26 Years Married to the Day

Perhaps if I hadn’t waited until the last moment, I’d be able to share photos of the iris. Three purple ones are in bloom, the smell – intoxicating. I stopped to inhale them after joining a group of bees, wasps, and other flying insects at the pink lilac bush on the roadside path. I truly thought its early buds had suffered from the frosts, but I coaxed it and encouraged it to be strong. I took a few shots of the spectacular bush knowing I can never capture its pale pink beauty, but even those I couldn’t get to send through email. So, I updated my email. And it didn’t work. I updated the photo app. I thought – let me send a simple email first – to see if that worked, and now I guess Elon and Bozos have decided I can’t send emails from my phone, let alone photos. I could last month. Gee, what’s the thing that changed since then?

Can you see how far back I’m rolling my eyes at Google and the crapware under the guise of Generative Anti Intelligence that they seem to have stuck into everything like it’s a teen penis?

I honestly hate this race to make the worst incel programs that glitch when you look at them. I’m joining a chorus, I know, but really. This is ridiculous.

From this wave of recent stupidity, I learned I cannot trust a friend any longer because he’s now wearing spyware. Unbelievably, he thought it was fine to violate people’s privacy (and drafts that had never been online) which is insane since those things scream HIPAA no-no. Until I told him about class-action malpractice suits that I would make sure his name was included in, and how his insurance likely does NOT protect him from this sort of privacy breach – only when it occurred to him he personally would be financially liable – did he stop defending his butthead action of reading a story sent to him through the mail while wearing those hideous metaglasses. He’s not feeling well. I wonder if the “better vision” he claims he has from those things is the thing making him sick. AI is making me sick.  

At a meeting an environmental rights woman who says she champions artists, passed around a Generative Anti Intelligence rendering of a float that as explained was going to have people dressed up throwing boxes representing books, as well as chicken people catching eggs. There were more things, but it is for a parade that begins in less than a week. I’m sure ChatGP told her this would be easy and volunteers would appear like magic. Maybe they will, but I couldn’t believe she didn’t think to ask an artist to sketch out the little cartoon she had made from “her ideas.”

I do apologize for being so down on this crapware, but I have taken up pen and paper and I’ve been spending a lot of time in nature. I planted peonies today and most of the houseplants were moved outside for summer. I’ve been piecing together a “thing” floating around in notebooks. It started with two…flash sized bits that are not part of a novel and I’m learning to pick out notes on a mini keyboard in the shape of a green hippo in case it turns into a musical.

Sounds exciting, doesn’t it? It does to me, a very happy Luddite who had a working phone until this latest nonsense. I hope you are well. It’s been rough emotionally to see no one that claimed their second amendment was important is doing a blessed thing to defend their fellow Americans being abused by these ice agents or stopping the military from entwining with the Israeli military – I mean – what the f are you doing, guys? Pretend I’m Jody Foster if it helps.

Ah well. Another month down. I read “Yesteryear” in a day – what a romp. I read “Remarkably Bright Creatures” in a day – lovely and twee. I am up to 3 books read for the year and since I can’t even access my email contact list on my phone anymore, I guess I’ll be reading even more. F the tech.

Thank you for stopping by and for the read! Sorry for the lack of photos this month. Cheers and good tidings to you!

A Semi-Candidate Statement about running, but not hard

I had worked out a doable plan to collect signatures to be on this year’s ballot, but then the weather defeated the idea. Being a victim of gun violence, the death of Melissa Hortman made me pull back to reassesses safety vulnerabilities for me and my family. I wasn’t far off from restarting my bid when this pointless war crippled my plans due to rising gas prices.

I do want to serve as representative to this weirdly drawn legislative district I grew up in and love. I would fight so hard for her and all the people. In my heart, I know I’d be effective and solve drainage problems among the others plaguing New York District 23rd. I will absolutely serve if I win by a miraculous write-in vote, but at this time I have decided to take a dedicated run off the table for now. I guess I support Gies…I guess.

That truly made me sad to type those two paragraphs.

Here it is, Wednesday, a whole day before the end of the month and if you’re wondering what exciting things I’ve been up to, it’s mostly been filing and putting things away. I even succeeded in getting two boxes of donations into my car AND a trash bag of broken, threadbare, and or unsuitable for donation items got tossed in the bin.

I cannot stress how downright delightful it is to walk into the mud room now, with all those things sorted and put away. It is still crowded and will be until we take out the firewood shelf in the other room and do another round of seasonal furniture adjustment, but it’s such an “ah” to walk in there now. If I can keep the cats out, I even have the chance to stretch out and quietly read for a bit.

I would be done with Isabel Allende’s book by now if I didn’t have to slog through a stupid war in the book whilst living with the nightmare of our service people stuck on the ocean and having food rationed. The stories that are peeping through are brutal. Only 13 dead the so-called president exclaims…maybe 13 in the first few minutes. Who knows the current, true count? I never would have voted for this; I would be gathering other members and working to write legislation to end it.

C’est la vie. Save the Cat is being perused. I’m not keen on writing the story that popped into my head as outrageous enough to actually work. I’m not keen on going through the novel writing process anymore. It’s long and brutal and if I don’t enjoy driving with one headlight, I certainly don’t want to write that way…which is why novel writing book is out. I’m thinking of becoming a plotter.

I’ve not committed to anything. The joy I have in the kitchen is nothing compared to hearing happy people thanking me for the delicious cookies I made…but even if I did start a bakery, I know that payoff wouldn’t be enough with the money to sustain me. I’d lose the joy, and without the joy, the sweets are average and average is a couple bucks on the grocery shelf which already exists, so why bother, you know? I am considering a swap with a local restaurant though, a cheesecake delivered on Thursday for two fish fry dinners on Friday sort of thing. If you’re in the Springville-Boston area, let me know.

Ha! Why not put lovely thoughts out into the universe? Much better than letting incompetent Epsteinaires blow up rockets, especially when Artemis II shows how you do it with grace and style – by listening to women and working respectfully alongside them.

The trillium is in bloom! Enjoy the spring and thank you for stopping by for the read! I appreciate it and I appreciate you!

Welcome to Chaos: Spring in Western New York

Hello and how are you doing? This morning we had warmth and the sun, then a downpour that was overwhelming our drainage system, and now that it’s night, I am praying the creek stays low and in its banks. I also made cookies and went out to photograph the crocuses.

A very intelligent woman named Eileen had a phrase that described my recent months – The Tyranny of the Couch. When we bring in wood for the winter, the place where we stack it limits what furniture can comfortably fit in the main room. I’d opted to have the pull-out sofa and coffee table. While great for lounging around watching movies when there was time, I had no space to comfortably write downstairs. And without that, I wasn’t writing unless I had to.

Where the energy came from, I’m uncertain, but late Sunday afternoon, I had cleared a pathway to switch out the big round table for the sofa. Most all of the fiddly bits found homes soon after. Even I am surprised at how well the new placement of furniture is already working out. Last night I worked on my next novel section to exchange for next Tuesday’s meeting and I typed the 629-word story I wrote by hand last Thursday night for Friday morning’s group into a file.  

I honestly don’t know what I’m going to write most of the time, and that handwritten story? It’s called “The Wombat Job” and it surprises me how nicely it’s told. Tight as is, but in a few weeks – if I don’t forget about it – I have a few places I might submit it to once I polish. Very likely I’ll remember how disappointing the whole publishing endeavor is and it’ll remain curled up in a cute little rtf file forever instead. Sigh. People laughed at the laugh spots, too…ah well, RIP little flash, it was nice knowing you for a bit.

Seriously, I do hope I have a chance to share that story – and maybe write more, but that’s in the future. It’s quite difficult to plan for any future when dumb white men are running around getting military personnel killed because the dumb white men didn’t listen to any DEI hire that probably kept telling them attacking Iran was a stupid move. Idiots.

Speaking of not listening, Husband has been fitted for hearing aids. He did a two-week trial and it wasn’t great because of the fit, but he did hear better, so away we go into the world where he has less ability to say, “I didn’t hear that part,” about whatever I ask him to do. He did make this light for me though.

What I’m asking you to do is realize I am happy you stopped by and for the read. Thanks for hanging around, checking in. It’s been a rough twelve months and all I’m getting for it on Friday is older, ffs. Yes, I’ll be wishing the wish we’ve all been wishing for, but as Friday is Good Friday, I’m afraid that even if it did happen, he’d pop back up on Sunday in robot form to torment us for all eternity, so, I’m weighing my decision to wish for that. Maybe I’ll wish for the impossible instead – like an agent wanting to represent my work and maybe a free trip to Italy, too. Why not?

May all your dreams and wishes be beautiful and realized at the proper time. You rock! Cheers and all that until next time!

So What If Not Everyone Likes You?

In a fit of whimsy, I donned a safety orange knit hat and made my way up the hill on the moss strewn steps to talk to the trees and stare at the moon. It was a “I can’t believe the idiot started World War three, but here we go,” morning and I needed some grounding.

We went to a place and found out Springville will be having its own No Kings Day visibility protest on March 28 from 1-3 – which is so smart, as the one in Buffalo is from 11-1, so technically a person could attend both. Afterwards, we ran errands and then dined locally before heading home.

What irritates me is that the same place is endorsing Alison Duwe for office. Someone said they heard the opposition to her last time was that if she won, every roof in town would have a garden on it or some such. That would imply she cared about anything but herself.

People are forgetting how she cost this school district at least an extra 30 thousand dollars for the extra elections that she had to have, trying to push through a gigantic sports complex. She hired an architect and had blueprints made before doing the necessary population study – which showed then a child population decline and still does. She was urged multiple times by me and others in the committee to at least give the voters – WHO FRONT THE BILL FOR THESE PROJECTS – the option of a smaller renovation on the first ballot, but no.

When the vote failed in historic proportions, she changed the voting location from the ground level entry high school library and moved it to a space in the school with constant student traffic, steep stairs to climb, and the wheel chair ramp that I noticed four people struggling to get up in the time it took for me to vote.

When I brought that obstruction to voting to the attention of the board, Allison dismissed it. She didn’t care. She lost and she wanted to punish the people who didn’t vote for her “vision.” She has shown herself to be myopic, petty, and mean. God help the village if you give her any local government control.

I get it, all women are supposed to stick up for each other, She and her husband(?) are of the “do it now, ask forgiveness” later mentality. The system they put in at the Arts Center is pulling water out of the aquifer and dumping it, instead of being a closed-water system that they had nudge nudge wink winked the town into approving.

If we’re all going to possibly die soon because a sick pedophile is intent on distracting the world from his crimes against children, and I have had to listen twice now to a person describe Duwe as some sort of good option, I get to speak my truth because all politics is local and all elections are consequential. I wish I could hold my nose and say, go ahead, put blue leaning women in power everywhere, but not her.

I’ll be looking into the candidacy of Aaron Gies, but if I don’t think he’s strong enough, I will be running myself for that office and in my own way. So…if it gets that far and my campaign is hit with her mob of minions telling everyone what an opinionated beetch I am, always caring too much about cost overruns and handicap people having access and taxing the rich over the poors and equality for all – as well as truth and justice, well, at least I’ll learn if she hate-reads my page looking for her name, so that will be a fun little nugget to admire, won’t it?

And with that out of my system, how are you? Are you in need of grounding, too? What about reading? Have you found it hard to follow books? It took far longer than I anticipated, but I finished one, so hurray, one down for the year. I’m nearly done with another so the bare minimum of a book a month goal is still within reach. Not that I haven’t been reading.

The Writing Club is going as they do. Two of the women are stitching together such amazing work, both of them through historical events, one linear, one with a braid. I can’t wait for them to be books. I have more reading and critiquing to do before the next one, so those are my Sunday plans. My friend Rina is struggling through the last chapters of her father’s book which I’ve also been reading here and there so that’s three books that I can add to tally – when they finish them so I can finish them. Hint, hint, to all of you if you’re reading!

Glee is being binged. I didn’t see it when it ran, or if I did, it was too much. It still is, but in small doses, it’s fine. Knowing what happened though, the first season has lines coming out of Finn’s mouth that make me go “oof.” I watched Sinners for the first of many times. As a film, it is superb. Lighting, casting, costumes, all of it is stunning. I am more selective about screen time in general, but eh, sometimes staring at a screen is all I can do, especially in winter. We’ve had some melt which has improved my mood some knowing spring might arrive any month now.    

I hope you are coping. I send you light and love and honesty. From what I’ve seen of the Epstein files, my heart breaks and I have to walk outside and climb the moss strewn steps and ask the trees what’s going on. What a friggin time to be alive.   

May the drones stay away from you and the collective howls of pain be loud enough to shake the morons in charge into not being such horrible human beings. Thank you for stopping by and for the read. Cheers!

A Full Moon and A Finished Project

If it weren’t for deadlines (self-imposed and otherwise), I wouldn’t accomplish as much as I tend to. Today I ignored as much of the chaos as I possibly could and pressed to get the DVD movie list completed. I printed out two copies before setting the dishes in the sink to soak and started this post. I still need to punch holes in the paper and place them in a 3-ring binder. The label maker will make an appearance and then – then I can cross off the 570 times in my to-do books where I’ve written “Update movie list” for the last 9 years.

The disgusting details coming out about what men did to little children floor me with quease. I mean, seriously, what horrid kind of human do you have to be to even consider a hammer in dealing with a child after you’ve assaulted them? Why would you assault them? No one is better than anyone else. Did mothers stop teaching their children that? What’s money got to do with decency?

I know…but still.

The cold has been constant and Thursday I was reminded of how easily everything can slip away. Husband was not concussed, nor did he break anything, but he did fall hard on his back on pavement (wearing several layers of winter gear) when the strap he was using to tie down his ladder to the rack broke. I’d been angry about having to clean the house instead of having those hours to finish the movie list back on Thursday, but that fell away to gratitude when he came home early alive and in one, non-bleeding piece.

For Christmas, my niece gave me a cute little thing to measure how many books I’ve read. I plan to hang it as soon as I finish a book, and I was hoping today would be that day, but alas, it didn’t happen though I’m tantalizingly close to finishing Mary Roach’s “Fuzz.” I suppose staying off social media would help, but I do want a little bit of warning as to which war we’re entering with what entity and whether or not gas masks are recommended in the morning. Anyway, that’s next on my list. Until then, I have a picture of the bouquet to share and my sincere wish that if you’re reading this, you know you matter. I wish you well and I wish you warmth.

Thank you so much for stopping by and for the read! Cheers!

Bye bye 2025

The countdown to a new year happens tonight. Tomorrow, our New Year’s Day breakfast table is likely to resemble this, our Christmas morning one, where soon after this picture was taken, we feasted on pancakes with local maple syrup, sausages and mockmosas.

This December was another of mass-producing sweets and sharing them with people. The “try” recipe was an utter mess to make, but the taste! The texture! Salted Caramels were a delight to eat, but too sticky to send so few people tasted them. I streamlined a few processes and maybe next year – if there is still chocolate and I can afford it – I’ll be faster and more precise. That is, if there is another Christmas. I heard someone on social media cancelled it, but who knows what reality is anymore when widows take to stages with pyrotechnics to grieve?

Our puppy went to have a picture taken with Santa, but all she wanted was her trainer.

Besides this past year, I’m shedding a lot of once cherished dreams to embark on something a lot of people may hate me for doing, but I feel compelled. I’m working through the anxiety and fear, but change is daunting. And even though I’m pulling away from writing, I will be spending my last hours working on a story. My saint of a beta reader read a rough version and deemed it clever. I’m hoping to send it off as the last submission of the year, but I must hurry, so I’m wishing you all the best and hoping 2026 is gentle with us all.

Thank you for stopping by and for the read! Cheers!

Spirited Thanks

Usually, I take a picture of our Thanksgiving table. Sometimes I send it in a text with a greeting to others. This year, besides a few two-word exchanges, the once sweet stress day filled with relatives I might only see then passed quietly with no photographs. We ended up watching the Macy Parade – brava! A bit later, the dog watched the first twenty minutes of the Westminster Dog Show with interest, then retrieved a ball for us to throw.

The snow arrived, but not a deep one. On Friday, the ceiling painting commenced and now patches are on the wall. They will be buffed out and painted next weekend – fingers crossed. By then, I should have the coppers cleaned and arranged in a pattern to be hung on the kitchen wall. Before there was a triangle shape filled with them, now I’m considering a border instead, but I don’t think that would quite work.

My writing excitement of last month was dampened with both the discovery that instead of new management, the NaNoWriMo site is gone entirely and finding out the story I thought was a book is a short story. A different part of my being that I hadn’t considered an asset before niggled its way into my mind and since then, I am plotting out a different future.

I won’t say I’m done writing, but I watch women writers work so hard on craft, then have to spend so much time on promotion. I don’t want to do that. Sure, I believe in my work, my characters, my plots, but to do the interviews and visit bookclubs? At this point in my life, that isn’t my jam.

A recent newsletter from On The Premises, advised that a writer should be known for something. I read that and not so much disagreed, but wondered how true that can be. I thought about my own work, sharing thoughts with other writers, prizes I’ve won, working at two litmags, and then I wandered over to the question of “What are you most proud of?” hoping to stumble on “what I wanted to be known for” in writing, but the answer that came to mind had nothing to do with literature and now I’m slowly taking steps to do a scary thing that is likely to be ugly at points. I apologize for the vagueness here, but until I have a more concrete base (which is forming nicely) I’m basically only telling people in person because of certain restrictions. 

Otherwise, my desire for a tidier house remains and I am continuing to whittle away at clutter. Of course Husband just complained about a drill bit that keeps falling out and my suggestion that he throw away the faulty bit resulted in a confession that there are at least 6 of these fairly useless things adrift, so yeah, I guess clutter morphs instead of disappears, doesn’t it?

Our sycamore turned into a Christmas tree with a star shaped leaf on top and natural ball ornaments hanging from the branches, so technically, we have decorated for the holidays.

I hope your November was a delight and may the month ahead be an easy carefree one for you. Thank you for stopping by and for the read! YOU are very much appreciated!!!

Boo to you

It is the scary season and since I’m writing this after editing pages to send to the awesome writing club at the library AND editing and printing copies of the next installment of a weird little tale for the Friday group AND it’s Wednesday, not a last minute Friday scribbled post, we all ought to be terrified that I’m ahead of schedule on anything, let alone multiples.

Actually, what it means is that the writing is returning to a primary status…or so I hope.

How are you? How are your thoughts? Are you holding up, ok? I’m writing and thinking specifically of some of you – especially those who’ve mentioned/let it be known that they have ever read this blog –and I’m sending a warm virtual hug to you all now. It’s been rough, hasn’t it?

What helped push me through was cracking open the Halloween box and inserting new batteries into old toys. I haven’t decorated for a few years so it was fabulous to find things I’d forgotten about. The Frankenstein is a wind up; the ghost walks while the Addam’s Family theme plays with howls; the witch cackles and lights up; the red-eyed monster groans. The animal occupants of the house want to destroy them all.

A lot has been made of community and reaching out lately. I have been, but sometimes it’s like a drug and I crave more. NaNoWriMo is coming up and I soured on the thing after it was revealed that Grant and others fed the project drafts to train bots. I miss the community though, and intend to participate this year even if it makes me a hypocrite. Uploading drafts is not a requirement for participation and now robots think sentences like, “The dog was green—purple—no aqua—look up color of mermaid hair lunch, I mean God” is a valid sentence, so there are those points to consider. Writing is so friggin’ hard and while I like to work alone, I also like to mingle with other writers, so that’s what I’ll be doing. I think. I am out of practice. And writing is hard. Okay, the disciple required to sit down and write, developing that is the hard part. A lot of times, the writing is easy.  

There was something called Flannelfest at Kissing Bridge so we went and I haven’t viewed the footage yet (so I’m not sure what was recorded) but I threw an axe and I am quite adequate at it. Husband climbed the rock wall that was set up. We rode the lift through the foliage and walked down. We watched a log chopping competition, then split a chicken dinner. It was nice to escape the world for a few hours among the beautiful trees.

We said No Kings by being there.

I’m sharing a new part of my daily view. Many thanks to Cat and Mike at Wolniewicz Pottery for my beautiful new sugar bowl. Isn’t it gorgeous?

May your daily look out the window also bring you light and delight. Thank you for stopping by and for the read! Happy Halloween. YOU matter!

Tasks neglected like middle children

My attempts at strict discipline, whether adhering to an exercise schedule or in regards to an aspect of writing, are often effective…for a short while. I haven’t had much success with that approach recently, instead I’m rumbaing around, task to task, tidying in preparation for an upcoming avalanche of writing.(I love it when I surprise myself writing – especially in conveying such a hopeful idea  in light of the current situation with a government shut down looming and all the other limp baby eggplant energy slopping around all over the place.)But what kind of writing? I love a good flash, but I also like the massive headache of a novel. What to do? What to do?

I took a walk. I have taken several walks. I talked to one of the dearest people I know on Zoom today and one of things I heard myself saying – how I tackle areas of the house depends on what other tasks there are to do, and depending on my attitude, I’ll either do the hardest, or the easiest thing. I think that’s been part of my problem, I have a book I’m polishing, I pretty much know the next book I want to write (but haven’t put time into yet) and that was it. Realizing I didn’t have a different option sparked an idea for another novel so MAYBE this will lead to writing the easier of the two since the one I came up with in the woods hasn’t gelled at all yet.

Such dreams, eh?

Except not writing is an annoyance. And I’m sick of not, thus I’m sitting here, typing to you on the pink machine, asserting future writing could soon be occurring while getting a little scared about facing a blank page in the morning. Or as part of a shadow NaNoWriMo in November. I don’t know, but how do you like my winter writing digs?

Isn’t it insane that it’s October tomorrow? I bought two small pink mums for the outside entrance table. I hope to get a white pumpkin and paint on black polka dots to sit between them before I take a picture. I was up in the loft a few weeks ago. I should have pulled the Halloween tub then, but I had nowhere to put it. Why not? Ah, yes, the fun bit…

Husband took the van in for an inspection/check engine light and yaddah, yaddah, yaddah, everything he had crammed into every conceivable spot had to be removed and then rearranged into a smaller van and yes, Husband owns a lot of carpentry tools and fiddly bits and now we get to find homes for those unvanned things and yes, it’s just as much tedious fun as you can imagine.

So that’s the haps from here. The leaves are changing and I might get to the bulbs this year. I keep meaning to move them, that is never the most nor least pressing issue around here. Oh, we did make it out to Still on the Hill to hear JT & the Law play and if you ever get a chance, you should too. Have a fantastic month. Eat the rich, tally ho, and all of that until next time! Thank you for stopping by and for the read!

(My favorite sycamore in the back 40 has developed a smiling face!)

I’m surviving this short summer with chocolate and flowers, how ‘bout you?

Hilariously, I remembered to do the thing where I shut the door to write and what I wrote was a list of times to write, a list of things to enjoy, a list of shoulds, then have-tos. I don’t think one thing has altered since the last time I remembered to sit in front of a blank page for more than a minute. I probably have work sheets with boxes to check as I completed each daily task that I could copy. Planning a slow slog is reassuring and intimidating, and if it worked…I know, I know, except it does. Sort of. For a little while. Words are magic and from experience I know that if I write it down, I do Pilates and if it isn’t on the list, it doesn’t happen.

What did happen was this gentle rose. It only bloomed once this year with three buds, but it is so pretty and delicate right here.

And out of nowhere – BOOM – Literary Namjooning nominated my story from Issue One for Best of The Net. Thank you Lakshmi, Melissa, and Hema! From the bottom of my heart, Namaste.

Another thing was that I listened to a segment about baking a few weeks ago. I froze a chocolate box cake after I cooked it to the lower end of the cooking time. The cakes cooled, I wrapped them in clingfilm, put them on a plate in the freezer overnight. After they defrosted, I whipped the store bought frosting which did help with coverage, but I wish I’d beaten it longer and a friend suggested adding a liquid. I don’t think that it was heavy cream, but supposedly a half cup of heavy cream poured over the Pillsbury Grands cinnamon rolls before baking (and waiting for them to cool a little before putting on this icing) makes them taste like Cinnabons. I don’t think I’ve ever eaten a Cinnabon, and I haven’t tried this recipe, but it’s stuck in my memory and what I mean to say is that freezing the cake really did make a difference to the taste and mouth feel, so I recommend it. Adding a teaspoon of vanilla to Rice Krispie Treats is good. Mixing and melting a cup of chocolate chips and a tablespoon of shortening or butter together in the microwave and after it’s cooled a bit, spread it over the top of the treats is also good.

What makes me ecstatic is that I got to spend another year with this guy and bake him a cake.

What’s less appealing is bringing in wood and preparing to build a fire. It’s August, but already we’re rearranging the furniture. I’m setting up computers in the library for writing in winter. A few plants have wandered in and the Christmas cactus that has been pawed over thrice. Today in the upper greenhouse, the shelf for the plants was put up higher than usual. The chairs slide under. If I were brave enough to face the creek and write, I could do it there.

Working in a room of many windows has drawbacks though. I can see the hummingbird feeder from there, and turkeys wandering on the patio. Chipmunks. Squirrels. Bugs so in love with each other they form a sexheart for hours. Life literally getting in the way.

 In the way of what? Indeed. Great question. I’m off to find an answer.

Just kidding. After this, there is the making of the dinner and maybe rewatching The Terminator. I’ve been sketching or reading while I eat dinner. I’ve plotted out a picture book about recycling and death. I haven’t gotten serious about the illustrations, but it’s fun and makes more sense than the musical that keeps happening lyric by riff in my head, because seriously, I’m not remotely a musical theater person or a real artist, but my drawings will never hurt anyone’s ears unless they are rolled up and inserted.

Lovely image, I know. Guess I’ll be stopping here. Have a great month.

Thank you for stopping by and reading. Thank you also for being you and not a piece of wood.

Wouldn’t Call it Persisting

I am finding a lot of satisfaction from tidying. Of course I’m a temporary Kondo worshipper in the throes of decluttering and my endorphins are boosted each time I open a neat and tidy drawer, but I can honestly say that I feel more relaxed in my home recently. Knowing where things are and where to find them is such a comfort.

As you can see, it is calmer looking in the office. I bought a P Touch and now the drafts of stories I’m working on feel more substantial. In reorganizing files, I came across praise from editors for my writing that was so positive and affirming that I nearly feel like digging in and going for it again.

Another novel.

What am I thinking?

In this world turned batpoop loony, the might be my saving grace…

…or the death of me.

~~*~~

Of course, reality came in, bit my head, and sucked out any bright spots. A pushy medical person on the phone went out of their way to emphasis what a horrible, uncaring person I was for not bowing down to some made up guidelines to schedule another soul-sucking appointment in October. She made me feel bad about not being able to afford to run to their offices every three months for Husband’s “best health.” Sorry, not sorry.  We’re doing the best we can do with overpriced, high-deductible insurance and 6 months will have to do and no, there is no way we’re doing any more in person January – March appointments. I sincerely doubt anyone making these excessive, intrusive appointments experience what their patients do. I doubt they get charged for parking in a falling apart parking ramp, either. Had I the ability to do it over, we wouldn’t be going there at all, but for some reason, Husband likes the doctor – whose mind we were supposed to read today, but they called it “miscommunication.”

Even though we successfully talked them into a 6 month retest instead 3 months while in the office, and the actual medical degreed person came in and said to Husband, “Get a test in 6 months,” what we were were somehow supposed to divine was that he actually meant, “Make an appointment in three months that will go over your insurance limit for the year, get a blood test which is also over the insurance limit for the year but relatively cheap, and then drive here so I can tell you what those results are –even though it’s a blood test and you can look at the results online. And then do that all over again 3 months after that in the dead of winter, okay?” If he had said that, we would have told him, “No, we won’t be doing that at all. We have other doctors and they also want our money, so you are need to chill on wanting to take any more big chunks of it for a while, okay, you greedy little deaf piggy? We’ll get the test in January, and if we think it’s a bad number, we’ll give you a call, but until then, we can’t afford to see you again until next summer.”

Ffs

You know, it is getting very hard to live anymore, which is why I grabbed hold of the idea of tidying, hoping it would help some, and it has, but then I leave the house…I mean, what more do people want from me? I understand I cannot control anything, really, but does everything have to be awful? My son is having a real rough go right now. Our niece was hurting in the ER and we haven’t had an update in a while about that. The severity and the cruelty in the actions being taken by this government really doesn’t offer a reason to keep living in this country, especially when they act like they don’t want humans to be alive at all. Everything related to our healthcare and education policies are a horrid mess. Pollution, grocery and utility prices, all increasing. And then I get to deal with the apparently all-knowing, all-seeing, never met her before in my life Amanda telling me I’m an uncompassionate monster who doesn’t care about my husband having “best health.” Seriously, why bother anymore?

And yes, I know, why oblige them…but this is a hellscape.

And no, I’m not suicidal, but I don’t see anything getting any better, okay? We still have (had) the first amendment. I can still say things are bleak and I feel the bleakness, can’t I? Because it is bleak. And unbearable. And I am so, so freaking tired.

~~*~~

I wish I could type happier and tell you wonderful things about words and chapters, too, but I’m bungling around, up and down, irritated and enthralled. I walk to the labyrinth admiring the different shapes flowers have come up with to show off their blooms. Black-Eyed Susans, clover, fleabane, bee balm. The range of green – from nearly white-yellow to a deep dark hunter – delights my eyes. The roots I step over as I walk the rocklined maze are connected to the nearby sycamores, which are shedding their skins. I rescue a dying milkweed by untangling a three-leafed vine from the stalk. Fluffy purple flowers I don’t know the name of are the preferred sleeping spots of the bumblebees and the sweetest sight. I stand on rocks in the creek and I breathe.

Out there, I feel alive and I am fine. More than fine. Sometimes, I feel actual peace.

Otherwise, it’s been an all firewood splitting and stacking, finding places for things to live and putting them there while ignoring the horror called news and contemplating writing a story no one may ever read kind of quiet, hot month here.

I do thank you so much for reading this and seriously – I’m sorry for being down, but I could only mask over this anger, rage, and profound sadness for so long. I hope you’re doing better than I am and I wish you well. Thank you for stopping by! I really do appreciate you and your time. It means a lot to me.

Ciao

Procrastinating on my writing goals the Marie Kondo way

Learning to tidy like Kondo has been the recent goal. I enjoy it. The folding is satisfying. Being able to see all the options shirts and pants is amazing. Even my socks feel better. With the positive outcomes of this method, I needed to refrain from two different tidying tasks today because I had cooking and laundry to accomplish and falling into the trance of easier upkeep and item retrieval wasn’t the option I wish it had become.

On the last day of May, it was cool enough for a wood fire. (And yes, Husband DID remember we’d been married 25 years and brought home roses.) A flip switched and we were in the hot part of summer. The garden – such as it is – went in late. Each year I care less about the lawn but do keep the labyrinth and the paths to it under control. I’ve weeded the steps and moss twice, but they insist on returning and the hummingbirds! I can’t believe how much I’m feeding them. The orange lilies are out and again this year, the mountain laurel bloomed. I moved a lot of wood and when I was ready to split, the heat dome formed. Today, rain. It’s always like this – matching activity to the weather – but this month was filled with constant movement both inside and out and I’m tired.

It is Monday and I have the loveliest problems.

Another one: A few of the characters, some of the plot, certain conversations, and the one scene from the book I abandoned last year have been intruding on my thoughts and have begun to annoy me. The idea of rewriting Ellie’s Elephants had been my concern until this nattering grew incessant. My idea is to do a private form Camp NaNo in July and see how 50,000 words shakes out.

One of the intense senses I have is that a main character either changed or I’d gotten her wrong the first time. Maybe I’ll find that this is a different character. As I’d been ignoring this call, I haven’t transcribed things she has said. Her job is more pronounced, as well as a few of her compromises made for friends. The theme is tending toward revenge held up to a mirror. I hate discussing work I haven’t written, but parts of it were written and I hate the idea of writing/rewriting a book at all right now, (What indulgent ostrich behavior!) but it might be a thing that keeps me sane. Not that I was ever diagnosed as sane, but you know what I mean.

I’m aiming – as I think I’m always subconsciously striving for – is a level of clean or organized that I feel I have permission to write without complaint. No one complains, but the level of self-esteem I derive from a clean house is obnoxious. People can see whether a house is clean, they are unlikely to read my draft no matter how good it makes me feel to write it.

I suppose that’s the long way around of saying I’m starting a new project and I’m afraid.

Sending hugs to you if you need them. Thank you for stopping by and for the read!

I didn’t unfriend you; Facebook kicked me out

Hello. I have a long version of the FB saga at the end – if you want to scroll for the details as to why I am not on Facebook. I’d rather speak of better things in this world like how I never knew these plants I call snake plants bloomed, but mine did.

Early this month, my 10-minute play, “Dust Up on the Skyway” was produced by Matt Boyle as part of “Get in the Car.” Kudos to the director, Andrea Simmons and to the real-life mother-daughter actresses – Hayley Wilkins and Lisa Sommers – who brought an incredible spark to the story. It felt invigorating to see other people’s work – so much so that I’ve been working on a one-act…

Theresa and Robert were fab for traveling in from Chicago and including us in their visit to western New York and the fancy named towns like Greece. As part of a choir, Jim and Mike serenaded all of us before a delightful meal at Steel Bound with their wives, as well at Denise and Eric.

The last scheduled meeting of the writing group that met at West Falls was cancelled. I ran into a participant at Wegman’s recently, she thought about offering to host that one, but didn’t. I thought about it, too. It was an interesting experience and prompted me to start one at a different library (Thank you Lydia!) That group is still going on and still offering hope that my writing isn’t horrid while allowing me the privilege of reading other people’s work. (Thank you Susan, Deb, and Hannah!)

Rina Fosati’s ventured out to Hamburg where we met at Comfort Zone for coffee. We often zoom on Tuesdays, but in person is better and it had been a while. Thursday, Husband agreed to go with me to a lit gig. Michael Parzymieso launched his first book, “The Dale” and had a warm intro from Nicole Hebdon. Today is Saturday and twenty-five years ago it was a Wednesday when Husband and I got married. (That’s a long time, isn’t it?) Anyway, so, there it is, a recap of this….

OH! I nearly forgot! Mucho mega thank yous to Kim Chinquee for including my story “Just One More Thing” in the Endurance Issue of Elm Leaves Journal. My beautiful contributor copy arrived! I truly am honored to have my work included among so many talented writers. The amount of care Kim puts into each issue as well as her classes and training is awe-inspiring. Seriously – thank you, Kim.     

On to the Facebook Saga:

Half paying attention, I opened Facebook one night and scrolled to find a pop up saying I couldn’t “like” a post, but I could leave a comment. Weird, right? So, I went through the settings and signed out of devices and created a new password. They sent a code to do this, and I then got an email saying it was all set, and I was good to go. A minute later, I got a nasty message saying I’d violated a community standard and I have 180 days to appeal. No warning sent that I’d posted a bad thing, no mention of what the violation was, no option to remove it.

In order to appeal whatever this charge is against me; I’d need to verify my humanhood on camera. While the one page says they keep the video for 30 days, further reading shows it is a year and really, I’m supposed to believe they’d erase it in 365 days? Right. This abusive treatment came about while I’m reading “Careless People” by Sarah Wynn-Williams in which she gives examples of what a $hit person Mark Zuckerberg is to others. (I’m just past where he abandoned a member of his team in Jakarta.) Anyway, I have 169 days left to appeal, but I feel no need to give the weirdo programmers my current image to warp into fake videos, so I guess we’ll have to find another way to stay in touch if our main contact is that advertising site. (Seriously, that’s another reason not to return – So. Many. Ads.)

 End of the boring origin story of my being basically silenced on a platform for…some reason.

Thank you for stopping by and for the read! I am reading Marie Kondo’s book but haven’t committed to it yet. The whole title is intimidating, “The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying Up: The Japanese art of Decluttering and Organizing” but hey, it might make next month’s post succinct. Everything is possible. Have a great June and thank you again!

The Easter Bunny did not leave enough chocolate again this year

Things will happen a certain way and I’ll wonder if other artists have the same thing happen to them. I don’t ask because I’ve read their posts and flashes, stories and poems that have already told me the answer. Yes, it all happens all the time. It comes in waves. Tons of work getting published, then long stretches of comma rearrangement; long stretches to work but no inspiration or drive, then a week jammed packed with movement and tableaus to explore and little time to jot a note or sketch an outline.

The week I had included going to the Hamburg Library to attend a Lissa Marie Redmond event on a Monday night. I ran into Mary Jean Zajac there. Hannah from Writing Club attended, too. On Tuesday, it was Writing Club and I was reminded how far I have to go with the rewrite in making the text clearer. (And doing that while trying to remember the altered plotlines is what someone older than myself would call a “hoot.”) Wednesday I spent time at a mall with a woman I used to spend days at the mall with frequently and had at least 4 story ideas come up that day. Thursday, I helped a poet without realizing it was a poet I was helping at the parking kiosk. It was at Buffalo State and I was there to read for Drop Hammer from the upcoming (now out) Endurance Issue of Elm Leaves Journal. Theresa Wyatt, Nancy McCabe, Carol Townsend, and Jean Thompson read too at the invitation of ELJ’s editor, Kim Chinquee. Thank you, Kim! It was lovely and she took us out after for a meal at Cornelia, the restaurant in the renovated AKG. Kim has two (TWO!) books coming out soon – Contact with the Wild and Octopus Arms – congratulations Kim!

Friday, I ran errands and took the dog to the park. Saturday, we went to Buffalo with Betty in the rain and added our fed-up-with-this-dog-e-shit-slash-and-burn-policy voices to the Hands-Off Protest. It was cold, wet, and miserable, but it will be just as awful in an El Salvadorian concentration camp, you know?

Later, Husband and I went to see JT and the Law at Still on the Hill and my muted phone kept buzzing. The message came in out of order – the enormity of it all still stuns me. A friend I almost lost in a motorcycle accident two decades ago was in a near miss from a stolen Tesla that nearly killed him and his two children as they were on their way to an El Paso Easter Egg Hunt. Weirder still is that his wife, who came a bit later, medically attended to the person who had nearly wiped out her whole family.   

And that wasn’t even a full week of my April.

There is insurance paperwork piled up for me to read, reread, and attempt to understand. I was charged as a new patient when I was not and need to get that corrected before pulling out my hair. That right there is something to protest for – can you imagine? In other countries, healthcare is free – not for an insurance company to extract every penny in your pocket so they can have a profit and please their shareholders. Ffs, it’s people’s lives and those would be made healthier in an instant if universal healthcare – as found in most all other countries – came along and reduced everyone’s stress levels. But why would anyone in this administration care what would help anyone that isn’t them?

You see my dilemma – so much to write about, so behind on the minutia of daily life, so angry that the upcoming chaos could have been avoided. Plus, it’s criminal not to go out and acknowledge spring flowers like these while they are here, no?

Many thanks to you for stopping by and for the read. I cherish you in a weird way, but I think you already knew that because if you’re reading me, you’re probably a writer, too, so you know that kinship you feel when someone reads your words.

Cheers!

Spring(ish) Fever by the Creek and Writers

I’m thinking there’s a deeper essay in here, but I haven’t fleshed it out enough. Writing this is hard enough. I’d been distracted by the reports over the weekend of a jumper at the High Level Bridge.

Today I found out it was my old doctor who I never met. He’s literally my age.

 Was.

So many doctors recently…

In case I’ve never told you before, I hate being sick. Abhor it. Resent the amount of time it takes up so I must tell you, its extra fun to catch something at the doctor’s office during the yearly wellness exam. This time? Norovirus! Actually, Husband caught it and for days, I washed and Lysoled, slept in a mask and avoided it. Then I had to go back and got it. I mention this because doctors should mask, but don’t and I do mask and I haven’t been sick in years until I had to deal with them. I’m not sure what the appeal is for being ill. If you have a way to avoid such unpleasantness or don’t wish others to suffer, mask. Thank you. I’m doing better – except for the resentment of having time taken away from me, but it kept me from dwelling on certain thoughts…

Today, what I’m speculating about is why I bother sending out my work since it’s so often met with rejection, but there isn’t a doctor anywhere smart enough for that topic, so let’s talk about something else – like writers in the wild.

The Writing Club I volunteered to start in the local library has attracted some interesting people with neat stories and it’s exciting to feel the energy. (I’ve missed the group I’d been in pre-Covid) The other group I attend was developing a cool vibe and that was shattered. The last Friday meeting there was followed by direct messages on the socials. One of the members had a massive heart attack and died – roughly 24 hours later. This, of course, sparked a pile on of disbelief at the number of writers I’ve known who are no longer roaming the earth.

I did hear that at the writer’s viewing, our group was mentioned and that the writer had a positive experience with it. It’s going to sound like a brag, but I did encourage him to slightly rework one of his essays into a Buffalo News “My View” column. He did, it was accepted, and at least he went out as a published author, so yeah, I think it’s cool that I helped in a small way with his writing career when I had that option. To be honest, I expected to be helping him edit his book in a year, not marking the anniversary of his passing.

I know many people reject the sirening socials now with all the added bile, but it is where I find community. And opportunities. And notices of upcoming events. Yesterday, I saw a notice from Nancy McCabe. Her new book, Fires Burning Underground, will have a launch party on April 8th.   There were so many AWP pictures posted by and of people I admire. Melissa Olstrum and Mocha have brightened my day so often with their walks and her pottery. My cat climbs into my lap to be soothed by Melissa Llanes Brownlee’s singing and ukulele playing. (I’ve tried to get a picture of this, but annoying the white cat while she’s listening ends in scratches) Mike, a writer from my old group will publish his first book in June. MJ from there is on a speaking tour of sorts. Rina is decoding and polishing her father’s text. Gina from a different group is completing her series! There are so many artists sharing their lives and talents there, so it’s hard to not to cheer them on.

I think that’s the best part of being a writer – being in other writer’s lives. The blank page staring, the character wrestling, the chaos of keeping a story in your head, those are all lonely endeavors, and knowing someone else is out there struggling, too, helps with the despair. It’s sad that my old doctor didn’t have that – or if he did, it wasn’t enough.

Like I said, there’s a deeper essay lurking with better tie-ins and subtlety, but this is what I’ve got knowing the details now of a life that ended in a manner I admit I’ve contemplated for a character.

Thanks for stopping by and for the read. I appreciate the F*CK out of you, even if I don’t say it enough. It’s scary out there – resist. Do a silly walk. Sit in a box with a dog. Mine is willing – and eager – to share.

Cheers!

Bobbling

What a time to be alive…if we are alive. I’m leaning into the belief that Y2K was the end of earth and everything now is simply hell and because of fractals, the heat and stupidity is intensifying. If I’d studied math and science harder, I could draw up graphs to prove this. Instead, I write.

How are YOU doing? What are you doing to ease the constant stress? I’m into baths. I dump 2 cups of Epsom salts over a sprinkling of a ½ a cup of baking soda at the far end, dribble a few drops of lavender oil on top, then add hot water. When I submerge, effervesce tingles the back of my neck ala Calgon taking me away.

Sexton’s “Transformations” caught my eye, so I’ve pulled that off the shelf to reread when “They Were Her Property” by Stephanie E. Jones-Rogers gets too bleak. Kara Swisher’s “Burn Book” is nearly done, but the semi-coherent Elon in the book stands in contrast to the drug fueled maniac he now is in the White House – and lord help us all for what happened there today with Zelensky.

 I’m calling my reps, meeting on the downlow with the like-minded, and boycotting. After inventorying my unpublished pieces, I’ve been submitting – which means I’m getting rejected, but oh, a few of them have been from higher ups with “almost.”

And this prettiness hit my mailbox and made me so happy. Thank you Kim Chinquee!

So it’s all diving under water then shooting higher and harder with my work, encouraging other writers in real life and online, graciously accepting criticism when it comes politely (Thank you Rina Fosati!) while bobbling along in this surreal timeline, occasionally baking and drinking A LOT of tea. (If you haven’t tried it yet, I recommend Yogi brand Stress Relief with Kava and the Dandelion Root Detox varieties.)

May all your endeavors be fulfilling and your Granny Smith apples be green. Thank you for stopping by and for the read!

Whiz. Bang. No Boom.

Now I can describe it as dread – the ever-present feeling overshadowing everything in my life since the bad PSA result arrived in November. The results of Husband’s biopsy were negative on all counts and since he received that wonderful news on Thursday morning, I’ve been decompressing. It’s been a physical sensation as well as a spiritual one – the lifting. It was a mental gulp of oxygen from holding back on plans not knowing if things were going to change – or how. An obligation I took on earlier was beginning to chafe as it grew nearer, but now I look forward to doing it. Hosting a writing club in a library is a lot easier to deal with than ordering stairlifts.

Yes, back to that. Assembling with other writers begins Tuesday February 4.th If you’re interested, send me an email because I can’t get the PDF to insert. I’ll bring cookies. Kidding. Well, maybe. I’m nervous about being in charge, but if it brings someone out who’s better suited to lead, I’ll feel good about getting something going in that direction.

And timing! I’d no sooner gotten PDF’s back from the librarian at one library, when the West Falls-Colden Library’s librarian called about a different writer’s group new meeting times – as if I wasn’t confused enough!

That group led by Joe Marren met again this morning. I entered the building and the new volunteer coordinator stood by the desk, hampering the swift dash downstairs I’d planned to make before the meeting’s start to check out the used books. She wanted to know if I’d come back and cover the Saturday shift again. There was more talk – and I left it up in the air – but I might. I mean, one of the first things I did after texting the good news to immediate family was look up the conference I went to last year. I haven’t been thinking in terms of “my” next move for a long time, so I want to explore before I commit.

I’ve had limited time with my writing and it’s been primarily used to work micros to death. The one I read at group today was met with silence, which is nerve-wracking, but also a sign that it packed a punch – and for a drabble, I think that’s impressive. Now to submit it. Aye, there’s the rub – putting my work out where it could face rejection. Or acceptance.

Maybe I’m not ready for either quite yet, but I am close. And close is far as I plan to get tonight while another early morning looms.

Thank you so much for stopping by and for the read!

New Years Eve, Balls, and Possible Snow

Greetings from this side of 2024 where blanked on writing a blog post until after 7:30pm. I hope you are well where you are – and washing your hands with soap to prevent spreading infections. (If only PAs in Roswell’s Urology Department would do the same – and mask ffs. Yes Irene, I’m looking at you) The bird flu has me worried as the Norovirus runs through western New York with no end in sight. Good times!

The past month was spent doing the holiday cookie joy and I rolled and dipped enough balls to remember how much I must care for people – at least the people who had cookies sent or delivered to them. Besides the few days between Thanksgiving and Christmas this year, there were multiple doctor and dentists visits and even a writing session with Kathy Fish.  I also had to shovel multiple times because this of all years needed provide prime lake effect conditions – with even more in the forecast.

Husband has made more progress on the ceiling and the once red table and leaves are done – covered now with a marble design.

So are the chairs.

The Holiday cards and letter went out and we had a visit from Texans this weekend which was the “last thing” before I could relax, and today, I did…which may be why I forgot to write this until now.

This year resulted in 135 submissions – not as many as I’d hoped, but enough.

Thank you:

Jeff Harvey for accepting “Hearts Compounded” for Gooseberry Pie Issue 12.

Geoffrey Miller at NUNUM for accepting “Spiders Everywhere” and nominating it for Best Microfiction.

Hema Nataraju , Lakshmi Iyer, Melissa Llanes Brownlee at Literary Namjooning for loving “How It’s Done” and presenting it so beautifully.

Tamara Burross Grisanti at Coffin Bell – the one place I saw “There’s No Such Thing as a Free Meal” finding a home – and it did.

Ben The Drevlow at BULL whose edits for “Not Everyone Dreams of La La Land” made it shine for the print issue.

Tabi at Litmora for taking “Blooming” and inviting me to Fredonia’s Literary Festival

And Kim Chinquee. Wow. Thank you for accepting “Brilliance” “No Object” and “Shoo Bird” for the gorgeous Eclipse Issue of Elm Leaves Journal – and for the Pushcart nomination.

What a year in publishing- as I determine it from 11/30/2023 to 11/30/2024! Now on to the next – and soon!

Thank you for stopping by and for the read. Cheers!

Celebrating, Ceilings, and Sky Things

It’s all ups and downs, isn’t it? I live in a bubble of beauty and cannot believe it expanded like this. I had seen Julie Tuttle’s painting at the Colden Arts Festival and loved it. I told her the optimal dimensions I wanted the print to be, but it wouldn’t work so instead of a print, I now have an original painting, and it makes me so happy to walk into the office and see this. Thank you, Julie!

I voted early and on the morning of November 5th, I saw the most unusual rainbow in the sky over my home. Boy, did I misunderstand that sign. Luckily, there is free will, a list of goals, and block buttons on social media, so I’ve been busy.

The Halloween decorations were put away and the Christmas boxes came down. Thanksgiving came late and is over but for the soup and last piece of pecan pie. The first batch of fudge is made and soon to be cut. I was supposed to have the holiday letter written by now, but there was a whole night lost until the Hazmat unit arrived then left the house. During all of this, I’ve been worried about Husband and the tests he has coming up. He’s helping me ignore the things I cannot change by beginning the long-delayed ceiling repair, so the goals I set have to navigate an obstacle course along with me and the never tired-out dog. It’s fun!

I mean, making art is hard enough – especially when you’re in the minutia – trading one word for another, considering a comma here or there or none, paragraph place switching. It’s too easy to pull out just enough to see your own insecurity, not the progress in the prose. From there, all it takes is seeing a “there” for “their” and I am disparaging my entire writing career and for having ever learned English.

From that whiny position last week, I began receiving remarkable news.  

First, many thanks to Yung Painkiller, the photographer who captured the pre-election happiness and peace in a picture of me and Kim Chinquee. In September, I attended An Evening with Percival Everett, part of the Buffalo Humanities Festival. He read from his novel, “James.” Congratulations to Mr. Everett for winning the National Book Award. Thank you, Kim, for inviting me and sending along the picture which is part of the event album!

Another huge thank you to Kim Chinquee for nominating me for the Pushcart Prize. That email arrived on a dark night when I was rethinking all my writing. I’d written to a friend about it and after fetching an envelope, I received that incredible nomination that was so kind and lovely, I cried.

But wait, there’s more. Barely had I received that honor, when another one arrived. Geoffrey at NUNUM has nominated “Spiders Everywhere” for Best Microfiction. (Here is a link to the interview which also went up this month.) Thank you, Geoffrey Miller! And thank you for stopping by and for the read. I know it can be a rough time of the year, so know I’m in your corner and I’m whispering, “Take care of you.” I hope you hear it.

Cheers!

The Prompt Witch

The Halloween decoration box came down from the closet after our company left and for the first time since Covid, I decorated with glee. I even picked up new light strands that were discounted at Lowe’s. They are fairy lights, so I’ll reuse them. The strand I already set up in the office ran through its set of patterns and when it reached the flashy bit, I used that as a prompt to pull my eyes away from the screen, so they are beneficial, too.

Speaking of prompts, today I was the Prompt Witch at Buffalo State for my co-appearance with the poet Karen J. Weyant for the Drop Hammer Series. I bought her book, “Avoiding the Rapture,” and so should you. Great turn out and fantastic questions! Thank you Kim Chinquee for the invitation – and an acceptance for the Endurance Issue of Elm Leaves Journal– and congratulations on your soon to be new releases!

The days have been uncharacteristically pleasant, so I’ve been trying to soak in the beauty while taking care of outside tasks that don’t need to be done, but being inside in such nice weather feels like a crime. I resented being sent outside as a child since I had books and comfortable places to sit inside, now I’m compelled.

The writing continues though the pace is uneven. I’ve restarted keeping a small book to tally my accomplishments each week. There used to be a lively board on Zoetrope called Friday Fess-Up where people would list their S,R, and A’s (submissions, rejections, and acceptances.) I’ve got three S’s, an R, and an A so far, which isn’t too shabby, but I can do better, so off I go to do that…or take a nap.

Spreading the magic of story is tiring work. I loved doing it today, and if you were there, thank you!

Thank you for stopping in for the read!

And the Lit Gods smiled bright

This month has been packed with lit goodness. The incredible inaugural issue of Literary Namjooning dropped and it’s more beautiful than I imagined. Thank you, Hema, Lakshmi, and Melissa!  What you have created is a loving tribute and besides all the great pieces – including mine – paired with the artwork, the contributor notes are both interesting and helpful. I’m sad for the reason this zine came into existence, but lightened that such pain transformed into great beauty.

~~*~~

I had a guest pass to the Percival Everett reception at Babeville courtesy of the incredible Kim Chinquee. Here he is during the interview after his reading:

NUNUM, a paying market, accepted “Spiders Everywhere.”  It’s live and I’m paid, so awesome enough for the month, right? But there’s more.

Let’s talk workshops. My piece in Literary Namjooning  was written in a Kathy Fish Fast Flash Reunion. NUNUM accepted one of three I wrote in the Cheryl Pappas workshop in January. I took a class with Amber Sparks  this month and another Kathy Fish workshop this past Saturday. If past performance is any indicator, I may have more acceptances soon. Hahaha. All I can do is hope, and hone, and prepare for a presentation. Yes, that’s right. I will be reading at Drop Hammer on Halloween with Karen Wyent, a poet I met at the WCoNA conference in March.

~~*~~

At the Colden Arts Festival, we bought some Christmas presents and we have new art. Thank you Julie Tuttle for painting & framing the picture in the middle that works perfectly in this corner!

Working toward winter, coupled with having company come spend the night, has left the house in an acceptable level of nonclutter, plus it’s still sort of clean, so knock on wood, I can get back to the novel rewrite now. If the animals allow it, but I turn around and find the cat is trying to send the dog back to where we got her and I have to figure out where the cat even got a box – let alone one of that size…

So, all of this, plus birthdays of some of my favorite people happened, as well as a canine sad so long and a nearly human one close to my sister, plus a ton of other stuff, but I put this off until the last minute and need to wrap it up here.

Thank you SO much for stopping by and for the read! Be good to you in October!  

Adios August! Don’t let the cat swat you on your way out

Hello and thank you so much for meeting me here in this humid heat. What a joy it has been to work outside in the mornings before it became too hot to move. I just love the dawn, Canadian fire-tinged air, and my own sarcasm. How have you been? Are your days melting together, too?

The novel editing has turned into a pre-surgery evaluation. I’ve broken the middle into a list of occurrences, discussions, and information reveal. Once that is done – and I am close – I can begin the cut and paste. I hope to use this table (and the leaves) for this, but it might be enduring a rejuvenation soon. I’m excited about the changes to start but procuring the proper material has been challenging – well, a lot harder to find than I anticipated.

Someone around here – NOT me – had another birthday, so we celebrated properly with an ice-cream cake with shiny unicorn candles. Someone hid the Barbie ones, but I won’t speculate about who might be the culprit. I mean – it’s tough to figure out mysteries like this. Two people in one house, and if you didn’t move the thing on the shelf the cats and the dog cannot reach, it must have been a time-travelling pirate who broke into the house take that one thing, right? Damn pirates…

 Otherwise, the tree outside the bathroom came down before it had a chance to fall in a direction we didn’t want it to fall, i.e. the roof.

And, before you go, I want to tell you one thing more – I am incredibly happy and dare I say proud? to be included in the inaugural issue of  Literary Namjooning, which will drop soon. I don’t care if you read my story, per se, I mean, I do, but please check this publication out if you are a reader or a writer. The story of its origin is beautiful and Melissa, Hema, and Lakshmi are among the best people to interact with on-line. Thank you to them for including my piece, “How It Is Done,” which was written during a Kathy Fish Fast Flash Reunion – I think the last one held in a Zoetrope office. Thank you, Kathy! Thank you, Rina Fosati, for your sharp eye in the editing. Just a huge thank you to you, too, for stopping by and for the read! I appreciate it. I appreciate you. May cool happiness come your way!

Oh the Humidity, and other pithy thoughts

Hello. Hi. Nice to see you again – and if this is your first visit, welcome. There’s a contact page link around here somewhere if you need it, though I get most of my messages the old-fashioned way: through the crows.

I’m here, strapped to a gyro, trying to balance all of the things – as well as work on the revision of my novel, Foam. I am…happier with it, but not necessarily with myself. I am going so slow. Ten pages ahead, go back thirty and reweave a plot point, start again. And again. It is a rewrite. I am going deeper into ideas and values held and taught to girls – and by deeper, I mean subtly pointing it out in prose. (Why yes, I do grow lofty about my own work – especially typing at a standing desk. I don’t know why. This is why I don’t think I would be a good teacher.  I fear I’d be tyrannical in a classroom. “You will kill that darling, do you hear me? Is that an adverb I see? 57 pull ups and you can watch me weep as you do them because you ermine-eyed scribbling child, you used a cliché later on in the same paragraph.”)

Congrats Damien !

(I have no pictures to prove it, I did wear a bathing suit while attending this graduation party on Lime Lake. Being comfortable enough with my own body to get so close to naked in front of friends and acquaintances was a nice side benefit to my true intention – which is to keep my body in shape to avoid surgery and/or replacement parts for as long as possible. I really don’t care for doctors. The morning Pilates/weight training/cardio routines are nothing but torture, but so is the idea of being cut into with a scalpel by a hungover surgeon, thus, I do A LOT of mat work.)  

Speaking – sort of – about that, many thanks to Tamara Grisanti and the editors and staff at Coffin Bell. It’s my second appearance there. I finished reading a previous issue in 2018, came up with the idea for this, wrote There’s No Such Thing as a Free Lunch , and then it sat there on the computer until sending it out to the only place I could see as it’s home. So, see? Sometimes, writerly things do work out.   

The path to the labyrinth and the ones to the creek were finally mown, but the weedeater remains broken. Seven rows of wood have been put up and once the mornings return to being pleasant enough to work outside for more than two minutes before my eyelids sweat, I will.  The electric fence for the puppy is operational, and the training has begun. We’ve eaten green beans, peas, and tomatoes freshly picked from the garden. At night in the newly rewoven lounge chair, I’ve watched bats dance across the full moon.

And, as is often the case, the smoothly working outside masks inner turmoil. Dear lord and heaven, marriage is hard, even when we’re agreeing.  Strapping myself to a chair to write & rewrite the same set of words is hard, too. The latest entry to the page of quotes reads, “People do not decide their futures, they decide their habits and their habits decide their futures.”

So, I step away from the mental spin cycle, open the goal book I started in January, re-read the quarterly breakdowns, find the to-do book, list 4 tasks to work on when I need to do something other than writing, but mostly this month, all I have been doing is writing, with seemingly little to show for the effort, but the habit. Oh, also stressing. Lots of that this month.

This is one of the two places I’m privileged to practice my writing habits. The other is basically the bleak hidden corner described in Orwell’s 1984, but with better light.

I hope your July was mighty fine. Thanks for stopping by and for the read!

Cheers!

It’s hard to chart your progress if you don’t know where you’re aiming

At the beginning of the year in a Nancy Stohlman class, I dreamed a few dreams and wrote them out as 10-year goals. Those were divided into smaller ones, which were divvied up further so I now have a printed out list of what needs to be done by quarter, with a monthly checklist of things to do in each.  I’m happy to report it is going well despite my occasional forays into freak-outs when there are any curve balls thrown my way. For whatever reason, I respond well to lists. This new structure has also freed me of some of my worry, but not my anxiety. To ease that between acupuncture appointments, I’ve made the upper greenhouse whiter with paint and returned a few of the plants early from their usual summer hang out on the patio. Opening any window lets in the babble of the creek. Sometimes there’s a breeze. In the morning, the light is even more dazzling than this.

As with the past few summers, getting back to the labyrinth hasn’t happened as often as I would have preferred, so this space serves as a calming spot where I drink tea, eat apples, and lately, edit. I didn’t think this was where I’d be, but I embrace it. Having the year-end accomplishment list I made was a heavy lift because I aimed for acceptances with print. As of now, I have had work appear in two that I can already hold in my hand in June. Trust me, it’s extra thrilling because both include work from fellow writers I love and respect. Again and again and again, thank you Kim Chinquee for inclusion in Elm Leaves Journal’s Eclipse Issue and thank you to The Drevlow for accepting my piece for Issue 11 of Bull. (Look at those covers. I’d buy them even if I weren’t in them.) The year isn’t over, but with that spectacular success crossed off, I’m on to the next ones.

The book edit I did earlier this spring sat for weeks. I returned and have been correcting it at a line edit/add a red herring here/downplay this, but mention it hard enough to be memorable stage of editing. (And by the way, may I offer apologies to all my poor beta readers who read even part of this mess. Especially Chel! I am so sorry I didn’t know how to make it better in an earlier draft!) I did think this read through would have me patting myself on the back for the clever bits, and there were a few, but in this draft, it’s apparent it needs more fine-tuning and craft. (I read, learn more, and then take scissor blades to phrases I’ve refused to cut in previous drafts. Killing your darlings can be gruesome and brutal – especially when you set the cuttings on fire to warm your soul with their flame…but maybe that’s just me and my editing style.)  

Anyway, the problem is that I have perfectionist tendencies and could spend the next thirty years on two sentences if I wanted to, but if I want to reach the goals on my list, I can’t. So while I’m not going fast, I’m striving for this version to be the good enough draft which will aid me in the next step, but I also want it to be over already. Last night I ran into another area I wanted to cut and paste into a better flow, but allowed myself to rest instead of delving into that messy spot when it was nearly midnight. Today, refreshed, I’m going to tackle other things. The weather of western New York decides the flow of which work is tackled and when. Besides writing, there is wood. I’ve been putting up what I split and stacked last year. As another row in the shed gets filled, I am happily in awe. All the time spent last year working on splitting is paying off and for that, I’m grateful. Though I itch to finish the book, I visit the white room and calmly remind myself there will be other days where I’ll want to stay in from the heat or days when it’s too rainy, and move on to the next task with less worry. A change in perspective helps, and sometimes you see chipmunks hanging upside down, too.

Besides the enormous help I feel I received from Nancy’s course, goals aren’t met without hard choices being made. There’s a meme without attribution I saw somewhere and I liked it so much I wrote it down to remind myself of its truth: Marriage is hard. Divorce is hard. Choose your hard. Obesity is hard. Being fit is hard. Choose your hard. Being in debt is hard. Being financially disciplined is hard. Choose your hard. Communicating is hard. Not communicating is hard. Choose your hard. Life will never be easy. It will be always be hard, but we can choose our hard. Pick wisely. ~Proper accreditation to be placed here if I ever find it.

Early on in our relationship, Husband and I decided to follow the cliché of saving for a rainy day which helped when the roof was damaged, and now, for this.

Of course the calculated time saved on working on the broken tractor has been transferred to wagon problems, but I’m focusing on the good parts, here. He can now mow the lawn and leave me out of that chore altogether so I have more time to edit and notice the beautiful surprises like a mountain laurel in bloom. I didn’t plant it, but I happily share this unexpected delight from Mother Nature. Isn’t it pretty?

I’m also happy to report Bertie graduated her first round of obedience course. Here’s our happy grad, just before eating her mortise board.

So yes, there is slow, steady, sloggy progress going on here. We’re making choices and enjoying the side benefits. After I post this, I’m going to pick fresh, ripe and sun warmed blackberries from bushes I transplanted last year to a more convenient spot, where happily, they took.

May all your goals be possible to reach and all your roots grow deep. Thank you for stopping by and for the read!

Out of the Attic and into the Garden

Ah, novel rewriting, what a treat. If you’ve not enjoyed the process, may I suggest not having most of the action in your book take place in an attic? As I sat in the corner of the library, typing, fixing, adding, and cutting to get this novel even better than it was, I swear I developed claustrophobia.

I’m tearing myself out of that mindset by digging dirt. The first spring after started the no till garden idea? Clear delineation of where I was able to use the garden weasel to rid the area of dandelions by the root vs. where the cages were and I could not weed. Seeing that I didn’t have as much work as I thought I’d have, I went to a nursery to buy plants and zap – randomly ran into fellow WNY writer, Christina Abt.

Zucchini, yellow squash, cucumbers, bush beans, peas, jalapeno, and green pepper plants are in the ground and -knock on wood- semi-slug protected by copper. The twelve holes for the Roma and Heinz tomato plants are dug and after dinner tonight, I could be done with the planting. Yesterday, I made thirty-two thin pancakes for the enchiladas. I made a big tin of fudge nut bars that need to be cut. With proper portioning and freezing, this is how I am buying future time.

Time runs faster once June hits. I might be camping in the Alleghenies with Kim Chinquee and Nancy McCabe in a few weeks. I might be weeding. I look forward to popping in to spend time with Rina Fosati again soon. If Husband and I make it to 7pm, we’ll have been married 24 years today. A new riding lawnmower may be our mutual anniversary gift, which you must admit beats the hell out of the sump pump we went and bought on my birthday a few years back. I’ve had some nice rejections, does this precede acceptances in the coming days? Only the flowers know.

White peony in bloom, trees in sunlight in background

Speaking of flowers, did I mention “Blooming” made it into Litmora’s third issue? This flash is how “Near Eden, New York,” a previous novel I wrote, begins. Gooseberry Pie did me a solid by including “Hearts Compounded” in its 12th issue. Do check out other pieces from the one – or a previous issue. Six sentences? Come on, you have time to read one or two, don’t you?

Reading is an exercise I’ve been doing less than Pilates these days. Sometimes a break from words is needed, so I’m taking a short one to enjoy my day.

Please enjoy the day you’re having. Thank you so much for stopping by and for the read!

Cheers!

Sometimes life is so crazy it looks like a dog with a cigar

I thought March was spectacular and then April came around. Sure, I had another birthday, which is fine, I guess, but eh the “aging” bit could go. I did receive amazing gifts of love through words, deeds, FB posts, flowers, and even presents. Thank you all and here is the picture of the cake I honestly would have shared with you had you dropped in at the time:

The 5th had me in Buffalo for a workshop where I had the opportunity to reconnect with members of my old writing group that met in Hamburg at the Comfort Zone and pitched the novel I’m rewriting to an agent. She gave me her card and told me to query her when it was done, so in the parlance of that structure, it was a victory. I’d no more than spun around and it was time for the solar eclipse. We did it up in style.

Friends from Chicago arrived and we had dinner with them and the amazing Tuttle clan. Friday, the 12th, thankyouthankyou Kim Chinquee hosted the Elm Leaves Eclipse Launch where not only was I listed as special guest and ELJ Contributor on the posters, I read with her talented students, but also with Rachel L. Johnson and Justin Karcher. Seriously, if you know anything about the Buffalo Lit scene, you know reading with Justin is a Buffalo bucket list must do and I did it. Thank you to everyone who was a part of the launch! AND my niece Ashley showed up  – as well as the couple from Chicago as a surprise, which it truly was, Thank you Robert and Theresa. Because of Kim, there are pictures of this incredible event. Thank you!

Thank you Kim also for another wondrous Drop Hammer. This month, it was Nancy McCabe. I’ve got her, “Can This Marriage Be Saved?” on my to be read pile. After she read from new work, there was discussion and food. Carol – and I’m sorry I don’t recall her last name – led us to a gallery in the AKG open to the public. Before and After Again, the current exhibit of artwork, prose, and poetry by the Buffalo-based Julia Bottoms, Tiffany Gaines, and Jillian Hanesworth is incredible. The depth of the portraits and the food images, as well as the prose and hope in the seeds – a truly moving tribute to those lost, but also to those who still live in the area of the Tops shooting and the tentacles of how food deserts compound misery.

I don’t know if any of that is right, art is subjective after all, and I really liked this lamp made by Henry.

That was another experience I was graced to experience. I’d gotten an acceptance at Litmora, which led to my trying to work that in at the launch, and there was an invitation by the editor to attend the Fredonia Literary Festival, and so I did. Completely interesting and fun, plus it turned out that both Henry and Tabi are from Springville. How cool is that? It’s even cooler because Tabi (moderator in the first pic) also has ties to the town where my grandmother lived.

I’m grateful to be here. Western NY is such a lovely spot filled with great souls and flash writers like Rina Fosati. When I went to visit her, I came across a free lawnmower that Husband is falling in love with more with each pull of the cord. I am blessed beyond measure and if you’re reading this, you are the part of the wonder in this universe. Thank you for being that.

Thank you for stopping by and for the read ❤ Enjoy your May!

What do you mean it’s Easter AND the last day of March?

Greetings, you wonderful human! How are you? How have you been? To say I’ve been living a busy writing life is to gloss over details, and in order to post before midnight, I must.

To start, look at this gorgeous bit of mail. I mean, seriously, even if I didn’t have work inside here, I’d want to own this issue. It is stunning. Thank you to Kim Chinquee and everyone who works on Elm Leaves Journal for including me – which is an understatement since I’m part of the launch/eclipse festivities:

Can you believe that????

And, as if Kim wasn’t awesome enough, the poor thing relapsed with Covid and she offered me her VIP ticket to John Irving at Babel. I mean…

Thank you to Barbara Cole for facilitating the transfer and to everyone at Just Buffalo for all the amazing things they do. What an awesome experience after the pleasure of meeting Karen Schubert at Drop Hammer.

This – after the amazing Writers Conference of Northern Appalachia. Omg, talk about a nearly perfect conference. Not too big, not too small. Not too many people.

But some of the best people like Jolene Mcilwain and Gina Detwiler:

Not too far away. Thank goodness I stayed an extra day to write, think and relax and enjoy my view.

I’m busy with a rewrite and honing my first page and pitch. Seriously, it’s been fun, and a lot and I am so glad you stopped by. Sorry it’s a short but thank you for reading!

Fertile Underground

Hi. According to my camera roll, for the past two weeks, I’ve only existed in the past. On Valentine’s Day, I took pictures of the three roses Husband brought home for me – without prompting or any sort of reminder – but didn’t post them. Before that? No pictures since the last blog post.

If I have been there, in the past, I’ve resurfaced in more ways than one. Floating on my back today, the wind and rain mimicked an ocean. I looked down at my feet and saw the swirly black sands of a place in the Adirondacks where I dared to go swimming – or at least I walked in up to my knees. W, Husband’s twin, in a blue cap, sat back near the trees. Husband stood between us on the dry rippled sand. I was back with Vonnie on a past perfect pre–Y2K February day at the Atlantic. Seashells near the pier were mostly shards. Walking alone for a stretch, I felt the surging power on my legs, the grip. I imagined other beaches, mostly tan, but some pink, some white, and then I think I worked on my chakras.

Anyway, I started a course of acupuncture when I could no longer carry the weight I had on my shoulders.

The first session, I was anxious and apprehensive, but so willing to try anything for relief that I was willing to pay in cash for it until the new insurance sent out a “wellness card.” [Why yes, I DID meditation and Pilates and Yoga and STOP. My body, my choices and it worked.]

Of course it could be a placebo effect, true, but I had listened to a segment of People’s Pharmacy on NPR where a – white, I assume – man had discovered this network of membranes connecting the organs and tissues that no one had ever noticed before (eye roll emoji) and had written a paper and was ready to go to a conference when he finally talked to somebody else and – surprise- the wise man said, “Yeah, that’s the chi. Been telling you nit wit westerners for how long?  But sure, you discovered it.”

And then I heard that – what I assume was a white – man admit how damned dumb he – and countless others were by wasting research grant money all because they wouldn’t listen – or hear – or try to understand what acupuncture was all about. Boom. There. Click, click. The tension in my back was from a chi blockage. I knew it. My fear of needles fell away and I made an appointment.

Today was the fourth session, and the first on my back. (I asked for people with a larger bra size than mine about spending 50 minutes uncomfortably, and Dr. Cara assured me she has a pillowy solution, so don’t let that detour you.) The shoulder pain had nearly disappeared after the second session. I’m continuing to address other issues and I’m keeping notes on the experiences, but I do want to mention that a few hours after the first time, I felt an actual shift. It was brief and intense, but so real. As if to bolster the truth of the feeling, the universe rearranged people’s schedules so now I’m not going alone to the Writers Conference of Northern Appalachia. The Bitchy Cheerleaders – novel critique group of yore – are all going to be there – knock on wood and pray for good weather. So, that’s what is going on with me. I hope you’re doing this well, too. Thank you for stopping by and for the read. (Oh – and I hope to share things to read with you soon. I’m writing. I’m editing. I’m submitting. I’m all sorts of shiny happy for my beta rock goddess, Rina Fosati. I feel wonderful and really hope you do, too.) Cheers and good tidings!

January’s Out the Window

Proper preparation prevents poor performance. Those are the 5 P’s I remember from Due South. What I can’t seem to get through my head is that just because I can wait until the last minute to edit a story for a contest (which turned into a nearly complete rewrite) and scribble a blog, it’s better to leave myself some time in case things come up – and boy do they ever. My spirits and/or feelings are as high up as I can recall my January well-being ever being – including when I was a kid.

Part of it stems from a workshop I took recently. After attempting – yet failing— Nancy Stohlman’s Flash-A-Day challenge in November, she still graciously offered a discount on her class. I signed up for it and while some of the things I heard before, this time they clicked, and the one thing social media has taught us, clicks are good.

One major change is the quarters. I never thought to waver from the standard Jan-March, April-June, etc. separations but once I heard I could start in February – a whole lot made sense. I now have a notebook divided by goals by those quarters, by five years, by ten. It’s strange to thing how it has effected me – I feel alive.

Maybe it’s all about the control I feel in seeing where and when my time and energy gets divided. I’m currently setting up all the vet and doctor appointments so they are part of the plan. I’ve signed up for a conference and a seminar. Tomorrow begins the real test, but I feel both prepared and inspired.

Writing is a lot of work with no guarantee of a spit’s worth of minor acclaim or appreciation. Politics, baking, there are no sure bets on anything, but I now have a plan – and potential alternatives, and possibilities to pursue if those don’t pan out either.

I know – that’s a lot of optimism showing. Sorry. I can’t help it. I’ve gotten a lot of work done lately and it’s exciting. It probably sounds silly, but adding color has been extremely helpful; I am incentivized by pretty things and ease.  Look at my new board. I’ll be pinning reminders for magazine openings to their proper months as reminders instead of using a desk calendar, you see.

Aren’t the lined up folders exciting? I’m telling you I know it might not last – but that’s the beauty of the new approach – every three months I’ll be checking in with the goals and adjusting as needed. Already it’s easing my stress. I wanted to finish the movie list. I knew it wouldn’t be finished by the end of this quarter, so I not only moved it, I gave myself 6 months to finish it because while I want it done, I also have other goals that matter more.

Like you. You matter more than a list.

In the flurry of all this rush to complete a bunch of tasks, I also took a class with Cheryl Pappas. Oh, it was good. Intense. I have three new ugly babies now. I’ll see them in a week. See that’s another goal I’m working on – patience. I don’t have a lot of hope for achieving that one, but it’s on the list, so I’ll give it a go.

Husband designed a better version of my favorite cutting board. Isn’t the new one pretty?

Well, I thank you for stopping by and for the read. I hope your January was at least half as good as mine if not three times better. Until next time, cheers!   

Boldly seeing in the new year with a gorilla on the bookcase and a cat

31 December 2023 ~ 7:00p.m. as I type. It’s strange to be sitting here with a ton of gratitude and good cheer while heavy with inertia. Maybe it was all the decorating/package sending/cookie making/letter writing/card addressing, stamping, and mailing after accomplishing 50,000 words written in NaNoWriMo and nearly managing a flash a day on top of that just the month before. I apologize there’s not as much effort as I’d like to put in here present, but as someone wrote, “If a job is worth doing, it’s worth doing crappily.” I can’t remember where I heard that line – and I’m sure it was said with more elegance and grace – but it’s been an idea I’ve paired with St. Francis of Assisi’s “Start by doing what is necessary, then what is possible, and suddenly you are doing the impossible,” only to find it led to doing impossibly stupid things, so that is tiring me out, too.

(Off topic: Every time I write a breathless paragraph, I think of Kathy Fish. Maybe that’s how angels get their wings now.)(And really, it wasn’t that off topic. It’s A Wonderful Life has been playing in a loop all month.)(Talk about loopy, my thoughts go in circles sometimes. Do yours?)(Where was I? Oh. Right.)

With overnight company over the holiday, I had the chance to pull furniture out of the library, clean, and rearrange it. I hit upon a new configuration. That lasted a day or two before the shortcomings of orientating the mat one way and the chair in another reemerged. I switched it all back the way I had it this afternoon and noticed I should touch up the paint on the walls.

Pedestrian and predictable, isn’t it? Ruts…yet I dare say I feel a hint of hope about the upcoming new year. Maybe it’s the scent of a business idea or a political run. I don’t know what will happen next and neither do you, so in the meantime let me once again say thank you to the amazing readers and editors at these places who were wonderful enough to enjoy my work enough to share it:

I’m grateful to a long list of IRL people who made the year amazing, and I hope you’ll forgive my not naming your name and linking your page but I want to finish a book (reading) before midnight if I can, and chances are, you know who you are, including the awesome ones behind this:

I know, I probably owe you a letter/critique response/present that didn’t get packed, but it’ll have to wait. The gorilla on the bookcase is ready for a rockin’ eve and I’m off to finish reading a paltry tenth book for 2023. See you in the new year if we’re all lucky that way. Thank you for your love, your support, your kind words and likes if you gave them. Thank you for existing. Thank you stopping by and for the read.

Funny things, plans.

Tuesday night, I finished reading Ann Patchett’s “Tom Lake.” Because it was in the library’s waiting pool, I had to read it within a week which was unfortunate as the book is filled with natural breaks. There are places where you want to slow down, close the book, and think about your own past, the meaning of family, heredity, legacy and what’s at stake once you start telling your stories. The narrator insists on starting at the genesis of her role as Emily in the play “Our Town.” She listened without watching the auditioners and discerned what didn’t work. She tried not to sound like the competition, won the role, and betrayed a good friend. The harsh judgement the narrator places upon herself for choices she made as a teen go a long way in sympathizing with the mother as she tells about other life choices she’s made while picking cherries in the orchard with her three daughters. Her daughters poke and prod, plead, and finally forgive themselves for getting their mother – and their father’s life before they were born – all wrong. It’s a lovely story where you’ll laugh, you’ll cry and if you’re like me, wonder why you can’t write like that. (Not that all writers should sound like Patchett – I hope you know what I mean.)

So, later to bed meant later to rise. My to-do list for Wednesday was long enough when I went to bed. I opened my email to find it was the last day to apply for a NYFA grant. (I swear – and it’s true – the closing date used to be in February so it wasn’t on my radar.) The to-do list lost meaning as I rushed to write an artist’s statement, synopsis, and a character list and got it submitted in time.

This month I’ve been shoveling words in a novel for NaNoWriMo and attempted to write a flash a day with Hot Pants prompts. I’m within a few hundred words of closing out the 50,000 towards the latest book and if I scramble, my last 6 flashes might be written in time so yes, cool, for being within the sight of the finishing line BUT for NYFA, I pulled out a section of The Function of Foam to use and ended up immersed in that claustrophobic attic with the bats and Frank. Switching back to Ina and Milac caused a bit of whiplash, but I’m sure it will pass.

In a slightly less rare occurrence, I left the house for literary adventures. It was a genuine pleasure to meet Lissa Marie Redmond. She came to the Comfort Zone as a guest speaker to the newly revamped Hamburg Writers Group – presided over by the talented MaryJean Zajac. There was a write-in for NanNoWriMo at the McKinley Mall Barnes & Noble. It was lovely to see John Bowers, a decent man and a ML to emulate. Thank you for including write-ins in the Southtowns!

I hemmed and hawed about going to Buffalo to see Sarah Freligh in the Drop Hammer Series which Kim Chinquee does an outstanding job of coordinating, advertising, and hosting. Omg, I’m glad I did. It was the best time. Part of the “problem” I’ve been facing with the new novel I’m feeding is the point of view. During Sarah’s reading and talk, that came up an it was so enlightening to be in an environment to discuss the gears of writing with a group of people. After, I was privileged enough to go out for drinks with her and Kim before Kim’s next class.

 Gratitude is something I incorporate into my everyday life, but there is a pull to fuss over a Thanksgiving dinner so I did. I made cranberry sauce.

Now, because I enjoy making my gifts, I’ve started the baking, then cooling, then cutting, and wrapping endless mouthfuls of joy to share. Here’s one of at least 2 pans of dream bars I’ll be making, nearly ready for the oven.

My new temporary life as a baker awaits me the second I’m done with the insane amount of writing I’ve been doing. Thank you to Eric Bosse for the insight into sometimes 3 sitdowns at the keyboard for half an hour produce more than a solid sit for an hour and a half. Thank you to Rina Fosati for coming to Bluesky and commenting on the artists and artwork that strike her fancy to research. I’ve missed it. Hugs!

How are they already done and out of the oven? I hate it when time snaps my attention like that.

Thank you for stopping by and for the read. Please enjoy your day for all its worth!

Hocus Pocus now, The Addams Family later

Upstairs in the white room, the view shifts by the hour now. Leaves swell with color, wither, fall off in a symphony. Tomorrow is November. What a short year…which has dragged on forever. I started out the month strong in Kim Chinquee’s Zoetrope room. I managed three flash pieces that had a “there” there to them enough to post. I’m humbled and grateful to report Kim Chinquee accepted one of them, “No Object” for publication in Elm Leaves Journal’s upcoming Eclipse Issue. Thank you, Kim!

After that, the focus turned mainly to the approaching winter and accepting the reality that the modest list of projects we had every intention of getting done this summer would henceforth – most likely for the rest of winter – be abandoned. Obviously, that goes out the window with the next weather forecast, but the weather is unpredictable and my worry over not having the roof work done is growing. Why is insurance maddening? The claim is valid, it needs to be replaced, just pay for it like the sums of money flowed to you, let them flow back “good neighbor.” I may have the wrong jingle in my head, but still…

These were the decorations the cats and dog allowed to stay in place this year. Today, I pulled on a black sweater, dusted off the black witch hat, and wore my skeleton earrings to the library to pick up books. I haven’t finished Alexander Chee’s How to Write an Autobiographical Novel yet because I don’t want it to end. Yellowface by R. F. Kuang needs to be read in 7 days and Hilarie Burton Morgan’s Grimoire Girl looks promising. Reading blocks out the clatter of words in my head.

Most of the past few months, I’ve watched or heard battles. Characters speaking. Sometimes they insist I write it down, others scream and swear and vow to never talk to me ever ever again if I print the…Ow!

You see what I mean? The characters from the latest unfinished novel have been around, one quite surprising me by being alive as she was dead six months in the earlier draft. The sister I hadn’t gotten to yet has been quite vocal, too. I’ve signed up to start both NaNoWriMo and Nancy Stohlman’s Flash-A-Day. I hope to exhaust them and their stories, get them out of my head. So off I go to draw up a calendar to plot out the timeline and refresh myself on names in preparation for the part of being a writer I truly dread – the wring part.

Thank you for stopping by and for the read!

Bonus Content: My poem was in Artemis!

Calamities with Bertie, not Jane

When do you pull the plug? How many no’s can you take? How many animals and their disasters does it take to break a fragile person? These, and other mysteries, were being pondered here as I wrote on a Friday. The aversion therapy/consequences of favorite blankie taken away were not a success. The dog didn’t learn the lesson and got in the creek again. I could not stand the smell and I gave her a bath. By myself. In the bathtub I had cleaned the day before.

While I had the bathroom door shut, the cats chased each other and knocked an entire 32 oz tumbler of chilled water on my chair – and the shawl I was wearing and took off to wash the dog. I crated one cat, toweled up some of the water, told the dog it’d be best if she went into her cage – and she did. With two of the three pets locked up, I left. I walked, I pulled weeds and cried and tried to suck it up but ended up saying, Jesus Christ Good Lord and if you’re a Savior, please, can that be enough for today at least? I’m already weary, I’m already tired. I’m grappling with things my mom said to me that wouldn’t have come up if I hadn’t spoken with my stepmother recently.

Eventually, I calmed down. I extended the walk to the road and picked some milkweed pods a little early, but their shrinking appearance means it’s seeded up inside. I set those on a shelf, walked the garden, picked some tomatoes, assured myself it was ok, things were all sorts of wonk this year with those earlier fumes from Canada.

Inside, I uncaged the brats. I used my hair dryer to help dry the chair. I went outside to retrieve the drenched cushion I threw at some point and by the time – seconds – that took, the dog had gotten a drink of water, came to the chair and wiped its mouth twice, so two more deep wet spots were added to the ocean of wet before I can sit there again.

All of this occurred before I could start the one thing I was going to do which was write a “fan girl” blog post. Now, it’s Saturday evening and I’m editing my rendition of a woman at the end of her rope thinking about her mother.

It’s just that I am trying so damn hard already to keep all these plates that are mine spinning and then there’s another nine plates and I can stop two safely only to find three more popped up – no make that four. Did I mention I was already tired? When I’m not writing, the weight of my thoughts grows until I’m pregnant with a book – sometimes unwanted, lately the too-sickly-to survive kind, but like a real child, crossing my legs won’t work to stop its birth.  

I had started Friday by reading Melissa Llanes Brownlee’s post about social anxiety. I was going to write a companion paragraph response about how being alone with one’s self is essential – but that was pre dog bath. She writes of how she’d come to recognize her previous social self was a front. Me, too, I wanted to say, but the opposite. I learned early on how I was supposed to act which was quiet, pretty, unobtrusive – be not me. It maddened me how my mother made light of everything, joked with everyone outside our home, but inside she was often dark. Now my social mask resembles hers and it unnerves me.

Congrats, too, Melissa -on swamp pink!

I’m on Bluesky now, though urged to whats app, which sounds too risqué somehow. Bluesky feels supportive, my Bestie is there now, plus, I watched a literary zine about crabs get born there so what’s not to love about that kind of social site where writers gather?

I’d like to give a shout out to Laurie Marshall, Hillary Leftwich, Margaret Elysia Garcia and Roberto Carlos Garcia. The second installment of Essentially Poetic Reading Series, a FlowerSong Press program for community building through poetry was a great event. I saw Laurie’s post on FB and wanted to support her – also Hillary, she and I have been soc friends/mutual follower forever it seems. They were fantastic, then I fell in love with the sharpness of Margaret’s poetry and the beauty in Robert’s. He said something about how the writing community is a small world, that we’re all in it. Thank god for that. It’s the writing community that holds me to earth.

Cheryl Pappas had a post about a workshop in January. I was lucky enough to land a spot so now I have something to look forward to in the darkest winter. It’s text based, too, which is a bonus.

Many thanks to star Kim Chinquee for her commitment to write a flash-a-day starting in October. I’m joining her in the challenge. One thing about her room is how 5 words can appear in radically different ways in other writer’s pieces. Cigars are not always cigars, sometimes they are cigarillos.

Nicole Hebdon is the new literary director in town and Melissa Goode has a book coming out soon. The richness continues with the prolific MaryJean Zajac restarting the Hamburg Writer’s group and Matt Boyle invited me to a participate in a play workshop. I missed the Comfort Zone’s latest monthly read-in, but hope to get back to it. Oh, there was a workshop with Ben Brindise and Jared J.B. Stone. Thanks guys! I hope to submit to Variety Pack soon. And I think it was through them that (don’t ask the click sequence) that I found The Failing Writers Podcast which led to my writing a complete flash – the first in I don’t know how long.

Without things like these – bright spots along an unsure way – I don’t know where I’d be, so please support other artists when you can. Spread their word; add your own.

I guess that’s more than enough for now. Thank you for stopping by, for the read, and to the texter who tried to help earlier. Cheers!

August adaptations

Hello to your part of the globe. It’s been a month full of movement here. Objects, shelves, and goals changed in interesting ways.

A FB reminder revealed that the cubby hadn’t been cleaned, sorted, or gone through since it was installed. If you’ve been here and seen the situation, you know how it was nearly impossible to reach some areas. Now, it looks like this – and there are shelves just for paint. It is a marvel it happened in a weekend, but it did.

Another weekend took us to Buffalo to watch Sabrina – Donna Hoke’s daughter – direct “The Way It Is,” an intense two-hander well done by the actors. Incredible women passed away and we attended their memorials this month. It also contained the real hurt that Husband’s twin is no longer on earth. Of course the idea is always there, that we’ll die, too, but in these recent times, we’ve been discussing and refining our own last path. (Nothing definite, other than cremation and certain cookies)

Speaking of paths, someone took the wrong one and well, let’s say if a puppy is a lot of work, one with bandages is more so. She’ll be fine, the vet (Thank you Dr. Spinks!) checked the stitches yesterday and the healing is going well.

Otherwise, it’s clean, clean, clean while I wait to find out if jury duty is in my future. Thanks for checking in. Sorry it’s such a brief post, but did I mention the puppy? May September be full of beauty and peace for you. Cheers!

Bleary-eyed in the Land of Fairies

It took me a long time to relax my vision into being able to see the pictures hidden in those 3D prints that were once popular. I haven’t seen one of those in years, but up in the white room, I try it with the knotty tree limbs stretching in the breeze. Other times, fairies appear and pose for a camera.

My eyes fight to stay awake as I type, a long month has preceded this long day. It started with Jillian Michael’s No More Trouble Zones on DVD and became no less physical all day. My current self is acting quite kindly to my future self, though. Dusting, organizing, semi-easy dinner choices for the rest of the week, oh my.

A fantastic group of students led by Matt Boyle put on 9 ten-minute plays – my “Dust Up on the Skyway” among them. The whole experience was enormously fun. I met them during table reads then attended both shows. I can’t thank my husband, Betty B., Jim and Julie, as well as Cat and Mike enough for coming out and supporting this endeavor, but thank you! And thank you to these amazing people who are younger than me in age, but not spirit.

Centifictionist, a great venue which appreciates and promotes its contributors, accepted a 50-word story I thought for sure would have at least gotten an honorable mention in a recent On the Premises mini contest, but didn’t. I really like “The Ride” and when it appears in the next issue, I hope you do, too.

Recently, we were graced with visits from a niece, a nephew, his wife, and a baby in two goes. First, we met an I-Don’t-Know-How-She-Does-It woman and her baby at Steelbound for lunch. The visit was short, but lovely. Also wonderful was meeting the couple from Montreal. They had a beautiful new blue Mustang and luckily it was eventually allowed over the border so we could dine and chat at J. P. Fitzgerald’s. Afterwards, Husband led them on a tour of the building, showing the changes he and the construction company he works for made to the structure.      

The summer slips and slides. I’ve brought easel and canvas into the white room. Craft and technique books have been studied or skimmed. At Michael’s I bought brushes. With the house fairly clean, with my one precious life, I might paint or write a new play. If only new doggy wasn’t so needy.

Ah well, it’s getting better (I think) but puppies are a lot of work…and speaking of which, there goes the bell, signaling the need for door opening, so I’m off to escort her out, look at the stars, enjoy the full moon, and think about what I want to capture and how.

Thank you for stopping by and for the read! Cheers!   

Greetings from the New Mailbox

Would you believe I have the bulk of a new essay written because I don’t. I should, as I haven’t been writing and when I don’t write, ugly or awkward slits of my past open up, entice me to remember the good that was mixed in the bad and otherwise. I hate these occasional bursts of cnf and should delete them, but I don’t.

How are you? Is your writing/teaching/roofing/that thing you do like no one else going swimmingly well? The smoked up killer air returned to the area just after the rain. My week was all planned out with easily achievable goals to prep for completing a few projects over the holiday weekend that is upon us, but those plans were abandoned. I went to a table read in East Aurora though. I’m thrilled to have my ten-minute play be in the line up chosen by the young adults who will be doing the acting and directing. The summer theater program in East Aurora is called ProjectSTAGE and is preforming next weekend in the Roycroft campus. I’ll be there. Many thanks to Matt Boyle who is the saint running the program.

I have a poem coming out in Artemis in August, and last weekend, I had a flash included in the FlashFlood. The Lost and Found of Other Places had been tented out long ago – perhaps as a response to a prompt – but it lacked…something. I’d go back to it on occasion – as I do to other attempts – until I could give to it the hook, shine, and ending it needed. I rather like this one – the empathy at the end especially.

The puppy is still a puppy, but larger.

Though she could be a unicorn if she’d try a little harder.

And we’re getting a “new” mailbox soon.

It needs feet. I will post when it is installed. Until then, I thank you by for stopping by and for the read. Cheers!

Sleeping Puppy Ahead

This past weekend was full of activity but none of it related to our anniversary. A lot of things got done, but it was mostly dents in larger issues. Usually, the garden is a priority, but not this year.  Only last night did I plant some tomato seedlings and lady bell peppers. This morning, only three disturbances were noted. A creature pulled up one tomato, one pepper, and pawed through the row of bean seeds. Every year, it’s a fight with critters and those hideous, slimy slugs.

The fallen tree was dissected and disappeared; now we wait on estimates. One company arrived this morning and took notes. I’m not sure if we’re getting more soon. Life goes on while we wait, life changes on rainy days when we go to the SPCA…    

She is not an anniversary present as she came home the weekend before, but now she’s here and learning how to preform bodily functions outside. Meet our Janus-faced puppy who is not the mellowed out older dog we went in looking for, but, hey, a puppy’s exuberance at seeing you walk into a room is undeniably pull-you-into-the-moment magical.

Also magical – this white room.

As you can imagine, it took some work and the upkeep may involve a Husband repellent force field, but it’s like sitting in a tree house. Once we get screens for the windows, it will feel like it, too.

I’d love to chat with you more about nuance and not writing, hands as measuring cups, the buzz of no-mow May, and the synchronicity of the lawnmower’s wheel breaking the day before it ends, but there’s an endless list of tasks to complete. I’m keeping an eye out for flowers in bloom and stopping to watch butterflies. May you find time to do the same. And tip your servers well if you venture out to eat at Steelbound Brewery in Springville. Cheers!

Thank you for stopping by and for the read!

There Be A Dragon’s Watchful Eye

I’ve been in the garden early this year. Today, the 29th of April as I write, Husband was able to fix the push mower’s cable and start it up. He mowed the small triangle patch near the road. The milkweed grows on one end. We checked; it hasn’t come up as of yet. When it does, we’ll fence it off.

The corner neighbors are on at least their second mow; we’re trying the “tickle method” of gardening this year. I have found great satisfaction in using the new claw tool to pull out roots that measure two feet or more. If they were deeper, I might resort to a pickax and use it as a Moby Dick metaphor in an essay, but I start those, let them peter out, stop writing my truth by starting to consider an audience. So how are you? Have you pulled weeds recently? Gotten dirt under your fingernails?

Another reason my essays wait to be written is because things come up – or in this instance, down. I went shopping on Friday with goals: Barnes and Noble to buy Alice Hoffman’s “Practical Magic” and cancel my “new and improved” membership before it began. Wegman’s for food, to check certain garden centers for flowers and Roma tomato plants, stop in at the leather shop. I did those things and came home to this:

It’s 7 feet 8 inches around to the left, 5 ft. 10 near the eye.

The way it came down was miraculous. The damage was limited. Since it happened when we were not here, we wonder if Whitney – a woodworker even in another realm – guided it down. We thank all the friends, relatives, spirits and deities involved in this predicament which isn’t exactly the greatest news, but also not the worst.

Reality has jarringly changed though. There’s a dragon eye staring at me as I prepare food in the kitchen. It distracts every time I see it. I sometimes thought spider webs would be reminders to get back to work on the Lettie novel. Before I left that afternoon, I was thinking of giving up on the current thing I’ve been working on. A reptilian tree knot stares at me in repudiation or encouragement – I can’t decide which and it never blinks as a tell, so I flounder for an answer.

What difference does what – or if – I write matter? At the end of the world or one’s life, is it more important to have read and learned, or produced? Are a million flashes the equivalent of one novel or three? If a poem by a no-name goes viral, does it cheapen an MFA degree? At what point do you write to the New Yorker inquiring about a story you sent in at the end of November? Yes, the auto-response says declare it dead after 90 days, but according to Duotrope it has taken longer. What is the point of the dream of being a writer if you don’t kid yourself into thinking fairy tales can come true and sometimes its in the form of how cottonwoods fall down with the maple tree working in tandem with the other smaller trees and roots to soften the blow to the roof which is a real life happily ever after story and that happened, so why not my story appearing in The New Yorker?   

I blinked, losing the staring contest, but not the argument. So say I.

I’m on the cusp of having a print publication being launched soon and I am thrilled to be a part of The Jarnal. (Go to this link to listen to me read “The Thinnest of Veneers” which appeared in Milk Candy Review. MANY thanks to Jim Tuttle for doing an amazing job with the audio!)) And surprise of all surprises – I have an acceptance for a poem – during poetry month, which is quite cool. Thank you to Donnie Secreast & Adam Gnuse at Artemis Journal for accepting “The Rushed Meditation”

~ It’s a drizzly Sunday here and the roof isn’t leaking. The tree services have arrived and given us quotes. We’re off to the world of dealing with an insurance company and contractors. I should write a story where the experience is quick and painless and people smile the whole time work is being done on a house. It’d be fiction, of course. I haven’t read many people being happy about renovations and it’ll be years before it will be funny, or maybe that’s just my way of avoiding another novel being written in vain, one where butterflies turn into whales and burn up while sailing into the sun.

Cheers and Salute. Thanks for stopping by and for the read

Crazy about time, springtime in particular

On the recent nights of tolerable temps, winter damage is assessed while admiring the early flowers. The winds have been fancy terrible, and we’re thanking the ghost of Whitney that the damage was minimal. A huge chunk fell near the kitchen door, a pine cracked while the vehicle it would have hit wasn’t there. Once the worst was over, the blue ladder on the stack under the windows flipped over which is a puzzlement since there was no reason for it to and the ones beneath are not askew. Since it was his ladder, we attribute those nice saves to him and offer a clamor of applause. Thank you Whitney

Many congrats and thanks to Andrew Stancek. He’s written a lovely book which I intend to post about on Goodreads when I finish it. (Reviews are hard to write because they bring up anxiety not only from school but from the psycho hippo ballerina episode of Gilmore Girls.)

I’m still on pace with my submission total goals. Sending packets of five poems to four places that take over a year for the average response according to Duotrope does a lot of the heavy lifting for keeping 25 things out at all times. And soon, I’m freaking going see my story in print! Many thanks to Jim Tuttle for recording my micro that will be included in the roll out to The Jarnal. Some of you may even get a copy though I am behind on birthday cards and the newborn I bought a book for will probably be walking soon.

What I have been working on is the first few pages of new thing in order to enter competitions calling for the first 5000 words. I entered the two that close on the 31st of March and the 1st of April respectively. I believe the next one closes on the 6th  of April which gives me plenty of time to polish the called for first 40 to 50 pages. The pages are written, but they do not shine like the first 20. The last call I’m interested in answering asks for the first 1250 words and those are honed so well, I’m happy to call them mine. I even have a synopsis done proving once again that every book I write is written a different way.

I’m sad to report that the whole mind/body/work output seems to be tied together. This morning I let Jillian Michaels torture me, then I did some ab work. Even as I was in the shower reminding myself that I could take today off and pull away from the story for a while, I came up with clever scenes.

Still, I’ll persist in this quest for rest. I’ve intentionally structured things to ease my stress and today’s dinner is warm-ups that will take 5 minutes. The laundry is done, so are the dishes. The floors are tolerable – new cat sheds more than I’m used to – so I have had to adjust to seeing some fur, otherwise I’d go mad hunting down and vacuuming up every tuft. Perhaps I’ll read, or stare at the wall, but it will start soon, and include this:

This tiny window of ease won’t last of course, and that’s okay because neither do the spring flowers, so I might as well enjoy them before the winter slinks back to cover them.  

 Thank you for stopping by and for the read. It is appreciated.

Finding a Bright Spot

On the 15th of February, I took a walk up the hill. The following day, I toured the beach in this picture. No snow either day. Balmy.

Today, grey cat woke me early. The trash can was knocked over and the recycling was scattered. I stopped at the end of the driveway to pick up what I could before the truck – at the crest of the hill – arrived. The man on the back mentioned it had been windy, and we waved as he pulled away. I picked up the rest of the farther flung cans, then drove to the post office with wet feet because I wore shoes to “pop into the post office” not chase yogurt cups through the wet yard. This is weather that tries a person’s soul.

Everything has been trying recently.

On the walk of the 15th, I witnessed the drama of a dead pine tree close up and raw. Most February’s are too cold or snowy to consider such a walk and that’s the way it should be, I think, to have spring buds surrounding you when you encounter dead friends.

Or to temper your anger upon finding evidence of a two-story building on our neighbor’s lot that is highly unlikely to have been issued a permit to be built. Why would they bother when “no one” can see it. What do they care about drainage issues or killing an animal’s habitat?

Ah well, at least – at this second in time – there is fruit.

Thank you if you went and read my story in Fictive Dream this month. Thank you for stopping by and for reading this, too.

Clashing Goals after Making Bellows

What do you do when your goals conflict? You’ve asked yourself that before, haven’t you? As an activist, artist, acrobat, airplane designer, or by whatever term you use to describe yourself. (Human being the all-encompassing reality, but a) how generic and b) I shan’t digress…)

My 1st world, white woman problem is that I told myself and others that my goal this year was to have 25 submissions out at all times. As of the most recent, gorgeous, informative Sunday morning, I was down to seventeen. Twenty if I count the In-Progress or Received entries on Submittable, one of which will soon turn 7 years old. It’s getting a cake this year. I’ve already brought unicorn ear and horn birthday candles and a tub of chocolate frosting for the big day.

So, I have failed with that goal before the month is out. Part of me knows I can get right on that; sending out roughly ten submissions is not exactly easy, but it is doable. I scratch my ear and reason that if I averaged submissions like banks averaged daily balances, I’m probably still at 25 a day, but my calculator doesn’t know how to do that kind of math.

Inspired by Rory of Gilmore Girls which I’m binge watching again, I made a list. A mental one. (I wanted to go with “I went mental …on a list” but it isn’t that funny, I mean, it’s so unfunny, I’m explaining the idea of the unfunny joke I didn’t even tell – it’s that bad. It reminds me of the little skit Paris Geller the guy she ended up marrying did when they switched editorships.) (I’m not that far in the series yet, but it’s close.)

It wasn’t a list either, more an assessment of desires and priorities. Thoughtful reflection, long walks in the woods, meaningful deliberation. Psyche! I watched some TV and realized it didn’t matter if I did or did not have (or keep) 25 things out. If all my ready pieces were accepted at once then I’d be in a pickle, wouldn’t I? Yes, I do know that is called rationalization and I mixed it with a little wishful thinking, but you know what? I have had two acceptances this year already and I hope you’re half as excited as I am!

The wonderful, gracious, amazing Laura Black accepted one of my pieces for Fictive Dream’s Flash Fiction February! It will go live on Saturday 4 February 2023 so check it out – as well as the rest of the month’s posts – some of the most interesting things I read all year are in this series. Be sure to especially check out Nina Fosati’s piece which comes out on the 24th!

On top of that, the amazing, gracious, wonderful Tara Campbell and Michael B. Tager of Mason Jar Press have also accepted a piece of mine. The original story was written back in ancient times and was titled “Two Wrens for a Farthing,” then “What Isn’t Silk” – which I kept when I sent it out recently. I reworked that thing laboriously, had the fantastic Nina Fosati look it over for nits, retitled it and sent it the first day of the submission window for The Jarnal. I am seriously thrilled it was accepted – and the suggested edits were minimal. (Such relief and happiness!) Now, secretly, I jump up and down every so often when I remember I’m going to be in this print anthology! I still can’t believe it. Occasionally, I squeal. It scares one cat, concerns the other. The Jarnal III : Transitions, edited by Tara Campbell with managing editor Michael B. Tager will be out in May.

So, I’ve got that going for me, holding up that rationalization, which led to another where I downgraded the goal into an aspiration; I do want to get back to it, and will, but right now, well… I’m working on a novel.

Do you know how loathe I am to speak such a thing – even if it’s only in my head, or now, on a screen? Lucy. Charlie Brown. Football. Here I go again, and I’m not sure I want to, but – knock on wood – so far it seems okay and therefore I’m full of doubt. What ifs cling to every dust mote in my undusted house. Breakfast dishes leer. If I clean the house my anxiety will go away, but perhaps that’s where a lot of stories go, dumped out in mop water, flushed down a tidy bowl.

In 22 days, I’ve written 26,000 words. Three betas test drove the first 20 pages and said, “Keep going.” (I went to that file to count days and it took all my strength to not to open it anew.) So, like Rory to Yale, I’m going somewhere I was not headed, though I was headed there all along.

Cheers and thanks for stopping by for the read.

Patience and pivots

As I mentioned in a cover letter recently, my experiment in being kinder to myself since November (if I miss deadlines or don’t bake well enough, etc.) has resulted in a lot of things being accomplished and in less time than I would have expected. I made a ton of baked goods this year and the Christmas cards went out in time-ish. My kitchen drawers are sorted. I’ve been editing and reading. I’m revamping my submitting system. I don’t know if this level of productivity will be maintained, but so far, I’m pleased.

I hope the holidays were great for you. There were several pivots here. While the blizzard ravaged Cheektowaga and Buffalo, here by the creek, we were fine. Six to ten inches of snow. We had no plans to travel, had previously stocked up for the grazing holiday, and so were grateful to find we didn’t need to leave the house for 5 days. Yes, parts were tense. That many days together nonstop is a lot when you’re both used to different routines. A few times, we all wanted to disappear into the gift paper but only one of us managed to camouflage.

Another pivot was to the past, but very much the present, with a visit by Moe-sippy – excuse me if I did not spell that right – a tall guitar man from Husband’s childhood that stuck. He’d written two new songs – one reggae, one rap. Not only did I get to hear his work in progress, but he’d brought a notebook he wrote when he was 17. Coming-of-age questions remain the same throughout the decades; I was reminded of having similar ones when I, too, left home at 17 and found out the world can be an awful place. But there are friends there, too, and possibly multiverses where you know them. (If you haven’t seen Everything, Everywhere, All At Once yet, you must.)   

I’d expected to have written and posted something earlier this week, but here we are on New Year’s Eve. Soon I’ll be lighting a bayberry candle and choosing something to watch before the midnight countdown coverage. Box sets of Star Trek: The Next Generation and The Waltons arrived from the North Pole this year. I’ve lined up some movies mentioned in the chat of the latest Kathy Fish flash workshop by other amazing writers. Moe-sippy reiterated The Curious Case of Benjamin Button as a choice, I nattered on about The Prestige to him. The Manchurian Candidate and the remake came up; same with Total Recall. The Big Chill, and Easy Rider, too. So many movies to study, so many calls for work closing, so many deep breathes to take while remembering we’re all in this together.

I am happy to find you’ve read this far so I can wish you the best in the new year. Thank you for stopping by and for the read!

Finish one task, onto another

Ever get to the point of wondering how many more bouts to go? How many times have I freaked and feared a creek after a rainstorm? How many nights did I go to bed with heavier fears as a child? It’s a grey day and the goldenrod shawl with white daisies over my shoulders barely puts a cheerful dent in the grey shirt I’m wearing. It is a glum-dreary Wednesday and though I put in 50,000 words for NaNoWriMo to officially “win,” it is not a book, and the end of this dedicated writing marathon is hitting especially hard. Does anything ever get easier?

A magic eight-ball somewhere answers, “Check again later.”

Tomorrow officially begins the old holiday scrimmage to do a million things in 24 days and hope I don’t forget to offer holiday cheer to someone. Fun! What will help, what has been helping, is reading the tenets, thoughts, and truisms I’ve written out on a page I see every day. Two of the most helpful have been, “Do what is necessary, then what is possible, and soon you will be doing the impossible,” and “If being mean to yourself worked, you’d be thin and rich. Try loving yourself instead.” The first one is especially helpful in clumps and spirals of self-doubt when I’m faced with an overlong list, and in December, there are many. Triaging my needs over my wants ends up saving time, too.

For Thanksgiving, I realized I didn’t “need” to make pie crust when I had premade in the freezer. I didn’t “need” to set a table properly, but I wanted to and it all worked out to look like this.

And talk about gratitude this year! I want to cry from the beauty of it all. Nina Fosati, Gloria Berlinghoff, Susan Tepper, Natalie Condor-Smith, Joni Kalinowski – all of you have touched me deeply with your kindness this month. I’m inept in expressing the gratefulness I feel for those kind words and gestures recently. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.

And thank you for stopping by and for the read! I’m off to write the holiday letter, address envelopes, and make those cookies. Maybe I’ll even submit some work, too. Take care of you!

Red and the horror in the country but not like you’re probably thinking

The hills are alive with red around here – or at least the leaves that insist to my senses to pay attention to them are the red oaks, sumacs, parts of the sweet gum, those little perfectly manicured bushes I drive by that beam. I swear some of them are full of pride, which is weird to think about, a bush with vanity, but it is a living thing. Unfurling leaves and petals in the spring are a vigorous horror fest of ugly green. Hostas are particularly creepy, reaching up to the sky like fingers from that hand thrust from the grave in Stephen King’s “Carrie.” Their alien, emerging shape insisting on an audience, too, so maybe it isn’t vanity but me assigning moral attributes and failings to things rarely thought of as having such things because I’m bored.

And I’m not bored, but avoiding some work. Mostly cleaning. Some plotting, some renaming, some rereading, some more horror films watched and then I think I’ll be ready for November. I’m considering going back to the “happy writing day board.” It was a paper calendar on the refrigerator where I wrote my word count each day. Stamps were put on the days I made my count or went over 1667 words. One time it was stickers. Husband could also look at it and praise or ask jokingly if he needed to put a lock on the library door because I was short. I don’t remember where or when (yes I do, part of the exercise/calorie counting insanity I am still prone to participate in because it is another control issue I rarely own up to) I learned that about myself – that visuals help with a goal. Yes, say it with me now, I am going to win NaNoWriMo. I have an “it” which rhymes with bit and that’s just the start of the story.

Another thing I know is that I should never talk about “it,” just write it, but it isn’t November and I crave that structure because it’s worked before so I’m here, binging on movies.  It’s nearly Halloween so the basis for selection is “Does it sound scary?” and to me, “Wicker Park” sounded scary. It is not. It’s odd and I’ll need to watch it again – and I will because it’s shot in Chicago and you can tell that it is real snow in some of those shots. The Elisabeth Moss “Invisible Man” is great and lovely but I couldn’t help remembering “Sleeping with the Enemy” as I watched it. “The Hollow Man” remains 6 degrees of stupid. “What Lies Beneath” – plenty of scares, but so little sense. Who brings up a box thrown in the lake back to the house, where the potential killer is, to open it when you had the key and could have done it on the dock? And omg the creep factor of Harrison Ford and Michelle Pfeiffer to begin with, and then he says the line about her daughter and…just…I…was struck wordlessly gross. “Ghost Story” was bad, “A Quiet Place,” eh, and the standards of “Hocus Pocus,” “The Addams Family,” and “Beetlejuice” hold up. I don’t know what I’ll watch tonight, but probably two movies I’ve not watched before.

I’ve started quite a lot of essays spinning off the first one currently called, “A Taste of the Good Stuff.” For some reason, I’ve sent it off to what I know are not faceless editors, but there is still a distance. Should it ever get published, I’m not sure I want to share it with friends unless I regain some weight. It felt exactly like the slide down the scale opened up a view of another time I was not expecting to visit. And it was a rotten thing and I wrote about it. I know part of it wasn’t my fault, but part of it was. A choice I made because I thought I had to and now I wonder why. I don’t like writing cnf since it exposes me harshly – at least in my own mind. It shows I’m such a moronic person, full of vanity and pride so afraid of what others would think of me, I want to turn into a tree. Or a bush that resembles a warm flame when its leaves turn. Better yet, a hosta planted on a dark hillside under tamaracks and walnut trees.

~~*~~

Until we meet again, I wish you good health and joy. Thank you for stopping by and for the read!

Plotting to Plot…or not

Exhausted by our weekend chore list before it has even been written, I walked out to the overflow woodpile for the picture before sitting down to write this. Inspired, I know. There are pictures on the camera of a tree that was obliterated by lightening. Last Monday I’d heard the tremendous crack and waited, but nothing fell and the electric stayed on. After our neighbor returned from a trip, he found parts of an 80-foot pine on his hill. Some chunks were longer and thicker than humans, strewn all over up there. Something ripped through a piece of ¾ inch plywood. I did consider downloading the pictures I took up there when he showed us, but the dishes needed to be done.

Not much later, I noticed the fluorescent orange sky, finished up, and stepped outside. I leaned back against the church door and took in the pleasant crisp air, the beauty, and I wept with gratitude instead of running for my phone or the camera. It’s weird to be swept up by natural beauty in that it isn’t weird at all.

The furniture is arranged in an unusual pattern and a generalized straightening up is in progress. Somewhere I started an essay about how reading “How to Keep House While Drowning” by K C Davis awakened other self-help books I’ve read about tidying and organized and unleashed a monster of neat in me, but I’ve been too busy rearranging Husband’s workshop to finish it. I did finish Sheila Heiti’s, “How Should a Person Be?” but it took forever because I loved it and did not want it to end. I’m currently enjoying Omolola Ijeoma Ogunyemi’s, “Jollof Rice and Other Revolutions.”

The month has been filled with the normal abundance of things to do before winter as well as some much needed in person visits. Thank you all who I’ve seen and congrats to Kim Chinquee on her forthcoming book, Pipette. Online, I attended a reading and this Christmas gift from Nephew in Oregon (Thank you Michael!) has been deemed the bearer of workshop notes and exercises. The first entry is from Kathy Fish’s 3 in 90.

I was pleased to have a story of mine make the long list in Pigeon Review’s contest, but that’s as far as it went. Once the house is a bit more under control, I plan to tweak it with lines I’ve thought of since the last rewrite. And rewriting might be what I do forever because I can’t figure out a frame for another novel nor a reason to write one what with the way the world is falling apart at the seams. How else do you explain my face on local TV for no other reason than showing up at a meeting? And yes, I do have that segment DVRed and plan to transfer it to a jpeg to post online but, you know, time…

I was asked to look over a story for someone and they also sought writing advice to follow. I gave him the usual places to look:  

‘Immediate Fiction” by Jerry Cleaver

“The Art of Fiction” by John Gardner

“Writing Down to the Bones” by Natalie Goldberg

“Bird by Bird” by Anne Lamott

I have many others, but it’s these four that I gravitate to time and again. I also suggested picking up any of the “Best ______ of the Year.” Myself, I’ve delved into the angry-yelly, no nonsense, shut up and write book “Robert’s Rules of Writing,” by Robert Masello. Maybe it will spark something other than the urge to pick up a different book.

Well, it’s September’s end tonight. I have a fire to tend to, beasts to pick up after, and a chore list to construct. I hope you are well. I hope you are safe. Thank you for stopping by and for the read.

Slow gliding into the fall

Are you a bit edgy, excited but apprehensive, feeling yourself wanting to stand tall and say, “Let’s do this.” If so, it may be your season change alert signal going off. Loud little sucker, isn’t it?

Every year I replenish my notebooks and consider adding new desk supplies to my already adequate supply. It takes a long time to realize it isn’t the cost of the equipment, but the dedication to use that should weigh on investments. I have enough beautiful, lush, gorgeous to touch notebooks I never write in – the 70 page college rule notebooks are my go to.

As I sit here in my extremely stripped down office space, I consider the tweaks I want to make for my comfort – and pet interference reduction capabilities. I don’t recall the impetus for the tear down of all the notes, pictures, postcards that had surrounded me, but the lack of clutter now is noticeable and appreciated. Is it affecting my writing? Perhaps. I recently took an old 1600 word story down to 890 words and sent it out. Before that, I expanded a less than 500 flash into a ten-minute play.

I’m looking around and finding it a bit hard to believe I’m as organized as I am now. I really wanted it to be this way, and I made it come true. It’s teeny tiny moments of forcing myself to stop and appreciate how my hard work has paid off that make me say “Yes, but.” It’s the same feeling when I’ve written, published, or won something. “Yes, but.” It’s hard to be alive when nothing is good enough.

No matter. We’re all on our own journeys and apparently this is mine. I meant to take more pictures, but I did the whole scrape, scrub, scour, and paint with the beautiful parlor stove…

… and Husband assembled it in time for our shindig.

Thank you amazing people for stopping by. It made my whole soul happy to share the evening with you…

and Coiletta.

It seems the end of summer rumbles have propelled me back to writing life. I’ve signed up for classes with Kathy Fish, am fairly certain I’ll be attending the Barrelhouse conference masked and in person in October and am mulling taking a Beth Gilstrap class. Plus Community Craft’s series is amaze balls and I want to attend more of those. As well as Hannah Grieco’s Readings on the Pike and Timothy Gager’s Virtual Fridays Dire Literary Series. And there are more I’m forgetting

Adding to the abundance of those good things – my critique group exchanged emails this morning. So, as I’m saying goodbye to August, I want you to know that you are pretty great as is. Thank you for stopping by and for the read! You are awesome and you know it. Ciao!

Squirrels are chillin’ while we toil and other fun near the creek

I’ve decided to find it hilarious that I must have thought out 5 different blog posts this month – with interesting titles – but don’t remember one as I start this post, mid-summer afternoon on the last day of July.

Wood has been an interesting adventure this year. Normally, the last of the wood is being put up in September, just when we need to rearrange the house and stack a partial wall of wood near the stove. Instead, the woodshed is as full of wood as we usually have for a season and no end in sight to the pile. I am grateful for the dilemma.

I’m also incredibly grateful for the amazing generosity of fantastic friends. C and Nina Fosati dropped of a stove and this is the part that goes on top.

Isn’t it fancy? I’m a sanding fool, dancing between restoration and good enough. We’ll be painting it in a manner pleasing to the eye and the environment of the patio upon which it will stand.  I’m excited and it’s a boring chore with a vast reward, so I really do find it a cheery endeavor.

Part of my quest to live in a better world involves more color. I painted the awful blue chair – loot a thief left behind – to something less ugly.

This is my first Thistle design and in person, it does not look this boring.  (I was working with flaws in the wood to tell a tale of how I see plants not coping in the conditions they once thrived in.)

Work on the back of the house stalled as paint had to be hunted down and then someone sold one of the four we ordered so hopefully it will be enough.

Omg! The lack of intelligence like that in customer service has recently been wild. I’m especially singling out the “new” girl at Citizens Bank in the Springville Tops. Ffs, I was paying a little extra on two credit cards. She asked how I wanted my change. I was like what? She only applied the amount due to the account, not the amount I wrote on the slip I was playing with. I asked why she’d changed the amount and she snapped back that she had not changed it. She started over, finally got it right. As I was leaving, I said, “You did change the amount. At least own what you did.” I mean seriously, it was a mistake, but to be so snitty about it? Maybe she needs to explore a less public vocation. Tax preparer, maybe? Perhaps a mortician?  

The computer problems I’m having are deflating my gusto toward the written word – reading, writing, editing. As with the wood, I will remind myself that I don’t need to fix everything all at once, just take one breathe at a time. I snagged this guy to help remind me. 

Thank you for stopping by and for the read. I hope your home and world are stable. The weather I’ve heard about/seen clips of from where friends and family live overwhelms me. I am thinking about you and hoping to hear you’re safe. Sending love and comfort to those reading who need it. Take care of you!

Cheers!

What did I expect?

On a Tuesday that feels like a Monday it is also two other things. One is having been married for 22 years. I suppose we could have exchanged a card (me) and a rose (him) but it was a hot holiday weekend and we didn’t put up the roof of the writing camp I use in summer. It’s just a 10 X 10 screened in “tent” where I have some chance of being outside in the fresh air without the bugs savaging my blood vessels, but it has become a thing. We fight when we put it up. Scream, bitch, mutter under our breaths. Throw things – not at each other – there are always branches you’d rather move than work around. It always seemed a test of if we’d survive another year. Not doing it has me feeling forlorn.

Everything has extra meaning or no meaning right now. It’s a fall, gravity tugging while the air is as heavy as molasses and you swear again, you’ve done this before, heard the same things and the anger from before is still there and now there is some in every damned place. Maybe not you, but me.

 I’m mad that women and trans aren’t respected enough to be considered whole. They aren’t “adult enough” to make decisions about their own bodies – not ones they’ve bought on credit – but ones they’ve lived in since birth. But 18 year-old-boys can rape and pillage and shoot the unaborted children with hollow points when they are in class learning about presidents and founding fathers but ignoring the part that those white men owned slaves and that they beat them. If they don’t learn about it, they also don’t learn slavery is wrong.

When some white jihadist with a shady bankroll starts spouting off about “owning the libs,” by doing shitty things I know it’s untrue. They don’t want to own the libs. If they were honest, they’d tell you they want to own slaves again. They want to beat and manhandle and be awful to other living creatures with no repercussions. They want to go to all white churches and be soothed with twisted biblical verses to serve their purposes. They do not weep and think Jesus was born in the wrong Testament. It’s not a mental health issue, it’s a caveman attitude and we all know cavemen have no souls.

Everyone wants to rule the world, but there are too many people on the planet to even have 15 seconds of fame so these infantile minds fall into white “supremacy” and shoot to eliminate those they have convinced themselves are beneath them. And so far, America has let them.

I am so angry about so many things and I didn’t get to vent some of that out by putting up the tent roof. Sorry, but you chose to listen.

Thank you for stopping by. Stay safe while you go off to school/work/a graduation party/the grocery store/church. I hear no guns are allowed at NRA events…

I’m taking time to admire flowers wherever I find them and I hope you do, too.

Life Goes On Until It Doesn’t

The house is tidy, organized. It’s been a massive undertaking, this year’s “spring-cleaning.”

I no longer remember the specific impetus that led to the first bit of sorting. I know I was quite sick of the mess my office had become. We’d move things in here to get them out of the way when we had visitors, and not everything made its way back to where it had come from and so I was living in close proximity to a lot of clutter. I didn’t like it, but we were storing somethings and even when those things left, I didn’t immediately do a tear down/clean out.

I know an Apex discussion a few months ago made me consider the fact that I’ll probably never publish a book traditionally, and even if I did, well, what then? The “what then” was that I wanted to live in a cleaner and more organized house. I mean, if this is it – the best it will ever be and I never write or publish again – then I’m kind of okay with my life ending up here (except for the wasting of my whole life on literature.)

One of the silly little motivational quips I have taped to my office computer says, “What you are not changing, you are choosing,” so I’ve been choosing to improve my conditions.

Life doesn’t offer a lot of choice in some matters though. We had to say goodbye to Kobi and it sucked to lose my sidekick, but he had cancer in his lungs and even if I were able to afford chemo for him, I don’t think I could put him through that. I know – supposedly – there are new options for cancer treatments but…

I haven’t picked him up yet – his ashes. That seems too final yet.

Our remaining cat made it known that a pet sibling was important, so today – weirdly enough Cat Adoption Day – I went to the Ten Lives Club. (They are a no-kill shelter, so if you’re feeling generous, they have a wish list here.) “Freddy” is acclimating now – though we’re definitely changing that name. This is what he looks like:

It’s not the same as a dog, but I need time to mourn, too.

Creative writing hasn’t happened in a long while, though I have written letters. I’m sorry if I owe you one and you haven’t received it yet. You are very likely on the list.

Until next time (or your letter arrives) I want to thank you for stopping by and for reading.

Cheers!

A chickadee home outside the bedroom window

Mundania Strikes Again

How are you? I hope this post finds you well and your problems solvable. To be honest, I can’t recall if Mundania ever struck before, but there I was, sitting on a toadstool when I noticed my feet were getting wet. I swam to the waterfall and tried to reach the diverter but I lost my grasp and fell into a never-ending chasm called real life. Don’t you hate when that happens to you?

If you’re interested in the boring version: Earlier I was sitting on a wooden stool beside a file cabinet, tabbing the folders with large letters written in magic marker on crisp white paper when I realized the washing machine should have been done by then. I walked into the bathroom and noticed the water like a crime scene. I saw the pool of liquid and marveled at how hard I must have hit something to have made the copper leak. Eventually, my attention was pulled to the larger pool and the true source of the problem. I shut off the washer, but I couldn’t reach to unplug it. I shut the water off. I cleared everything I saw as a possible hindrance. I pulled out a measuring cup and began filling a bucket. As I was filling the bucket a second time, I thought about getting some towels to sop up the water I was standing in. As if there was some cosmic joke running around on the loose, I felt a tingle in my ankle. I don’t think I was shocked, just my sense of self trying to highlight the whole “you are standing in water in front of a machine that might be suffering an electric problem,” shouting to be noticed. I looked to the electric panel, but it’s a 50/50 toss up on which switch to pull. I cleared a path to that closet for Husband to figure out when he arrives home.

 (As I jot this, I’m still waiting.)

Sorry for no interesting pictures. I didn’t think to photograph the bouquets recently. I bought three and washed windows. I forgot a lot about how to host, but also remembered arcane things. In pulling away from what it turns out were contrivances, I do feel quieter and very in tune to the futility of all the things that I think are major in life – but in pursuing those, I ended up where I wanted to be. I think. Maybe. Does that make any sense?

And attuned, I’ve been. I have a “master list” of things I want to “get done” and have put off some tasks. One was taking care of the sleeping bags. It turned out that I was glad I didn’t force the issue because they were used for a makeshift bed for someone. Likewise, there has been a hesitancy to clean/clear the shelves above the washing machine and now this has occurred.

That sounds like a rationalization for procrastination, doesn’t it? Perhaps they are magic words that cast a spell and when someone says they will do something tomorrow, there will be a tomorrow – otherwise the guy doesn’t ride out on his chariot or there’s a minor tremor and Sisyphus catches a break. Who knows how the world works when myth or quantum physics enter the conversation? And look, Mr. Quantum Physics is wearing that damn green felt hat with the long brown feather again even though several variations of this entity know exactly how much I hate that thing…  

Oh! Two deadlines just walked in draped in grey lace. I have to return to my toadstool now. Take care of you and know that you matter to me somehow.

Thank you for stopping by and for the read!

Cheers!