Love is Everywhere...Or Should Be

You know that feeling you get when you're not in a relationship, and no matter where you look, there are happy, loving couples everywhere?  There's the inevitable surly why them and not me reaction to being left out.

At first, today seemed to be that kind of day for me.

It started this morning when I sat down with my coffee and switched on the world outside my door, and saw this:

Photo by Dallas Nagata White

It's being called The Hottest Kiss Ever Photographed, and not just because of the actual Hawaiian lava flowing in the background.  The couple were taking photos, and at the last frame, he grabs her, does The Dip, and this is the photo.  How brilliantly spontaneous and romantic is her husband?

Next I read Robbie's blog, one of my Daily Fix deals, and he's posted this great story about his woman, their life, both in the past and now in their village in the Colorado mountains.  (No matter what you say, deny it all you want, you are romantic, Mr Grey).

I try not to feel sorry for myself.  I mean, come on, It's not like I haven't been in love, or been loved.  Just because I'm on my own right now, doesn't mean I have to feel bad.  Why then do I feel bad?

The day goes by.  After I take the boys for a long, aimless wander around the park, I come home and get ready for my dentist appointment to fix the werewolf fang.  It turns out to be a bust, proving that, in fact, the third time is not the charm.  I have to go again next week.  Buggers.

Back home, house sweltering--the past four days of great cool days are over--I make an iced tea and sit down at the laptop.  And read this amazing story :

This Navy guy, who has been posted overseas, leaves a letter telling his wife to look for the black box he's stashed at their house.  She finds it, and inside are 241 love notes that he's written to her, one for each day he'll be gone.  OMG.  The time and effort he put into this, the love he has for his wife.  Some of the notes are just...breathtaking.  How truly romantic is this?

I don't know why love, and more specifically romance, seems to be the theme o' the day, but I'm glad, thankful even.  No, seriously, I mean it.  We need more love and romance in our world--buckets and gallons and rivers more.  Today I got three droplets of both, and it's such a glorious thing.

Sunsets, Birds, Trees and Tom Hanks

The weather has been very pleasant for the past few days: cool, overcast, with the occasional little burst of rain.  Heaven, in other words.  I haven't dreamed about moving to Alaska since last weekend.

The sunsets have been spectacular, especially on Monday night.  I took two shots, the first of the sunset itself, then in the second I used my telephoto and pointed my camera into the heart of the clouds.  The colors, the fire, the beauty of the evening...

I had two Nat Geo moments yesterday, though I'd already blogged twice earlier in the day, so thought I would just wait until today.  As usual with the way the world moves, one of my stories has to do with a Hummingbird, and wouldn't you know, RandyG at Inverted Sky posted the most beautiful photo on his blog this morning, of a wee bird sitting on her nest.

One of my National Geographic moments is my own Hummingbird tale...

Though there's been a bit of rain, it's not enough to truly soak my garden, so each evening I go out, drag the hose up the embankment, and water my raised beds and the flowers.  I have a resident Hummingbird--one I have blogged about before and often see in my backyard...

Photo taken in Feb 2012

So, I'm out watering last night, and I hear the whirr whirr of incredibly fast-beating wings.  I turn my head, and there he is, hovering right off my shoulder.  I smile, and strike up a quiet, one-sided conversation as he darts around me at the speed of light.  Then--and I couldn't believe this--he hovers right at the edge of the water spraying from the hose, and has a drink!  I froze, not daring to move, afraid if I did he could drown in the stream.  He fills up, then darts toward me, dodges around my head, then disappears down the mountain.  What an amazing thing.

Second Nat Geo moment...

My mailbox is about half a mile from the house, so every evening (Summer) or late afternoon (Winter), the boys and I take a walk to get the mail.  Last night, just as we head back to the house from the box, this large quail dashes out of the bushes...

Photo taken in May 2012

He spots us, and starts running away down the middle of the road.  We keep walking, the dogs not really caring about the bird as they're too busy looking for squirrels, and I figure he'll make his escape down the slope any minute.  He keeps running down the middle of the road.  We're catching up to him, so I make some shshing noises, and even flap my arms, to make him get back under cover, but no, he's running the NYC marathon down the flaming road!

This keeps up for the entire trip back to the house.  He stops, I stop, the dogs stop, then we all go forward, repeat, repeat.  It's actually pretty funny and by the time we are within sight of my driveway, I'm having quite the conversation with him, cheering him on, etc.  I expect that he'll keep going down the road once we get to the house.

But no.

He makes a perfect right turn with no hesitation at all, and runs right up the driveway!  Well, now that's poaching into the boys' territory, so they finally acknowledge the poor (no doubt exhausted) bird, and chase him to the fence.  Somehow he mustered up enough energy to fly, just barely, over the fence and down the mountain.  I have no idea why he walked/ran for half a mile when he could have easily left the road at any time, but it sure was entertaining.

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Last week I noticed this bizarre tree whilst walking the boys along the river; I didn't have my camera with me that day, so this morning I grabbed it, and off we went to this spot across the bridge from our usual place--which I've been avoiding since the flying debris experience.

This tree reminds me of octopus tentacle suckers, or whatever they're called.  I don't know how the tree lost so many limbs, but on a dark and stormy night, can't you just imagine this tree using those suckers to grab the unwary?  (Have I watched too many Tolkien movies?  Sleepy Hollow?  It's not just me.  Right?)

I had the boys off-leash so I could take a picture without jiggling, and when I turned to see where they should have been...they weren't.  I call out.  I spin in a circle.  No dogs.  Walking past the Octopus Tree, there's an opening along the bank, and I can see the river.  The boys are halfway down.  No, no, a thousand times no.  This is a sheer drop and not one I want to attempt, thank you very much.

Thankfully, dogs, like small children, respond to The Voice.  They froze on the bank, then with a last wistful glance at the water, the mud, the wild abandon, they turned and ran back up.  I leashed them, then took a moment to look at the view.  It was then I saw this:

A Green Heron.  He was fishing and probably cursing the fact the dogs had disturbed his morning.

I made the boys sit and be still, then took a few close-ups.

They're funny little squat birds, not the tall, elegant herons most people think of.  And their feet are yellow, webbed and splay out like a frog's.  I was just bringing the camera down from my face when he struck...and I missed the damn shot.  Still, I got the aftermath, which would have been a true Nat Geo photo if he'd caught the fish!!  Just my luck he wasn't a very good fisherman...er...fisherbird.

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And the last thing...really...

There's been this, I don't know, promo-type thing on Yahoo for the last few weeks.  It's usually in the sidebar when I'm looking at stuff on the internet.  I see it, wonder for a second what it means, then move on.  Yesterday, I finally decided to see what in the world Electric City was, and what it had to do with Tom Hanks.

Turns out, it's like a video comic book.  Each episode is only about five minutes long.  Tom Hanks wrote the story several years ago, and now it's been made into this internet animated story.  He plays Cleveland Carr, an assassin; everything takes place in Electric City, long after the world we know has fallen.  At first I thought it was weird, but I ended up watching the first episodes and now I'm hooked.

Not sure when the next installment was coming, I checked this morning and there are a few more posted.  I don't know much else about it, but it's curious, interesting, and I gotta go.  Who knows what's happened in Electric City since yesterday??

Magpie Tale 126...Alone

Winter's touch on glass

old stones through cigarette smoke

lost in heart of ice

One of my favorite Scottish artists; here's a simplistic heiku for Jack Vettriano's painting "Yesterday's Dreams," at Magpie Tales 126.  (This woman reminds me so much of myself last October when I went home to Edinburgh, alone, for the first time.  I often stared out windows; everywhere I looked was haunted by my loss, and the past) 

100 Words...and then 100 More**

August Moon

From my front porch, Southern Oregon 2012

He kissed her awake. “Come outside with me,” he murmured.

“What?” A glance at the clock. “It’s the middle of the night.”

“Humor me,” he laughed, pulling her out of bed.

Confused, she took in the scene on the back deck: a large air mattress, covered with an unzipped sleeping bag, two pillows. “What’s going on?”

Smiling, he took her hand, drawing her down with him to the makeshift bed.

When they were settled, her head resting against his shoulder, he said quietly, “Look up.”

She gasped, dazzled by the sight of shooting stars streaking across the night sky.

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The Wading Pool

July 17, 2012

“Could you bring the hose?” she asked, dragging the plastic wading pool onto the back patio.

“Sure,” he answered, “but what are we doing exactly?”

“I thought the dogs might like to cool off in this heat.”

When the pool was filled, she called to the dogs, napping under a tree across the yard. One briefly looked over, the other rolled to his back, legs in the air, tongue lolling.

She cajoled, begged, then stepped into the water and called them again.

“Not too interested,” he murmured.

“Come in here with me.” He stepped in, the water cold, wonderful, on his bare feet. “Now you call them,” she said.

After every attempt failed, she stomped her feet in frustration, water splashing up his shorts, streaking across his tee shirt. He looked down, then over at her. Grinning, he splashed her back. With a scowl, she bent down, cupped both hands and flung the water at him. He returned fire. Within moments, they were both soaking wet, their laughter sparkling as bright as the water dripping down their faces.

Across the yard, the dogs curiously watched the show, then went back to dozing in the lazy heat of a Summer’s day.

**As hard as I tried, this story just wouldn't be pared down into 100 Words.  So I wrote 100 more and am going to count this as 100 Words x 2.  And, yeah, I can do that...it's my blog.

Jars of Summer

Ah, look how cute they are, those six little half-pints, filled with cherries and blueberries, and just a hint of lemon.

After walking the boys on a wonderfully cool morning, I popped into the store for the missing pectin stuff, determined to make the jam today.  Whilst I was there, I tried to find one of those cherry pitter tools, but no luck.  Maybe they don't make them anymore?  Driving home I tried to think what I could use instead--chopstick, cork screw, pointy end of a potato peeler?

I try them all.  Nothing works.  I have mangled cherries, and juice everywhere.  Resigned, I give up and chop each cherry in half, then use my thumbnail to pull out the pit.  Did you know that cherry juice stains anything it touches a lovely shade of deep red?  It's true.  I have the fingers to prove it.  And the floor, and the kitchen towel, and the sink, and...oh, you get the picture.

After I have the pits out, I then have to cut the cherries into tiny little pieces, about the size of a pomegranate seed.  Surprisingly, this takes a very long time.  I have a moment where I wonder if maybe just mashing everything up with my immersion blender wouldn't be easier, faster, but I don't want to ruin the jam.  And is easier and faster the point of making jam?  Why am I trying to hurry this process?  The recipe says chop fine, so I need to slow down, be mindful.

It was a good thing to do.  As I sliced and diced, I thought about all the women who, over so many, many years, have done exactly what I was doing: preserving a season with fruits and berries to be shared, appreciated, savored, in a different time and season when such bounty isn't available.

I meandered off into my childhood, remembering perfectly that cherry pitting tool, and my sisters, crowding around the kitchen table, the three of us helping Mom make a cherry pie, arguing over who got to use the tool.  I speculate for a few minutes on how many jars of jam and jelly my mother has made in her lifetime.

Next my grandmother came to mind, with all her incredible baking skills.  I loved when she would visit...not just because she was my Gran, but also because at some point in her stay, we would wake up to the smell of her delicious cinnamon rolls--yeasty, cinnamon and sugary, gooey and lip-smacking.  (I'm drooling right now.  Seriously.)  Her crescent rolls are legendary in the family.  No Thanksgiving was complete without those rolls, and Mom's jam.  My aunt (the third daughter of four) has Gran's recipe and makes these rolls often, but to me, they aren't...I don't know...exactly right.  Maybe they have to be made with the kind of love only a grandmother can knead into her dough.

My musings got me through the laborious cherry chopping, and after mashing the blueberries, it was less than 20 minutes later that I had my six little pots of Summer goodness.  As I stuck the labels on each jar, I couldn't help smiling.  Some future morning, in the deep cold of Winter, I'm going to spread my jam on a piece of toast, remember this hot July afternoon, and cherish my connection to all the women who have come before me.

Life is Just a Bowl of Cherries...

What does that actually mean?  That Life is tart and juicy?  Shiny and bright, though with long stems attached?  Gloriously red and mouthwatering on the outside, sometimes rotten and sour inside?  All of the above?**

The store where I usually shop was having a special Sunday sale on fresh fruits and veg.  Most everything was local, or within the boundaries of Oregon and Washington.  The Pacific NW has an abundance of produce during this time of year--blueberries, apples, apricots, cherries, peaches; plus lots of vegetables from farms in the Valley.  I wanted the blueberries for my smoothies and the cherries because I've got an urge to make some cherry jam.

I found a recipe for cherry/blueberry jam which sounded just perfect, and as the day started cool and overcast (handsprings and shouts of joy at my house), I thought it would be a great way to spend my afternoon.

Too bad, after walking the dogs and shopping, that I got all the way up the mountain and realized I forgot the pectin stuff that sets the jam.   Ah well.  Assuming I don't eat all the cherries--they are absolutely delicious--I have decided to postpone the jam-making until tomorrow because I don't want to go back to the store just for a tiny little box of pectin.

I also bought a rotisserie chicken that I stuck in the oven to crisp up a bit--I like my chicken cooked a bit more than they do it at the store.  It had been cooking for about 20 minutes when Jan (BFF) called for our regular Sunday phone call.  We got into this long, convoluted conversation and it wasn't until I caught this slightly burned smell that I remembered the chicken--more than an hour later.

To say it was done would be an epic understatement.  I may have discovered a new snack food:  chicken jerky.  Crunchy outside, stringy and hard to chew inside, with the unique taste and texture of chicken-flavored shoe leather.  Maybe I could market this as an MRE for hikers and mountain climbers.  I would take a picture and show it, but it's just too humiliating.  

Still, no matter what, I'm not throwing it away.  I will just have to chew on this dessicated old boot until it's gone, or give it to the dogs.  Or make soup.  Or I figure out how to package it for long-haul hikers.  It's probably better preserved than an Egyptian mummy at this point.

If Life really is just a bowl of cherries, I might as well go grab a handful right now since I've totally ruined my plans for dinner...



**Curious about this whole life, bowl, cherry thing, I looked it up.  Turns out, George Gershwin wrote the song. Judy Garland was the singer.   It's long.  The last two lines of the chorus are: Life is just a bowl of cherries, so live and laugh at it all... 
(Still doesn't make sense, but I like the live and laugh part.)

Channeling John Fogerty...

Don't go around tonight

Well, it's bound to take your life

There's a bad moon on the rise...

                                                      --Creedence

I couldn't type yesterday, what with all the throbbing and swelling from my sliced-up finger.  In fact, my whole hand was sore.  I even had a minute to two in there where I thought I might just have to suck it in and go to the Urgent Care place.  Thankfully, by afternoon and with more doctoring, I felt better, though there was no chance of fingers flying over the keyboard.

I had to wait until almost dark to water the garden--way too hot otherwise--and managed to pick four zucchini; and my cukes are blooming with flowers.  The tomatoes have been disappointing.  I guess I should have stuck to a regular variety, rather than the San Marcos.  There are a few little buds, but for the most part, they're duds.  So much for my tomato-sauce-for-Winter idea.

So, last night, watching a movie, I drank a few Dos Equis.  I had no choice.  Clutching those ice cold bottles were necessary to reduce the finger swelling.  Really.

This morning, when I opened the blinds on the window that overlooks the back garden, I was startled to see a geyser of water shooting up from the bank.  There's a hole in the tube/hose of the drip irrigation system, and buggers, I can't get all cranky about it really, because if there's a hole, I had to be the one who put it there, probably when I was weeding the bank the other day with my two-pronged, weed stabber tool thingy.   Well, damnation.

The boys and I got a late start for the walk this morning, and didn't get back to the house until almost Noon.  Which means very hot to be fiddling around outside on the slope to fix the irrigation problem.  Still, it has to be done.  

I had to dig up about six feet of the hose in order to raise it above the ground, find the hole--there were two, both prongs apparently--then wrap several lengths of duct tape around the hose.  All went well until I was finished and the blasted hose wouldn't lay back down.  I had the Loch Ness monster hump of black tubing that just totally refused to go back into the channel from whence it came.  Have I mentioned that it was incredibly hot?  I ended up bending (hammering) some metal tent stakes into U-shapes, and pinning the hose down.  I could have gone to Lowe's or Home Base, I suppose, but I really didn't want to go back down the mountain.  Tomorrow when the water comes on I will be very happy if everything stays pinned to the ground, and doesn't shoot water three feet into the air.

I made a big batch of Sun Tea, and as long as I was outside and already sweating, I decided to take a few pictures--and no, not of the irrigation hose.

First bloom on my Canna Lily:

Last year I had planted some bright red Snapdragons where the four rose-colored ones are in this photo.  In the Fall, I randomly scattered the seeds when I cleaned up the garden for the season, hoping I would get some flowers this year.  Look at those orange and yellow blooms, they're tall, and beautiful, and have grown all by themselves.  Strangely though?  They aren't red like the original plants.  Nature is so mysterious...

Between the backyard fence and the deer fence that runs the entire length of the ridge--sort of a DMZ that does no good whatsoever--there is an old, weathered bird house.  This year, I think there might be a bird in the penthouse section, but I can't figure out what all that straw is that's hanging out on the bottom level.  It makes the bird house really look like a barn, though, doesn't it? 

Finished with the backyard chores, and the photos, I come inside and realize I forgot about the zucchini; my plan being to make bread before the heat turns them to mush.  And because turning on the oven to 350* to bake is just what you do on a sweltering hot afternoon in the Summer, right?

Okay, it wasn't too bad really.  And now I have this to look forward to, toasted for breakfast...or maybe for a snack about two minutes from now...

And what does any of this have to do with Creedence or John Fogerty?  Nothing.  I heard the song this morning--one of my favorites by the way--and can't get it out of my head.  Just thought I would pass it on...

Oh, Some Days...

...I should just stay in bed.

The day started fine, no drama or excitement.  I took the boys down the mountain for their walk, as usual, leaving the car in the shade of trees in the baseball park's lot.  We walk around one side and reach this crossroad in the path where you can go in four directions.  I start toward the Butterfly Garden because it's cooler (already mid-80s at 10:00 in the morning today), and the dogs like sniffing all the flora and fauna.  To reach the Garden, you leave the main path, climb a small grassy knoll, and walk along a narrow dirt trail, then enter the calm, beautiful space, filled with a huge variety of tall, fragrant plants that the butterflies love.

Just as I'm heading to the knoll, this woman I often see walking her dog, comes around the corner from another direction.  We talk briefly, and as I begin to turn away and carry on to the Garden, there is an explosion of sound: shattering, breaking, popping.  I jump, she jumps, three dogs jump.  What the hell???

She's looking over my shoulder, shock on her face.  I turn, and there, smoking in the grass not 20 feet from us--and where I would have been had we not stopped to chat for a minute--is the wreck of a remote control airplane.  It's big, the wingspan about 6 feet or so, and has done a nosedive into the grassy knoll, broken wings, shrapnel and bits everywhere.  I'm just stunned.  I could have been hit by this thing, or one of the boys.  Just walking in a public park.

We stand there for a minute, not sure what to think, when from across the park comes this idiot man, running toward us.  When he gets close, I step right in his path.  I will spare you my fury, my outrage, my temper.  Suffice it that he knew he'd made a near-fatal error, apologized profusely, bowed and scraped a bit, and begged me not to call the cops (yeah, that was one of my threats--attempted murder anyone?)  His excuse for all this: he lost control of the plane.  Okay, so I get killed, or my dogs, because this total moron can't fly a frigging TOY..???

So.  People gather, others get involved, including the police I think, but I had walked away by then.  As we meander along the river, I contemplate the fortuitousness of running into that woman, keeping the boys and I off that grassy knoll, and thank my lucky stars.

About an hour later, I have brought the boys home and loaded the car with some old computer equipment and odds and ends for the dump.  There is just one bin/dump site for electronics and there's no one in sight when I pull in.  Because the stuff is heavy and cumbersome, I decide to back in.  As I'm turning the car, out of nowhere comes Mr Dumb Ass, who cuts right in behind me in his frigging truck and not only blocks my car, but access to the electronics bin as well.  

WTF?   Yeah, don't mind me, you prick.  Really.  Who cares that I was here first and obviously backing into the drop-off area.  I park the car, which is now about 15-20 feet from where I want to be, but whatever.  I just want to unload the car, get an iced coffee and maybe stop in at the used book store before I go home.

Dumb Ass has the entire back of his truck filled with electronics: televisions, old stereos, radios and computer stuff.  As I make my 5 trips back and forth from my car to the dump site, he is filling all the available space, making it difficult for me to even find room to leave my stuff.  I'm carrying the last piece--a hard drive from Alan's old computer--when DA lobs a vacuum cleaner off the back of his truck onto the pile he's made just as I come around his truck with the hard drive.  The vacuum teeters, wobbles, then falls right toward me.  I have my hands full of hard drive.  I shout, turn my shoulder to the falling vacuum and as it knocks into me, I lose my grip on the drive.  Fumbling, I balance it on my leg, reach out to shove the vacuum off me, the drive slips, I grab.  And something slices like a razor across the base of my middle finger.

How much do I hate that moment when you so know it's bad, but you keep right on floating down De Nile in blissful ignorance.

As Dumb Ass jumps into his truck and roars off, I drop the frigging hard drive right where I stand, make a tight fist and head for the car, the whole way chanting it's fine, it's fine, no worries, just a scratch, it's fine.  20 feet and the blood is already dripping between my fingers.  I jump in the car, grab a wad of Kleenex, close my fist around it, then reach into the glove box for the first aid kit and antiseptic wipes.  Then I open my fist, remove the Kleenex, and assess the damage.

Well crap.  It's bad.  With every flex of my fingers, this deep gash at the base of my finger gapes open like a fish gulping out of water.  I figure it's a two-stitcher easy, maybe even a three.  Shitshitshitshit.  After I wipe the blood off my hand, clean the wound and get a large band-aid compressed onto it to staunch the bleeding, I sit in the car for a minute while I decide what I'm going to do.  I know I don't want to get stitches, and the cut is in the worst possible place--right where the finger joins the hand--that there's every likelihood a doctor wouldn't stitch it anyway.  Though there could be shots involved.  No.  Hell no. 

I drive to the nearest drugstore.

Ten bucks later, I'm back in the car...my mobile triage unit.  I clean the cut with more wipes, then use a butterfly bandage to close the fish gape, and cover the whole thing with a band-aid made for knuckles but it works perfect for between the fingers. 

All right.  I'm gonna live.  Deep breath, and time now for that iced coffee, then it's home before something else goes wrong.

As I'm leaving the drive-thru with my drink, a young guy, texting and not in any way looking at the road, swerves toward me, nearly taking off the front of my car.  I brake so hard to avoid him, my iced coffee flies out of the cup holder and spills all over the passenger floor.

Okay, I get it.  Three threats, or maybe it's three warnings.  I might be a bit slow, but yeah, I finally get it.  Time to get back up that mountain, and if I'm really smart, I should jump back into bed, pull the covers over my head, and stay there until tomorrow.

Heat, Fire and Fawns

The weather has been miserable here in my part of the world.  The high temps are bad enough, bu it's the humidity that's doing me in.  As I've said before, I'm more accustomed to wet, cool weather (Alaska, Seattle, Scotland to name a few), so this never-ending steamy, sweaty weather right now heads my Holy Crap, How Much Does This Suck list.

Yesterday afternoon, looking out across the Valley, I could almost see the heat haze rising up from the ground.  It grew, thickening like fog in some spots, still wispy and feathery in other places.

Toward evening, I glanced out again, and suddenly wondered if what I was really seeing wasn't haze, but smoke.  The color of the sun was taking on a reddish-orange tint, just like fiery coals.  I've seen this before: the sun turns into a ball of fire when it shines through forest fire smoke.

The red sun was too bright and harsh for my camera--I need a better filter--but now the heat haze truly looked more like smoke, and the sky was turning an apocalyptic red-orange.  The mountains in the distance are miles away. That first little ridge in the center of the photo is about five miles--as the crow flies--from my house. Behind the ridge, is another valley, then the actual Coast Range mountains begin.

Okay, see that little dip between the peaks, just off-center in the photo?

I caught the last edge of the setting sun with my telephoto as it went down behind that dip.

The entire sky turned this stunning, almost shocking, bright orange color of fire, truly like a scenario from the end of the world.  The fantastic thing though is my camera.  I am miles, literally miles and miles from those mountains, and yet my camera has captured a clear, perfect picture of the trees on the mountain top.

Have I mentioned that I love my camera?

This morning when I opened the blinds in the back part of the house, I was greeted by the newest editions to my mountain community...and they still have their Bambi spots...aawwww.  I tried to get some better shots, but their mom wasn't having any part of it and whisked them down the slope out of sight right after I took this picture.

And that will be about the only bright spot in my day as it's to get into the high 90s, with the humidity somewhere around 200%.  Man, Alaska is sounding better by the day...

[Oh, and I forgot to say that, yes indeed, it was (and still is) smoke in the Valley.  There are five forest fires burning right now in Oregon, two of them just to the east of me.  What a terrible, wretched year this has been for fires in the West.]

Something New? Apparently Not...

Today, whilst reading Irish Gumbo's post--one of my Daily Fix reads--I discovered a new site. Not new to the internet, just new to me: Magpie Tales. The blog author posts a picture, then her followers make up a poem or vignette about it. I find this so weird and bizarre. Why? Because I just did this very exercise the other day after my dream. Is there nothing original left in all the world?

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And on that note, let's digress for a moment as I tell another story...

With NaNo coming up in November, I've begun mulling over plots and stories, thinking of what to write about this year.

And yes, I know there are some of you out there who scoff, and act all superior and above it all, as if NaNo is something only a dimwit would waste time doing. It's certainly not something real writers--such as yourselves--would bother with, is it? I'm here to tell you: Don't knock it if you haven't tried it. It's one of the most exhilarating, demanding, brain-stretching exercises I've ever done, and I wouldn't miss it for the world. The sense of accomplishment when that last word of 50,000 is typed? What a rush.

I don't write a whole book, of course. I just write my story until I reach 50K, then continue writing the book over the ensuing months, because in my world, 50K does not a complete novel make. This year, rather than write in my usual pantser style, I thought I would come up with an idea, then work it through my mind in the run up to November.

So.

I'm walking the boys on Friday, my mind rolling along with ideas, though nothing is grabbing me. Then, out of nowhere, I have a vision of an antique pen, discarded, forgotten in an old curiosity shop. Woman finds it, buys it, takes it home. That night she dreams. In the morning she finds a message written on a tablet, the pen laying next to it, her dream is reality. I feel a tiny spark of excitement. The title bursts into my head: Poison Pen. Holy Crap. I think I've got the beginnings of a plot here people. By the time I get home, I've decided the other main character will be a guy who's an expert in forensic graphology. I do some research, I print out some stuff to review. I'm really thinking this is going to be cool.

I take a break for lunch. While drinking my wild blueberries and banana smoothie, I decide to scan Amazon, see if there are any other titles called Poison Pen, and if so, will it matter to my story.

And there it is. There truly is nothing left in the world that is original.

Not only do I find a book called Poison Pen, but it's about a forensic graphologist! WTF? The main character solves crimes, which granted, is a bit different than my angle, but not different enough. There's no way I can use either the title or the story. And what are the flaming odds? Where did my idea come from? In the great, vast well of ideas floating out in the Cosmic Consciousness, how have I managed to pluck this particular plot/story/idea out of the ether?

I scrap everything, shred my notes, delete my links to the research sites. Buggers.

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Now, back to this morning and my discovery of the Magpie Tales. When I went to the site, I could see that almost 60 folks had already posted their poems/vignettes since Sunday. I didn't look at a single one. No way. I'm just going to forge ahead, do my own thing, (see post below), and hope that, for once, it hasn't already been done.

Magpie Tales 125...Toil

Oh, how he dreaded the harvest; the air thick, burning his throat with brittle hay dust, as day after day he toiled under the merciless, unrelenting sun.

When the farmer forked another load onto the cart, he lowered his head in weary resignation.

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Short, not so sweet Magpie Tale...

My French Nun Period...Revisited

Back in days of old, a woman could enter a French convent without becoming a nun.  Perhaps there was too much tragedy in her life, or she wanted away from a terrible marriage, or sometimes women were sent to convents by husbands, brothers, fathers, just to be rid of them.  Girls were educated in convents, usually with the understanding that when they were old enough, they would take their holy orders.  I suppose in modern terms, a woman would consider being cloistered behind the walls of a convent like being on retreat, retiring to a place of solitude for quiet contemplation.

After my heart was broken and cast aside by Toxic Guy, I went into what is known amongst my family and friends as my French Nunnery Period--later shortened to just French Nun.  I didn't go all religious or biblical, certainly wasn't born again--once is enough, thanks--but I did swear off men and relationships.  The Sisters of the Broken-Hearted was born, becoming my cerebral convent.  I was the only member until a year later, when Jan (BFF) joined after her husband ran off with--well, that's not my story to tell.

Belonging to the convent didn't mean I stopped having fun.  I went to concerts, danced with wild abandon at clubs and parties, traveled, had adventures, loved my job, drove a flashy car.  I had everything, except a man.  And I was so fine with that.  I did whatever I wanted, when I wanted.  It was one of the best times of my life.  The freedom was just empowering.  I learned so many things, about the world, and my part in it.  And I had time for thoughtful contemplation, and uninterrupted solitude when I needed it.

I only broke my vow once during those years.  Yes.  You heard me right.  Years.  I was in my French Nun Period for over three.  It sounds weird, unbelievable even, for a hot-blooded woman to abstain for that long, but it took that much time for my heart to truly begin to mend--plus I just wasn't interested in the bullshit involved in being with a guy.

Except.

About two years in, out with friends one Friday night at our favorite club in lower Queen Anne (Seattle), I met this guy from England.  He was taking a year off work to see the world and had already been to Iceland, Greenland, up and down the entire eastern seaboard, across the whole of America.  After Seattle he was headed south to San Francisco, then Los Angeles, and on to Australia. 

He was funny, sweet, looked like Sting, and was leaving on Monday.  Perfect.  We spent the weekend together, he stayed at my place, we explored the length and breadth of Seattle, laughed until we were nearly unconscious, ate great food, drank bottles of wine, and sinned blissfully.  Monday I took him to the airport.  If I was going to fall from grace, I couldn't have picked a better guy.

More time rolls by, and by an accident of fate, or maybe I was just finally ready, I meet the Music Man.  I left the convent shortly thereafter.  Jan followed on my heels about six months later with the Music Man's best friend, and the convent closed its doors forever.

Until, it seems, this past weekend.

Becoming a widow was not something I ever imagined; it just never entered my head.  I mean, come on, I'm not old enough to be a widow, this was totally not part of the plan, and I'm having to learn as I go, find my way, hope for the best.

So.  My neighbors invite me out for a big event last weekend.  American Graffiti, with the old cars, and the music, and beers and burgers.  A week ago, I agreed to go; it sounded fun, and man, I haven't had any real fun for a very long time. 

I'm eating my lunch Saturday afternoon and realize I can't go.  I don't want to go.  I wish I'd never agreed to go.  This is the last thing in the world I want to do.  Fuck!  How am I going to get out of this?   I stew for an hour or so, try to talk myself into going anyway, but in the end I call my neighbor and beg off.  Then I beat myself up for the rest of the day for bailing.  I can't complain about not having any fun if I don't step out there and grab some, can I??

Sunday is the BFF phone call.  I tell Jan about the invite and the bail.  Never one to judge, she says--and I can almost see her shrug--"So you didn't go.  It's no big deal.  You're just not ready."

"But what if I'm never ready?"

She laughs, then says, "You know, I was the last one out of the building.  I still have the key."

Confused.  "What?"  Did I miss part of the conversation?

"The key to the convent.  Hey, you did it once, you can do it again. Your French Nun Period was epic, and when the time is right to move forward, you'll know it, there won't be any hesitating or bailing or waffling.  You'll just step out there without giving it a thought."

"You think?"

"I don't have to think.  I know you."  Before I could reply, she said, "Close your eyes, I'm sending you the key.  You'll feel better with those convent walls around you, at least for right now."

I haven't thought about the convent in years.  I smiled.  And closed my eyes, picturing the key: it was a skeleton, old, heavy, ornate and a bit rusty, hard to wiggle into the keyhole of the massive wooden door, until with a screech of metal, the key turned, the door opened, and I took a deep breath of cool stone and sweet incense.

And Jan was right.  It does feel good to have the convent walls around me again.  At least for right now.

Freedom

This morning the boys and I went to the VA compound, our usual haunt on weekends.  It's quiet and peaceful, and in this scorching heat, there are plenty of trees to provide shade.

I took this short video of the dogs because it always makes me laugh when they get to run free, like the wild animals they dream of being.  Beware however: the vid is NOT good.  I moved the camera too fast whilst panning--and yes, I do know better--so not only are things unclear, but there's a head spinning side effect.  Thankfully, the video is short.   Ignore the middle...the best bits are at the beginning and the end anyway.

So Sorry...

Spotted Towhee

Photo taken in my back garden, Winter 2012

Because my house is mostly windows, and I live on top of this mountain, the birds get confused by the reflections and fly right into the glass.  It's a dreadful sound: startling with the abruptness of it, and distressing because I know exactly what it means.

One of the guest bedroom windows used to get the most...hits...mainly due to the reflection of the giant oak tree.  I've stood on the slope, looking into the window, and truly, all you can see is the watery image of the tree.  No wonder the poor birds smack into it.  I've tried various tricks to alert them to the dangers ahead, and it seems to be working as there haven't been so many impacts lately.

The real danger now is coming from the master bath window.  It's huge, and at certain times of day, it looks just like an extension of the Valley below.  The birds can get up some real speed as they fly up the ridge, and if they're not paying attention, they hit the window at Mach 4.

There's a strange phenomena that occurs when the birds hit the windows: they leave behind a ghostly image of themselves. It's weird, and poignant, and oddly beautiful--in a most macabre way. The images are usually of wide-spread wings, full chest, and tail feathers. Like snow angels in a way, or an x-ray made of white dust on clear glass.

Amazingly, defying all sense and cosmic culpability, nearly all of the kamikaze survive.  They might have lost a link or two in the chain, but as far as I'm concerned, if they can shake it off and fly away, it was a good day.

So.  Earlier this morning, having my coffee and breakfast, I heard the dreaded noise: a sharp, loud thrump.  The dogs growled, Ozzy went to his guard-the-house window (it overlooks the road), but of course didn't see anything because the sound came from the back of the house.  I finished my breakfast, hoping when I opened the curtains after my shower, that I would only see the ghostly aftermath of the collision.

But no.

The poor wee thing was laying on the back deck, head at an awkward angle, his ghost impression most strong on the window.  Oh, it made me so sad.

Then I realized I would have to remove it.  And I felt sick.  I paused, wondering at my reaction.  Why should that be so upsetting?  I have staunched bleeding wounds, hauled the injured to the hospital, done CPR, wrapped sick animals in towels and headed to the vet, pulled teeth...well, the list is endless, isn't it?

And yet.

I stand on the deck, and can barely figure out what to do.  This little, broken creature has to be taken away.  What is wrong with me?  I wish--for a long painful moment--that I could just shout to Alan to come do this.  He would have done it swiftly, kindly, and I could have turned away, not been part of the finality of this tiny life, snuffed out on a warm Summer's morning as it flew wild and free.

Deep sigh.  Time to deal.  I get a small plastic bag and the dustpan, but I just can't make myself bend over and scooch it into the bag.  I stand there for another few moments, murmur a heartfelt apology, then try to maneuver the bird into my bag.  Halfway in, the breeze blows the bag and the bird flops and rolls on the deck.  Oh man.  I think for a sec that it has actually moved.  I lean in to look closer because, holy crap, I can't bury the poor thing alive!!

But no.  Dead as a doornail, or a bird that flew full-throttle into a double-paned window.

It takes me three tries to get the wee thing into the frigging damn bag.  By the time I'm finished, I'm in tears.  What an ignoble way to be treated: rolled around and poked with a dustpan and screeched at when your little foot touches the finger of the idiot woman who's trying to dispose of your corpse.

In the end, I got my spine reconnected to my brain, dried my tears, and took care of the bird.

It was a crap start to my day.

For now, I've left the ghostly image on the window.  Maybe it will warn the others...

Words from a Dream

Last night I had a dream that was...weird, and puzzling.

I was in a small, bare room, sitting at a table with a yellow, legal-size pad and a pen.  A door, no windows, dark except for a spotlight overhead that lit up the writing surface on the table.  A photo would project on the wall in front of me; I had to look at it, then start a story, but I was only allowed to write one paragraph.  I struggled, trying to come up with something, anything, that was worthy.

Besides my difficulty with the writing, I had a hard time interpreting the photos.  Now, in the clear light of day, I can't bring back a single image, just the sense they were strange, hard to decipher, difficult to make into a story.

I didn't know why I had to do this, how many photos I was supposed to write about, or if there would be repercussions for failure.  Before I got to the end, Ozzy jumped up on the bed, waking me with a paw slap to my face--his version of an alarm clock.  I cuddled him for a few minutes, while I tried to fathom the message in such a peculiar dream.

I put as much credence in my inner world as I do the outer.  Dreams are important, ridiculous, cryptic, horrible, occasionally prophetic, and nearly always mean something.  I listen to mine, though I have to say, I'm clueless about the meaning behind this one.  Maybe it's a new way for my mind to ferret out my next plot device. 

Whatever.  By the time I get out of bed, it's clear what I have to do.

I did a random scan of pictures from my photo program.  I have about 4K pictures on this program, covering the past five years or so.  I arbitrarily snag six of them: eyes closed, no peeking, let the chips fall where they may.

So here goes.  One dream, six photos, six paragraphs...

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Rachel pressed against the south wall of the kirk, the stone chilling her bones, making her shudder in the damp fog.  The light was fading, though it was still early afternoon.  She didn't know what to do, where to go.  Hallowed ground kept her safe, but the glacial cold of a Scottish winter would kill her just as quickly as those hunting her if she couldn't find shelter soon.  A crow landed on a headstone in front her, his harsh caw like a scream of warning in the silent graveyard.

Chained for centuries, he was aware, alive, but bound in stone, unable to escape, helpless to break the curse.  As the long years passed, he fed his wrath with a bitter hatred, only living now to exact a terrible vengeance upon his captors when he was once again free.

They stood frozen in fear as the storm raged toward them.  It grew with each brilliant flash of lightning, swelled as the thunder shook the earth.  The tall stalks of prairie grass were whipped into a frenzy by the wind, harbinger of violence to come.  There was nowhere to hide.

There is a profound quiet in the deep, primordial forest, humus like the thickest of man-made carpets covers the ground, muffling the sounds of trespass.  Suddenly, the crash of hooves, screech of birds, terrified cries, destroy the serenity as the forest creatures try to outrun the sharp crackle of flame.






Ethan pulled the small scrap of paper out of his pocket.  He looked up the long, narrow strada.  Since arriving in Ravello, he had walked the entire village, from the monastery to the vineyards, the cliffs to the church.  But finally, this was right, he could feel it.  His heart was pounding.  Oh, to see her.  To look into her eyes.  He took a deep, shaky breath and began to climb.

No one in living memory had seen the sun, except through the cold filter of endless Winter.  There were rumors, of course, that it was once a bright, blinding yellow.  No one believed that.  It was myth, like blue skies and green grass.  Just words with no meaning.  How do you imagine colors that no longer exist?

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This was easier to do awake than it was in my dream.  Probably because I took the photos and could draw on my memories, could see each place in my mind.  Still.  The exercise gave me a few ideas, even if I seem to be in an odd mood, what with all the vengeance and violent storms and flames and graveyards.  The only bit not edged with menace was Ethan's--although we don't know what awaits him at the end of his climb, do we?


[FYI:  Curious about the photos?
  
Top to bottom:  Cramond Kirk Cemetery, Edinburgh; Entrance to Royal Botanic Gardens, Kew, London; Badlands, South Dakota; Olympic National Forest, Washington State; Strada in Ravello, Italy; Winter in Southern Oregon]

Happy July 4th !!

Have a great holiday everyone.  Remember to safeguard your pets. 
And please, leave the explosives to the professionals.