This is My Body, This is My Blood

SLO Poke

It's been over a week since I last posted and I was trying to come up with a good excuse when one landed in my lap. Actually it landed in the middle of Santa Rosa Street-- it being my van--whose transmission went out with a thud on my way to a fundraiser for the International Film Festival.  Luckily, I live in a college town and within seconds, two strapping young male specimens pushed my car (and me) out of harm's way.  AAA towed the van to my wonderful Hispanic Mechanic (I love saying that) Freddie, who is the most trustworthy and reasonable auto mechanic in town.  I used to go to his brother, who spoke almost no English, until one day he disappeared and Freddie opened a shop in the same neighborhood.

Up until this weekend, I had never ridden a city bus. All those maps and schedules and transfers intimidated me. If ever I needed to get somewhere when my car was being serviced, I usually rode my groovy bike or hitched a ride with friends. Unfortunately my Schwinn has a flat tire, so if I wanted to go see Garden State on Saturday, I either had to walk 2 1/2 miles each way or ride one of these:

Yeah, you read it right. Our city acronym is SLO. Hilarious, isn't it?  Even funnier, J and I got on the wrong bus for the return trip and it took 45 minutes to get home after a scenic tour of the entire southeast loop. However, if there's ever a silver lining to be found, I'm your girl.  Turns out SLO Transit is offering free passes for the whole month of September, to encourage students to use the bus system. If my transmission had to give out, at least it gave out at the best possible time.

You know, I'm actually kind of glad it happened (one of these days I'm going to trip over that half-full glass and cut the shit out of my Pollyanna foot) the way it did. I found out there are three bus stops within a few blocks of my house.  Today I actually managed four transfers on my way back from the Post Office and grocery store.  Also, I was surprised to hear nearly every single person thank the driver as they got off the bus. I didn't realize bus passengers were so polite and drivers were so friendly and helpful. Not only that, I ended up talking with several interesting folks I'd never have met had my car not broken down. Gee, maybe I won't get it fixed. Why sink another 7 or 8 hundred bucks for a rebuilt tranny into a ten year-old car when I can walk, bike, or ride? Shouldn't I let my actions speak louder than my tree-hugging mouth anyway?

Maybe it's time to sit back and enjoy the SLO life a little more often...

Trader Joe's Redux

For those of you who read my other blog, you may remember a certain entry about a certain food that resembles a certain female body part.  Well, I decided to submit an expanded form of that post to our local weekly paper, but in order to do so I had to visit the store to find a couple of quirky beer and wine names. As I stood in the aisle scribbling on the back of my business card, it occurred to me that I know nothing about choosing a good wine, but I sure do enjoy a good label. Here are just a few of the wines displayed on the shelf at TJ's:

Bear's Lair
Purple Moon
Toasted Head (My personal fave)
Duck Pond
Honey Moon
Blue Footed Booby
Thunder Moon

(I think they must harvest grapes at night with the moon theme they've got going.)

And this is a sampling of the best beer names:

Mississippi Mudd
Fat Weasel
Black Toad
Jumping Cow

The first one sounds like the setting for a story featuring the three characters (labels) that follow it.

You know, I was just thinking, if I don't sell my novels (perish the thought) then my next job choice would be to name beer. In the unfortunate event my manuscript drowns in the slush pile, I've decided to get a head start on my next job.  Can you imagine these beer names at your local Quirky Imported Grocer?

Skinny Ferret
Brown Snow ( a Detroit Brewery)
White Crow
Dancing Pig
Fuzzy Trout

Not bad, huh? And I don't even like beer. Come to think of it, the kind of person who consumes most of the beer would be more apt to get the job than a near tee-totaler like me. Except that person would also be more likely to taste those beers for, uh, inspiration while brainstorming labels. You know where this is going, don't you? Yeah, well what can I say...I have smart readers. Here goes, anyway. My imaginary labeler is well into a six-pack by the time we catch up with him...

Ugly Redhead
Dirty Coffee Cup
Jumping Cow (for real this time)
Stubbed Piggy
Stupid End Table (see above)
Soggy Pizza
Pretty Redhead
Probable Sex
Spinning Sofa
Chunky Moustache
Disappearing Redhead
Likely Lesbian
Something Something
hISF mNDfkr;

Doing the Write Thing

From as far back as I remember, words have leaned against my chest like an irritable dog at the back door, growling to be let out before leaking all over the floor. It was a rare day that I didn't spend at least part of it scratching myself into the pages of various notebooks, journals, or whatever loose scrap of paper was handy when the urge overtook me.

Then along came the computer and word processing, neat little letters marching across white paper all self-important and official looking. At fist I was ecstatic: I wrote like crazy, often backing up to erase thoughts almost before they were fully formed. I filled diskettes, then CD's and, finally, hard drives with the seemingly endless flood of poems, essays, and stories held captive by hands too slow to give them all the life they deserved.

In the end, however, most of them never saw the light of print. Instead, they filled a shelf in the hall closet next to old journals and diaries. I imagine all those coded characters like undressed mannequins crowding each other for binary berth beside the stacks of bulging notebooks.  Do i feel guilty? No. But I do feel hypocritical sometimes. I wrote a couple of books about journaling, for crying out loud, and in them I told people how important it is to write with a pen and paper.  I still believe that..I'm just not so good at practicing it lately.

From time to time I still stumble upon a phrase or idea scribbled quickly in order that I not forget, which I usually did anyway. Yesterday while cleaning out my van,  I came across a grocery receipt with twelve words scrawled on the back:

The men push against the women while the women push against time

I don't know when I wrote it because the date is missing, but that information seems irrelevant just now.  What is significant is how I was able to trace the lines with my finger, feel the slanted ink licking against the crumpled strip with the force of a writer's determined tongue. Because I could touch the words, they touched me, and I remembered exactly what I was feeling when I reached into my purse and grabbed the first thing willing to accept my tiny epiphany.

As grateful as I am for the convenience of digital copying, pasting, and editing, I'm glad for those times when I'm unable to crop a thought once it's rooted itself on paper. What good are saved words if they can't speak to me? And am I willing to sacrifice the beauty of ephemera for the luxury of speed and  precision? I'm asking us both, you and me, reader and writer, though I don't expect an answer here.  This is the kind of rhetoric that can only be explored fully with the benefit of a comfortable chair, a cup of coffee, and the kind of pen that rolls like butter on a warm slab.

The Bella Curve

I try not to blog about my dog because there are plenty of people who fill pages and pages of (yawn) their blogs with posts about their adorable/cute/funny/sweet/fuzzy/   cat/dog/gerbil/bird/fish/monkey and far be it from me to compete with such tender/poignant/heartwarming/heroical/endearing stories. However, because I'm feeling lazy/uninspired/blocked/bloated/sluggish today, I've decided to tell a dog story.

Wait. If I'm going to top all of the aforementioned bloggers, I've gotta do better than that. Okay, here's the thing. My dog blogs, how about that? I'll turn the keyboard over to her right now so she can tell you how she is even more neurotic than her owner, if you can believe it.  So without further a-doo-doo,  I present to you, Ms. Bella Boo, beautiful black brat and budding blogger:

9:30 AM: Where the hell is the Crazy Lady? I have to pee, doggonit, and she's not even up. Hey kid, let me out. I could pop the mattress with my toenails, you know. Good grief. Not even that would wake up his pimply teenage ass after staying up half the night playing that stupid xBox.

Wait. I hear her. Ah here she comes.  And... there she goes, right past the bedroom door.  Come back!  I don't have thumbs! I'm sleeping on a waterbed and I have to pee--don't you get how dangerous this situation is? Hello???

9:52 AM: Oh, so now you're ready to let me out. Well, fine. But I'm going to stare at you first, make it look like my idea. La-de-da,, hum-de-hum, oh, I'm sorry, did you say something? Come? Well, okay I suppose I could take a little walk around the back yard and...oh....god....feels...so...good...to...finally...peeeeeeeeeeee....

10:37AM: How nice of you to remember to feed me. I believe you had your breakfast a while ago, right? Thank you for teaching me how to be at one with my hunger.  How zen-fucking-not that was of you. I've been eating my toenails out here (which, by the way, need a trim in case you haven't noticed).

12:22 PM: Hi! Oh Hi! Yes, I've forgiven you, of course! You came out here to play with me right? Put the phone down. Put the fucking phone d-o-w-n! You can't throw a ball with that in your hand.

Okay, you can, but not very far, and I can tell you're more into the phone conversation than our playtime.  Why is it always about you, huh? Throw the damn ball. I said,  throw it already.

Not in the pond! You know I hate the pond. You did that on purpose, didn't you?  Keep the dumb dog busy pacing around the pond, tripping over the stupid plastic buddha wearing mardi gras beads. A bit of a contradiction, don't you think? You don't see monks running around with strands of purple and red hanging from their necks any more often than you see me putting my nose in that algae-laden swamp. Clean the filter, already.

12:54 PM: Hey, what're you doing? I just put that there. I don't mess with your toilet, why do you feel the need to bag up my shit? What do you mean it draws flies? Maybe it's you, have you ever thought of that? Or that stinking green puddle you call a pond.

Wait. I didn't mean it. Let me in the house. Please?  Huh? Dog hair? You're worried about a few dog hairs when you're carrying around 300 shedding braids? At least my hairs are organic. Do you realize how long it takes for that synthetic crap to biodegrade? I'll tell you how long. Check my turds, Crazy Lady. Yeah, I ate one of the braids that fell out, so what. Maybe if you fed me on time...

2:19: PM: Ah. Now this is the life. My head in her lap while she strokes my ears, talking sweetly. Yes, yes, yes I am your most beautiful baby boo boo lovey-dog and don't you forget it. 

3:10 PM: Wha? Keys?  Did I hear keys? Yes!  Yesyesyesyesyes!  Come on, let's go. No, forget your water bottle, let's just go. Your hair looks fine.  Skip the lip gloss. You're beautiful, alright? It's not like we're going out to pick up men.  Oh, I get it. You're taking me to the park to scam for single guys, not because I need exercise and you love throwing the ball. Well forget it. They're all losers. All you need is me, you hear? You and me forever. Got that?  No men with dogs because I am the ONLY dog you'll ever need and I don't share the car with any other mutt.  So come on. NO not that way! Fuck. How many times can you have to pee in one day? 

That many? Really? Shit.  That's a lot. 

3:13 PM: But I want to drive. Oh okay. Roll down the window.  No thumbs, remember?

3:23 PM: Weeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!  Look at my ears. Quick, look at em. They're flying straight back.

Inside out?  Really?  Adjust the side view mirror for me. No thu--ah, I see.  Ok that's funny but fix it. Stop laughing and fix it. I'm not getting out of the car until you...ohmygawd we're here!  Look how many dogs are at the park. Does this collar make my ass look big?  It does?  Good.  Let me out.

3:31 PM: But I don't want to play with the other dogs, I just want to chase the ball. No, YOU come here to socialize, I come here to chase the ball. Now throw it, damn it.

3:32 PM: Mooooooooooooom!  He took my baaaaaall!  Sob, hiccup. I was going after it and he ran ahead of me and now he won't give it back. But I don't waaaaannnna share. Sob, hiccup. Make him give it baaaaack!

3:44 PM: Time to go already? I was just getting started. Hey, fuck off retard. I'm not your bitch. No, not you, mommy, I was talking to hump-along there. 

Okay, fine, I'll get in, but don't make me listen to AirAmerica Radio.  That woman's nasal voice hurts my ears.  I wanna listen to the dog guy. Yeah. Congalton, that's it. 

6:30 PM: Who's there? Somebody's at the door!  Hey, it's, whoa!  A tall guy I don't know and BARK he's GROWL  hugging my boy. I don't like him Baaarrrk he's taking you away from me BARK. This is the guy you swept up all my hairs to impress because you're GROWL paranoid he'll think your house is messy?  Well, he can just bite my WHOA HE'S COMING TOWARD ME and ...

oh. my. god. I cannnot believe this. That was not diarrhea spraying from my butt just there in the hallway. No way. Please don't stand over me plugging your noses. Oh, man, I am so sorry. Yes, of course I'll go outside. 

11:38: PM: Ah, a night under the stars. Sure I miss the waterbed, but it's all good. She'll laugh about this whole thing tomorrow.  Please let her laugh about this tomorrow.

2:16 AM: I can? On YOUR bed??? You do???

I love you, too, Crazy Lady.

The Rhythm Method

A couple of Fridays ago I wandered down to the Mission Plaza where my city sponsors outdoor concerts during the summer. It was one of those days when I was feeling fragmented, and I'd hoped to reconnect myself through a connection with the outside world.  As I moved through the crowd, however, I became even more aware of how separate I felt.  I wanted to dance, but was too self-conscious to join others grooving in front of the band. Instead, I moved behind and to the right of the stage where I could watch and listen from a safe distance.

I let my gaze slide over the sea of heads, to the couples bouncing babies on hips, to the barefoot young woman twirling with wild abandon in front of the stage, to the backs of each band member as they played, to a man standing smack dab in front of the speaker--holding it with both hands as a wide grin danced across his face. My first thought was that he would undoubtedly go deaf if he stood there much longer. It was the second thought that told me he already had. By keeping his hands on the rumbling speakers, he could feel the music, connect with the same beat that moved everyone else.

Watching him, I felt delight rather than pity. I wished he would show me how to grab onto the rhythm of that gathering, feel it in my bones like a slippery pulse pushing the melancholy out of my heart. I wished that wild woman would steal my shoes and carry me out on the dance floor. I wished I were a pudgy baby rocking against the hippest of hips.  Having wasted three wishes, I slipped away feeling just as alone as when I'd arrived.

I just now opened the files on my camera and found his soundless grin, a silent song pounding against my chest. I kick off my shoes and tap a rhythm into the floor boards, awakening the music tucked into the corners of recent memories. In my mind I'm standing in the middle of the plaza, swaying. I don't need a funky band or rows of low-backed lawn chairs filled with people to feel the energy of the crowd.  As my fingers dance across these keys, I am connecting with you, right now, right here.

Right on.

A Fine Mess

This is my grandaughter, E, channeling her grandmother's inner child. The one who, no matter how good her intentions are to keep these five small rooms tidy, will most certainly fail.

This morning my kitchen table was clean and tidy, a vanilla candle in the center, surrounded by black salt & pepper shakers. An hour later, my laptop has to fight for its meager square inchage with no less than two water bottles, a half-eaten package of sunflower seeds, spit cup (for shells), digital camera, camera case, USB cord, pair of red reading glasses, Sunday Crosswords puzzle book, pen, J's boarding school admission papers (overdue), three postcards I keep meaning to reply to, my Mervyn's statement, a cooling raspberry latte, and one small box fan set to head off the next hot flash, which is due any moment.

I'm not a careless slob. In fact, I'm constantly sweeping the hardwood floors, wiping countertops, filling the dishwasher, bleaching the sinks, putting away laundry, etc., etc. What happens is I get distracted. While looking for my address book, I leave my water bottle on top of the piano. Later, I realize I forgot to take my vitamins this morning, so I fill another bottle because I can't remember where I put the first one. As I'm swallowing my supplements, the phone rings. On my way to answer it, I notice dog hair in the the corner of the hallway, so I grab the broom. Of course I can't find either phone because I've left both receivers wherever the last two conversation ended. I check caller I.D. and decide to call my daughter back on the cell, but the battery is dead. While rummaging through the kitchen drawer for the charger, I run across the school admission papers I was supposed to fill out last month so I put them on the table next to my water.

Why do I have a broom in my hand? Oh, yes. I need to sweep the driveway. On my way out the front door, I trip over the rug and spill coffee on my clean, white t-shirt. As long as I'm washing it, I may as well strip the beds. While putting the clothes in the washer I remember the pictures I took in Santa Cruz this week so I pull the camera out of my purse and set it on the table, next to the admission papers and the water bottle. Retrieving my checkbook from my purse, I find the Mervyn's bill that's due tomorrow. I figure I'll handle the postcards as long as I'm paying bills, so add them to the pile. But I can't find a pen. Aha, there's one in the crossword book I left in the bathroom. But now I'm losing momentum, so I make a latte. Enough time has passed that I decide to check my email while the espresso brews, grabbing the water bottle off the piano on my way to fetch the laptop. Because I'm now hungry as well as thirsty, I retrieve the bag of seeds and a cup from the cupboard and set it to my right, before moving the fan from my feet to my face.

Now that I'm all settled in to fill out papers, pay bills, and answer postcards, while eating seeds and drinking my coffee, I remember how long it's been since I posted to my blog and end up writing this instead.

Thirteen Candles

A month or so ago my horoscope promised that "something big" something "life-changing" would occur around September of this year. I no longer have the exact words, but the indication was that it would be a positive change, not a bad thing. I'm not a big subscriber to astrology, although I admit most Piscean traits are so dead-on for me some descriptions may read, "See also: Edwards, Eldonna, pinkadelic, ellie, whatever the hell she goes by these days."

I don't cast Runes, throw the I Ching, follow the stars, draw Tarot cards, gaze into crystal balls, or believe my palm has the future etched into its sweaty creases, either. I do, however, believe in hope, and will grasp the tail of any promising comet that happens to sail within my reach. So if the stars are in cahoots with my destiny, then darn it, I'm not too proud to stick out my tongue in hopes of catching a few grains of sparkly dust while it's raining favors.

As most of you already know, I signed with a literary agency in May. For the past couple of months, I've been tweaking a couple of areas in the book my delightful agent, S, felt needed minor polishing. Having completed the revisions to her satisfaction, we printed eleven copies of the ms along with my bio last week. Normally summer is a dead time in New York and publishers get slammed with new material right after Labor Day. S was afraid if she sent Waiting for David out in August, editors would think it was something she felt wasn't good enough to hold until September. On the other hand, S also believed my book would get more attention if it weren't lost in the fall barrage of mss, so she called one of her editors who said they were looking to buy books now.

In the next few days, those 11 mss--three crazy years and uncountable hours of writing, revising, and agonizing crammed into 300 flimsy pages--will hit the desks of busy editors tortured by budget constraints, understaffed departments, and the pressure to find the next break-out novel among towering piles of mediocrity. Waiting for David is a sweet, funny, enchanting story, but not very likely to hit the Bestseller list. What we're counting on is the back story, that this writer hungered so feverishly to practice her craft, she did something no other author has ever done to harness the cosmos in her favor. That she was rewarded by a single star who smiled down on her little planet, lighting the way as she wrote; a muse glowing in the corner of even her darkest nights.

I can't tell you the whole story right now, but hopefully you'll be reading it in the news or watching the last chapter unfold on Oprah! In the meantime, please join me this week in lighting thirteen candles to mirror the flame that's been kept burning on my behalf for all these months. One for my agent, one for each of the prospective editors, and one for the collective heart and soul of every artist out there who hungers to write, paint, sculpt, act, make films, make music, dance, or take photographs in order that we may see the world through each others' eyes. Without art, we have no balance against pain, personal loss and the ugliness of wars. Without the beauty of creative expression, we might lose our ability to connect with one another, comfort and inspire each other by sharing our stories of love and loss, celebration and devastation. Without you, my words would die before they ever had a chance to blaze across this screen, withered stars with no reason to twinkle.