It is 12:26 am, New Year's Day. I've made it to 2007. Tonight I think of those who are on another plane: Dennis, Dad, Ed, and on and on. Milly, Violet, and Shirley. I pay them tribute even though they don't need it. Even Saddam is in a better place; this is the place to set out one's purpose. Going over yonder the skipping treat when it's all said and done. I feel like tonight is a new beginning for me. I am in a weird, wonderful place. I am totally alone. Well, that's not the first and surely will not be the last. I am in a surer place. I feel the power of the pen coming through me. I pant for big stretches of alone time. For now, it will be in the late of the evening or early morning, or a bit of a Saturday or Sunday, late Friday night. I have transcended that feeling of belonging and so I completely belong. My needs are met; my responsibilities coming near completion; my moment of accomplishment right in front of me.
I accept. Into the first hour of the new year, I accept.
Sunday, December 31, 2006
Friday, December 29, 2006
Happy Horrordays
It has been a shaky, blissful few days. What is it about getting over the hump of a holiday only to find you are breathing again? Meltdowns, misunderstandings, missing funds, mayhem and maybe a little ham and turkey in there for good measure. I had this holiday season all laid out in my head: make a little fancy french toast one morning, pancakes with chocolate chips another, an omelet here and there, and on to lunch and dinner. Cookies, and cakes, and cremes oh my!
"I'm so bored," said Sarah. "I am, too," said Leila, and I just started crying. Maybe it was a collision of hormones amongst women, but this one crumbled into a heap on more than one day. I took it all personal and none of it was. They've just outgrown the circle of the living room. I'd read the Emerson Parent guide that said expect your freshmen to come home different.
I forgot.
Today, two days before New Year's Eve, the demands are gone. The kitchen has sat silent for days. I left town and babysat my niece yesterday. I returned on the NJ Transit train tired. Came in to both women cleaning. Washing walls and reaching for dust bunnies from behind the television.
Wounded again.
How do we survive our children and parents? I know the three of us are wondering that.
Instead of thanking them for cleaning, I took it personal again. Leila ordered pizza and she and her sis went out for a walk.
Today Sarah's friend came in from Boston. Leila and I went shopping for bargains. I got sheets for Sarah's new double bed that is coming tomorrow. Leila picked out a new futon mattress and cover for our living room. Things change.
For the better.
Always for the better.
"I'm so bored," said Sarah. "I am, too," said Leila, and I just started crying. Maybe it was a collision of hormones amongst women, but this one crumbled into a heap on more than one day. I took it all personal and none of it was. They've just outgrown the circle of the living room. I'd read the Emerson Parent guide that said expect your freshmen to come home different.
I forgot.
Today, two days before New Year's Eve, the demands are gone. The kitchen has sat silent for days. I left town and babysat my niece yesterday. I returned on the NJ Transit train tired. Came in to both women cleaning. Washing walls and reaching for dust bunnies from behind the television.
Wounded again.
How do we survive our children and parents? I know the three of us are wondering that.
Instead of thanking them for cleaning, I took it personal again. Leila ordered pizza and she and her sis went out for a walk.
Today Sarah's friend came in from Boston. Leila and I went shopping for bargains. I got sheets for Sarah's new double bed that is coming tomorrow. Leila picked out a new futon mattress and cover for our living room. Things change.
For the better.
Always for the better.
Monday, December 25, 2006
Rings the Bells, Jesus and Me are Born Again
Christmas morning 2006. Every Christmas, at least the past 10, I have sworn to do better the next year and each year I fail even more. This past year I tried to squirrel away a gift each payday but inevitably gave it away to one of my daughters when the moment seemed to need it. Sigh. Now it is Christmas morning and I have zero gifts to offer them. I pray I am a gift to them. I pray. It's a crapshoot. Parenting is a humbling profession. I suspect I contracted to come to Earth this time to learn the humility of a parent.
I also understand it is a time when my daughters are discovering themselves and life around them. This is not my time. It is theirs and I want/wish I could show it better. It is horrible to be so consumed in my own conquests at such a critical time. I feel on several counts I have failed them; yet I see these miraculous beautiful (inside and out) women.
They will be so proud of me when I become published, really published. I have kept them waiting a long time, yet I would like to think I have been helping them get to this beautiful state.
It's a crapshoot.
But it's a tricky thing, raising childen in our society. I have been reading Roseanne Barr's blog, Roseanne World and she makes some real sense. Check out what she said in a recent entry:
Mary (miriam) was the last priestess in the temple of the jews. She was kicked out because everything female was removed by the jews who feared they would appear too roman by having a vestige of the goddess, and her female attributes...(BINAH). (isis). The entire jewish bible is the herstory of how the goddess and her representatives (women priestesses) were dismantled, and purged from the liturgy. These days, there are jewish women torah scholars who are trying to put back the books written by women, or even the stories written by women that were removed. What was removed was burned publicly, but still saved and filed, and now, women are declassifying them and fighting to have them re-included. The work of the temple goes on..to raise what is female to its rightfully divine place. Any other commentary is obsolete. Do not let this elude you:
Jesus was the son of Woman, and the Son of Binah (the sphere of female mercy). His entire ministry was to protest the exiling of his mother and of all priestesses. He recognized the patriarchal expulsion of the Spirit of Motheright, and saw that it was to be replaced with Zeus (male god who gives birth through no woman, but from his own male head). (this represents further exile from the natural world).
He instead "liberated" the most revered/hidden theology and taught it to the common women, who were the first "xtians" (healing meditators).
In the end, the priest class replaced the goddess image (Shekkinah, holy dove) with the image of a man's dead body (his) hung on a cross (an act of terrorism) to be seen by women who questioned an all male priesthood.
This is what the message of jesus really is.
Stop trying to make the foot fit the "savior" He was not about love, he was about inner alchemy (meditation). There is no jesus without female intercession meditation, the highest meditation of the temple. There was no other reason for them to want him dead, and his dead body visible everywhere. For a christian, the only holy thing to honor his memory is to perform the meditations he died to return to women.
the rest is history, irrelevant history.
I also understand it is a time when my daughters are discovering themselves and life around them. This is not my time. It is theirs and I want/wish I could show it better. It is horrible to be so consumed in my own conquests at such a critical time. I feel on several counts I have failed them; yet I see these miraculous beautiful (inside and out) women.
They will be so proud of me when I become published, really published. I have kept them waiting a long time, yet I would like to think I have been helping them get to this beautiful state.
It's a crapshoot.
But it's a tricky thing, raising childen in our society. I have been reading Roseanne Barr's blog, Roseanne World and she makes some real sense. Check out what she said in a recent entry:
Mary (miriam) was the last priestess in the temple of the jews. She was kicked out because everything female was removed by the jews who feared they would appear too roman by having a vestige of the goddess, and her female attributes...(BINAH). (isis). The entire jewish bible is the herstory of how the goddess and her representatives (women priestesses) were dismantled, and purged from the liturgy. These days, there are jewish women torah scholars who are trying to put back the books written by women, or even the stories written by women that were removed. What was removed was burned publicly, but still saved and filed, and now, women are declassifying them and fighting to have them re-included. The work of the temple goes on..to raise what is female to its rightfully divine place. Any other commentary is obsolete. Do not let this elude you:
Jesus was the son of Woman, and the Son of Binah (the sphere of female mercy). His entire ministry was to protest the exiling of his mother and of all priestesses. He recognized the patriarchal expulsion of the Spirit of Motheright, and saw that it was to be replaced with Zeus (male god who gives birth through no woman, but from his own male head). (this represents further exile from the natural world).
He instead "liberated" the most revered/hidden theology and taught it to the common women, who were the first "xtians" (healing meditators).
In the end, the priest class replaced the goddess image (Shekkinah, holy dove) with the image of a man's dead body (his) hung on a cross (an act of terrorism) to be seen by women who questioned an all male priesthood.
This is what the message of jesus really is.
Stop trying to make the foot fit the "savior" He was not about love, he was about inner alchemy (meditation). There is no jesus without female intercession meditation, the highest meditation of the temple. There was no other reason for them to want him dead, and his dead body visible everywhere. For a christian, the only holy thing to honor his memory is to perform the meditations he died to return to women.
the rest is history, irrelevant history.
Saturday, December 23, 2006
Eileen Says It Best
Author Eileen Ressler aka Eben Reilly:
I have shuttled between loving and hating grammar.
On one hand, or down one neurological track, I have always enjoyed pursuing the quirky logic of the English language. As a kid, I actually liked parsing sentences while Sister Celine Marie stood by the window twirling her rosary beads, as a college freshman I elected to take an advanced grammar course which was more about philosophy than parts
of speech.
As a college writing instructor, I have always made time to teach
sentence structure because most of students obviously had never met Sister Celine Marie or
read Perrin's Guide to English in college or Elements of Style.
So one way of thinking roars with the thrill of proper punctuation
when writing technically or reading a student paper.
However, grammar nearly murdered my prose. I had to quit teaching
college English (and recuperate from my MFA program)for nearly a decade before I could write creatively again.
College writing requires correct English; creative writing requires subversion: law breaking, prison breaks, maybe even murder!
A writer must strangle correct English with its own tie until it gasps, uncle, and then after catching its breath, tells the truth.
December 23, 2006 11:18:00 AM PST
I have shuttled between loving and hating grammar.
On one hand, or down one neurological track, I have always enjoyed pursuing the quirky logic of the English language. As a kid, I actually liked parsing sentences while Sister Celine Marie stood by the window twirling her rosary beads, as a college freshman I elected to take an advanced grammar course which was more about philosophy than parts
of speech.
As a college writing instructor, I have always made time to teach
sentence structure because most of students obviously had never met Sister Celine Marie or
read Perrin's Guide to English in college or Elements of Style.
So one way of thinking roars with the thrill of proper punctuation
when writing technically or reading a student paper.
However, grammar nearly murdered my prose. I had to quit teaching
college English (and recuperate from my MFA program)for nearly a decade before I could write creatively again.
College writing requires correct English; creative writing requires subversion: law breaking, prison breaks, maybe even murder!
A writer must strangle correct English with its own tie until it gasps, uncle, and then after catching its breath, tells the truth.
December 23, 2006 11:18:00 AM PST
When the Death of Grammar Comes for Me
I remember taking a course on Emily Dickinson in graduate school. We read and studied her poems for an entire three hours. Some sessions killed me. What the hell? But always, I felt the generation of quirky wisdom. Mashing grammar and sentence word order?! I was struggling through grammar in another class, one I had demanded they make me take, even though it wasn't required for my program. I knew I needed it! But Emily, she threw all that out the window! It was a trying semester, but also one of enormous reception and clarity. Later I started playing with verbs in fiction class and my teacher, Rick DeMarinis, a former electrical engineer and now many times published author was aghast. "A verb can't do that, Sheela!" he exclaimed as we stood outside on a break. He wanted to throttle me. Something about dismantling a verb excited me. My weakness had become a strength. Years later, I took on teaching composition writing. Shit. Back to grammar and punctuation. Bit in the ass, I knew I was at a crossroads: I could spend all day and night grading essays and editing really badly written work or I could chuck it all and let them ride free in voice! I chose the latter.
On most days I feel like a fake, not a real teacher. Some students feel cheated too. "You didn't put any marks on my paper," some of them say.
I'm not an editor and don't want to be. I am the charter of my own ship and on this boat I command we study voice. It is the first tool of a mighty writer. Grammar, punctuation, spelling, it is important but it is not my concern. It once was.
"What part of speech is this, Sheela?" I can still remember Dr. Mortensen asking in class as the Education majors giggled in their seats. "Direct object," was my pat line before I realized I may pass out from feeling mortified and stupid. I eventually learned the rules and order. I could tell you now, but I choose not to do so. It is in me. I did the hard work. Everyone must do the hard work. And then run on Emily Dickinson style.
Throttle stirred stew.
On most days I feel like a fake, not a real teacher. Some students feel cheated too. "You didn't put any marks on my paper," some of them say.
I'm not an editor and don't want to be. I am the charter of my own ship and on this boat I command we study voice. It is the first tool of a mighty writer. Grammar, punctuation, spelling, it is important but it is not my concern. It once was.
"What part of speech is this, Sheela?" I can still remember Dr. Mortensen asking in class as the Education majors giggled in their seats. "Direct object," was my pat line before I realized I may pass out from feeling mortified and stupid. I eventually learned the rules and order. I could tell you now, but I choose not to do so. It is in me. I did the hard work. Everyone must do the hard work. And then run on Emily Dickinson style.
Throttle stirred stew.
Friday, December 22, 2006
It's Beginning to Look a Lot Like a Wasteland
The school where I teach is so slow today; the place is already shutting down for the holidays. I am thankful to be here, even if it's to a near empty classroom. At least I'm still being paid. Went to see "The Pursuit of Happyness" last night with Leila and Sarah. It was Leila's Christmas present to us and I sure did enjoy it. I went to bed soon after; I was so tired and I don't know why. Need to take more vitamins.
Well, on to another empty class.
Yesterday I awoke in the middle of the night with an idea about the novel. I worked on it yesterday morning until I had to come back, shower and go to class. It is really coming together. I could use day in and day out to work on it but my destiny does not feel the same way. I know the sabbatical will happen. If not this upcoming semester, the summer one. I just know it.
Happy Holidays.
Well, on to another empty class.
Yesterday I awoke in the middle of the night with an idea about the novel. I worked on it yesterday morning until I had to come back, shower and go to class. It is really coming together. I could use day in and day out to work on it but my destiny does not feel the same way. I know the sabbatical will happen. If not this upcoming semester, the summer one. I just know it.
Happy Holidays.
Wednesday, December 20, 2006
Good Art
Check out this fabulous site. The man rules. He ain't heavy; he's my brother. http://homepage.mac.com/stevenhastings
So Far Away From Me
Sarah came home, winded and torn up from a blustering ride from Boston to New York. One week before Christmas, can you imagine what Manhattan, especially Chinatown looked like when the Fung Wah (money is no object) bus pulled up? Hell. Pure Hell. She was blistering mad when she finally arrived and all her anger and frustration came pouring out and then turned to tears. Leila convinced her to go with her and a few friends to dinner. They are out now and I'm sure Sarah is feeling better. Growing up is the hardest thing any of us do except maybe going into the older aged lane, ready to exit. Watched Sylvia Browne on Montel today while waiting for Leila to have her sonagram. Sylvia says the other side is about three feet off the ground of where we are! Shut my mouth. Makes it just sound so much more doable. I never fancied walking on clouds. It's all relative.
Showed my three composition classes Eve Ensler's "What I Want My Words to Do to You" about a writing program with the women in the maximum security prison of Bedford Hills in Upstate New York. I had seen it three times already and after the sixth time I was ready just to sit down and cry, a deep, mournful, this world is hard cry. One of my students, on her way out, said, "I don't feel sorry for them." Then you don't feel sorry for yourself I wanted to say. It's all relative.
This thing about slapping a novel together is like never sleeping and yet being in a continual slumbering state. Brenda Ueland says "moodling" and going slowly is the way imagination creeps out. All my instincts were right. Trying to stay geared up, on the fast track, career girl mode was not my method. Stepping off and "watching the wheels go round and round" is my answer.
Artists, I realize, manifest what isn't there. The rest of the population - long given up on creativity - manage what has already been manifested. The artists suffer but receive the joy of nothing to something that only comes from seeing something that was not originally there. It was sitting safely on the other side.
Showed my three composition classes Eve Ensler's "What I Want My Words to Do to You" about a writing program with the women in the maximum security prison of Bedford Hills in Upstate New York. I had seen it three times already and after the sixth time I was ready just to sit down and cry, a deep, mournful, this world is hard cry. One of my students, on her way out, said, "I don't feel sorry for them." Then you don't feel sorry for yourself I wanted to say. It's all relative.
This thing about slapping a novel together is like never sleeping and yet being in a continual slumbering state. Brenda Ueland says "moodling" and going slowly is the way imagination creeps out. All my instincts were right. Trying to stay geared up, on the fast track, career girl mode was not my method. Stepping off and "watching the wheels go round and round" is my answer.
Artists, I realize, manifest what isn't there. The rest of the population - long given up on creativity - manage what has already been manifested. The artists suffer but receive the joy of nothing to something that only comes from seeing something that was not originally there. It was sitting safely on the other side.
Monday, December 18, 2006
What is Realization?
What I love about falling in love with writing is that I can be watching Jeopardy, winded from doing three double-loads of laundry and to hear something that throws me into the novel! Of course! She hamstrings her kids! Of course, that's what it is! Grab the notebook, get it down. Easily it could become an essay, but what's the point? It might hurt who I'm thinking about when I write it. Better said as a character. I used to think that was such a removed way of dealing with life. I know novel reading is at its lowest in today's society, but that does not mean I am not committed! She hamstrings her kids put me into the realm; the realm of layered discovery. And you can't get that on television - maybe the big screen - maybe, but first the book must be written that guides the way. No more hamstringing of this girl!
Sunday, December 17, 2006
Playing Chopsticks Ain't Beethoven
My 21st post and I want to talk about the difference between creative writing and composition writing. I am finding out as I begin to get into novel writing, how incredibly different it is! Eileen (author known as Eben Reilly of the new young adult novel, "Wolf") really opened my eyes to this situation. I was reading "Wolf" while waiting at The Red Apple for my order of Sesame Chicken to be prepared and it dawned on me, "Holy crap, she is writing dialogue one line after another!" I mean big chunks of information being given between two people over bacon and eggs! That's a good and swift novelist.
I hope I have it in me. I mean, I can blurt out an essay and still know I could glean it more and more, but the raw parts even so are good. But a novel is different. It has to have a rhythm; get the reader to lose him or herself into it. If there's a hitch or too much expository information, the reader might just close up the book and reach for The Daily News or remote control.
I, on the other hand, while reading "Wolf" had to be shouted at, "Miss, Miss, your stinking sesame chicken is ready. Close the book and come pay for it!"
That's a novelist.
I hope I have it in me. I mean, I can blurt out an essay and still know I could glean it more and more, but the raw parts even so are good. But a novel is different. It has to have a rhythm; get the reader to lose him or herself into it. If there's a hitch or too much expository information, the reader might just close up the book and reach for The Daily News or remote control.
I, on the other hand, while reading "Wolf" had to be shouted at, "Miss, Miss, your stinking sesame chicken is ready. Close the book and come pay for it!"
That's a novelist.
Saturday, December 16, 2006
Happy Holidays
Stood in line at Commerce Bank today to make a deposit for Leila. She had paid for her sister's phone bill two months in a row and I wanted to repay her. It was a long line and I was getting hot as I had my coat on. There were three tellers and it seemed like they had one trouble customer after another. I just wanted to put green stuff into the bank! It wasn't rocket science.
I noticed a little girl trolloping around the higher than wide Christmas tree standing between the personal bankers and teller section. "No, Milka," said an older girl behind me, who later I would find out was her cousin. She was telling her not to touch the ornaments. But Milka touched as many as she could and went completely around the tree. I imagined the tree accidentally spilling over and as long as no one got hurt, thought of how stirring that would be...to see the tree crash down in such a staid establishment.
I kept watching Milka. She was a sweet girl and awfully curious. She lingered by the coin machine. I lost track of her as I grew hotter waiting for the snail line to move. I looked out the enormous plated windows revealing the Brooklyn Supreme Court and Post Office. Then I saw Milka standing at the front of the line. Her cousin tried catching Milka's attention without bringing too much attention to herself, but Milka was politely oblivious. A personal banker briskly walked by us in the line and swiveled around to address Milka's Mom or Aunt, I'm not sure of her status to Milka. "Please give her some pennies or quarters to put in the machine," she said half demanding and half lightly and then she kept walking. "Why doesn't Commerce give her some pennies?" I thought. "What a kind gesture that would be. But Milka is just a customer's child. The personal banker understood how much delight it would bring Milka but couldn't convince herself of the individual joy the banker, herself, would receive by giving to this imaginative child.
Milka was two customers away from me and she was at the front of the line. The woman in front of me smiled too and when she was called to the teller Milka followed her. I turned to Milka's guardian and asked if it would be okay if I gave her some change. She smiled and said "yes." I remembered a colleague yesterday who also had gone to the bank and also seen a little girl running around and spoke pleasantly to her when the woman behind her said, "That's not right," and it really offended my co-worker. Now here I was being allowed to give an adorable and inquisitive little girl some coins to run through the machine and get a five dollar bill, the equivalent of the one I gave the teller and who in turn gave me six rolls of pennies and a roll of nickels.
I called Milka over. The teller started handing me the coins. He looked perturbed even though he was slowly awakening to the idea that I was giving them to the little girl. I told Milka to put them in her pocket but the first roll of pennies brought her fingers to the top and she wanted that plastic off! I slid all the rolls of coins into her pocket and her little hoodie was weighted down. Milka's adventure had produced her a chance of running five dollars worth of pennies and nickels through the counting machine. She had touched every ornament. She had garnered the attention of a woman who earlier wanted the Christmas tree to fall down.
I walked away liking myself.
I noticed a little girl trolloping around the higher than wide Christmas tree standing between the personal bankers and teller section. "No, Milka," said an older girl behind me, who later I would find out was her cousin. She was telling her not to touch the ornaments. But Milka touched as many as she could and went completely around the tree. I imagined the tree accidentally spilling over and as long as no one got hurt, thought of how stirring that would be...to see the tree crash down in such a staid establishment.
I kept watching Milka. She was a sweet girl and awfully curious. She lingered by the coin machine. I lost track of her as I grew hotter waiting for the snail line to move. I looked out the enormous plated windows revealing the Brooklyn Supreme Court and Post Office. Then I saw Milka standing at the front of the line. Her cousin tried catching Milka's attention without bringing too much attention to herself, but Milka was politely oblivious. A personal banker briskly walked by us in the line and swiveled around to address Milka's Mom or Aunt, I'm not sure of her status to Milka. "Please give her some pennies or quarters to put in the machine," she said half demanding and half lightly and then she kept walking. "Why doesn't Commerce give her some pennies?" I thought. "What a kind gesture that would be. But Milka is just a customer's child. The personal banker understood how much delight it would bring Milka but couldn't convince herself of the individual joy the banker, herself, would receive by giving to this imaginative child.
Milka was two customers away from me and she was at the front of the line. The woman in front of me smiled too and when she was called to the teller Milka followed her. I turned to Milka's guardian and asked if it would be okay if I gave her some change. She smiled and said "yes." I remembered a colleague yesterday who also had gone to the bank and also seen a little girl running around and spoke pleasantly to her when the woman behind her said, "That's not right," and it really offended my co-worker. Now here I was being allowed to give an adorable and inquisitive little girl some coins to run through the machine and get a five dollar bill, the equivalent of the one I gave the teller and who in turn gave me six rolls of pennies and a roll of nickels.
I called Milka over. The teller started handing me the coins. He looked perturbed even though he was slowly awakening to the idea that I was giving them to the little girl. I told Milka to put them in her pocket but the first roll of pennies brought her fingers to the top and she wanted that plastic off! I slid all the rolls of coins into her pocket and her little hoodie was weighted down. Milka's adventure had produced her a chance of running five dollars worth of pennies and nickels through the counting machine. She had touched every ornament. She had garnered the attention of a woman who earlier wanted the Christmas tree to fall down.
I walked away liking myself.
Wednesday, December 13, 2006
Counting the Days
If I calculate it right, I have about 45 more days left before my campaign ends. I am so charged and knowing that it will happen! I thank you in advance for hearing my request and granting it. I shall be writing - for four glorious months - my novel; the object which I happily now call my growing baby in the womb better known as my heart. If you do not feel the wish, obligation or cannot afford to contribute, could you speed me on my quest by sending it to people who might be interested or at least just the act of you sending it, will keep this action going?
I love and thank you.
I love and thank you.
I'm With Child!
Spent all day Monday and into the night grading essays and research papers until I literally became sick. Worked a little bit on the novel yesterday and it was the only bright spot in my day. That and realizing I have another column entry for Creator's Syndicate (I think I give it a new name everytime I write about it) regarding squirrels. I am learning to let the ideas tap me on the shoulder and to be astute enough to WRITE THEM DOWN! Should have taken a pen and paper to bed with me last night for the ideas were jumping like salmon in a cold Alaska river! Upstream, grab me Sheela they were saying but I just had to sleep. I remember a couple and will jot them down.
I have referred to writing this novel the same as in growing a baby in the womb and it is true. It is with me always and what I do affects the growth of the baby. I'm going to take much better care of myself and swallow down more vitamins. As much as I thought my two daughters were the only children I would give birth to, come to find out, I have many more to conceive and produce.
Okay, that's all I can scribble down this morning. I am one day late in turning in my grades so must get to Downtown Brooklyn and try to avoid the mighty rain that is coming! I wish to observe it from the comfort of my living room and right in front of this computer, growing a baby.
I have referred to writing this novel the same as in growing a baby in the womb and it is true. It is with me always and what I do affects the growth of the baby. I'm going to take much better care of myself and swallow down more vitamins. As much as I thought my two daughters were the only children I would give birth to, come to find out, I have many more to conceive and produce.
Okay, that's all I can scribble down this morning. I am one day late in turning in my grades so must get to Downtown Brooklyn and try to avoid the mighty rain that is coming! I wish to observe it from the comfort of my living room and right in front of this computer, growing a baby.
Monday, December 11, 2006
Making Headway
I just posted my ad in Craigslist for a writing session from December to February. To read the call for a writing class, go to http://newyork.craigslist.org/mnh/crs/247283833.html. Exciting. I am learning that instead of waiting for the opportunity to come to me, I shall go to it. I am excited just thinking about having an online class of people who wish to write from their hearts. The only requirement is to make a small donation here. I think that's fair, a win-win situation. On this Monday, December 11, life looks mighty promising and sweet. Finally, I am listening to my heart, as well. Brenda Ueland writes in "If You Want to Write" to stop doing what you do not wish to do! Revolutionary idea, and I get it. I wish to do this. I wish to do this.
Sunday, December 10, 2006
G-l-o-r-i-ous
It is such a glorious day here today in Brooklyn. I know that sounds mushy or even trite, but I mean it: glorious. I awoke and actually did my morning pages like a good girl. Then I knew the second thing (after feeding the cats) was to write to two colleagues of mine, Eileen and Samone, who have been just an awesome amount of support to me as friends, creative hearts, and human beings. I wrote it out and got a reply from Eileen, a published author who has been fiercely throttling me to write! write! write! I quickly opened up the email and in it she wrote: This is a test. If you are reading this you are not writing! I had to laugh and shut down the email system, grabbed my notebook and went out to write and to eat a bagel.
Leila had come home in the meantime and we needed milk and Equal, so I jumped at the chance to get out for a walk, too. I went out to a new bagel shop in the neighborhood and sat down with my plain bagel with a schmear of cream cheese and a small coffee with the ever present shot of Equal. I ain't a tellin what happened while I was sitting there other than to say that four big parts of the novel came sloshing out. I was feeling very frustrated over the structure of this baby and then I made a connection as I went over all my notes. There it was. Again, I believe in the Stephen King philosophy of not speaking about the dish until it's prepared and cooked - at least once - all the way through.
Hoorah! I remember Eileen saying a month or so ago that the writing of the piece is the most fun. Huh? I thought. I find it excruciating or at least not really fun. Sitting there staring at the well-formed, heart beating object of a fetus in my possesesion in that bagel shop (ew, weird image), I knew what Eileen meant. Now I was at a place where I got to put the puzzle pieces together and to ride with or without a seatbelt or saddle through the adventure. I felt suddenly like I did when I went into a theater to see a movie I knew I wanted to see; it had intrigued me enough to see it. Now I had a piece of work all my own.
I owe Eileen big.
I text messaged Leila once out of the bagel shop because I was going to walk to the Promenade and I thought she might want to also. The weather was good, sky clear, and I was wearing a thermal top, hoodie and jean jacket with my jeans, so it was a good day all around and not the frostbite ones we had had the past two days. Leila wanted to go and I asked her to bring my gloves with her. We met at Winn's and started walking. Leila is a fashion stylist and is doing a shoot tomorrow for Miss Universe. Wow. She says it like she has to dress a lanky teen from Staten Island, nothing big. Wow. So we are walking to Barnes and Noble when she tells me, "I made a contribution to your blog."
Stunned.
My girl laid down two hundred dollars of her hard earned bucks for her old Ma to write a novel. We were in a Tibetan shop when she said this and I turned to her, nearly knocking Buddha off the wall. "Oh honey!" I exclaimed and hugged her. I always knew both my girls believed in me, and that is simply priceless in itself, but this young woman took $200 out of her bank and laid down a few instrumental cobblestones to line my street of dreams.
I am so grateful and humbled.
We kept walking and she spotted a clothing store she loves, LF. She said she wished she had the magazine's letter stating the shoot she was doing because she sure would love to pull some clothes from there for Miss Universe. We went in and Leila started talking to one of the young women who worked there and I left them alone. My girl was working. Suddenly she started pulling items and I asked what was up? "They are going to let me use their clothes for the shoot."
Hoorah!
Now we are sitting amongst $6,670 worth of fabrics, jewelry and shoes. The stylist is on her way.
Like I said it's a glorious day.
Now I need to feed the cats. They think the broad and the babe better get their shit together and do some real work.
Leila had come home in the meantime and we needed milk and Equal, so I jumped at the chance to get out for a walk, too. I went out to a new bagel shop in the neighborhood and sat down with my plain bagel with a schmear of cream cheese and a small coffee with the ever present shot of Equal. I ain't a tellin what happened while I was sitting there other than to say that four big parts of the novel came sloshing out. I was feeling very frustrated over the structure of this baby and then I made a connection as I went over all my notes. There it was. Again, I believe in the Stephen King philosophy of not speaking about the dish until it's prepared and cooked - at least once - all the way through.
Hoorah! I remember Eileen saying a month or so ago that the writing of the piece is the most fun. Huh? I thought. I find it excruciating or at least not really fun. Sitting there staring at the well-formed, heart beating object of a fetus in my possesesion in that bagel shop (ew, weird image), I knew what Eileen meant. Now I was at a place where I got to put the puzzle pieces together and to ride with or without a seatbelt or saddle through the adventure. I felt suddenly like I did when I went into a theater to see a movie I knew I wanted to see; it had intrigued me enough to see it. Now I had a piece of work all my own.
I owe Eileen big.
I text messaged Leila once out of the bagel shop because I was going to walk to the Promenade and I thought she might want to also. The weather was good, sky clear, and I was wearing a thermal top, hoodie and jean jacket with my jeans, so it was a good day all around and not the frostbite ones we had had the past two days. Leila wanted to go and I asked her to bring my gloves with her. We met at Winn's and started walking. Leila is a fashion stylist and is doing a shoot tomorrow for Miss Universe. Wow. She says it like she has to dress a lanky teen from Staten Island, nothing big. Wow. So we are walking to Barnes and Noble when she tells me, "I made a contribution to your blog."
Stunned.
My girl laid down two hundred dollars of her hard earned bucks for her old Ma to write a novel. We were in a Tibetan shop when she said this and I turned to her, nearly knocking Buddha off the wall. "Oh honey!" I exclaimed and hugged her. I always knew both my girls believed in me, and that is simply priceless in itself, but this young woman took $200 out of her bank and laid down a few instrumental cobblestones to line my street of dreams.
I am so grateful and humbled.
We kept walking and she spotted a clothing store she loves, LF. She said she wished she had the magazine's letter stating the shoot she was doing because she sure would love to pull some clothes from there for Miss Universe. We went in and Leila started talking to one of the young women who worked there and I left them alone. My girl was working. Suddenly she started pulling items and I asked what was up? "They are going to let me use their clothes for the shoot."
Hoorah!
Now we are sitting amongst $6,670 worth of fabrics, jewelry and shoes. The stylist is on her way.
Like I said it's a glorious day.
Now I need to feed the cats. They think the broad and the babe better get their shit together and do some real work.
Friday, December 8, 2006
Good Friday
Listening to Tony Bennett on PBS - duets. Ahhh, so nice. It's cold and windy here in New York. Hope you are fine where you are. I read on Roseanne World that tonight and tomorrow is a great time for spiritual connection. I am going to drink it up. I know I am under construction; learning to let go and live in the present and to be grateful every second. I am going to see it from the end and awaken (and listen to Tony). I'm drinking a rum and diet Pepsi. Got to get the Thanksgiving stash out of here. But it has been nice to sup tonight. It was a long 12-hour day and I graded one too many research papers!
Wednesday, December 6, 2006
To Travel to Eckerds or the Corner Store?
Oh I'm having such a chocolate attack! It's chilly outside, but I think I may have to venture out for something. The spirit is willing and the flesh is weak but it can slide some jeans on for phish food! This morning I awoke and had such a rush of happiness that I had the entire day to write on the novel. I fed the cats and then remembered I had snubbed a colleague two nights before after my Billy Joel extravaganza with the blanco y rojo vino the other night. So I called her to apologize and an hour and a half later my ear was fried. That woman can talk and that's a lot coming from this woman! So then I put some money into Sarah's account and with notebook in hand slid into Dunkin Donuts for a coffee and Bowtie. Aye - it will be my downfall for it is supposed to be the only sweet for the day I have when I have it but now look I'm licking my chops for chocolate. Aye. That and listening to NY1's Inside City Hall, I am turning nervous. Hate when that happens. Things are so utterly good and getting better and then here comes the creeping, "but what if?" I must learn to let go of that. Do my best and then let go and be happy. Coming from a lifetime and heritage of worriers, I am going to break the cycle. I am also going out for that chocolate, but it will be to celebrate for as I sat at Dunkin Donuts this morning the novel's structure came down from the heavens to my pen and I couldn't go fast enough, but yet there was a smoothness, a harmony that was like butter. So I know where I can go now and I shall. I shall go where I choose. And I choose chocolate and the direction of this novel. I also signed up to write free column articles for a chain of newspapers in California. Shoot yah! I see this as a way of getting better at being a columnist and actually having some clips when I ship my shiny work off to Creative Syndicate. I also heard of a thing called Teleclasses and I'm thinking perhaps I could develop a class and if anyone wants to take it, make a small donation to my Novel Idea. My mom keeps asking me about the novel. It makes me happy to know she holds some hope in my first book. Life is good. I hope it is so for you. Don't worry. Hell, be happy. And eat lots of chocolate.
Tuesday, December 5, 2006
Monday, December 4, 2006
Me and Billy Joel Had to Be the Big Shot
Leila came home this morning and I met her at the door, looking like Hell. I do not think a 51 year old woman is supposed to consume so much red and white wine on a Sunday night. But I had fun for a little while. I also had a breakthrough in the novel. Things are purring along. For some reason, I keep hearing people on tv talking about holding on to your dreams. Leila and I watched Roseanne's final show and it made us both bawl! I love the quote at the end that says dreamers who work during the day see their dreams with their eyes wide open. I really butcher the quote from Lawrence of Arabia, but it charges me up everytime.
I see that I only have one contributor so far and it makes me a little of small faith. I want to stomp my feet and demand that someone pledge. But that would be missing the point, now wouldn't it? The point is to let go and trust. Stay in the present, keep working (sans wine, preferably) and trust.
I shall. And now unlike Lawrence of Arabia, this tired woman is taking herself and her dreams to bed. Right now.
Peace.
I see that I only have one contributor so far and it makes me a little of small faith. I want to stomp my feet and demand that someone pledge. But that would be missing the point, now wouldn't it? The point is to let go and trust. Stay in the present, keep working (sans wine, preferably) and trust.
I shall. And now unlike Lawrence of Arabia, this tired woman is taking herself and her dreams to bed. Right now.
Peace.
Sunday, December 3, 2006
Ring Out!
I'm listening to New Riders of the Purple Sage's "Last Lonely Eagle" and it's enough to make you give up meat. I feel like we're all connected. What, on the other side, do we eat air? That would be good because over here I want to eat Taco Bell. U2 is on. Forget it. I can make it. Oh what a mess. What a joke. The joke is on me (and my supply of nail polish).
Constant Craving
I wrote to a friend and he is so hot, I am mortified! I wrote "piece" offering instead of "peace." Kill me. How embarrassing. I may not be great at all the grammar stuff, but I am a good speller. Runner up in the Fourth Grade. That resonates with me. It is my pride and joy. Well at least I spelled piece right.
We've Got Tonight
Leila and I went out for a new keyboard and mouse for the home computer. First it was the mouse that was really hard to handle and then last Friday's storm with the window open left for a dead keyboard. Leila sprung for both since she left the window open. I am filled with ideas and the spirit. Dr. Dyer lifted me up this morning and listening to Dr. Maya Angelou tonight talking to Dave Chappelle on Iconoclasts set me safely down.
Since I've decided to run this marathon, wonderful things have been happening and they aren't just happening to Post-Thanksgiving wine guzzling me; they happen to ANYONE who steps out and says, "I have to self-actualize before I'm pushing up daisies."
For women it happens at 50. Does it also to men? Magazine article. Like Con Ed, I'm on it.
I have Bob Seger's "We've Got Tonight" playing, over and over. The keyboard works great. The mouse is divine. After Leila left, I noticed her AIM Away Message, "now look at the time I saved ya, mama let me upgrade ya."
Since I've decided to run this marathon, wonderful things have been happening and they aren't just happening to Post-Thanksgiving wine guzzling me; they happen to ANYONE who steps out and says, "I have to self-actualize before I'm pushing up daisies."
For women it happens at 50. Does it also to men? Magazine article. Like Con Ed, I'm on it.
I have Bob Seger's "We've Got Tonight" playing, over and over. The keyboard works great. The mouse is divine. After Leila left, I noticed her AIM Away Message, "now look at the time I saved ya, mama let me upgrade ya."
Waking Up
Got up this morning with really low energy. Then I turned on PBS and there was Dr. Wayne Dyer talking about Intention and how we come from the source of abundance. I have seen his show many times and I had to laugh. I forgot. I intend to raise this money and finish my first novel. Thank you for participating, even if it is just to read this. Thank you.
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