End of the Song

Heart Songs

(Part Five)

Sitting at the computer, I tried to order my thoughts, carefully replaying the night’s revelations. With this newfound perspective, how did my insight equate to this relationship? What was I feeling? Did I want a song to come blasting out of the ether, weighty with meaning, deciding for me? Or was I already there, hard on the vapor trail of Bonnie Riatt’s métier? I'm tired, worn out. Rubbing my eyes, turning the radio down to a soothing murmur, I begin to write.

After a time, a hand enter my vision, a voice says softly, “Would you like to dance?” and I’m swamped with deju’vu. As I look up at him, my brain goes quiet. I don’t hear any sounds, see any pictures—my cerebral cauldron has finally stopped bubbling. He gives me an enigmatic smile, takes my hand, walks me back to the den. Strange, I feel a bit shy, awkward even. How long since we’ve danced?

He turns off the lights, the glow from the fire our only illumination, pushes a button on the player and pulls me against him, wrapping arms tight around me. This is good. Sting’s voice drifts over us, not really a dance song, but we’re hanging on, swaying together, the words to “She Walks The Earth,” feather my ear as he whisper-sings to me. His voice gets low and gravelly—shivers up my spine—as the lyrics burning with desire float into my head. I get it by the time he’s singing every other heartbeat, I beat just for her.

Ah. The catalyst song and the music man. I’m in.

~~~~

A slight chirping noise finally registers: my computer’s pitiful cry of alarm. Jerking upright, I realize I have fallen asleep, my neck is stiff, my hands splayed across the keyboard. Twenty-eight pages filled with alphabet soup, attached to the end of my story notes. But far, far worse, as comprehension slowly penetrates my sleep-addled mind, I realize my music man didn't come for me after all.

The house is quiet and shadowy around me. Vague, wispy beams from the streetlight outside my window angle across the carpet; in contrast, the glare from the computer screen is shocking against my weary eyes. Glancing at the clock on the wall above me, I sigh in resignation. 3:00 a.m. Haven’t I been here before?

I shut off the computer and stand at the French doors, my heart heavy as I stare out into the dark, rainy night. It’s not every day your brain catches fire, or you have an astonishing revelation; it’s both exhilarating and exhausting. I have a fleeting vision of that other 3:00 a.m., a barn and baby lambs—even with time past and years gone, achingly alone still feels the same. I endure a sharp burn in my solar plexus for a moment, then I can't help but smile.

Now that I truly comprehend the force of music in my own personal opera, I know that somewhere, sometime, I will hear the song, or the song will hear me, and decisions will be made, changes will come, life will move forward.

Because no matter the time or place, the person or the dance—in my heart and soul there will always be the music.

-- End --

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When I first began to write this, these three guys stood out in my mind as the main focus of the story, the major players who had passed through my life--along with the music--up to that point. There were minor players, other stories and adventures, but these three undoubtedly had the most impact. (About two years after Music Man and I broke up, I went to Scotland on a business trip and met Alan, and though he became a major player for sure, he came along after this story was written.)

In case there is some curiosity about what happened to those three guys, guess what..?? I know. Well, more accurately, I knew. Since I've been living in Scotland for nearly a decade, my intel is now pretty dated, except for one of them...

Corporate Guy:
He spent over a year hiring and firing workers to care for the farm after I left. No one would do the work I did. Eventually he sold the place, moved east and started his own business with heavy equipment. I know. Very strange choice for a corporate guy. He used to call my mother once a year or so--though it's been a very long time now. Last anyone heard, he was doing very well.

Toxic One:
He quickly found another victim woman, moved to Florida and worked for NASA. I used to fervently hope an alligator would snack on his manly bits, but I let that go after awhile. My sister and her husband are Porsche people and belong to a club. They go to rallies and other club things, from Canada to California. They were at a car show several years ago and my sister recognized him in the crowd. He was overweight and wasted looking. Lucky escape for me on more than one level then.

Music Man:
We're still really good friends. In fact, we had a great long phone conversation over the holidays. He's a good man, and though we couldn't manage as partners, we did forge and keep a warm friendship. He's a wonderful guitar player and is in a small band that plays around Seattle, mostly for fun. I'm happy he's still a music man.

Nearing the Final Chorus

Heart Songs

(Part Four)

Warp speed. The dawn of a new century is on the horizon, I’m ruminating in the car as we drive through the stormy Seattle night.

When we get home, I grab the dog and nearly run down the empty road. I need to be out in the elements, unconfined, as this mind-altering epiphany swirls through my head. Music, relationships, meanings. The songs flood through me, bringing pictures, sounds, smells, bombarding my senses. Miles later, when even the dog is tired of walking, I found myself coming full circle: Bonnie’s lightning bolt song from the car in my mind as I stand in front of the house where my relationship is disintegrating.

More floodgates open as I gaze in the windows. I can see him in the den, fiddling with the CD player. I wonder what music he is drawn to tonight. The beat in my head goes on, out of my control—my inner jukebox flips through Dave Matthews and “Crash,” Rod/Bryan/Sting, “All For Love,” Aerosmith’s “I Don’t Want To Miss A Thing.” The lyrics to hundreds of songs, carved like petroglyphs in the caves of memory.

I stand there, in a cascading, drenching, roaring white water of music. Dave Koz, Peter White, Boney James, Miles Davis, Najee, Bob James. My mind, filled with music, sparks with images, takes me—

—Off the beaten track in Utah, listening to Michael Jones playing “After the Rain,” the music soaring up red rock canyons in a place where Butch and Sundance once hid out; driving over a summit in the Cascades as the sun dawns on a clear, summer morning, rays of light shooting down the crags like laser beams, Michael’s “Morning Mist,” perfect accompaniment; the Painted Desert during a lunar eclipse, David Lanz’s piano resonating in the night, tickling the stars with “Christofori’s Dream,” as senses are filled with desert perfume.

Where does passion go when it seeks asylum elsewhere? Does it endlessly circle the cosmos, searching, hoping, for a place, a person to call home?  Or is it just a transient dream, an emotion so volatile the sheer momentum of such power must inevitably lead to an implosion?

He had the headphones on now, deep in his own private musical mystery tour as I watched from outside. The rain, my Wurlitzer mind-meld and wet dog drove me indoors. I needed to write down these tumultuous thoughts, this enlightenment, and could feel it all pressing on me. After turning on the computer, and changing into warm clothes, I poked my head in the den to ask what he was listening to. Before I could speak, he turned, pulled off the headphones and said quietly, “We need to talk.”

We sat in the den, our only music the crackling logs in the fireplace, the dripping sound of rain outside. I spoke about lost passion, he voiced responsibilities; I wandered in the past, he had no desire to remember. Had we misplaced the way to common ground? Eventually, I tell him about my evening’s experience, my illuminations about catalyst and background, the power music has to change reality. If anyone could understand my musical epiphany, it should be him, the music man.  But no. My words seem to fall on deaf ears, our efforts to reconnect stall. Either he doesn’t get it, or he gets it too well. Common ground crumbles under my feet.

Withdrawn, preoccupied, he’s already returning to the CD player, headphones in place, before I’ve left the room—and I have to get these thoughts out of my head before I explode.

I need to write.

Music Begins To Fade...

Heart Songs

(Part Three)

I spent the next few years getting myself back in balance, gaining some wisdom—a good period actually—and if U2 touched my heart singing “With Or Without You,” or Peter made me yearn with “In Your Eyes,” then Midnight Oil brought me back to earth with “Beds Are Burning.” Sting, Phil Collins, Paul, Billy Joel, Rod Stewart, Bon Jovi—they played Scheherazade to my Schahriar, and I was content with that.

In the groove, minding my own business—and isn’t that usually when we get blindsided?--I'm coasting toward the end of my 30s, when bam, glissando into...

Act Three.

I was taking part in a four-day conference in Chicago for a Vietnam Vets group that I worked for; people from all over the country, full agenda of veterans’ issues. On the final night there’s a gathering in the hotel ballroom after dinner; a DJ is playing all the great rock and roll tunes. I’m back in a corner, sitting at a small table by myself, tucked next to enormous pots of bamboo, watching the dancing, talking to people as they drift by, thoroughly enjoying the downhill slide of a long working weekend. I’m singing away to myself, “Like a Rock, Witchy Woman, Georgia On My Mind, Sitting On The Dock Of The Bay,” not missing a line, tapping my feet, having fun.

One of my all-time favorite tunes comes up and as I’m softly murmuring the words to "Desperado," I hear a quiet, clear baritone from the other side of my bamboo grove. Some guy, with a great voice. He could carry the music, he knew scale, he could sing. Cool. I’m totally enjoying this new development, safe in my bamboo blind. Peering through the fronds, I see he has his back to me, unaware that I’m there, can hear him. As the music reverberates around the room, he doesn’t miss a beat, sings every note and lyric of “Heart Of Rock And Roll, Born To Be Wild, Light My Fire.” A music man. Oh my.

The DJ takes a break, a few folks join me for some recap-the-conference talk. When I’m alone again and look through the bamboo, he’s gone. Damn. Who was that masked man?

As I sit there, pondering missed possibilities, the DJ starts a new set with another of my favorites. A hand appears, held out for me to grasp, followed by, “Would you like to dance?” I recognize the timbre of his voice. It’s him. When I take his hand, stand and meet his eyes, he gives me this unexpected knowing kind of smile. It takes me a minute before I understand. He knew all along I was behind him, listening. He’d been singing to me.

We dance. He whisper-sings in my ear every word of “When A Man Loves A Woman,” and I’ll swear for all time that Percy was never that smooth. Honestly? It was a done deal for me before the last notes of the song had faded from my ears.

You would think a catalyst song would be inescapable here. Not so. This was background, pure and simple. It’s really about all the music—the songs, the singers, the feelings—permeating and enhancing, bringing me to that moment in time, right where I was supposed to be. The music in him sang to the music in me and that was all I needed to know.

The Music...Two

Heart Songs

(Part Two)

The next affaire d’amour was most intense, so there’s not only the catalyst song, but the background is rife with music as well. I’m in my 30’s.  Confident, cool, looking good—though not quite up to my intelligence quotient as it turned out.

Act Two in my life opera.

I took the photos, he wrote the words. What a team.  In Oregon, chasing a story, we fell in love under an October full moon, racing east up the Columbia Gorge in his old Porsche, Jackson's “Running on Empty,” wailing into the night.

Once we stopped at a honky tonk in a little town somewhere in Texas, danced ourselves drunk to a band called Lamont Cranston, and man, they were good. We got in a fight outside Ditka’s place in Chicago, and right in the middle of some serious discord, the Stones’ “Wild Horses,” came floating through the night air like an enchantment, the words breaking down our angry walls. He pulled me close and we had the best all-time makeup kiss ever. Jimmy Buffet kept us sane for a time when we were working in the Keys; “A Pirate Looks At 40,” makes my heart ache to this day—I can feel the tropical heat, smell the sea from our back porch. The Boss with “I’m On Fire,” ensorcelled us in Kauai under another full moon, sand between our toes, trade winds breathing over warm skin, juicy pineapple kisses; and again, after a long night driving from San Francisco to LA, perfectly attuned, belting out every throat-growling note of “Cover Me.” We had passion in spades; worked, loved and fought as we criss-crossed  America for the next five years, musical notes trailing in our wake.

Unchecked passion, however, has a tendency to burn too hot, flames build to an inferno; passion twisted makes for a dangerous love. Eventually, you either get out of the kitchen, or go down in a blaze of glory—getting a grip is no longer an option.

The catalyst song came in Seattle during a fierce battle, going at each other for real, the final act in a relationship gone mad, duking it out like two kids in a schoolyard brawl—as wild as I will ever be, fully prepared to go down in wholesale destruction. What brought me back from the brink, no clue how it penetrated the madness, was Madonna’s voice, riding the demon-charged air from the radio, softly singing to me, “Live To Tell.” Oh yeah. There wasn’t a line we wouldn’t cross in the decline of our relationship. It was time to get out of the kitchen.

This wasn’t one of Madonna’s big hits, but for me it was a catalyst of epic proportions—a life preserver of a song tossed into turbulent, violent waters, saving my dumb ass.

The Music In Me

The first part of the lost story, mentioned in yesterday's post.  I was working on the next bit, something went wonky, and the original post from this morning was deleted.  Crap.  So, I am reposting this.  I think I said in the earlier version that I hadn't read this story in well over a decade...and could see how Rolling Stone would think it was too girlie for them.  Hmm.  I disagree, but whatever, here it is...

**********************************************************************************

Heart Songs

(Part One)

I had a major musical epiphany the other night while my partner and I were driving home.  As we cruised through a dark, blustery Seattle night, quiet in our thoughts, both of us aware that sometimes there is no comfort in silence, I actually let myself think the worst: this relationship was very likely on the brink of ruin, and I was restless and unhappy.  “I Can’t Make You Love Me,” came on the radio, and as I listened to Bonnie’s voice and words, I considered the magic of songs, the impact of lyrics.  I closed my eyes, lulled by the drone of the car engine,  the swish of the windshield wipers, and drifted through my past, hearing my previous relationships by the music interwoven in each.  My own Top 40 Hits—songs that take me through time, to a place and person, smells and sensations.

Music has always been a factor in my life, yet I was suddenly struck with the thought that music has directed, even altered my story; catalyst and background, if you will, to my life’s opera.  We all identify with music, in relationships and our lives, but this thought was different.  I could see where songs had forced my hand, made me choose, influenced my decisions.  What if I hadn’t heard that particular song at that precise moment?  Would my path be the same?  Would a different song have meant a different outcome?  Am I an idiot not to have realized this sooner?

Act One of my life opera.

I’m in my 20’s, my first serious adult relationship, living on a farm, managing a small chain of bookstores in the Pacific Northwest; he was doing the corporate thing, climbing fast.  The music that immediately fills my head:  Moody Blues, Croce, the Dead, Creedence, Steve Miller, toss in a little Grand Funk, can’t forget War, or the Eagles…or Janis.

It’s 3:00 a.m., a stormy spring morning.  I’m in the barn.  He was in Dallas, or Chicago, or was it New York?  Who could keep up.  I know for three out of every four weeks I’d been holding down the fort for two long years.  Been on the run since 4:00 a.m. the day before, worked all day at the bookstore, thirty-five mile commute home to the farm with six pregnant sheep, two cows, three goats, two cats, twelve chickens and one sweet little pup.  Then, timing being what it is, one of the ewes went into early labor.  I’ll omit the gory details—the minor terror when the last lamb of triplets was breech and I had to do some pretty gross maneuvering—and just say that everything worked out.  I had the barn radio going and as the lambs wobbled about, alive and bleating, I fell back against a stack of hay bales, took a good swig of Black Jack straight from the bottle—a medicinal necessity in any working barn—and burst into tears.

With the spring squall blowing outside, whistling through the chinks in the hayloft overhead, I felt achingly sure there was no one left in the whole world except me.  Then, from the radio I hear “Rhiannon.”  Don’t ask me why that song pulled the trigger; what I understood in that crystalline moment:  I wasn’t ringing like a bell in the night and neither was my life.

Whenever I hear the song, I’m back in that barn, alone, blood and baby lambs, goats and curious cows, hay and whiskey and tears all around me…and Stevie’s voice echoing, filling every part of it.

This was a catalyst song.

Threads...

I was walking the critters this morning, my mind wandering as much as they were:  all over the place.  It is an amazingly beautiful day in Roseburg: blue skies, lots of warmth in the sun, really nice.  I was mulling over two conversations I've had recently, one with Jan (the BFF), the other with my sister.

It's approaching the time for me to sell the house and move on.  I have been torn--nearly in half--about whether to return to Scotland, or stay here in America.  There are many pro and con scenarios for both options, however, one true fact is indisputable:  If, by some wonderful twist of Fate, the house sells quickly, what do I do then..??  Where do I go..??  Where, dammit, do I belong..??

I have spent many a long hour on the internet, looking at towns across America, north to south, east to west.  I know where I don't want to live, but can't seem to settle on where I do.  And honestly..??  If I didn't have the dogs, was more fluent in the language, and didn't have a house full of stuff to deal with, I would just up stakes and move to Italy.

However.  Reality bites. 

Oddly, during these chats with Jan and my sister, they both brought up Coeur d'Alene (Idaho, for those of you who aren't familiar), as a viable possibility.  I actually lived in Cd'A for a winter, way back in time during my "Log Cabin in the Wilderness" phase (don't ask).  Jan lives further north, close to the Canadian border, way up the Panhandle.  My sister and her husband drove through there recently on a trip to Canada.  It is no longer the quiet little burg that I remember.  In fact, along with a couple other places I'm considering, Cd'A just might have some merit.  Sadly, nothing I find in the States will ever compare--in my mind--to Edinburgh, but I'm coming around to the realization that going back might not be the best thing for me to do.  Jury is still out.

Back to this morning.  Mulling, pondering, meandering along.  And here comes the part where I wonder if my brain is the same as everyone else's.  The threads in my mind are tangled and convoluted and sometimes even I am amazed how one tiny thought can lead me to where I end up.

Thinking about the two phone conversations takes me down this thread...follow it with me:

I'm remembering my little cabin on the south shore of Lake Coeur d'Alene.  At winter's end I moved north to Sandpoint, (into another cabin on Lake Pend Oreille), where I worked as a governess to three little boys who belonged to the local land baron.  A year later I moved to Seattle.  Jan and I meet at the publishing company, eventually we both end up with our guys.  Several years go by, she has moved to Idaho, and I am in the death throes of my relationship.  I begin writing again, for solace, to find answers.  I write a short story, a last ditch effort to get through to my guy, to make it clear we're facing extinction here.  He doesn't get it.  We're done.  Later, I send the story to Rolling Stone for consideration as it's about the impact music has had in my life.  They liked it, but thought it was too girlie.  Well duh.  I'm a girl.

Abruptly the thread stops.  I have arrived at the end of the tangle because now I'm wondering what has happened to that story.  Where is it?  When was the last time I saw it, read it?  I know I will have to search for it, though it's been years and two countries later.

Is this how thoughts go for other brains?  I start off thinking about selling my house and moving, and end up going through boxes of stuff in my closet looking for a lost story.  If I'm alone in this, please don't call the guys in white coats...just let me keep believing I'm not a weirdo.

The end of all this is...I found the story.  It's only about 2,600 words, not long.  I'm going to break it down and post it in a couple small parts.  So stay tuned.  And if anyone has a perfect place to call home for a wandering woman and two wee dogs?  Be sure to let me know...

The Italian Chronicles - Prima parte

I have three stories that carry on some topics I've written about lately: my Leatherman, my camera (or lack thereof), and "a story for another day."  As I was pondering these yet-to-be-written posts, I realized all three had one thread in common:  they all took place in Italy.


A Story For Another Day

The first part--prima parte--of these Chronicles is about some festivale, and takes place in Sant'Agnello, on the Sorrento coast, about an hour south of Naples.  The place where we stayed is in the center of this photo, a beautiful small hotel hanging on the cliff over the Bay of Naples.

Nearly every day, without fail, we would hear fireworks, whistles, church bells, whatever made noise.  We would hear these sounds off in the distance, up the mountains, around the corner, out on the water, everywhere.  The first few days we thought it must be a celebration of some saint, or holiday, or some happy event.  After a couple more days, we would just shake our heads, smile, and carry on, clueless.

A Sunday morning.  Alan and I are sitting out on our balcony, as usual I'm savouring the best cup of coffee I've ever had, Guido our resident sea gull was waiting for some scraps to be tossed his way, or to steal a croissant when we weren't looking.

I'm working on Alan to move from Edinburgh to Italy, and he's starting to listen.  We were on our way down the Amalfi Coast in a few hours, but right at this moment, we're enjoying the peaceful quiet of a stunningly beautiful morning in Sant'Agnello.

From off to our right, around the cliff, comes the raucous pealing of many church bells.  Okay.  It's Sunday, it's Italy.  Then we hear horns honking, cannon fire (yes, that's right, cannon fire), whistles, singing, shouting.  We look at each other, then stand up to see better over the balcony as this...flotilla?...armada?...of boats comes from around the corner.

It was all so joyous, and happy, and seemed so spontaneous for a Sunday morning.  There were people playing music in the big boat, and people singing and making noise on the little boats.  It was just wild and wonderful.  We waved, they waved back and yelled up at us...it was very cool. 

More and more boats, appearing out of nowhere, joined the crowd, then the big boat began to shoot water streams, and another began firing the cannons.  By this time I am just laughing at the sheer fun and exuberance of this impromptu moment.

The whole flotilla went to Sorrento--off in the distance in the photo below--and continued to make music, sing, fire off the cannon (you can see the smoke in the center of the picture), and have this incredibly wonderful time for another hour or so.  It was magical.

Later in the morning, Alan and I went to the lobby, preparing to head down the coast to Amalfi for the day.  Maria, the woman who handled the front desk, gave me a smile as we walked by.  She couldn't speak English, though between my not so great Italian, and lots of hand gestures, we had managed to have some good conversations.  I went up to the counter and asked her what all the commotion had been about.  Was it a special holiday, or saint's birthday, or an Italian Day of Whatever..?? 

We went back and forth for a few moments as she tried to understand what I was asking her.  I was making noises like the cannon fire, pointing out the large windows toward the water, then suddenly she smiled.  Nodding her head, finally getting what I was asking, she shrugged, threw her hands up and as she walked into the back room, said over her shoulder in very bad English: "Some festivale."

There are so many festivals, events, and celebrations in Italy, it was just another day of  "some festivale" to Maria.  To us, it was pure, captivating entertainment.  From then on, no matter what part of the world we were in, whenever anything came up even remotely comparable, we would shrug, wave our hands and say, "Ah, some festivale."

That's So Last Year...

I've always wanted to say that--without sounding like a dimwit Valley girl or an obnoxious fashionista.  I'm also very, very glad to be out of 2011.  I had much to get through last year, lots of hard stuff to deal with, life-changing events--it's just a great relief to be done with such a fraught time.

I was walking the dogs this morning--a very pleasant hour, with the sunshine and crispy air--and feeling, I don't know, freer maybe, more in tune with myself on this first day of a new year.  I know there's lots of changes ahead in this year too, but I'm hoping they will be positive and joyful changes that will make my life happier, better, more grounded--assuming of course that I survive the yoga sessions.

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Here's something pertinent to absolutely nothing, other than I got a little packet in the mail yesterday:

There's an author I love, Robert McCammon, who writes these amazingly good books (Boy's Life, Gone South, Swan Song to name a few).  Jan and I have shared them for years, then suddenly he disappeared, and for ten long years there was nothing.  Turns out, he'd had enough with the publishing world making his writing decisions for him, and threw in the typewriter rather than knuckle under and not write what he wanted.  I totally admire that, though I didn't like that his words and stories were gone.

And then he started a new series a few years ago, and yahoo, he's back in the game.  The Matthew Corbett books are a total departure from his earlier stuff, but wonderful in a different way.   

Last May he went back to his old style of storytelling and published a book called The Five; a book about five members of a rock band and what happens to them as they tour the American Southwest.  This is a scary, nerve-wracking, beautiful story.  A rock and roll road trip about friends, families, crazy people and music.  I loved it.  I rarely write a review on a book--so subjective--but I was compelled to say something about this one.  I posted it on Amazon, and my parting shot was something along the lines of (paraphrasing here) "went on a road trip, want the tee shirt."  A guy who works for McCammon emailed me that indeed there actually were tee shirts..!! 

Got this in the mail yesterday.  And how cool is this..??  Course, it looks really dorky draped over the stair rail, but it's the graphic I'm talking about; so many interpretations, especially if you've read the book.

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I had a good New Year's Eve, just me and the boys, though there were way too many fireworks which set Ozzy off into his usual nervous breakdown mode.  Strangely, Max, who is often afraid of the silliest things (the clink of a fork on a plate, the camera) didn't even raise an eyebrow during the Beirut bombardment at its worst.  I had a two-finger Dalwhinnie which I sipped daintily until midnight, then as the fireworks on the Space Needle in Seattle went off on the telly, I downed the rest of the glass and toasted in the New Year with Ozzy shaking and shivering on one side, and Max snoring away peacefully on the other.  What more could a girl ask for..??

No Pain, No Gain...and a New Year Ahead

Okay, here's how it's got to go or I won't make it to the New Year. I will spend one day doing Pilates, the next day doing yoga, and the third day crawling on my hands and knees, whimpering and pitiful, too stiff and sore to do anything except take shallow breaths. Until I get a handle (or die) on this exercise crap, I've got to take a day off after every two. In the unlikely event that I don't croak, I will hopefully be able to adjust this wienie stance in the future.

Also, if anyone ever doubts that yoga is hard work, sweat-inducing, and painfully difficult...well, you just come on over here and let me clue you in. I thought I was sore yesterday with the Pilates session. It's a workout, don't get me wrong, and I felt the muscles stretching as I did my hour, but compared to the Eagle asana??

This doesn't look very difficult does it? Ha! You don't have the slightest idea what muscle stretching really means until you've done this pose.

At one point I thought I heard the instructor say that if this pose was too hard to maintain, just ease into the chair. I nearly passed out with relief. Then I realized he meant the Chair pose. Buggers.  That's only marginally easier than the Eagle. 

I finished the whole hour, but I lost the plot around the 45-minute mark and don't know how I got through that last 15. I came back to myself laying on the mat, sweat rolling, trying to take calm, relaxing breaths while all my muscles began packing their bags in disgust to move to Bali. (And interesting that this particular cool down pose is called the Corpse. I was so there.)

I suffer. I am beyond sore. So I figure the only way this will work is if I take every third day off to recover, and to avoid doing irreparable damage--though it might already be too late for that. But hey. It can only get better from here...right? When I start to falter, I'll just bring back that vision of myself in the bathroom mirrors. That should keep me motivated like nothing else.

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I'm also bailing on the blog for the weekend. And not because I'm going to sit around being a crybaby--though no guarantees I won't snivel a time or two. I'm going to finish my movie marathon of the Thin Man series, do a bit of work on my neglected book, make red beans and rice for good luck on New Year's Day, and ease my way into the New Year with a laid-back couple of days--minus the aggro of Pilates and yoga on Sat and Sun. (Mirror, Mirror on the wall...)

So, to all of you who read my stuff, and all my friends and family in Scotland and elsewhere, here's wishing everyone...

(NB:  I changed the yoga photo.  The other picture didn't show the depth and misery of this asana.)

Just Stuff...

After a comment made by Pearl on yesterday’s blog about my Leatherman, I was inspired to look deeper into the best tool on earth.  Interesting details emerged.  Tim Leatherman—mechanical engineering grad from OSU (that’s Oregon State University.  And seriously?  The guy’s from Oregon?) 

After trying to repair a bad car and leaky plumbing with a pocket knife as he and his wife traveled Europe & the Middle East in the 70s, he came back to the States and invented this terrifically useful tool.  The first Leatherman was born in 1983, and now Mr Leatherman has a massive manufacturing company in Portland, and produces 50 different products sold in 82 countries.  Wow.  Who knew, right?

All I really know is, I’ve had mine for years, and would be lost without it.   In fact, just this morning, as I was leaving with the dogs for their walk, one of my many silver bracelets fell off my wrist and with no effort at all, I whipped the Leatherman out of my purse, fixed the clasp, put the bracelet back on and voila--in about 4 minutes, tops.  The boys didn’t even have time to grouse.

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I had a rude awakening day before yesterday, which led to a grueling new exercise program that started yesterday afternoon.  Ugh.  On both counts: awakening and exercise.

My bathroom has this very nice, large linen cupboard along one wall.  Unfortunately, it's one of those sliding door deals, but worse, it's mirrored.  What insane lunatic designer thought a woman would want to step out of the shower and see her totally naked body in a giant, full-length, double mirror??

I've gotten used to not really paying much attention anymore.  I mean, after the initial shock and horror wears off, no sense in revisiting the crime scene ("Move on people, there's nothing to see here").  But for some reason I happened to catch sight of myself the other day, and trust me, it was bad.  Real bad.  Bad enough that I decided I wasn't going to wait until January to start my get-back-on-track regimen, I had to start NOW.

Yoga is my torture of choice, although I decided to alternate between Pilates and Yoga to vary the routine, but holy crap.  I walk the dogs every single day, for at least two miles, often more.  I can't do anything in my house without climbing two flights of stairs.  How could I possibly be this out of shape?? 

By the halfway point I wanted to reach through the television and kill the Pilates instructor.  The size 0 instructor.  The one who kept saying, "If you can't keep up today," (big cheesy smile), "you can still pat yourself on the back for trying."  I can't reach my toes, let alone my back.  If anyone heard the grinding of tectonic plates, not to worry, it wasn't The Big One, it was just me moaning and groaning and gnashing my teeth through my first agonizing session.  The only thing that isn't sore today are my fingers. 

In an hour, I'm heading to the mat for my yoga torment.  Pray for me.

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On a more pleasant note:  For Christmas, I bought myself some Fiesta ware dishes.  I'm going to change things in the new year, not just in myself, but in my world.  One of those changes is sorting through years of hanging onto stuff that I don't need, or want.  I decided to start easy, with the dishes.  The old ones were just that: old.  I wanted something bright, cheerful and sturdy.  I love Italian pottery, though happened to see this beautiful display of Fiesta ware and just knew it was the perfect thing.  I waited until the store had the best sale ever, and bought:

Six different colors--Scarlet, Sunflower, Marigold, Paprika, Lemongrass and Tangerine.  Even the names are cool.  In real life, these look so joyful, happy and bold, with sort of a Southwest feel to them.  They also remind me of some festivale...but that's a story for another day.

A Leatherman Tale

The other morning I was reading one of my usual daily blogs.  The post was about purses: how big, how heavy, what we women carry in them.  These days I don't have much in my bag.  There was a time I was prepared for anything, including leaving the country at a moment's notice.  (Not that I had any reason to be prepared for that, I just liked the fact I could).

Nowadays, I have just the bare essentials: wallet, coin purse, tissue, lipstick and mirror, a small tablet and pen, usually my Kindle or a book, and always, no matter what, my Leatherman.  A work of art in a tool.

This is the handiest, most efficient piece of equipment ever made, in my opinion.  It makes a Swiss Army knife look like a toy.  The Leatherman is compact, has a tool for any eventuality, and is worth it's weight in gold.  Every women should have one.  I've had mine for absolutely years and except for when I fly--security considers it a weapon, so I have to put it in my suitcase--I am never without it.  There isn't much this tool can't deal with.

Few photos:

Sort of looks like a weird frog in the last photo...though you can see how many bits are involved in this totally compact and cool design.  You can also see how marked, scarred and scratched up the original case is.  My Leatherman has been around the world and back again many times.  I wouldn't be without it, for sure.

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An instance where the Leatherman saved a life:

Alan and I were hiking in the Highlands one spring weekend when we chanced upon a ram who had his very large and curly horn tangled in wire fencing.  I'm not sure why there was a wire fence in this particular area as usually there were just stone walls or nothing at all, but whatever, the ram had been stuck in this thick wire for quite awhile.  He'd worn a deep groove in the soil, he was foaming, and it looked like he'd damaged a back leg in the struggle to free himself.  His females were gathered around him, bleating with distress.  It was really upsetting to see this poor creature who looked so weak it was clear he didn't have much fight left in him.

I dropped my pack, zipped open a pocket and pulled out the Leatherman.

"What are you doing?" asked Alan.

"We have to get the ram out of this wire or he's going to die."  I snapped open the case and took out the tool.

"We can't cut the wire, all the sheep will get loose!  This is the Highlands; the shepherd will come eventually, and if he doesn't," Alan shrugged, "well, then that's how things go up here.  Sheep get lost, killed by wild animals, or get tangled in wire and die.  Survival of the fittest."

I glared at him.  "Thank you, Mr bloody Darwin."

I opened the tool to the wire cutters.  As I approached the fence, I snarked over my shoulder, "They don't die if I can help it."   When I got close to the ram, he wigged out and began struggling even harder, his females getting truly agitated.  Alan sighed, dropped his pack and grabbed the ram's horns.  "If we get caught doing this, we'll probably get shot by a really angry shepherd," he muttered.

"Then we'd better hurry."

Alan ended up practically putting the ram in a head lock to keep him still, while I quickly cut through three lines of wire wound around his horn.  When I was done, Alan and I stepped back, and the poor ram dropped to the ground like he was dead.  I was really upset that our rescue had come too late, but after a few minutes, and some heavy, deep breathing, the ram staggered to his feet, shook his head, and limped off, his females following.

I looked at Alan, and suddenly we were both grinning wide as could be.  "You did good," he said.

"So did you."  I turned to look at the gaping hole in the fence.  "Can we fix it?"  It was one thing to free the ram, quite another to leave a giant escape hole in someone's livelihood.

Using the pliers portion of the tool, we managed to twist the wire into a makeshift binding that we hoped would hold.  I put my Leatherman back in its case, zipped it into my pack and off we went.

"I want a Leatherman," Alan said as we continued our hike.  "That's a really handy tool to have, isn't it?"

"Wouldn't be without it," I said, thinking I knew what to get him for his birthday.

(He loved having his own Leatherman, and always kept it in the glove box of his car).

100 Words and a Happy Birthday

There's been a writing experiment on the internet for a long time, called 100 Words. Originally, the concept was to write 100 words for 100 days. Then it was shortened to 100 words for 30 days. I have read several blogs where the writers are randomly doing their 100 words, not sticking to any time frame, just tossing in the 100 words whenever they feel like it. I like that idea, though the 100 in 30 is an intriguing exercise to me, as well. After all, if I can do 50K in 30 for NaNo, well...how hard can it be to do 100 teeny little words in a day?

(Back when I was writing a lot--professionally and personally--I used to concentrate on short stories. I loved the idea of writing so succinctly--and the shorter the better--that I could tell a story like O. Henry in just a few pages, if not paragraphs. Eventually I broadened my scope, wanting to relate more details, create a more full-bodied story, and over time, I wrote myself away from the shorts.)

The 100 words notion appeals to me. How much story can you actually convey in 100 words? This morning I wrote the first idea that came into my head. I thought it was short. It was 115 words. Hmm. I pared it down, taking out a whole paragraph. Well, nuts. Now it was down to 94 words. Okay, add a few more words here, shift this sentence, and voila...right? Wrong. Now I'm up to 105. Seriously, how hard can it be to write a meager 100 words? Very hard, as it turns out. Especially as it can only be 100--no more, no less.

I dinked with this wee story for quite awhile. I'm rethinking doing the 100 in 30 deal. I don't think I have enough time in the day to revise, edit, rework, start over, write the blasted words. I can write 2,000 with no trouble, but 100? Holy crap.

Still. I might do the 100 words in the random way other bloggers are. Maybe if I can get my mind away from long chapters and whole books, I can remember how to write short and sweet. It might be interesting to see what happens.

In the meantime, here's my very first attempt at:

100 Words

Walking into the building, she did a quick scan.  Her gaze stopped abruptly when their eyes locked.

He froze, afraid to move, to break the spell.   Please, be here for me.

Love at first sight.  Compelled, winding her way between the other people in the room, so focused the voices and sounds around her nothing more than meaningless babble.

When she stood in front of him, they stared at each other for a heartbeat before she dropped to her knees and pulled him into her arms. “This one,” she said, smiling up at the woman from the dog adoption center.

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Today is Max's 4th birthday, hence the reason I picked him for the 100 Words experiment. Course, we don't really know this is his birthday, but it's the day we chose, and according to our incredibly cool veterinarian, Dr Barry, he was about 3 years old last December when we adopted him.

He's been the best little dog ever, and I feel privileged to be his human. Happy Birthday, buddy...

Christmas Recap

I had a great Christmas, considering for the first time in my life I spent it alone.  No, wait.  Alone makes me seem so...pitiful and sad, and I wasn't.  Let me say instead that I spent a pleasant day by myself with the boys.  There, that's better...and more accurate.

Christmas Day.  And this is the first thing I saw when I opened the blinds to start the day:

Close up...and how cool are those colors.  And the clouds..??  Three different layers, three different types of cloud formation.

I did indeed watch the Thin Man series, though only made it through four of the six.  I got sidetracked here and there during the day with one thing and another, but so loved watching these hilarious and lighthearted movies.  It was a great way to spend Christmas.  Here are a few excerpts, and I know they're corny...that's the simple joy of it.

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The Thin Man
Nick (William Powell) and Nora (Myrna Loy), discussing the newspaper articles after Nick was shot solving the murder mystery:

Nick: I'm a hero.  I was shot twice in the Tribune.
Nora: I read you were shot five times in the tabloids.
Nick: That's not true.  He didn't come anywhere near my tabloids.

After the Thin Man
End of the scene, murder solved, Nick and Nora are leaving the building:

Nick: Come on, baby.  Let's go have dinner.  I'm thirsty.

Another Thin Man
Reporters asking Nick about the latest murder:

Reporter: Can't you tell us anything about the case?
Nick: Yes.  It's putting me way behind in my drinking.

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Dinner was really good, too.  My roast came out perfect, and yum, so did the gravy.  I am so going to stop eating like this, but until the roast and gravy are gone, it won't be today.  I don't do the New Year Resolution thing--setting yourself up to fail is not something I condone--but I am going to get back into healthy eating and my daily yoga.  I have a lot of changes coming in 2012 and I need to be at the top of my game.

So, my Christmas was fine.  I actually enjoyed being in my own company, and sharing the day with my two stalwart and true boys, Max and Ozzy.  And, of course, solving murders and mysteries with Nick and Nora Charles.  It was a good day.

Christmas Break

I'm going to take the next few days off, so no posts until Monday.  I'm not doing any Christmas stuff this year, but do have an eventful day planned for myself.  Not suitable for everyone, but totally cool to me...

Yesterday I taped the entire 6-movie Thin Man series--my most favorite series of all the old, old black & white movies.  I love the interplay between William Powell and Myrna Loy, to say nothing of the clothes, all the boozing, and the mystery solving.  Having all six to watch in a row is an amazing treat.  I was channel surfing in the early afternoon and stumbled upon this wonderful happenstance on The Classic Movie channel and nearly broke a nail in my haste to get them scheduled for recording.

So, after I get back from walking the dogs on Christmas morning, it's into my comfy lounge-about clothes, watch a few movies, have lunch, watch a few more, cook my beautiful pork roast, watch some more, then have a great Christmas dinner with a nice glass of wine while watching the last installment.  And really..??  I can hardly wait.

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Though I have a story or two rattling around in my head, I'm still taking the weekend off, to recharge, rest my little gray cells, and chill.

So, here's wishing everyone a good holiday, whatever your predilection.  See you on the flip side...