My novel, sigh, has turned into a mystery. That's good and not so good. I've always intended it to be a mystery, just not the mystery its presenting at the moment. I can't seem to put on those final finishing touches. They keep falling off into the delete pile.
Someday it will be good enough to submit to agents, at least I hope so. I've written the whole thing, that was easy. It's the little bitty part called revisions that seems to have turned into a task as gargantuan as King Kong. Especially those pesky first few pages. No matter what brilliant idea I have for a first sentence, when I re-read it the next day, it, well it sucks.
Maybe I'm starting in the wrong place? You see that a lot in agents complaints, this writer started the book before it got interesting. Lop off the first five chapters. I've tried that and my special readers lamented the loss of some juicy tidbit or another. Then I tried a prologue to heighten the tension. Writer's Digest forum readers said I gave too much away.
Hmm, I guess I'll go back to the beginning, where I first found my protagonist Kate Callahan. She's lying on the veranda of a Southern Mansion and tells the man who offers her a hand up she wants to hang him. Do you think that's a good enough hook?
Tuesday, August 21, 2007
Monday, August 20, 2007
MySpace-August on Horseback
August is a month that many people wish would speed by. Minds move on to thoughts of fall, summer is close to its end, and people trudge about like they live in a furnace. Most want to stay inside, while away time on the computer. Not I, to me August is the month that highlights the special parts of a summer day, especially when you include a horse. August is MySpace outdoors and a part of me feels a little sad for those inside tapping away on their keyboards.
For example, on the hottest day last week I went out on my horse, caught the trail behind the barn and slid into the deep woods. The temperature dipped from 90 to 80, or at least it felt like it did. My horse, her name is Summer Games, picked up a brisk trot and we moved along the path until we reached the creek and turned onto the "Waterfall Trail". I listened to the icy stream as it tumbled over a ledge and slid between mountain boulders, and felt the mist on my skin. My mare picked her way through the rocks, stopped in the middle of a quiet pool for a drink and then moved onto the pine needle covered cart path leading to the wildflower meadow. We stopped at the edge and watched a doe and fawn fade into the distant trees. The fine smell of a well-groomed horse, fresh cut grass and moss on wet stones filled the air. I found myself with a smile on my face and joy in my heart.
It doesn't get much better than that; the ride made even more special because of the contrast with the heat in a car, on a sidewalk, or working in the garden, and because I've chosen to be outdoors not in. Without August I would never experience quite this level of pleasure. It might be the hottest of months, but in my mind, August on horseback equals perfect summer days in MySpace and I'll save the computer for midnight rendezvous's.
For example, on the hottest day last week I went out on my horse, caught the trail behind the barn and slid into the deep woods. The temperature dipped from 90 to 80, or at least it felt like it did. My horse, her name is Summer Games, picked up a brisk trot and we moved along the path until we reached the creek and turned onto the "Waterfall Trail". I listened to the icy stream as it tumbled over a ledge and slid between mountain boulders, and felt the mist on my skin. My mare picked her way through the rocks, stopped in the middle of a quiet pool for a drink and then moved onto the pine needle covered cart path leading to the wildflower meadow. We stopped at the edge and watched a doe and fawn fade into the distant trees. The fine smell of a well-groomed horse, fresh cut grass and moss on wet stones filled the air. I found myself with a smile on my face and joy in my heart.
It doesn't get much better than that; the ride made even more special because of the contrast with the heat in a car, on a sidewalk, or working in the garden, and because I've chosen to be outdoors not in. Without August I would never experience quite this level of pleasure. It might be the hottest of months, but in my mind, August on horseback equals perfect summer days in MySpace and I'll save the computer for midnight rendezvous's.
Sunday, April 29, 2007
novel- writing
Working on my novel today between bouts of outdoor sunshine. Painted Black is about a Chicago artist in North Carolina. She goes there to put on an exhibit and to paint and ends up solving a murder. Underground tunnels, secret cellars, horses, and handsome men, figure into the adventure. Her paintings reveal the killer, she almost loses her life and with the help of a fiesty terrier traps the villian.
Today I'm helping her explore her first suspect's movements on the day of the crime. She keeps wanting to go outside and ride horses, but I'm making her stay put and work.
Today I'm helping her explore her first suspect's movements on the day of the crime. She keeps wanting to go outside and ride horses, but I'm making her stay put and work.
Thursday, April 12, 2007
Trapped By An Angel
here's a story someone requested I post. Hope you enjoy it. DeborahB
Trapped By An Angel
All I can see are stark, dark trees against a wall of gray in the forest dusk. Dim shadows lie like ghosts across the snow. Of course I don’t believe in ghosts. Don’t believe in anything except that the world is a tough place and you have to be tough to survive.
“Hold on Janie. Another hour and we’ll be at the barn,” I say. “Need to finish the trapline, stow the game.” My sister Janie’ll never make it alone in this world. She believes in everything good, and never even sees the bad. So, I have the extra burden of watching over her. Carry it like I’m carrying her, nothing I need, but something I’m tough enough to handle. I try to teach her, but… “Your fault you got hurt.”
“Is not,” she says with a giggle. “My Mickey, Mickey, Michael.” One of her red mittens pats the top of my head, while the other grabs my collar. She's always so damn cheerful.
“Humph.” I shift my shoulders, toss her abruptly upwards, and will myself to keep moving. Janie is six, a real, sweet as carnival cotton candy brat. Can’t do a darn thing by herself. Mom treats her like a baby. Took care of myself by the time I was her age. She should too. Does nothing but cause harm spoiling her like this.
My legs tremble and my arms feel as if someone’s pulling the muscles apart strip by strip. I’m strong for fourteen, but she’s like a pack full of empty traps, nothing but dead weight. The burden numbs me to the sights and sounds of the forest. I trudge on through the cold, wet woods.
Janie’s hands clutch my jacket, her legs twine with my arms and I feel her breath against my neck. The only sound is the crunch my boots make as they break through the ice that borders the stream. I stare at the ground looking for tracks, don’t see the glittering world she chatters about in my ear.
“Michael, my ankle hurts so bad.” Janie’s tone changes as we near my game line. I close my mind, like the steel trap that swings from my belt. Her arms tighten around my neck.
“Loosen up. You’re choking me.”
“It hurts.”
I look down at her ankle. Appears normal, hard to tell through the red boot she wears. Probably another one of her tricks.
“Ain’t gonna keep me from collecting pelts. You should’ve stayed home.” I stop, drop her on the snow.
She scowls. “Didn’t have to dump me!” Her voice changes to a whine. “Please no more traps.”
Then, being cotton candy Janie, she lies back, smiles and flutters her arms and legs.
“What’re you doin’?” My hands clench, my jaw muscles jump. Can’t the kid tell I’m aggravated?
“Making angels.” She rolls back into a sitting position. “It’s almost Christmas.” Her cheeks are bright red and her eyes gleam with excitement.
The ice thickens around my heart. “Ain’t nobody giving you nothing. Quit trying to slow me down. I’m getting my traps.” I kick out, spraying snow in Janie’s face, then start down the trail.
She’s followed me everywhere this year and Mom makes me take her. That’s all right if I’m going fishing, it’s kinda funny watching her squirm when I put a worm on the hook, but not when I’m trapping. She cries over every animal I catch. She doesn’t understand that the pelts mean money. I crash through the underbrush.
“I don’t have time for fairytales and Santa ain’t visited me, ever.” The words come from my mouth on large bursts of steam. I mean for Janie to hear them. Branches shower white flakes on top of my parka and against my neck. My shoulder blades jump toward each other as icy wetness runs down my spine. I wish I had a muffler. Can’t afford one. As I draw my head into my coat, I admit Janie’s arms sheltered me from the icy bath as I carried her.
“Still ain’t worth the trouble you cause!” I holler.
Reaching into my pocket, I pull out a piece of gum, hesitate, tear it in two, and put half in my mouth. The brat will want some. It smells like winter and tastes like wild mint. My eyes scan the bushes. Janie’s voice fades into the distance. She can sit there all night for all I care. She knows the way home. She’s no more hurt than I am. I’m filled with the righteous bitterness of a misused soul.
There should be a trap here somewhere. I drop to my knees and dig through the snow. My hand hits against something hard. I grasp it and drag it to the surface. Chain clanks. The trap appears, crusted with whiteness, its jaws pressed together like a demon’s fangs.
“Damn.” I throw it down. Empty, just like the others. Someone’s triggering my traps. “Janie, did you do this?” My voice is loud. “Answer me!” I wait, beating the trap against my leg, thinking of what I’ll do when I see her. No sound comes from up the trail.
Limbs snap against my thrusting arms as I trudge back. I’m out of breath when I reach the spot where I dumped Janie in the snow. She’s gone. The imprint of the angel is clear, makes me uneasy. I look around for tracks. There they are, small waffle boot prints leading off to the deep woods, headed not quite towards the house. I turn to head back to my trap line and then hesitate. Mom will kill me if I leave her little angel out here alone. I sniff the air. It smells like more snow coming. The sky is a somber, ugly gray. I better find her and get home.
“So much for the sprained ankle,” I mumble to myself as I examine the evenly spaced footprints. “God, why’s she always messing up my life?” I glare at the menacing sky and follow her trail.
“Shhh.”
Janie’s crouched in a group of holly bushes, one finger held to her lips. She crooks the finger, luring me to her.
Thirsty, I pull a glove off as I approach and scoop up a handful of snow. It tastes like pine. I spit it out and wipe my hand on my pants. The cold bites at my fingers. When I reach Janie, I squat behind her.
“What is it?” My words no more than a soft breath.
“Santa’s reindeer.” Her voice high, yet a whisper.
I blow against my hand to warm it. It’s red and rough from work. I tuck it under my armpit as I peer over her shoulder. A huge buck stands not fifteen feet away, next to a doe. He paws the ground by her head. With her front feet spread, neck stretched, nose to the ground, the doe quivers, but doesn’t move. Strange, they aren’t running. My fingers twitch. I wish I had my rifle. The buck’s rack of horn must span eight feet.
A metallic clank fills the air. The doe stumbles back as if released from a tether, then lifts her head, her nose red with blood. My trap. She had her nose caught in one of my traps. The buck’s pawing must have released her.
Janie gasps. I try to cover her eyes. She jerks away. The sudden movement startles the deer. In great leaps they disappear into the deep woods. Janie turns to me. I brace and watch for her accusing eyes. Steal myself against the words I expect she’ll say.
“Michael, Michael did you see them?” Her voice bounces off the trees. “The reindeer, even Rudolf, right here in our woods. Did you see his red nose? Santa must be near. He’ll come this year. I know he will. You knew, didn’t you? I love you.” Her eyes shimmer with excitement. She falls back into the snow laughing and begins to make another angel. There’s a hole in the sole of her red rubber boot.
I look at her and wonder when I lost the magic of believing. I feel so old. Seen through her eyes the woods are a fairyland, reindeer are possible and traps are always empty. I pick her up and nestle my nose in her hair. She smells of soap and things I’d buried deep, under a layer of ice.
My baby sister believes. Emotion freezes my throat.
“Santa’ll come,” I mumble. I don’t know how, but he’ll come. Cold seeps through my coat. I ignore it as I set Janie back on her feet.
Then I fall into the snow, trusting. It feels awkward this trusting, as my body pummels toward the earth, still I’m determined. The snow engulfs me like a soft winter comforter. My arms and legs struggle to make an angel. The sky no longer looks gray. I see it through the shining light of Janie’s eyes. I stand up and my feelings burst forth in a great laugh. It sounds strange, but good.
“Let’s go home.” I unfasten the trap attached to my belt and let it drop to the ground. “No more trapping this year. My gift to you.”
She grins broadly and then frowns. “But I don’t have anything for you.”
“You alone is enough. Climb up and keep my back warm.”
She giggles as she climbs on my back and then becomes still, her arms strong as my traps and warm as a muffler around my neck.
“Trapped by an angel,” she whispers.
I nod my head and turn toward the barn and home. My legs swing easily, for I come bearing gifts. I carry a snow angel on my back. The only sound I hear is ice as it cracks around my heart. I swipe at moisture in my eyes. The world sparkles and I watch with care for reindeer in the woods.
Trapped By An Angel
All I can see are stark, dark trees against a wall of gray in the forest dusk. Dim shadows lie like ghosts across the snow. Of course I don’t believe in ghosts. Don’t believe in anything except that the world is a tough place and you have to be tough to survive.
“Hold on Janie. Another hour and we’ll be at the barn,” I say. “Need to finish the trapline, stow the game.” My sister Janie’ll never make it alone in this world. She believes in everything good, and never even sees the bad. So, I have the extra burden of watching over her. Carry it like I’m carrying her, nothing I need, but something I’m tough enough to handle. I try to teach her, but… “Your fault you got hurt.”
“Is not,” she says with a giggle. “My Mickey, Mickey, Michael.” One of her red mittens pats the top of my head, while the other grabs my collar. She's always so damn cheerful.
“Humph.” I shift my shoulders, toss her abruptly upwards, and will myself to keep moving. Janie is six, a real, sweet as carnival cotton candy brat. Can’t do a darn thing by herself. Mom treats her like a baby. Took care of myself by the time I was her age. She should too. Does nothing but cause harm spoiling her like this.
My legs tremble and my arms feel as if someone’s pulling the muscles apart strip by strip. I’m strong for fourteen, but she’s like a pack full of empty traps, nothing but dead weight. The burden numbs me to the sights and sounds of the forest. I trudge on through the cold, wet woods.
Janie’s hands clutch my jacket, her legs twine with my arms and I feel her breath against my neck. The only sound is the crunch my boots make as they break through the ice that borders the stream. I stare at the ground looking for tracks, don’t see the glittering world she chatters about in my ear.
“Michael, my ankle hurts so bad.” Janie’s tone changes as we near my game line. I close my mind, like the steel trap that swings from my belt. Her arms tighten around my neck.
“Loosen up. You’re choking me.”
“It hurts.”
I look down at her ankle. Appears normal, hard to tell through the red boot she wears. Probably another one of her tricks.
“Ain’t gonna keep me from collecting pelts. You should’ve stayed home.” I stop, drop her on the snow.
She scowls. “Didn’t have to dump me!” Her voice changes to a whine. “Please no more traps.”
Then, being cotton candy Janie, she lies back, smiles and flutters her arms and legs.
“What’re you doin’?” My hands clench, my jaw muscles jump. Can’t the kid tell I’m aggravated?
“Making angels.” She rolls back into a sitting position. “It’s almost Christmas.” Her cheeks are bright red and her eyes gleam with excitement.
The ice thickens around my heart. “Ain’t nobody giving you nothing. Quit trying to slow me down. I’m getting my traps.” I kick out, spraying snow in Janie’s face, then start down the trail.
She’s followed me everywhere this year and Mom makes me take her. That’s all right if I’m going fishing, it’s kinda funny watching her squirm when I put a worm on the hook, but not when I’m trapping. She cries over every animal I catch. She doesn’t understand that the pelts mean money. I crash through the underbrush.
“I don’t have time for fairytales and Santa ain’t visited me, ever.” The words come from my mouth on large bursts of steam. I mean for Janie to hear them. Branches shower white flakes on top of my parka and against my neck. My shoulder blades jump toward each other as icy wetness runs down my spine. I wish I had a muffler. Can’t afford one. As I draw my head into my coat, I admit Janie’s arms sheltered me from the icy bath as I carried her.
“Still ain’t worth the trouble you cause!” I holler.
Reaching into my pocket, I pull out a piece of gum, hesitate, tear it in two, and put half in my mouth. The brat will want some. It smells like winter and tastes like wild mint. My eyes scan the bushes. Janie’s voice fades into the distance. She can sit there all night for all I care. She knows the way home. She’s no more hurt than I am. I’m filled with the righteous bitterness of a misused soul.
There should be a trap here somewhere. I drop to my knees and dig through the snow. My hand hits against something hard. I grasp it and drag it to the surface. Chain clanks. The trap appears, crusted with whiteness, its jaws pressed together like a demon’s fangs.
“Damn.” I throw it down. Empty, just like the others. Someone’s triggering my traps. “Janie, did you do this?” My voice is loud. “Answer me!” I wait, beating the trap against my leg, thinking of what I’ll do when I see her. No sound comes from up the trail.
Limbs snap against my thrusting arms as I trudge back. I’m out of breath when I reach the spot where I dumped Janie in the snow. She’s gone. The imprint of the angel is clear, makes me uneasy. I look around for tracks. There they are, small waffle boot prints leading off to the deep woods, headed not quite towards the house. I turn to head back to my trap line and then hesitate. Mom will kill me if I leave her little angel out here alone. I sniff the air. It smells like more snow coming. The sky is a somber, ugly gray. I better find her and get home.
“So much for the sprained ankle,” I mumble to myself as I examine the evenly spaced footprints. “God, why’s she always messing up my life?” I glare at the menacing sky and follow her trail.
“Shhh.”
Janie’s crouched in a group of holly bushes, one finger held to her lips. She crooks the finger, luring me to her.
Thirsty, I pull a glove off as I approach and scoop up a handful of snow. It tastes like pine. I spit it out and wipe my hand on my pants. The cold bites at my fingers. When I reach Janie, I squat behind her.
“What is it?” My words no more than a soft breath.
“Santa’s reindeer.” Her voice high, yet a whisper.
I blow against my hand to warm it. It’s red and rough from work. I tuck it under my armpit as I peer over her shoulder. A huge buck stands not fifteen feet away, next to a doe. He paws the ground by her head. With her front feet spread, neck stretched, nose to the ground, the doe quivers, but doesn’t move. Strange, they aren’t running. My fingers twitch. I wish I had my rifle. The buck’s rack of horn must span eight feet.
A metallic clank fills the air. The doe stumbles back as if released from a tether, then lifts her head, her nose red with blood. My trap. She had her nose caught in one of my traps. The buck’s pawing must have released her.
Janie gasps. I try to cover her eyes. She jerks away. The sudden movement startles the deer. In great leaps they disappear into the deep woods. Janie turns to me. I brace and watch for her accusing eyes. Steal myself against the words I expect she’ll say.
“Michael, Michael did you see them?” Her voice bounces off the trees. “The reindeer, even Rudolf, right here in our woods. Did you see his red nose? Santa must be near. He’ll come this year. I know he will. You knew, didn’t you? I love you.” Her eyes shimmer with excitement. She falls back into the snow laughing and begins to make another angel. There’s a hole in the sole of her red rubber boot.
I look at her and wonder when I lost the magic of believing. I feel so old. Seen through her eyes the woods are a fairyland, reindeer are possible and traps are always empty. I pick her up and nestle my nose in her hair. She smells of soap and things I’d buried deep, under a layer of ice.
My baby sister believes. Emotion freezes my throat.
“Santa’ll come,” I mumble. I don’t know how, but he’ll come. Cold seeps through my coat. I ignore it as I set Janie back on her feet.
Then I fall into the snow, trusting. It feels awkward this trusting, as my body pummels toward the earth, still I’m determined. The snow engulfs me like a soft winter comforter. My arms and legs struggle to make an angel. The sky no longer looks gray. I see it through the shining light of Janie’s eyes. I stand up and my feelings burst forth in a great laugh. It sounds strange, but good.
“Let’s go home.” I unfasten the trap attached to my belt and let it drop to the ground. “No more trapping this year. My gift to you.”
She grins broadly and then frowns. “But I don’t have anything for you.”
“You alone is enough. Climb up and keep my back warm.”
She giggles as she climbs on my back and then becomes still, her arms strong as my traps and warm as a muffler around my neck.
“Trapped by an angel,” she whispers.
I nod my head and turn toward the barn and home. My legs swing easily, for I come bearing gifts. I carry a snow angel on my back. The only sound I hear is ice as it cracks around my heart. I swipe at moisture in my eyes. The world sparkles and I watch with care for reindeer in the woods.
Friday, January 19, 2007
my space
Here's my Space info for me:
http://www.myspace.com/deborahtales">Find me on MySpace and be my friend!
http://www.myspace.com/deborahtales">Find me on MySpace and be my friend!
Thursday, January 18, 2007
Poem on Weather
15th of January 70 degrees
18th of January we all freeze
21st century Iphone communication
does not stop Mother Nature's invasion
Pretty corny, huh? I'm sitting here looking out on a gray, day of icey drizzle. Less than a week ago, I couldn't stay inside because the weather was so wonderful. January in NC promises surprise, if nothing else. Makes it a little easier to get through winter. Think I'll go make a cup of hot tea.
18th of January we all freeze
21st century Iphone communication
does not stop Mother Nature's invasion
Pretty corny, huh? I'm sitting here looking out on a gray, day of icey drizzle. Less than a week ago, I couldn't stay inside because the weather was so wonderful. January in NC promises surprise, if nothing else. Makes it a little easier to get through winter. Think I'll go make a cup of hot tea.
Saturday, January 13, 2007
January Sunshine and a Husband
Today it is near 70 degrees here. I've spent the day outside working with my husband on a run-in shed for the horses. That really means I held up boards while he used the nail gun and fetched things as needed. I couldn't complain though since they are my horses. He not only doesn't ride he wouldn't even live on a farm if it weren't for me. Marriage is a crap shoot as far as I'm concerned. If you end up with a person you can live with for a long time, you're just lucky or too stubborn to give up. Not sure where we fall in this category, but for today I feel pretty durn lucky.
Tuesday, January 09, 2007
New Year, New Writing Goals
Time to get going on this again. It's been awhile, but life got in the way. I'm spending way to much time on Writer's Digest forum. It's fun and you can see some of my work there under posts by Deborah B. I plan to write everyday this year, at least some of the time on my novel Painted Black. I need to get it out there. It's like a noose around my creativity now. Keeps me from forging ahead because I haven't completed the rewrite and given the agents a chance to reject it. How about you? What are your goals?
I read some of the younger writers words and feel almost old fashioned in my story telling. What keeps me going is I know there are a lot of boomers out there who read! All for now.
I read some of the younger writers words and feel almost old fashioned in my story telling. What keeps me going is I know there are a lot of boomers out there who read! All for now.
Friday, May 26, 2006
Idol Thoughts
OK, I admit it. I'm an Idol junkie and am now going through withdrawal. Surfing the net for any tidbit of information on Taylor Hicks, my pick since I saw his audition tape. The man can sing and he's funny. At first when I saw him audition I thought he might have some kind of palsy when he went into his "special" dance moves, but I have to admit even that grew on me and I waited week by week to see if the Idol machine would beat it out of him. The man is strong. The moves are still there!
I've even talked about the show so much to my husband that he sends me reports he gets on USA Today. He travels a lot and since Idol is over for the season, I've told him he has to be home on Tuesday and Wednesday nights to entertain me. I'll be curious to see what moves he can come up with.
Since I'm out of the closet now, how about some of you out there "fessing up? Send me your idol thoughts. We can go through withdrawal together.
I've even talked about the show so much to my husband that he sends me reports he gets on USA Today. He travels a lot and since Idol is over for the season, I've told him he has to be home on Tuesday and Wednesday nights to entertain me. I'll be curious to see what moves he can come up with.
Since I'm out of the closet now, how about some of you out there "fessing up? Send me your idol thoughts. We can go through withdrawal together.
Poll:
Are you an Idol addict?
Thursday, April 06, 2006
more writing
http://http://360.yahoo.com/my_profile.html;_ylt=AlKbkhgF00EHU.mUOS742Wq5AOJ3 another of my blogsites
Going cross-country on the net
I've found myself galloping through the internet today. If I go real fast maybe I will reach the point of knowing what I am doing. It is kind of like the first time I rode a horse on a cross country course. I had not a clue as to how to figure out the jumps, or how to rate my horse so that I did not crash and part company with my four legged mode of transportation. The horse made the decisions. All I did was point the direction. The internet is like a jumping course to me. Each time I click on a new site, I hold my breath, afraid that this might be the one that I can't maneuver. The one where my great adventure ends. So, on I gallop, heady on the adrenalin rush, hoping to some day cross the finish line. The only problem is- there seems to be no end to this internet cross country course. I hope my trusty computer is up to carrying the load.
Monday, April 03, 2006
Wednesday, August 03, 2005
August On Horseback
August is a month that many people wish would speed by. Minds move on to thoughts of fall, summer is close to its end, and people trudge about like they live in a furnace. Not I, to me August is the month that highlights the special parts to a summer day. For example, I went out today on my horse, catching the trail behind the barn and sliding into the deep woods. The temperature dipped from 90 to 80, or at least it felt like it did. My horse picked up a brisk trot and we moved along the path until we reached the creek and turned onto the "Waterfall Trail". I listened to water as it tumbled over a ledge and slid between mountain boulders, the fine smell of a well groomed horse, fresh cut grass and moss on wet stones filled the air. I found myself with a smile on my face and joy in my heart. It doesn't get much better than this, the ride made even more special because of the contrast with the heat in a car, on a sidewalk, or working in the garden. Without August I would never experience quite this level of pleasure. It might be the hottest of months, but August on horseback is almost paradise.
Friday, July 08, 2005
London Bridges
Heard from a few friends yesterday. None of them mentioned London and the bombings. Instead we discussed horses, the rain, erosion and mothers. I think we were seeking security, wanted to know that the world would keep on turning, and that small everyday things were still important in our lives. Though we skirted all around the London issue I feel sure it is what bridged the distances between us, made us reach out, span the deep dark waters of those with no sense of the value of a human life, and touch something safe, a friend.
Friday, July 01, 2005
Geothermal Or Middle East Oil?
We're trying to do our small part to save energy but it turns out that it is harder than you might think. I've expended more energy in the past few weeks searching for anyone in NC who knows anything about installing a geothermal heat/cool system in a house than my air conditioner has used to cool down June. I think the oil Mafia has threatened heating and cooling system installers with being boiled in a vat of that black gold if they so much as mention ground heat, fuel savings, or heaven forbid, we don't need oil to stay warm information. It appears our own oil companies and our laziness and penny wise-pound foolish attitude about energy costs will deliver us into the hands of the Mid-East power brokers. Personally, I don't want to be dependent on anyone outside the USA to keep my house warm. Our government politicians should be exploring alternatives with the same aggression they use for political fund raising. Just think how nice it would be to thumb our noses at the oil wells outside our borders and say, "We don't need you." I'd vote for the guy who made that possible. Until then, here in the hills of NC, I will continue to explore the wilderness of alternative fuels while fanning my accordion folded piece of paper (a primitive but effective cooling device) with hope of stirring the stagnant air of the unacceptable status quo.
Sunday, June 26, 2005
Fractured Soul- A short, short story
Rain ran down and bubbled against the sleek curved surface, transformed it. Like sitting inside a bowfront china cabinet faced with the beaded glass from an earlier century, Cecily thought. Appropriate, since she felt as fragile as a fine porcelain cup encased in a body, wooden and stiff with age, with skin, transparent as glass, drawn taught across brittle bones.
She stood up, moved closer to the window. How had she ended up in this New York highrise, far from the mountains she called home? Her son insisted she move near family, she resisted and then acquiesced, because it made him happy. It's what a mother did.
Cecily peered out and down forty stories at the stream of people and cars. Her son said it was like sitting on top of a mountain looking down at a river in a gorge. He said she'd feel right at home. Not so, thought Cecily, though she hadn't told him that. It was like looking into yourself and watching the blood pour from a wound in your heart. She ran her hand across the glass, traced a fine flaw in its surface. Did her son know it was fractured, was in danger of shattering? She would not tell him because if she did he would feel he had to move her again and the thought made her weary.
Still... If there was a chance he'd move her back to her mountains she might say something. She felt a slight quickening inside, then whatever had stirred, curled back into itself. Deep down she knew going home belonged in the past with beaded glass.
Cecily stepped back and stared at her reflection in the flawed window and watched, no expression on her face, as the crack widened across her soul.
She stood up, moved closer to the window. How had she ended up in this New York highrise, far from the mountains she called home? Her son insisted she move near family, she resisted and then acquiesced, because it made him happy. It's what a mother did.
Cecily peered out and down forty stories at the stream of people and cars. Her son said it was like sitting on top of a mountain looking down at a river in a gorge. He said she'd feel right at home. Not so, thought Cecily, though she hadn't told him that. It was like looking into yourself and watching the blood pour from a wound in your heart. She ran her hand across the glass, traced a fine flaw in its surface. Did her son know it was fractured, was in danger of shattering? She would not tell him because if she did he would feel he had to move her again and the thought made her weary.
Still... If there was a chance he'd move her back to her mountains she might say something. She felt a slight quickening inside, then whatever had stirred, curled back into itself. Deep down she knew going home belonged in the past with beaded glass.
Cecily stepped back and stared at her reflection in the flawed window and watched, no expression on her face, as the crack widened across her soul.
Friday, June 24, 2005
Writing
Is it right to write if you don't feel like writing, but you might, if you write right along in the right way, with the right words, will you come up with something called good writing?
Friday, June 17, 2005
Friday In June
Cool as the cheek of an old person the day begins. I listen to the breakfast conversation of the bluebirds and watch the horses groom each other. I wish I could capture the peace of this June morning and send it to those I love so that they too could feel the wonder of being alive at this moment in this place. The world is good.
Monday, June 13, 2005
When Mothers Move
I've spent the last week moving my Mother from Kentucky to NC. I know this move has to be hard for her. She is down-sizing, moving to a new community and leaving most of what has defined her for many years behind. Or at least before the actual move I thought she was leaving those things behind.
Things went fairly well considering she is in her 80's, has a cat who is half wild, and enough stuff, that couldn't be moved until the last minute, to keep me busy with questions of why do you need this? As I packed her treasures I wondered about the things an octogenarian deems important. Bags upon bags of plastic bags, a small orange plastic measuring cup, tiny scraps of paper filled with shaky handwriting, and toys for a calico cat. I began to puzzle over her choices. Is it the small everyday things that are important? Are we all wasting energy and precious time acquiring all the symbols of modern success? I thought of the boxes of dishes, sports equipment, and who knows what else, I moved when we changed locations. It all seemed so vital.
The items that connect us to our basic needs are what my Mom's treasures tell me are valuable. Perhaps the items she wouldn't allow to go in the moving van say the most? The calico cat, of course, and a small box filled with her living will, social security information and pictures of those she loves. "If I make it to my new home with these, everything will be ok," she said. Wisdom comes with age, they say. For once I feel they might be right.
Things went fairly well considering she is in her 80's, has a cat who is half wild, and enough stuff, that couldn't be moved until the last minute, to keep me busy with questions of why do you need this? As I packed her treasures I wondered about the things an octogenarian deems important. Bags upon bags of plastic bags, a small orange plastic measuring cup, tiny scraps of paper filled with shaky handwriting, and toys for a calico cat. I began to puzzle over her choices. Is it the small everyday things that are important? Are we all wasting energy and precious time acquiring all the symbols of modern success? I thought of the boxes of dishes, sports equipment, and who knows what else, I moved when we changed locations. It all seemed so vital.
The items that connect us to our basic needs are what my Mom's treasures tell me are valuable. Perhaps the items she wouldn't allow to go in the moving van say the most? The calico cat, of course, and a small box filled with her living will, social security information and pictures of those she loves. "If I make it to my new home with these, everything will be ok," she said. Wisdom comes with age, they say. For once I feel they might be right.
Tuesday, June 07, 2005
Poem-maybe? The Real World
Rain dots the surface
circle against broken circle
in a blue oval pool
leaves tremble at the touch of water
gray sky hovers like a tarnished tray
turned upside down
over a ruined picnic
inside the television reports
the war
dust covered soldiers
half a world away
thirst for home
drip sweat
circle against broken circle
in the ochre sand
circle against broken circle
in a blue oval pool
leaves tremble at the touch of water
gray sky hovers like a tarnished tray
turned upside down
over a ruined picnic
inside the television reports
the war
dust covered soldiers
half a world away
thirst for home
drip sweat
circle against broken circle
in the ochre sand
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