen/page that I gleefully speared for hours.

 

Those mornings are very far away right now.

 

I have tried to fool myself into thinking that when I wake up (it's almost 10 a.m. by the way) it is actually the same magical dawn hour when my words were ready for harvest. Unlike dawn, however, the day is already under way. Appointments to keep. Friends to lunch with. Laundry room vacant (got to get my stuff in there quick living in an apartment). But it’s all wrong for writing.

 

I have also tried the vampiric approach. Mining for words in the wee hours. Somehow, it’s not registering. Night distractions are worse than days. Cats perform their somnambulistic routines. Husband snores from the bedroom. More laundry glares undone from the corner. And this is the time I like to read.

 

Don’t worry. As soon as I change shifts I’ll be whining about how I can’t write in the mornings. I can repeat this blog and insert ‘night’ for ‘day’, sick cycle that this is.

 

The only temporary cure I can come up with for this blip on my creative radar is to keep doing what I am doing.

 

Which is writing…

 

Writing and the Art of Meditating....or is it the art of writing and...

The faithful black and white composition book I scribe in is AWOL. Now there are not too many entries of anything vastly personal and the jots for my novel are so disjointed I doubt anyone but I could hook them together into a viable tale. But the absence of this little book is nonetheless disconcerting.

I took my coffee and ventured outside armed with a fancy tome for writing. It's my 'mediation' journal (see the corresponding pic)--for those Zen Nirvana realizations that sprout when I successfully quiet the imperious piece of pink tissue between my ears, when I succeed in getting into the moment and truly living. And according to one of my absolutest favoritest writeress in the world, Natalie Goldberg, writing is a form of meditation...so here I go....

The day is blue and bright, a gentle contrast to the overhead humming birds zipping by, their throats a shimmer of crimson and emerald. Ample shade saves my too-white skin and the big quad is morning quiet for the cats to safely romp.

I looooove the fall. I love the barely warm days where the coolness of the night lingers late into the morning and the scent of charred wood blankets the early sun's set. The bounty of baking and coming feasts perfume every inhale and the anticipation of joy hints in the sacred air.

None of this day should be wasted looking for an erstwhile journal or scuttling dust bunnies out of hiding or even going to work (which I have to). It is a green, gold glorious moment made possible by the loss of a little black and white book.

Zen and the Art of Driving

The weekend of my 41st birthday, still riding high on the fun and love gifted to me, I pulled out of my driveway and nearly collided into a beautiful black mustang, circa 2012.

The driver did not wish me happy birthday but he did call out some names. They began with the letters F, B, and C. All pertained to my femininity. Use your imagination.

I sat in my truck and mouthed a pathetic ‘sorry’, hoping it would expedite his exit out of my life. The rant and expletives continued for many more seconds, but even before his rear lights had disappeared up the street, I was seized with a horrible realization.

That is me.

Okay, before you brand me a brute, I do not go off on people like that. But memories of past behavior began making a Power Point presentation in my head.

Every day I pass a hospital near my home, untroubled and focused on the penne pasta I will make for dinner. So woe be unto the souls who happen into my path trying to find the emergency entrance to get to their loved one who is sick and/or dying at the facility. Certainly my tail-gating and my cold narrow glares will teach them a lesson and make them feel bad for inconveniencing the almighty ME.

Yup. I can be that guy in the black mustang.

It’s been a struggle to get Zen over this. I really enjoyed my revenge fantasies (i.e. keying the beautiful black mustang and taking a baseball bat to its driver). Yet, when I made it through the murk and mire I knew this dude didn’t want anything bad happening to his ride. Who can blame him? Los Angeles is the car Mecca of the West. Our cars not only transport us, they define us. They free us to arrive late and leave early. Without them we’re waiting on the bus in the rain.

If it’s about vehicles, I want to be a vehicle of kindness and compassion.

I’m no saint and I’m no Buddha. I’m not sure if I want to be. But I’d like to take the pain of this experience and transform into something better. The little car trauma gave me the best gift that birthday weekend. The gift of understanding another human being.

I can smile at the guy popping an illegal U-ie in front of me because he might be late for work. I can relax when trapped behind a slow poke student driver terrified of making a mistake. I can forgive and graciously wave on the next car pulling out of a driveway and crashing into me.

Unless it’s a dude in a black mustang circa 2012….

Burn Out

WARNING: I AM SO BURNT OUT THAT I AM NOT APPLYING MY 500 WORD LIMIT...FORGIVE MY 822 WORD COUNT FOR THIS BLOG OR STOP HERE...

I have a story to tell you…

A funny thing happened on the way to this blog, this scathing vent to my writers group. A tale of woe and triumph. Poetry in pure motion. Something to stir the soul and rumble the heart and… POOF.

Despite the italics it wasn’t the magical fairy tale kind of ‘poof’.
My laptop overheated and shut down. The eloquent quibbling was gone. The best writing I had done in months.

I stared back at the now black screen, a shroud to the verbiage that was lost to the malfunction. A new found surge to scoff off all technology for a simpler method of communication rose and in rebellion I turned to my handy dandy composition book, identical to the ones from those 1980s elementary days, complete with pencil. Hell, I’d take a hammer and chisel to a brick wall at this point.

Enough with the machinations. Let’s get back to what I wanted to say when the computer went blank.

I am writing a novel. I am burnt-out.

There. The confession lives in the little composition book and on the landscape of my hard drive. Saying and writing I am burnt-out makes it a fact.

Backstory: Since 2007 I have been telling my writer’s group about this awesome saga I am composing that is not just one, or two, but possibly three novels. I boast I work on it daily. I delight in revealing the crafty tactics I use to inspire myself to work—like a naughty kid who is actually a good student but needs that nudge.

Being burnt-out could be interpreted that I want to stop writing this novel but the novel is technically written. It’s the revision that is strangling me. The redundancy of my own verbiage.

I have dabbled in other arts. Read other books. Even considered revisiting school. The same reasoning wins out—I am avoiding the work, the real work, the writing that must get done…

Blank. The computer screen went black and blank. There was nothing else to look at except my own visage.

I am not a fool. I know there much more writing ahead of me to get this novel published (and I’d like to take the good old fashion brick and mortar route. Self-publishing is something I am skeptical about, but I’m not done yet so it’s a moot point and another blog.) I had several lovely friends read my first draft back in 2008. Their positive criticism helped me grip the slab of marble and chip away at the crevices and cracks to make a David.

And then came the burn-out.

I have tried to wriggle my way out of the mire. To get excited about the story again. I even considered moving to Louisiana to finish (the setting being in both Slidell and New Orleans). Roll in the flora and fauna. Tire swing myself over the sloughs. Mingle with the locals and hope to run into a dew-eyed man that is the epitome of my hero.

So Cal is my home. Sorry. Transplanting myself, finding a new day job, new friends, a new apartment would only take me from what I need to be doing…writing!

The biggest hiccup in this revision process is that I have grown. I’m a waaaaay better writer than I was back in 2007. I cringe at the drivel I wrote 4 years ago. So I am re-writing a lot. I want my ‘good’ story to be ‘great’.

But I am sick of my use of the English language. The ways I have abused: ‘would’, ‘has been’, ‘seemed’, ‘that’, ‘dark’, ‘I looked’, ‘she glanced’, and many, many more. Which parts are too long, which are too short? Is the introspection too wordy? Is my hero too perfect, my antagonists too cartoony?

My eyes may as well be staring at the black screen again. I don’t even want to open the file to revise it any more.

I can only compare it to a good relationship that has hit a blip. Maybe I need an exotic vacation. Or a wild affair away from the drudgery so I might return refreshed and ready. Sloth tends to disguise itself as a good intention for me and I end up straying further, only to return after a long absence defeated and feeling more burnt-out than before.

The victory is I don’t want to give up, not after 4 years. I made this commitment to myself; I want something to show for it.

It is a valley I have barreled down into. The mountain peak is icy and implacable and I am laden down with heavy loads; doubt, perfectionism, burn-out.

There. Said it again.

I don’t have a solution but I won’t leave you on a downer. It ain’t much but it is something.

I have a Voice. I want to share it; I need to share it.

I have a story to tell you…

New Blog...Key West!

Hey everyone, check out my travel blog on Key West ...always 500 words or less with links to lots of pictures! I'd appreciate your 'following'as well as any comments and feedback. Updates daily for the next week...I promise!

Some Cheese With My 'Whine'...

Maybe it’s the full moon veiled by a gauze of smoggish haze. Or that my monthly ‘friend’ is creeping up on me (sorry guys). Or that I can’t up my score on Bejeweled Blitz.

Even trusty old TV failed me. The Lakers lost and the best HBO could cough up was ‘The Time Traveler’s Wife’. Great book, horrible movie. Do not watch.

Bottom line; I'm grouchy tonight. Don’t know why. Lots of stuff going on and most of it is ‘meh’. Couldn’t do a pastel drawing to save my ass. It’s not even 9 p.m. yet if I start doing more paper research I’m bound to fall to sleep quickly and wake up at 1:30 a.m. with no hopes of falling back.

And writing? Writing…sigh. I feel burnt out on the book I was so damn hot for a few years back. I want it done but I’m just so UGH!

And I torture myself further staring at a lovely watercolor I did last year that I can’t replicate for the life of me.

Performance anxiety. Perfectionism. I have to remind myself of my own advice; perfectionism is nothing more than low self-esteem. I still draw. I still write (obviously). I still do my work.

That doesn’t make me feel better.

Let me just bitch for once in this blog.

People annoy me too. Right now, I don’t like people. I’d really like to dive deeper into this but I better keep my mouth shut. Nothing pays off like the restraint of tongue and pen and, er, blog.

The house is messy. The cats are sleepy. The boyfriend went to bed. The click of my computer keys and the clock are all the only conversations I am holding. All this beautiful quiet time and I am wasting it being pissy. I can’t bear to look at my novel right now. I can’t think of picking up a brush and painting either. This strange frustration began this morning waking up too late to do any writing. I like to do my writing in the morning. At the library, with a contraband cup of coffee. Where there are no phones, no cats and no neighbors with tumbling babies to distract me. But I got up too late and now, when i got oodles of time, I'm irked.

Suddenly it is very important to clean the litter box or take out the trash. Or go belly rub my new pink-toed kitty who sits atop the tower while my mammoth tabby glares from the floor. Then I gaze at some forgotten linocuts. Or a book I started reading and didn’t finish. Life has been a lot of start and go and stop in the middle and I can’t figure it out. It’s a fucked up funk. That’s all. No way to work it out unless I do work. Because in the end I only have myself to contend with.

And my lousy score on Bejeweled Blitz.

Neti Pot - A Love Story Part II

I got a lot of titles for this blog. Another possible one is: How A Box of Kleenex Became My Constant Companion.

If you are easily squeamish feel free to exit. I won’t be offended. But really, it’s not that bad. And it’s way less than 500 words. I’m still kinda oogie.

I am getting over the cold(s) that 2011 welcomed me with. Remnants of the Xmas 2010 cold crossed paths with a nasty virus my dear significant other dragged home after New Years’.

Bam.

A solitary sneeze at work which I dismissed as allergies landed me on my ass for a week. Instead of the vice-like nasal congestion I endured with the first wave, a thickness festered in my throat that Riccola could not soothe. Even water didn’t taste good.

Serendipitously enough it was also NFL play-offs so my couch potato-ness was justified.

Of course I missed a gathering with some girlfriends I haven’t seen in months. I missed work (and when I don’t work I don’t get paid). I barely wrote, draw or painted. Not that it was possible to produce anything other than varied hues of gunk. You should see my phlegmatic gymnastics.

Neti Pot to the rescue (again).

I have diligently using my Neti Pot (a.k.a. Snot Pot by my jealous boyfriend) since May of 2009 so Neti and I are serious. Neti has kept me healthy for the most part; these cold(s) are the first I have been stricken with in a loooong time.

Actually, I was kinda curious. How would the Neti work through all that buttery goodness plugging up my cranium?

Some mornings it was impossible. Nothing poured out because the cold was new and was mounting its evil grip. It wasn’t until things tapered down a few days into it when I was finally able to get a wash in. Clear pearl-sized bubbles oozed out in long strings before the long ropey yellow bands of crap flowed. The Neti wash also nudged big irritating reddish brown snot balls coagulating my nasal passages.

So nice to breathe again—I even got that old Toni Braxton jam in my now clear head.

I’m better, or rather, cautiously optimistic. I so don’t want to get sick again, at least not for a while. Neti Pot makes all things better if not more interesting.
I’d like to go into the benefits of gargling with apple cider vinegar but I wanna keep this particular blog short. Way less than 500 words.

And I’m not about to push my luck.

Cat Lessons

Funny what you can learn from a cat.

The orange kitten, Kody, has come home. Immediately my fat Malone and grouchy Max began a chorus of hisses and snarls that are the soundtrack as I compose this blog.
I didn’t expect to learn a major lesson and that not one word of it would be delivered by a human.

Kody is 3 pounds of adorable marmalade fluff. My old cats don’t think so, especially when he eats their vittles and constantly searches for play. Max has become a chew toy for Kody while Malone is hardly benevolent. She puffs up to the size of a rabid raccoon and growls in a chilling manner.

My old cats didn’t ask for a kitten for Christmas.

I became a reluctant referee. I swoop Kody up when the others come into sight. I plead with Malone. I chide Max. I even designated the second bedroom into Kody’s panic room. Harmony, after all, is the soup du jour. It’s what I’m good at.

So I think.

Epiphanies are born under strange circumstances, like this feline power struggle.
I don’t speak ‘cat’ very well but on Christmas Eve morning it clicked; this was how they communicate. How they salvage their space. How they devised their tenuous pecking orders. How the point gets across. All things I don’t do very well with humans and my vocal chords are more advanced.

The one thing I cannot accuse my cats of is hypocrisy. They stand by what their needs are. The cat tower top belongs to whoever is there at the moment. So is the foot of the bed and my grandmother’s patch quilt. And my poor old cats have never attacked Kody. Max and Malone make it quite clear when he needs to back off. It is he, in his kitten cuteness, that breaks the rules and wreaks havoc ]]]]]]]]]]]]\--sorry, that was him walking across the laptop.

Friends told me to let the cats be. Let them chisel out their pecking order. They don’t need my help. Hell, why would they want it? My whole life has been spent trying to avert confrontation. In some instances it means me sucking up something I don’t like.

It doesn’t work all the time.

I’m going to try and stop sugar- coating my problems. Speak up when something may not be right. Tell others when I need my space and remind them when they invade it. Because when I don’t, (and I often don’t) I ended up hating the person scarfing down my kibble.

Whether it be at home, at work or a ride on the metro link, I need to take the lesson my cats taught me to heart:

Say what you mean.
Mean what you say.
And chalk out those lines in the kitty litter.

Venting...

I’m blogging because I’m stressed. You are all unwilling Freuds listening to my machinations and I thank you.

This has nothing to do with much of any of the usual babble. I still hate Mondays and I’m still seeking spiritual revival on a daily basis. But I am still a creature of habit and when my habits are tossed into an upheaval then I tend to react adversely, the victim: yours truly.

This time the little up-setter is a ball of fur found wandering in the parking lot of the Ross store near my work. An orange kitten with pink toes and a ringed tail. He also managed to crap all over his haunches after a long day in a cardboard carrier.

Okay. I told myself that if a kitten fell in my lap needing a home and if it was a marmalade then I would seriously consider it. Amidst my rotten Monday (yes, this Monday stunk worse than the shit smearing the kitten’s tail) I became the prospective foster parent of a homeless feline.

I’m lucky though. My significant other is a big time cat lover so convincing him wasn’t hard at all. In fact he talked his mother into letting the little orange ball crash in her bathroom while we ‘quarantine’ him.

What’s really stressing me out aside from the vet bill I’m looking at tomorrow (hey, haven’t we seen this movie?), is the environment I will be creating if the orange puff is allowed to come into our tenuous home. My grumpy 13 year old jellicle and 20 lb. tabby heifer hold a truce shakier than North and South Korea. They already caught whispers of the new kitty’s scent on our clothes; their ears flat and their eyes narrowed…

My sleep will be compromised. I will be a proverbial cat sitter making sure no harm comes to the baby. Our bathroom will not be ours for several weeks while the household forms its pecking order and acclimates to the new occupant, if he does indeed move in with us.

How much more compromised will it be if I let this orange puff back out in the cruel cold world? Or the 1000 cats that can be born of this one boy if he is allowed to reproduce, which I imagine he will want to? I know I can’t save them all but damn; can I try to save at least one, one who kissed my fingers when I picked him up and began purring sweetly as if to offer ‘thanks’?

3 cats are my limit, just like 500 words are my limit. But one day I’ll probably be that crazy cat woman everyone shies from cuz she stinks of urine and canned food.

For now though, just 3… I swear.

I just want to get a clean bill of health from the tomorrow. That’s not asking much, I don’t think.

Besides, we’re already thinking up names: Mackey, Tang, Clockwork, George, Nucky, Marvin…

I’m still taking suggestions….

MONDAY

Last Monday was real bad. Real bad.
No need to go into detail. I want to keep it under 500 words.
Balance is not innate and has nothing to do with being a Libra. Balance is learned after many a hard lesson.
My lesson comes in the form of Monday.
I hate Mondays.
I know Monday is temporary. A bad case of ‘this too, shall pass’.
That mantra doesn’t always soothe this savage beast.

Disclaimer: My disdain for Monday is unrelated to the stereotypical reasons the rest of the human race hate Monday. It’s not because the weekend is over and the drudge of deadlines and alarm clocks begins again. It’s not the sluggish traffic to the office delaying the inevitable when all I want to do is get it over with. It’s not even the phony smile I sport to dodge the whizzing jibes.

Here is the recipe that comprises my most hated 8 hours of the week:
There is something wrong with my energy the second I step into the office on Monday. The air is curdled and frenzied. The stress is wire taunt. Every ounce of ‘happy me’ is drained by the first ringing phone.

It can be sunny, it can be cold. It can be a holiday, a boss-free day, a free lunch day. Nothing takes the sting out of Monday. I have even started disappointing my Sundays in dread of my Mondays.

Pathetic.

But hating Monday is not about where I am. It is about who I am.

I hate Monday for whisking me away from my home, my studio, my keyboard. I hate Monday for being my source of sustenance and support. There is a cracked molar in my head. There is a 20 pound tabby too fat to lick her own butt and a vet appointment that raped my frail income.

So Monday has proven (gah!) useful. Monday provides balance. Monday is the deep breath I take and hold as long as possible to enjoy the eventual release. Monday, it turns out, only intensifies my gratitude for the other days of my week, when I can basically do whatever I want. Which is make art.

If it weren’t for the muck and mire of Monday, I’d never appreciate what lies beyond it.

I’d never prize the people who don’t bully me. I’d never bother to meditate. I’d never step back from a painting and think ‘damn, life is good’.

This Monday I will enjoy the pettiness. I will revel in the traffic. I will celebrate my aggravation. I will sit in the pain and know it is the balance that I need.

Sigh…it’s still Monday….

So What's YOUR Excuse???

Ugh.

So, yes, dear reader, what is my excuse? I promised to blog at least once a week. Cuz you all want to know what’s going on in this, er, maundering mind. I also promised not to bore you. I will keep the infernal whining to a minimum of 500 words. No more, no less.

Excuse the typos and bad grammar, i.e., the use of ‘cuz’ as opposed to ‘because’. It is the result of feverish revising of my novel. Yes, to all of you who have heard previous lamenting, I’m still working on it 3 years later but again, I reiterate, it is hard work writing a book. I want it to be (cringe) as near perfect as possible before handing off to the benevolent souls willing to read it for me and offer feedback. Then I’ll be diving head first into the deep blue sea of literary agents and publishers and I don’t swim very well. Especially when undertows of ‘is it good enough? Does it suck? Should I bother’ threaten to drown me.

And art. Always art. When the pen goes dry I reach for a gouge. My ‘Music Muse’ triptych begins taking on another form, this time in linoleum cut prints. The Girlz have seen life as oil pastels and collages. Soon they will be seeped in ink and crushed in a press. But first, I have to gouge. God willing there will be a show in December and again Doubt rears its evil little head; ‘maybe no one will like them, I shouldn’t bother, who do I think I am anyway???’

I don’t like wasting time whining. I’d rather be working. I’d rather be living. My pouts took on a different light last week learning about the sudden death of a high school friend. Yes, I know I’m 40 and my comrades will be passing but my class lost 2 great guys this year way too soon. Such events would throw anyone into a dark place. Mine was a bluesy tailspin and for a few moments on Wednesday morning I wondered if the Muses had abandoned me. If the right words would continue to find my page. If pain might over-ride the creative flow that had been coursing so fervently…if those nasty inklings held any merit…

Pain, I have learned, is mandatory in this life. It’s Suffering that is optional. My lost classmates had one major attribute in common; the lives they lived were to the fullest. The loved they bestowed was the greatest of legacies.

There is a difference between whining and mourning. There is a difference between perfectionism and fear. For now it is November 14, 2010. It is a magnificent morning. The leaves are burning orange against the bluest of So Cal skies. And my hands itch to get back to work.

God bless Dal Jones. God bless Victor Spirov. Now it’s back to my bad grammar, gray shreds of linoleum and blogs that don't exceed 500 words.

501 words, to be exact.

To Blog Or Not To Blog...what a silly question

It's been too long since I've launched my thoughts into cyber space. Sloth, exhaustion, indulgence, turbulence, there are a million reasons why I haven't blogged. In the end, the blame rests with me. Again.

Art was my first love; I learned to draw long before I ever learned to read but I fell in love with words too. Somehow, my fickle nature rationalized a way so these two loves would need each other to co-exist. The writing is far better when I’m drawing; the drawing more lucid when I am writing.

I am deep into the revision of this first novel and I battle with Perfectionism, the greatest hindrance to getting anything done. It was a sad epiphany the morning I mused that my perfectionistic tendencies are only a gauzy veil of low self-worth.

So this is where I plan to cut loose. To free segments of my maundering mind like so many white doves at a holy event. And if I can't think of anything to say about yours truly then I'll talk about an artist, a writer, or someone who IS interesting but I swear to keep it under 500 words. My attention span isn't much greater than the next guy...

Check back often and leave a thought or two of your own.

Vista Theater

Racing along the 210 flanked by members of the West Coast Hessians isn't the ideal omen to an outing. Nor is it a relief to see DETOUR: SUNSET BLVD CLOSED flashing orange at the junction where the Vista Theater sits at the cusp. Parking almost drove us back to suburbia but the boyfriend's talent at finding low cost car lodging in Los Angeles is optimum. We only endured a short walk from a sleepy residential alcove a few blocks away.

Again I stress that my reviews are geared more towards place rather than product. We choose the Vista to see 'Inglorious Basterds' but I prefer to let people make their own calls on entertainment without my nagging input. Lately, for me, it has been about the actual aura of place. We live across from a massive multi-plex but in the spirit of escaping the mainstream, headed to the Vista, where neither of us has ever been (blush).

The whole movie going experience begins with collection of Grauman-inspired hand/foot/cement signatures just outside the tiny box office. The Vista’s lively manager of 20 years, Victor Martinez, dons costumes of the featured film’s main character—in this case he was booted and capped like Brad Pitt’s Lt. Aldo Raine. Hieroglyphic scarabs, ankhs, serpents and seraphic eyes follow your descent into the dim auditorium bathed in red velvet curtains and dotted with sapphire blue lights along the aisles. Center seats provide enough leg room to support a raucous Rocky Horror Show (but that’s not the repertoire- sorry). Instead of the constant stimuli blast of ads and upcoming previews that dominate the multiplexes you can actually have a conversation with your movie going partner or the voice in your head. The soothing darkness and the eclectic soundtrack keep you on the edge of your seat—something good is bound to happen. Best of all, it doesn’t have that old aquarium smell like the old Santa Anita mall theater did. And no kiddies under 4 allowed, only on Wednesdays—yay!

Hint: get there and don’t load up on liquids if you’re there for the first show, (box office doesn’t open 30 min prior give or take and the little coffee house next door doesn’t have a public potty—hey these things are important to chronic urinators like myself) There’s no parking lot for the Vista so you need to do a little hunting which can be frustrating if you are tight on time.

As for the movie, like I said, I don’t do those kind of reviews, not in depth anyway, but ‘Inglorious Basterds’ is Tarantino’s best work and well worth the time and $$ to see. Maybe the Vista played a role in my humble opinion but that would be for you to decide…

All In a Day's Work (sorta)

The fan's just blowing the hot air and residula cat sand around the computer screen. My eyes prickle with sleep and mania; there is no option right now but to write so here it is. Like the title proclaims, these are the musings of a maundering mind and I make no apologies...

Write. Draw. Read. Daily. My mantra. My advice. Sleep. Pray. Walk. Those too. What gives? There is plenty that needs to be accomplished and I am almost done...wait, no...sorry, fell asleep there for a moment.

Look people...it's hard work writing a book...