The Widow's Walk

I don't think I should live alone

2008-05-11T21:42:00.000-07:00

I've been trying to get a place of my own for months now, but it's basically impossible. I make pretty awesome money for someone my age, and yet it isn't enough for me to be able to live on my own in the bay area.

But I'm coming to the conclusion that I shouldn't be by myself, anyways. Everytime I have the house to myself I end up not cooking for myself, being lazy, and I almost always end up crying. I get lonely, and I get depressed and I think about how very, very alone I am in my life right now. I sat here today, staring at the blank tv screen for hours because I couldn't find the remote control for the tv. I thought to myself, "I should invite someone over and watch a movie".

But there's no one to invite.

I hate this feeling in my chest. This hollow, expressionless void that makes me think of pulled cotton or endless yards of blank fabric. There should be people welling up out of my heart, a fountain of friendship, of something that matters. But there's just an empty space; static.

@3$@*!)#8#$@!

2008-02-22T21:25:00.000-08:00

My family has officially gone insane.

Like insane.

My grampa would be very ashamed of us if he was here. No. He would beat the shit out of all of us. Yes. that's exactly what he'd do.

I'm also very depressed that I make a very good amount of money for someone my age and I STILL can't afford an apartment anywhere except in a fucking east oakland tenement.

UGH.

Also, I'll be updating this more from now on. I don't know what's wrong with me so I'll explore it here!

End Days

2007-12-03T09:40:00.000-08:00

Weeping gray December skies and sweaters that invite the chill. But there are no sweaters that will shake this cold off of the shoulders of our hearts. It's the chill breeze of the soul. A long procession of blood down the gravel driveway. Granddaughter, grandson-in-law, wife, daughter, granddaughter, grandson, great granddaughter, son-in-law, great granddaughter, grandson, granddaughter, son-in-law, grandson-in-law, greatgrandson. Where is my son whom I love? I have no son. I can almost hear his voice rattle the dying oak leaves from their perilous grips to mother. His son did not come. The first Granddaughter, my sister, meets the trail head under the a yawning live oak whose branches are so wide, and leaves so dense that the ground beneath it is lush with emerald moss despite the drought. Is this the trail, Mom?

Yes. This is the trail. Two tears. And we follow. Down, deep into the trees, through the thick blanket of dead whispering leaves. The trail is so narrow, the poison oak almost overrunning it in places. Neglected. It misses his hands. A connection: granddaughter, greatgranddaughter, greatgranddaughter. hands clasped tight, lest they fall. I won't let them. Where are the blue skies of the week? Where are the warm suns rays? Does God, in our grief, give us weather to match this sorrow in our hearts?

This is it. Right here. Four tender spruce trees, arms entwined, stand out, punches of color, in a sea of diminished browns. Tell us about them Mary. My poor mother. Closest of all of us with him. That's Mom. she points to the biggest tree. He'd always say, 'look how big and fat she's gotten, and see how the tip of her has grown,' everytime we walked past here. And that one's me, and there's Catherine and Michael besides me. No one says it. But we're all thinking it. Where are those children whom he loved? Why do they pull away from his memory? There is anger here, brewing in the hearts of grandchildren who feel shame for their parents.

His trees. My Grampa's favorite trees. He walked this trail everyday until the cancer ate away his will to be what he loved. Do not stand by my side and weep. I am not there I do not sleep. The women, with their mothers hearts, weep. The men blink red eyes and knuckle, knuckle the grief away. He was the patriarch of this family, and with his loss, the family may crumble. No. We won't. He won't let us. His wife falls into me, so soft and gentle in her grief. But there are strong arms, and firm hands to hold and guide her. His grandson-in law helps her down among the trees to watch. His ashes drift, feather-light, down into the shallow hole dug above his tree family. When the rains come he'll wash down amongst their roots. He'll nurture their growth one last time. My grandmother shovels the soil into the hole and turns; walks away. Cousin Ryan takes her arm, leads her up through the hills; youth and age, grandson and wife, pain and sorrow.

End days. And peace for the weary.

Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted. I whisper it, gently, into the ear of his greatgranddaughter. She weeps into my shoulder.

A strange beauty.

When it rains it fucking pours

2007-11-07T10:49:00.000-08:00

I wish it would just rain real rain instead of my entire life falling apart at the seams. I'm not sure how much more of this I can take.

Shall I walk you through it?

Friday morning: I find out that I have cousins on my father's side of the family that have been searching for me for years. Not only that, they want to get to know me. I haven't even thought about the concept of having cousins, let alone thought about my father in months. I haven't seen him since I was six-years-old. He's not a part of my life; nor do I want him to be. But what about this cousin? She's blood, after all, and I can't blame her for the sins of the father. Ugh and a half.

Friday afternoon: Death-defying stunt devil April, that's me. I crash my car into the median and turn it into an accordian. Somehow I manage not to kill myself, or anyone else but I sure as hell fuck myself up in the process. I'm just now starting to feel normal.

Ongoing: My grandfather's health is rapidly deteriorating. He doesn't have many days left in him, and the ones he does have are painful and difficult. Sometimes I wish that God would be merciful and take him softly into the night.

Coupled with that is the fragile state of my mother's mental health. she's been taking care of my grandparents, as well as anyone can considering, since everything started getting bad. I'm afraid that when he fades away my Mom's mind will follow quietly in its wake.

Last night: My brother-in-law's father has a heart attack. He's alive, in the hospital, but this is very not okay. My nieces are already going to lose their Great-Grandfather, they can't lose Papa in the same week.

Can I get a break? Seriously if much more starts to happen, I'm going to start speaking pig-latin and curl up in a ball on my bed and never move again.

I TRY

2007-10-17T08:03:00.000-07:00

so hard to be a good little passive-agressive liberal. TO NO avail. Ugh. Why do I even go to this website? Perceval Press (I mean, besides the fact that I have a mild obsession with Viggo Mortensen, and that just happens to be his printing company)

Everytime I go there I read these articles about the atrocities and absolute MISSUSE of power that the Bush administration is getting away with every fucking day. It just fills me with this impotent fury, because there's not a damn thing I can do about it, is there?

Not a fucking thing in the world. At least one that I'm willing to do. Which is why I want to be a passive-agressive, ill-informed liberal in the first place! I don't want to know about all the terrible things that are happening out there in the name of our black government. And by black I mean bad/naughty/depraved/Nazi. not, you know, black. I don't want to know because all it does is make me feel like shit because there's nothing that I can really do.

Even if I get all gung-ho about politics and start getting active in protest groups and write letters to my congressmen what the fuck will that do? Besides make me more frustrated when all those actions get us nowhere, nowhere that I want to be anyways. I'll just be MORE informed, and more impotent than before.

FUCK.

I hate you Viggo Mortensen for being the man I want to do all sorts of nasty things to AND the man that makes my conscience scream. Thanks a lot.

dickhead.

Fake it till you make it.

2007-10-15T15:51:00.001-07:00

or at least that's what ericka tells me I need to do. I think she's right, you know. No one else is going to believe I'm someone special until I manage to do so. So that's what I'm going to do. I am unique, there's no doubt about that. So here's why:

No one writes exactly like I do. I believe this for myself, and I know it's true because people have told me often enough.
My writing process is entirely my own. I've never read a writing advice book that tells me how I should go about writing. And if I had, I wouldn't follow the directions. Writing is such a personal thing to me that I wouldn't have it any other way.
I actually believe that this positive self-talk will accomplish something. Honestly.
I am proud of how much I've grown in the last year. The year after my freedom from bondage.
I'm a bit of an emotional coward, but I'm trying really, really hard not to be. And the very act of trying to accomplish this is something I'm proud of.
I easily get bored visually. What I mean is that I'm always changing the paintings and prints on my walls, the background on my desktop, the picture on my phone. I want to see things, new things, all the time.
I can swim through 12 foot waves and rescue a person. How do I know this? Because I've done it before.

I'm not going to wait for things to happen to me anymore. I'm going to make them happen. If I'm unhappy in my life that's okay; because I know I'm working to make it better.

It's interesting, looking at the list. The first two things involve writing. I guess without even meaning to, I've already defined who I am. And that's okay. That's something I can be proud of too.

Grey's Anatomy

2007-09-27T18:06:00.000-07:00

I'm so lonely that I've resorted to renting Grey's Anatomy dvd's and pretending that I'm actually desirable, and that I'm not a pathetic shut-in who lives her life vicariously through her character creations.

I'm going to end up being the crazy animal lady who lives in a one room in-law house and spends her time writing and walking around in the woods talking to the ghosts of a life she's never lead.

red words and blue skies

2007-09-11T20:14:00.000-07:00

I woke in a terrible mood yesterday. And instead of walking it off, or being productive, I wallowed in it. My sister came home and I was a bitch to her. Then I felt bad so I went into my room and isolated myself so that I couldn't subject other people to my pissy mood. That didn't work too well, so I picked up my pillow, a bag full of TPB comic books that I'd been meaning to read and headed out into the backyard. Our new hammock was calling me.

I fell into the hammock, clutched the sides manically as it tried to buck me onto the bare soil beneath. I prevailed. The sun had just sunk behind the house that towers over our own, so I didn't have any sun in my eyes. I lost myself between the skyscrapers of Peter Parker's playground, then on the sumptious grounds of Professor Xavier's School For the Gifted. My kitty Eve couldn't figure out how to get on the hammock. She meowed and purred beneath me, brushing her tail against my back. Finally, she jumped onto the terrace above me, and sailed, wide-eyed and scared out of her mind, to land on my stomach. After clutching me tight, she curled up on my shoulder and kneaded me until she fell into a boneless sleep.

Later that evening, after a conversation with a good friend, I was in a better mood. My mood continued to brighten as I plotted and researched for my newest short story.

Funny. I found my inspiration in a hammock.

Once again, I am reminded that everything happens for a reason. My bad mood led me to solitude in the backyard. Which led me down a natural path of discovery- in my own mind.

And the thievery continues...

2007-09-03T10:00:00.000-07:00

I stole this from Constance's blog, who apparently stole it from someone else's. The internet will survive another day.

- - - - -

1. Total number of books I own:
I have about 12 boxes of books in the garage right now (still waiting to get my own place) and about three hundred on the shelves in my room and in the hallway. So, basically entirely too much.

2. Last book I bought:
Hmm. My sister and I just went on a book buying spree. I think the last one I bought was The Road by Cormac McCarthy. It won the Pulitzer, I believe. Gotta get my 'smart' readinng in sometimes.

3. Last book I read:
The Grey King by Susan Cooper. I've been rereading them. Again.

4. Book you intend to read next:
Zorro by Isabel Allende. I'm in the mood for dashing swordsman.

5. Five books that mean a lot to me:
The Night Watch by Sean Stewart
Watership Down by Richard Adams
East of Eden by John Steinbeck
I am Legend by Richard Matheson
Something Under the Bed is Drooling by Bill Waterson. I don't care if it's a comic.

World Without End

2007-08-28T22:24:00.000-07:00

Here's the story. I hope you guys enjoy the journey as much as I did.

- - - - - - - - - - - -

The wind loved her. It twisted through her hair, caressed her scalp, tugged at heavy curls. Those curls whipped like spun glass around her face. She saw the world in shades flashing gold, burnished copper and translucent wheat. A few strands caught on her moist lips and she lifted a long-fingered hand to flick them away. Her lips were small for her face, as if they’d stretched thin from being pulled into smiles so often.

"Beautiful, isn’t she?" A man said with casual affection lacing his voice. Dean startled and quickly averted his eyes from the woman that drew him like a compass arrow to magnetic north.

"I don’t know that I would call her that," so many other words came to mind when he looked at her.

SLOW FOR CURVES

Dynamic. Stunning. Earthy. Sensual.

STOP

The man beside him nodded in understanding. There was a distracted air about him, as if he walked through life looking for car keys that he’d misplaced. He towered above Dean; but despite his obvious height he didn’t seem tall.

"Her name is Liv."

CAUTION

Dean’s eyebrows drew together. "I know," She’d introduced herself at the beginning of the nature hike.

"She’s my cousin. My name’s David, by the way. David Axel."

"I’m Dean Cox," He waited for David to shake his hand but David just rocked back on the heels of his sandals with his hands jammed in the pockets of his gray corduroy shorts. He swept a hand through his shaggy caramel curls, opened his mouth as if to say something, then closed it. His eyes left Dean, traveled over the horde of children in front of them and settled on Liv. She glanced in their direction briefly, her eyes lingering on Dean, before focusing on the children in front of them again. Dean found himself aching to know what color her eyes were. "Be careful of my cousin, Dean. She has a way of mending broken hearts then leaving them sad in a whole new way." He looked down at Dean, his lips tilted in an ironic smile, then veered from the path to walk alone, following the sound of the sea.

DANGEROUS CURVES AHEAD

Dean continued to scowl when he returned his attention to the tour. He quickly scanned the rainbow bright crowd of children for his sister and her daughter, spotted them, and then felt his eyes slide back toward Liv. Redwoods towered around them, eternal sentinels guarding the coast. Light filtered slowly through the cathedral canopy of interlacing tree limbs to sparkle like quiet explosions on the dust motes the wind stirred. Dean waded through the children toward her. He didn’t recognize this instinct in him, and he was almost afraid of it.

RED LIGHT

But he ignored the part of his mind that whispered soft cautions and continued forward until he was standing next to his niece. He silently thanked her for walking close to Liv, and rested his hand gently on her silky auburn hair. She peeked up at him through bangs that hung like red reeds over her lake eyes and gave him a gap-toothed smile. He winked at her and pulled her into a half-hug as they continued down the wide dirt trail.

Dean watched the wind play with Liv’s hair as she led the group toward the sea. It hung in thick waves to the middle of her back. She was a tall one; at least six foot and most of it was long, lean leg. She wore tan shorts that hugged her thighs to just above her knees, and sturdy hiking shoes worn heavily on the heels. An oversized polo shirt sporting the emblem of the naturalist group she worked for made up the rest of her uniform and the dichotomy of snug shorts and the loose shirt was making Dean sweat.

She turned and gestured toward a spread of green foliage that crawled around the base of a redwood, climbing up the trunk to hang snake-like from the lowest branches. "Does anyone know what that plant is?" The children all shook their heads no. Dean looked closer, recognized the heart-shaped leaves.

"It’s redwood sorrel," he cleared his throat, watched her from the corner of his eye.

Liv tilted her head to the side, sporting the same ironic smile as her cousin. "So it is. Redwood sorrel is native to the west coast and Native Americans used to eat it," the kids immediately asked if they could try some.

"Of course. But not very much. It is edible, but only in small quantities." Her voice was husky as if she spent too much time sitting around campfires, inhaling wood smoke. She stepped off the path and gently twisted some leaves off of the plant and held them cupped in her hands for the kids to take.

"What does it taste like?" A small boy asked cautiously.

"Can you taste words?" Liv asked quietly.

"No," the boy replied, his eyebrows knit in confusion.

"Try it. And you’ll know." She watched, solemn, as the boy curiously lifted the leaf to his mouth and placed it on his tongue. His lips closed, he chewed for a few moments, and then grinned.

"It tastes green!"

She smiled, and looked straight into Dean’s eyes, "So it does." He blinked at the weight of her gaze, raised an eyebrow in silent speculation. Her smile stretched wider before she returned her attention to the children tasting and exclaiming over the taste of the sorrel. Her eyes were frosted green, like sea glass long caressed and tumbled by the waves.

SLOW. CHILDREN AT PLAY

They walked on, through the tunnel of trees and the cacophony of bird song until the path widened, then seemed to disappear into the unfettered, blinding luminescence of midday sun. Now the chatter of gulls and the soulful murmur of waves filled the air, and all the children geared up to run toward the ocean only to be restrained by the look or hand of their respective guardians.

"Does anyone know what ocean this is?" She asked.

"The Pacific!" A young girl shouted.

"That’s correct. It’s a cold and deep ocean, and it can be dangerous. As long as it’s okay with your guardians, you can play in the shallows. This is the end of our tour. Feel free to play in the sand and the water for as long as you like, and return along the same path that we took to get here." She paused, ruffled the hair of a little boy eager to run toward the beach. "Thank you for being such a wonderful group." Liv turned and walked down the sloping sandstone hillside, her stride light and assured. They walked through the sand like seagulls bobbing up and down on slow rolling waves. Dean stopped to fold the legs of his jeans up to just below his knees, untied his shoes and removed his socks. He watched from his bent position as his niece turned, saw what he was doing and mimicked him. When he stood Liv was beside him. He didn’t look at her at first, rather, he watched his niece. She approached the water with extreme skepticism painted on her face then ran shrieking when the waves raced up the sand to lap at her heels.

REDUCE SPEED AHEAD

She smelled like lemonade on a sticky summer night.

YELLOW LIGHT

"She’s not your daughter, but you’re related." It was a statement, not a question. Finally, he looked at her and took his time with it. She wore freckles where most women wear makeup. They powdered her nose with gold, glossed her cheeks with light and winked like gold chips in her leaf green eyes. Sweat beaded at her temples and a single drop slid slowly down her cheek to drip from her chin. Her eyes were too big, and her lips too thin for her face to be called pretty. Dean had never known such beauty.

"How do you know?"

"You have dark eyes, hers are pale blue. Your nose is long, narrow and straight. She has a button nose, with a cute little ski slope on the end. Your upper lip is heavy, and her lower lip is plump. But still, there is a general, indefinable resemblance. Maybe it’s your hair," she pursed her lips, casually lifted a hand to the back of her neck, wiping the sweat away.

"I have black hair," he restrained himself from reaching for her sweat slicked hand.

"Yes," she stepped in front of him and he realized that they were exactly the same height, "but it’s smooth, straight," she threaded the fingers of her right hand through his hair. "The same." Her hand slid down the side of his head, across his neatly trimmed beard.

TRAFFIC FINES DOUBLED IN CONSTRUCTION ZONES

"Uncle Richard, are you going to play in the water with me and Mommy?" his niece tugged on his left hand pulling him free of her eyes.

"No honey, I have to go to work after this,"

Liv looked down at the girl, dropped her hand to her side and crouched in front of her. "My name’s Liv Davenport. What’s yours?"

"Lindsay," she answered in a rushed, polite tone, "You should come play too!" But before Liv could accept or deny Lindsay was off, sand flying from beneath her little feet.

"Liv Davenport," he rolled the sound of it across his tongue.

"Am I supposed to call you ‘Uncle Richard’?"

He grimaced slightly and she laughed. It was a lusty, secretive laugh and Dean felt the tug of it low in his belly. "Please, no. Dean," now he offered his hand, "my sister still calls me Richard, even though I’ve gone by my middle name since I was 12."

"Well Dean, follow me." She took his hand in hers and he felt each of her fingers slide slowly between his. Liv pulled him toward the sea.

RED LIGHT

"Really, I can’t. I have to go to work soon and I don’t have a change of clothes in the car... "she turned her head and he stopped short. The sea crashed, endless in her eyes. He caressed the pulse in her wrist with his thumb, felt his own heart shudder to match it. Slowly, hesitantly, a smile stretched across his face. He grabbed her other hand and backed her into the ocean. A wave broke across her back, embracing her, and she laughed, throwing her head back and the spray sparkled like diamonds around her body. He gasped at how cold it was and laughed as she pulled him farther towards the waves. She stumbled, her eyes going comically round before she fell backwards her hands still gripping Dean tight. He fell on top of her and they were swept up, tumbled over and over until the wave released them, gasping like fish on the wet sand. Liv sat up, her hands resting in the sand above Dean’s shoulders. Her hair hung in thick ropes, surrounding him in the scent of salt and summer.

"You’re face looks nice when you smile," A drop of water slipped from her nose to fall in his mouth. Reflexively he licked his lip. "You’ve got sand in your beard."

She jumped up and pulled her sopping polo shirt off to reveal a gray thin strapped tank top. Dean felt his jaw fall open as he realized she wasn’t wearing a bra beneath it. With some difficulty, she reached into her pocket and pulled out a slip of card. She flicked it toward him and it drifted, feather-like, to land on his chest. And with a secret smile playing on her face, she turned and walked away.

Dean picked up the card and rubbed it between his fingers; it was laminated. He held it up and read the words.

Liv Davenport
Shelter Cove Naturalist

He flipped it over to find her phone number and email address. He had a feeling he shouldn’t call her. It was probably a bad idea.

CHECK-POINT AHEAD

He didn’t care.

~~~

Liv was reading Walden and baking a chocolate souffle. She firmly believed it was Thoreau’s fault that she had to toss the first two souffle’s in the trash. The phone cried out and Liv knew who it was even before she picked up the receiver.

"Good evening," she eyed the counter top for something to use as a book mark, settled on a silver spoon.

"Liv," he just said her name, breathed it out as if he was afraid she wasn’t real at all, only a vivid beach daydream.

"Dean," she paused to arch her sore back, "You should come over."

"I’m driving home from work. I just thought I’d call to-" he stuttered, cursed under his breath. "I want to see you." Where was this brash honesty coming from, he wondered.

She gave him her address, bent at the waist and opened the oven door and removed the souffle. She placed it on the stove top almost reverently. "Perfect."

He was wearing a uniform with the name Brinks sewn onto a shoulder patch and a gun. She didn’t even blink an eyelash when she noticed them, and some small part of Dean was hoping to surprise her.

SPEED CHECKED BY RADAR

"You drive for a living."

He paused on the threshold. "Yes," he frowned, "essentially, yes. I drive an armored car."

"It’s not as dangerous as the portray it on TV, is it?" she walked into the kitchen and opened a small drawer, pulling two spoons out. She sat down at the kitchen counter and watched Dean try to shake off his awkward new guest body language. Eventually he sat beside her and took the spoon she offered him. She dipped her spoon into the souffle and watched the perfect flat surface fall with the first touch.

"It looks different on the outside, but it’s still the same taste," she said.

He dipped his spoon into the fluffy confection, brought it to his lips and tasted. "Why am I here?" Again, his blunt question surprised him.

"Why do you still wear a ring, when you aren’t with her anymore?" she gestured toward the gold band on the second finger of his left hand.

"Why do you always answer a question with a question?"

"Why are you doing the same?"

He laughed, "Now you’re just being difficult." His face sobered, the laugh lines around his mouth sinking back beneath his beard. "My wife died, just about a year ago."

"Death is never easy,"

"Death is wrong." He was surprised by the vehemence behind his voice.

"What did you do after she died?" Liv continued to eat the souffle in small bites, her eyes dark pools of deep green light.

"What did I do?" He asked, incredulity powdering his voice, "What did I do?" he asked again, and the creases around his eyes echoed the question in his words. His spoon clattered to the counter top.

"I’ve...worked. And that’s pretty much it. Work, dinners on Friday with my sister." Now he looked at her, searching her face for something, something he couldn’t put his finger on. "I built my life around Jenna. That was her name. Jenna. When she died, everything I built went away."

"‘If you have built castles in the air, your work need not be lost; that is where they should be. Now put the foundations under them.’" Liv set her spoon down, watched his oak brown eyes search hers. "You didn’t lose your life with her, Dean. You just have to build up the foundations that burned down."

~~~

"Is she always like this?" Dean asked.

David sat beside him, confused and frowning over his beer. "Like what?"

"So...much." Dean watched her dance with an old man, the half circle wrinkles around his mouth like the life rings on a tree. Her rainbow-colored patchwork skirt swirled in a kaleidoscope of brilliance around her tan legs. S"he burns her candle at both ends."

David snorted, a deprecating smile coloring his face. "She’s the flame."

She whirled from the old man to dance with a smooth faced boy just barely old enough to get into the club. She danced with the same joy and focus that she applied to everything she did, as if that one moment was all that mattered. She laughed when the boys hands wandered too far down her back and spun out of his arms to land artfully between Dean’s legs. Her cheeks were flushed, and her dark beaded top stuck to her damp skin.

"Hello, there," she reached across Dean for her tonic water; she smelled like freshly crushed herbs. He breathed deep, feeling the scent of her rush down into his lungs, imagining that breath racing into his bloodstream to carry her through him.

"Dance with me."

REDUCE SPEED AHEAD

Dean automatically shook his head no even as he realized that there was nothing he wanted more. The bar was meant for dancing, not drinking. The dark paneled walls reflected the spinning partners, and even between songs it sounded like jazz was leaking from the bar, flooding up between the cracks in the floor and wafting out through the open back door. The heavy swell of the music started again and she shouted something that he couldn’t hear. He didn’t care. He just wanted to dance.

They fell into the rhythm like a stone in a well, falling deep into the heart of it. He spun her endlessly but no matter where her feet took her, he never let go of her hand. Her hair flew around them in a neon hurricane and their feet pounded the floor like heavy rain. He pulled her back to him, molded his hands onto her slim hips and, laughing, found her lips with his. She tasted like the first rain after a summer in the desert, the first breath after too long beneath the sea. And laughing, they broke apart.

The song was over.

YELLOW LIGHT

She swirled away in a storm of color and Dean walked, half drunk on the taste of her, back to his seat beside David. He fell into his seat, gripped his glass of beer out of habit, and stared after her.

"I’m lucky, you know." David murmured over the rise and fall of the music.

"How is that?" Dean’s voice sounded distant to his own ears.

"I’ve known her all my life. She doesn’t affect me the way she does everyone else." He sipped his beer, turned his head to watch Liv convinced two women in business suits to join her on the dance floor. "She’s like a natural disaster. You just have to stand back and watch," his eyes found Dean’s, "with a little bit of awe, and a little bit of horror."

~~~

"Hop in."

He eyed the rusted green Baja Bronco with some skepticism. "Vintage cars, eh?"

"I just use it to get around. It used to be my father’s. Hop in." He turned to eye her instead. Her hair hung loose and tangled, as always, the fire colors of it flashing in the morning light. Another tank top hid her breasts, this one a bright kelly green. Gray and white pinstriped shorts cut dangerously high cupped her boyish hips and when the sun shown on her skin just right Dean could see the translucent baby hair on her upper thighs.

SLOW FOR CURVES

He hopped in. She slid into the drivers seat and pulled the keys out of the glove box.

"You keep your keys in your glove box?"

"I do."

"Do you want someone to steal your car?" He asked, incredulous.

She turned and regarded him with her calm sea glass eyes. "If someone needs my car that badly, then they can have it. I’ll still have my feet."

Dean didn’t know what to say to that. She turned on the engine, coasted out of the driveway and onto the lane.

"Close your eyes, Dean."

He opened his mouth to question her, noticed her secret smile and shut his mouth. He closed his eyes. She hit the accelerator and he laughed out loud, surprising himself, surprising her. He felt her move, somehow, and then music joined the chorus of the wind.

Climbing up on solsbury hill
I could see the city light
Wind was blowing, time stood still
Eagle flew out of the night

Liv lifted his hand from his lap, pressed her lips to his palm just below the gold band. The wind danced around them, whispering half-heard truths, and still Liv drove faster. She lowered his hand to her thigh, spread his fingers there so that he could feel the warmth of her. Her hand traced the lines of his beard. Dean turned his head, nuzzled his cheek into her palm. He kissed it softly, savored the wine-dark taste of her.

My heart was going boom boom, boom

Liv lifted her voice above the wind, above the music and sang along in her smoke-filled voice.

Grab your things I’ve come to take you home

Dean sang quietly under his breath, a smile stretching wonderfully across his sober face, his eyelids closed tightly against the light of day.

"Sing, Dean! Sing for the wind, sing for yourself. Sing for her!"

So he sang. He sang with the sun shining down on his closed eyes, with one hand clasped tightly in Liv’s, and the other flung outside the open window, the air tugging with its one thousand fingers on the hairs of his arm.

Today I don’t need a replacement
I’ll tell them what the smile on my face meant
My heart was going boom boom boom
Hey, I said, you can keep my things, they’ve come to take me home.

Song after song, they sang at the top of their crowing lungs. Liv sped around twisting curves and down steep hills but Dean never opened his eyes. There was something reckless in his trust but somewhere deep in the part of him that he rarely listened to, it felt right. Just as his voice began to crack around the edges Liv rolled the truck to a gentle stop and turned off the engine. The sudden lack of wind and music left Dean with only the roar of his heart pounding in his ears like the ocean in a seashell. He was breathless and lightheaded, and colors whirled in endless pirouettes on the inside of his eyelids. Still, he kept them closed. He felt Liv reach in front of him, heard the latch of the glove box click open, then the jangle of keys landing amongst the flotsam stored inside. Endless possibilities of where she had taken him were running through his head. He waited patiently as she opened and slammed the drivers side door, and strained to hear the pitter patter of her flip-flops on the ground as she rounded the Bronco. She opened his door, took his hands in hers. They were slightly sweaty from gripping the steering wheel. He stepped down onto the ground, felt the line of her body only inches from his.

"Welcome home," she whispered in his ear.

Chimes rang in the air, and he recognized them as the chimes that hung from his front porch. He let go of her hands, ran his slowly up her sides, barely brushing the sides of her unrestrained breasts, then up over her shoulders, around her sweaty neck to grip her heavy hair. He opened his eyes into hers and fell into an endless field of green.

~~~

"Thanks for coming over, David." Dean gestured David through the front door, into the living room.

"How could I pass up free pizza and beer?" David grinned and looked around the room with obvious interest.

"Hey who’s that?" he pointed to a framed picture of a buxom fifties pin-up girl.

"Kylie Samson."

"An unfortunate name for such a beautiful woman."

Dean laughed and tossed David a beer. They sat on the couch and popped open the tops of their beers. Dean sighed.

"I woke up smiling this morning,"

"...I take it that isn’t usual?" David patted his pockets, a line appearing between his blonde brows.

"No. Do you need something?"

"I misplaced my glasses."

"They’re on your head,"

David patted his hair, rolled his eyes and perched his rogue glasses on his slightly crooked nose. He peered at Dean quizzically and shook his finger at him.

"There’s something different about you,"

"I shaved my beard off." Dean self-consciously rubbed his bare face.

"That’s it. Wow, you’ve even got a tan line from it."

"This is the first time I’ve shaved since Jenna died."

"Ah."

"Ah?" challenge tinted Dean’s voice.

"Do you remember what I told you about Liv when I first met you?"

"You warned me about her, that she was a heart-breaker."

"Not exactly, no. Liv isn’t a heart-breaker. She’s a mender. She fixes broken people, broken things, without even realizing what she’s doing." David paused, took his glasses off and slid them into his breast pocket. "Dean. You can’t hold onto her."

"Why not? This is the first time I’ve been happy since, since she died." The challenge in him deflated.

"Trying to hold onto Liv is like gripping sand in your hands. She just slips away. And who’s to blame? The hand for holding on? Or the sand for being sand?"

Dean didn’t have an answer for that.

~~~

Dusk settled over the world. Liv and Dean stood side by side in his back yard, surveying the hole that they’d just finished digging. There was a streak of dirt across Liv’s nose and he had the urge to kiss her.

GREEN LIGHT

He leaned forward and brushed her lips with his in the softest of touches, smiling. "Thank you for doing this with me,"

"There’s nothing I want to do more than this, right now." she crouched and wrapped her hands around the trunk of a youthful tree. "Why did you decide on a bay tree?"

"It’s a symbol of healing, of protection." He said. "And you can smell them on the wind from far away," he added, almost as an afterthought. He untied the rope that held the burlap sack around the roots. Together they lifted the tree up, lowered it gently into the hole. Dean stepped back, but Liv kept a steadying hand on the tree trunk.

He took a shuddering breath, exhaled slowly. "This is for you Jenna. This is for me. This is for all the things we grew together that never got to bloom. They’ll bloom in me now." Dean pulled the gold band from his finger, crouched beside the hole and placed it on the young and tender roots. "I’ve decided to live." he whispered.

He stood and picked up a shovel. He filled the hole with freshly turned earth until it was mounded neatly around the slender trunk.

He looked up at Liv, watched the tears roll down her beautiful face. And still she smiled. She held out her dirt stained hands to him, and he took them.

"Remember," she said quietly, "‘Nothing is worth more than this day.’" She turned and walked into the setting sun, her hair a halo of flames around her head.

The world without end couldn’t hold her. But oh, how the wind loved her.

The course of Awesome

2007-08-28T10:18:00.000-07:00

The story is written. It has been titled, "World Without End" and for the most part, it is complete. There are a few sloppy sentences that can do for some cleaning up, but on a whole, I have completed it.

I've been on a high ever since I put down that final line. It's the weirdest thing. Usually I'm happy when I finish a short story for a few hours, and then its back to the drawing board. (or more accurately, to the book shelves. I always neglect my reading while I'm writing) But since I finished this one I've been uncharateristically happy. There's a joy wrapped around my heart that my head doesn't recognize.

Which is awesome.

In other news, I've discovered something somewhat odd about my behavior while I drive. Whenever an awesome song comes on the radio I HAVE to turn it up as loud as my speakers will allow me to without sounding shitty, and roll down the window. Never just the loud music, or just the window down. Both at the same time. It's kind of dorky, really. I've also noticed that lately I've felt happiest while driving with really good music playing. Big smile, loud voice, finger tapping, wheel slapping, time-of-my-life happy.

Which is also awesome.

When I wrote this latest story I had a lot of help from Carl. I was having so much trouble with it originally that I was almost in tears. Then one little piece fell into place, and the words came, though slow and jauntingly. Eventually, with the help of Carl (thank you, Mister) sentences came instead of just words. I don't know if it would have turned out the way it did without him practically holding my hand throughout the process, so I'm pretty sure I owe him really, really big.

Which is, or course, awesome.

The Sun in my Eyes

2007-08-20T22:07:00.000-07:00

It feels like lately that's all there is. Everything is extreme lately. Joy- my cousins baby. Sorrow- my Grampa's illness. Excitement- My new job. Disappointment- Still alone.

w/e. that's life, I guess.

In other news, lately I've been afraid to write. I don't want to let my characters down. I don't know how to get past this sudden and train-stopping fear of my own inadequacies. I'm writing anyways. Even though every word I write seems to be the wrong word, every sentence formed isn't good enough. I'll MAKE them good enough. No one ever told me that writing is easy, or even fun.

It's just necessary. These characters are begging to live, to stretch their legs across the landscape I paint. And I'd better not forget the dirt...

adjusting

2007-08-02T22:28:00.000-07:00

Things are changing in my life. Lots of things. My cousin just had a baby, and my Grampa's health is failing. Life and death.

Some of my friendships seem to be dwindling- but others are growing stronger, their roots stretching deep down in the loamy earth. But as the flames of those friendships that once burned bindingly bright fail I feel something inside me die. I want to gather everyone up, keep them safe and real and the SAME against my chest. But I feel them slip like sand through my fingertips. I've always felt that you need to work to keep friendships- relationships healthy. Perhaps it's not that way. or not JUST that. I'm beginning to think that true friendships- true relationships (not the flash-in-the-pan wild rides of connection) endure because they're meant to.

I have a new job. I love it. Truly, I do. I think that I've finally found something that will keep me entertained and more importantly, content.

But all these changes are frightening for me. For the most part, I thrive on consistency. I'm a creature of habit, and when things change suddenly, and in such a varied and huge way as things are right now, it kinda freaks me out. I go into my ostrich hole and wait out the storm. Which is ironic because I'm waiting out the storm of my own life.

Blah.

on a somewhat different note, lately it feels like I'm reaching out to be people and all I get in return is a softly shaken head of 'not interested'. it makes me want to keep my hands firmly clasped behind my back. Safe.

I think that just turned into one of those stream of consciousness thingies. Oh well.

to borrow the words of someone who said it better than I did, "Dang it! Blah."

Why do I keep quoting poetry and music?

2007-07-20T19:04:00.000-07:00

Well, I'm going to do it again. Maybe I'm just in an analytical mood. I dunno. I'm in a weird mood today. But I really don't feel like talking about it. Or maybe. Maybe the song that I chose for today is indicative of my mood. I don't necessarily think that it is, but someone else might see what I am blind to.

This song is by The Hush Sound. It's called "Magnolia". It wasn't my favorite on the album when I first began listening to it. But now it's my most played song on my iTunes. That must mean something, right? That must mean that there's some part of the message that resonates with me. Or perhaps I just really like the way that it sounds. I doubt that's the reason though. I think it's the meaning- or what I find in the meaning. I put too much stock in lyrics and not enough in the actual sound of what I'm hearing. That's why I have some less than stellar music that I really love-- because though the music could be better, well the thought behind it is golden. With no further ado, I give you "Magnolia".

Your heartbeat is pulsing at night in your chest
It's gold and it's glowing with all the life you have left
I received your words from hospitals where you felt alone
Your words like smoke, they made me sick but they kept me warm

That last line is so effing good. I don't even know if I can explain why I love it so much. Well, that's a lie. I know I can explain it but I think it's going to make me feel a little more exposed than I usually do on this blog. Well. I've promised myself that I'm going to be more brave. So here goes. There have been times in my life when I've been in less than healthy relationships. Friendships that weren't good to me, but I wanted some kind of connection with SOMEONE that I was willing to ignore the parts of me that said, 'this isn't healthy, you're not getting what you need, you don't deserve to eat table scraps of affection and convince yourself it's a feast of love'. That's kind of what I get from this sentence. The 'words like smoke, they make me sick, but they kept me warm'. The content doesn't satisfy -- but the presence of the words themselves is a balm.

Run where you'll be safe
Through the garden gates
To the shelter of magnolias

Your eyes are like sea glass, so weathered and worn
From all they've seen of adolescence torn
The lovers who have tainted you, they pulled you into the night
They touched your skin with velvet gloves and made you feel alive

Again, there's the unhealthy attraction/relationship theme again. It's about a loss of innocence, and one that's not necessarily happy. The 'velvet gloves' is an interesting bit of imagery. Velvet is soft, warm. But the presence of the gloves is almost sinister. Why are they touching with gloves? You wear gloves to keep something off of your skin. So why would a lover touch with a pair of gloves on? Kinda creepy.

Run where you'll be safe
Through the garden gates
To the shelter of magnolias
There's not much time
The blush in the sky begins to fade

What is the garden? Is it innocence? Is it truly a garden? I like to think that it's both. It's a garden in the mind-- a place of safety. The place we all retreat to when the world wears us down, where we go to find our peace. I know I have a place. It doesn't always have a look. Sometimes it's a song. But sometimes I use imagery-- not a garden, because I've never been much for gardening. It's a front porch. A porch with a big, heavy, outdoor couch on it, with sky-blue cushions. I guess in a way it's a grown up version of an imaginary friend. A comfort- an oasis for the mind. Writing it down almost makes me feel silly, like I'm somehow making it tangible when before it was just an idle fancy that I thought about on my long walks through town. But I don't think I really care. No. I don't care.

You are weathered and worn
Your petals soft and torn
The fading color
You have bent your shoulders
To hold the weight of the world
You will surely shatter

Run where you'll be safe
Through the garden gates
To the shelter of magnolias
There's not much time
The blush in the sky begins to fade

The bridge is fairly simple, but no less effective. Lately I've felt soft and torn. this new news of my Grampa is tearing me apart- and my family isn't helping much either. I don't think I'll shatter, though. I have friends who are helping me shoulder the weight of the world. And I understand now. I understand why certain people came into my life so suddenly, so unexpectedly. God provides. In the most unusual, and sometimes frustrating ways possible. But he provides. And I thank him, every single day for my most precious friends-- Dave, Josh, Dexter, Ericka, Stephanie and Carl. The newest of which would be Josh and Dave. I believe you're in my life for a special purpose, and I am in yours for one as well.

I don't know what those purposes are yet. I don't know what our relationships will be like in a year, in five years. I hope they are good. I believe that right now, we are building something together on solid ground, rather than shifting sand. We only have the foundation laid. But it's solid, and it's real.

ps. Carl are you there? Do you read me?

A Change!

2007-07-18T12:33:00.001-07:00

I, April (also known as the girl in a constant state of flux) decided I wanted to change things up a bit with my blog. I grew weary of the dark and dreary dots of the Wizard's Tower.

Now, I welcome you to the Widow's Walk. The air is a bit sharper, the breeze always damp. The gulls scream and pinwheel above my head, and the foghorns bellow mournfully.

And I kicked the crotchety old wizard out.

ps look below there's another new post.

Edna St. Vincent Millay

2007-07-18T11:49:00.000-07:00

The Philosopher

AND what are you that, wanting you,
I should be kept awake
As many nights as there are days
With weeping for your sake?

And what are you that, missing you,
As many days as crawl
I should be listening to the wind
And looking at the wall?

I know a man that's a braver man
And twenty men as kind,
And what are you, that you should be
The one man on my mind?

Yet women's ways are witless ways,
As any sage will tell,--
And what am I, that I should love
So wisely and so well?

I was catching up on some poetry reading today and I came across this poem. It's quite beautiful, isn't it? It manages to describe an emotional, complex human experience in a few brief stanzas much better than I would be able to do with 15,000 words. So I'm not going to say anything else about it. Read it. Understand it. Wonder about it. There's truth in those words- more truth than I can claim.

Feeling Better

2007-07-10T20:53:00.001-07:00

I just wanted to let you guys know I'm feeling better. Not great but better. Dexter, I'm going to reply to your comment tomorrow. Thank you.

In other news, I have a terrible farmers tan on my arms.

Also.

I'm thinking about learning how to skateboard. Yeah. I know. I'm a super klutz. I dunno if I can pull it off. I don't even know what kind of skateboard to buy. Haha. I just think it sounds like a fun thing to do, a new hobby (and one that's not intellectual!)

so yeah. Me + skateboard = awesome disaster.

...
k bye now.

2007-07-09T12:18:00.000-07:00

I don't understand why I'm feeling like shit lately. Not physically. Physically I'm fine, except for a few sleepless nights and a reduced appetite. But really, that can all be explained away by stress.

But I look back on the last few blogs, and I see a content, relaxed me. A me that I was sooo happy to be, while it lasted. And now I've lost that 'me'. She went away and I want her back. I'm not content. I'm not happy. I'm not any of those fuzzy, warm feelings I was a few weeks ago.

I'm restless. I'm anxious. I'm lonely. Most of all, I feel like the most boring person in the world. I found myself sitting alone in my bedroom yesterday afternoon berating myself with a monologue that sounded something like this:

"Geez, no wonder you hardly have any friends! You're completely and utterly boring! You sit at home on weekends and read books, and write stories about people who have daring and painful lives- something you'll never have because you don't experience anything! Why would people want to hang out with you when all you talk about are the silly little worlds you create, and the other silly little worlds that other people have created?! DO YOU HAVE ANYTHING WORTH WHILE TO CONTRIBUTE TO ANYTHING?"

FUCK.

Seriously. Fuck. Why do I have to be so damned dramatic? Why do I listen to this voice? Why do I even have it?

There are so many things that I want from people in my life that I'm afraid to ask for. It seems like I live my whole life afraid that if I do ask for these things then the person I'm asking will be gone from my life, and it's better to have them and be left wanting than not to have them at all. Right? RIGHT?!?!

I have no clue.

Why am I such a coward? Why am I so painfully introverted? Why am I only able to express myself in the written word? Why can't I speak with the same conviction that I write with?

It feels like there's a storm brewing inside of my chest. But there's nowhere for the rain to go, and the winds just rip me up inside. The thunder roars but no one hears it, the lightning burns but no one sees it.

I'm tired of walking on egg shells. I'm tired of being content to live off of table scraps. And I'm sorry I'm being obscure.

introspection, introspection, introspection.

2007-06-28T15:08:00.000-07:00

Don't Need Anything by Glen Phillips

"I’ve got gardens growing, got quiet days
Clothes on my back, food on my plate
Got friends to help me if I call for them
I don’t need anything that I don’t have

I’ve got eyes to see this beautiful land
And feet to take me where I want to stand
If there’s work to be done
There’s these two strong hands
I don’t need anything that I don’t have
I don’t need anything that I don’t have

Some years the rains don’t come
And some years floods clear out the plains
If those waters washed this town away
I would still have enough
If she was with me

I’ve a roof overhead, the stars if I choose
But I’ve got no itch to fly, got no need to move
Got almost nothing
But I understand
That I don’t need anything that I don’t have
I don’t need anything that I don’t have"

I've been thinking about these words a lot lately. Do I have everything I need? I think I do. I have family who love me, friends who care. I have wheels to get me to work, a brain that allows me to work. I have the Lord to guide me, and best friends to pick up the pieces of me when I break.

"But I've got no itch to fly, got no need to move" -- I think I've turned into a homebody. There are places I want to go, like Arizona, and Ireland, but I don't want to stay. I want to come home to Castro Valley. I want to walk a few miles and go eat at Rigatoni's, or see a movie at Chabot theatre, for the rest of my life. I can see myself being truly happy there.

But then there's the flipside of this coin. Do I need anything that I don't have? Truly? No. I really don't.

But there are things I want. I want to be independent. I want to live on my own in my own home. I want to go to school and receive an education, and take those distant, nebulous dreams that I keep tucked away on a safe shelf of my soul and make them real. Solid. I want a dog named Brutus. I want to come home to the same smiling face every day, and know that I am loved for exactly who I am. I want my own home. I want to have children. Two, maybe three. A boy first, because boys are so much fun. I want to name him something unique, but not crazy.

I'm kind of wondering why I keep writing these soul-searching blogs lately. They're all kind of in the same vein, I guess. I was talking to Carl the other day, though, and he said something that struck me as truth: starting a new job is the perfect time to reinvent yourself.

Well I haven't started the new job yet, (one more step to go) and I'm not sure that I'm reinventing myself. It's more like I'm finally seeing myself for who I truly am. I'm looking through my own masks and seeing the person inside. And realizing that everything about that person is okay.

I'm not reinventing. I'm being.

Someday I'll look back at this and see how much I've changed. Perhaps when I'm 35 with two screaming children and a husband who works too hard. Or maybe I'll still be childless but have a live-in lover that has a hobby of creating board games that he's incapable of marketing. Or I might be alone, living next door to my best friend. Maybe we'll share a dog named Brutus, and have cult classic movie nights every friday for the rest of our lives, content to live life exactly as we want to.

I don't know what the future holds; and I don't want to. For once, I'm living for today. Today I'm going to go home and try to finish writing a short story. Then I'm going to watch tv with the best sister a person could ask for. Then I'm going to walk to my friends house and play Marvel vs. Capcom 2 on his arcade thingy. And fail horribly. And enjoy every second of it. Then I'll walk home and probably end up tripping over my feet as I walk with my head tilted back so I can catch the shootings stars.

I will make a joyful noise

2007-06-23T19:27:00.000-07:00

I was talking to my Mom a few weeks ago about my personality growing up. I always seem to underestimate my Mom. I take her for granted and I know I shouldn't, but it's times like the one that I'm about to describe that slap me in the face and remind me how blessed I am to have such an awesome Mom. Anyways, we were talking about what I was like when I was a kid, a teen, even an adult. And she made an interesting, and spot on, point. Throughout my entire life I've been trying to find somewhere to belong.

I was always searching for somewhere to belong. Softball, journalism, my early desire to be a police officer... it was all to find a sense of comaraderie that I didn't have in my life. I joined the Coast Guard for a lot of reasons, partly to escape my home life, partly to kick start a career, but also to belong. I wanted to be a part of something. To be accepted for exactly who I am. Not only accepted, but liked. I didn't find that in the Coast Guard. In fact, through out my whole life of searching, I never found it.

Until now. I'm not even sure if I can find the exact words to express what I'm feeling. Sometimes my friend Josh and I have conversations about happiness, and what it means. Are we happy? What exactly does happiness mean? Well I don't have those answers, at least not in a broad sense. But I have the answers for myself. I'm happy. But I've been happy in my life before. There's something new though, something I didn't recognize for what it was right away.

I have joy. There's no other way to describe how I've been feeling lately, besides joyful. I am blessed. Blessed with wonderful family, and truly special friends. They say that friends are the family you choose. I think I've chosen well. For the first time in my life I feel like I belong. And it fills all those empty spaces that I forget are even hidden in me. I'm not afraid to be exactly who I am. I'm not afraid anymore. I want to be me. My life isn't exactly how I thought it would turn out. There are still things that I want, that I don't have. But I'm realizing that that is okay.

"One way or another we all need each other, nothing's gonna to turn out the way we thought it would. Friends and lovers don't you duck and cover, cause everything comes out the way it should in the end." The more I read these words of Glen Phillips, the more I believe them. "One way or another winter pays for the summer, you won't get what you wanted, but what you got will be good." The bad times pay for the good, and what we have isn't always what we expected we'd get out of life. But my God, is it right.

So what am I trying to say? This is pretty scattered, and knowing me I'm going to come back and read it and want to edit it, but I won't. I want it to be exactly as it is. If I have more to say I'll post again. Because things don't always have to be polished. Examples don't need to sparkle diamond bright in order to shed light on the truth. I'm blessed. I'm joyful. I'm so thankful for the people in my life. I love every single person who reads this blog in different ways. You're all so special to me.

So thank you. Thank you to my friends for enjoying me for exactly who I am. Thank you to my friends for letting me be insecure, and slightly retarded. Thank you for making me see my life in a different way. Thank you for being a shoulder to lean on, and a slap in the face when I need it. Thank you for making me feel.

Motivations?

2007-06-13T12:06:00.000-07:00

I'm working on a (currently untitled) short story right now. And it's hurting me. I mean it's really hurting me. I've really fucked over these characters, right from the beginning, and it makes me want to cry just thinking about the things I'm putting them through. I guess, it makes sense, in a way, that I should hurt for them. After all, the live in me, so I need to be able to tap those emotions that are needed to make their characters believable. But, goodness, it hurts.

I'm probably just worn down. Probably. I can't sleep, can barely eat. Horrible dreams, torturous days at work. The only time I'm really happy is when someone takes my mind off of things and makes me laugh. It's like laughing is my new drug.

So why do I always write about death, dying, pain and fear? I mean, I know I enjoy breaking my characters down. I like to see how they respond to the worst things that can happen to a person, and then watch as they try to rebuild. (Unless I literally kill a character, haha) But why do I always write about this? What is it about the gothic writing style that draws me? I don't even read the gothic/romanticism style writing often.

But I sure do write it. What does it mean? Why do I do this to myself? Is it some sort of twisted torture? Do I like hurting with my characters? Am I some kind of masochist?

WHY WHY WHY.

Emotion.

2007-06-11T12:20:00.000-07:00

I write. In order to write well, you have to create believable characters. Characters with depth, and emotion. As a writer, I tend to observe people. It seems like every conversation witnessed, every action seen from afar is fodder for a story. I store away these things that I see; I sort them into little files labeled "anger", "despair", "joy", "grief", "lust", "love" and file them in that place in my brain I go thumb through time and again for my worlds. I make this example because I do, for the most part, understand emotion.

When you look at my sister and I we look very similar. We have the same face shape, similar eyes, and an identical laugh. But if you see us through our emotions, we are completely different creatures. My sister is a raging river; all twists, jagged rocks, and breath-taking waterfalls. She's an unexpected turn, a tranquil pool before white-capped rapids. And I am the ocean. Steady, consistent, endlessly crashing against the shore of my life. But sometimes I rage with the strength of a storm. And it's no longer crashing against the shore in steady waves. It's a bombardment, a force that I never expect, and because of that I hold strong against it, when I should really just let it wash me away.

It stormed last night. Thunder and lightning, hail and rain. Twenty foot waves pounding against the shore. And for once, I let myself get washed away. I didn't fight it. I had someone there to be my life-line. For once I let the water pull me out to sea, and I went where it took me. Rarely do I cry. But I sobbed last night. It felt like every thing inside of me was ripping apart and I was hollow, hollow deep in my chest. And yet somehow I felt full at the same time; full of grief, anger, despair, pain and most of all a feeling of how unjust this disease that is tearing my Grandpa apart is. I felt sick, and cold, and empty, and still the emptiness lingers. But I also felt better. It was like there was a poison in me, and I purged it. The pain isn't gone. It still sits heavy in my heart, but I don't feel like I'm drowning anymore. I've never had anyone hold onto me like that, with a steadfast strength that whispered softly, "I'm here, I'm here".

I know I hold too much inside. I know I shut people out of my life when I'm scared, or sad or angry. I don't want to be that person anymore. I don't want to hide from who I am, what I feel. I don't want to be so insecure that I think people won't like me when they truly get to know me.

I want to lose the masks. The subtle mask of indifference I wear at work; the mask of strength around my mother. But I'm not sure I know how. They're my protection from the storms. Where is the balance? I can't live my life as flotsam swirling through the ripping currents of what I feel. But I don't want to swim away from the current either.

I want hope. I want my Grandpa to live. I want to be happy with myself. I want my friends to figure out what they want, and what they need. And I want my friends to know that I will be there for them, if (or more accurately, when) their storm comes.

I sometimes think I know myself. But the sea is vast.

To Show...

2007-06-07T15:54:00.000-07:00

Or not to show. The sock debate.

Pants to the ankles:

Socks showing!

CLEARLY the A's look much cooler with their socks showing.

That is all.

Botched

2007-06-02T20:09:00.000-07:00

A short story. More for kicks than for any other reason:

“I thought you said he was dead.”

“Who?”

“Who? Are you fucking crazy? Wesley.”

“He bloody well is dead. I killed him myself.”

“Well he’s alive now. Look.” Digby pointed toward a man seated at a table in the mall food court.

Anton squinted to see where Digby was pointing. He snorted. “‘S not him. Can’t be. I killed him.” He took another bite of his salt-free pretzel. His doctor was on his case to watch his sodium intake.

Digby took a dog-eared photograph out of the inside pocket of his overcoat. He held it as far from his face as he could and squinted. Anton snorted again. Digby’s shot a glare at him, but reached into the pocket again and removed a pair of small wire-framed spectacles. Grudgingly, he put them on his nose and studied the picture. “It’s him. Look.”

Anton rolled his eyes and crammed the rest of his pretzel in his mouth, making his gray whiskered cheeks puff out like a chipmunk. He snagged the photograph and studied it. He glanced at the photo, then at the man in the food court who was intent on wolfing down his chili dog. He squinted and raised an eyebrow.

“They just look alike. Wesley is dead, of that I am sure.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“I cut his fucking head off and delivered it to the boss. That’s how I’m sure,” Anton crumpled up the photograph and tossed it into the bin.

“Well maybe you cut the wrong guys head off,” Digby said obstinately.

“Digby, you fucker, I DIDN’T cut the wrong guys head off,” Anton seethed through clenched teeth.

“I think you did.”

Anton raised a fist as if he was going to punch him. His nostrils flared, but he lowered his hand when a twenty-something woman steered her double stroller far around him with a frightened expression. He knew they weren’t supposed to make a spectacle of themselves. They were just supposed to pick up some supplies for the boss. Not run into a Wesley look-alike. “Let’s get a closer look. Then you’ll see,” he said, trying to control his anger through deep breathes. His doctor told him that he needed to eliminate as many stresses in his life as he could. Anton didn’t think the boss would like it if he killed Digby.

“Good idea,” Digby said derisively.

They walked casually toward the border of round tables and uneven chairs of the food court. They were only about ten feet from the man in question. Digby raised his eyebrows and said, “See?”

“Huh.” Anton pursed his lips, “Then who the hell did I kill?” He grinned.

“I dunno, but we better clean this up,” Sweat beaded on Digby’s upper lip.

Anton pulled his badge out of his back pocket and walked up to Wesley. Wesley didn’t notice him until he was standing over him. He looked up, chili smeared across his bottom lip. “Yeah?”

“Sir, you need to come with me. We have some questions for you,” Anton said, his voice losing the casual edges. Wesley, puzzled, wiped his face with a paper napkin.

“Alright. What’s this about?” he studied Anton’s badge.

“Come on buddy, let’s take this outside.”

Digby hung back; he didn’t have a badge. He followed Anton as he ushered Wesley out of one of the emergency exits that the mall employees used to gain entry into the mall before hours. Anton walked him up to the dark SUV with government plates and darkened windows.

“Where are we...” Wesley trailed off as Anton unlocked the vehicle by remote and held one of the back seat doors open for him. Wesley slid onto the leather seat, suspicion blossoming between his eyes. Digby opened the opposite door, his matte black 9mm Glock pointed directly at Wesley’s head. Anton, in the process of shutting the passenger door, looked up. His eyes grew comically round and he began to shout but the words were drowned out by the bark of the silenced weapon. The bullet entered Wesley’s temple, shredded his brain, exited and missed Anton’s face by inches. Blood spattered across the window and Anton’s face.

“Are you fucking insane?” Anton screamed and blood flew off his lips like spittle. Drops clung to his eyelashes, gluing them together and obscuring his vision. “We’re in a bloody parking lot and you think it’s okay to blow his brains out? You almost hit me too you damned fool!” He continued on a monologue of profanity and threats as he stripped his jacket off, then his t-shirt. He used the t-shirt to wipe most of the blood from his face, still cursing Digby. Efficiently he swiped the shirt across the window, removing most of the blood spatter. He paused to breathe and Digby jumped at his chance to speak.

“I just thought we should kill him quickly. Make sure he’s dead, you know?” he peeked at Anton from the corner of his eye, his head hung low.

“There’s people around fuck-face. Way to use your head,” Anton slammed the door, “Shut the door you fool, and get in and drive. Now we have to get rid of him, you sodding idiot.” Anton slid into the passenger seat and strapped the seat belt over his bare pot belly.

“Where are we-”

“Just drive. Now listen. We are not going to tell the boss about this bloody fiasco. He’ll kill us both. God you’re such a sodding retard. Drive to the marina. We’ll weigh the body down and get rid of it there. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck!” He punched the dashboard and Digby flinched.

Anton breathed heavy for a few minutes, clenching and flexing his fist. Then his blood smeared face cracked a brief smile.

“Well. At least we know he’s dead now, eh?”

Digby smiled tentatively, and when Anton didn’t burst into another rant, his smile grew. “I wonder who you killed the first time?”

“Shit if I know.” They laughed.

Things I Keep Quiet

2007-05-29T14:36:00.000-07:00

So I got tagged by ShadowDog to do this thingy. Seven things that I never talk about. I don't know if I can come up with seven. I don't keep a lot of things secret, and the things that I DO keep secret, I'm not about to divulge on a public blog.

haha. I'm making this hard on myself already.

1. I'm afraid that my life will be an endless series of enthusiastically begun projects, followed by disinterested abandonment. So far that's what it has been. I can't stay at a job for longer than a year without getting itchy feet. I only have the attention span to write short stories, even though I have ideas for full-length novels. I'm scared to start them because I don't want to begin something fantastic only to have it fizzle and go flat like a soda left out in the heat.

2. I don't know a thing about gardening. And yet I want to be a Park Ranger. Baffling, I KNOW.

3. There are two things that I really want from any future relationship with a special someone: 1. Someone who will go for walks with me each night, and hold my hand. 2. Someone to read aloud with in bed, and not feel self conscious. Someday, someday...

4. I wanted to go to the bar this weekend. But I didn't have anyone to go with. haha. This one is kinda lame. But I didn't tell anyone!!1

5. Before I go to bed most nights, I think about how the next day is going to be. I imagine conversations and situations between myself and the people I'm going to see. I plan what I'm going to say, and how I'll react to what they say. It almost never goes according to plan, but that's okay. This slightly neurotic trait makes it easier for me to have conversations in real life. Because I've already rehearsed it in my head; even if it's completely different, I feel more comfortable nonetheless.

6. I'm afraid that I'm completely predictable and boring. I don't actually believe that most of the time, but sometimes it sneaks into my mind when I'm talking to people and I start to wonder if they're just humoring me by smiling and nodding. It's irrational, and a perfect example of my insecurity. But w/e man. We all have our things.

I'm working on getting rid of the fear. But old habits, and all.

7. I'm seriously fantastically awesome, guys. Like seriously. You just don't understand what it's like to be me.
...

Haha. I came up with seven! Woot!

A Fist Around My Heart

2007-05-26T10:22:00.001-07:00

I found out yesterday that my Grampa has cancer. A tumor that runs from his breastbone to his hipbone. I knew he was sick. He'd refused to go to the doctor for a month of feeling crappy. He finally went and received this sad, and terrifying news.

I'm so worried. Everyone keeps telling me not to freak out until we know more about his prognosis (he sees a cancer specialist on Tuesday) but I can't help it. That's a massive tumor. And he feels so bad. He gets out of breath fast, and his side tingles. He's lost a lot of weight, and he has no appetite. They didn't even give him any medication for the pain.

My Grampa was the only man in my family willing to step up and be a father to me. We've always had a special bond. I'm the only one he says "I love you" to, and I think he (unlike most of my family) really understands what motivates me to do the things that I do. He's too young to have to deal with this. He's only 68-years-old. He's the baby of his family and at least half of his nine brothers and sisters are still alive.

I talked to him yesterday. It was hard to keep my voice even, but I managed. He's not feeling well, which is to be expected. But I told him my idea for the independent magazine that I'm going to be making, and he really liked it. He wants a copy of it. He's always been so supportive of whatever I want to do. When I joined the Coast Guard, he supported me, even though I found out later that he didn't really want me to join. He asked me to buy him some more books; he really enjoys court room mysteries.

I'm so torn up inside. I don't ever want to imagine life without him.

22 Years After I Jettisoned From My Mom

2007-05-17T13:37:00.000-07:00

Yesterday was my birthday. (As all of you know. geez, talk about redundant.) Anyways, I turned 22. Weee! The last time I had the same numbers in my age, I was 11. And I'm pretty sure the only thing I remember about being 11 is getting my dog Jacket. Yup. That's the only thing.

Hopefully I remember this one better when I turn 33.

But I digress. I had a great birthday. Good old Dave. He managed to wish me happy birthday in every medium but a hand written letter and in person. So thanks, buddy. You helped craft an unforgettable (hopefully) birthday.

Why am I talking about my friends instead of my family first? Two reasons. One, my friends will actually read this, so it matters more to them. Two, friends are the family you get to choose.

What did I do with my blood relatives? We went to a Mexican food restaurant in Alameda. My mom, sister, brother-in-law, nieces, and grandparents. My step-dad made an appearance but he was on the downhill side of drunk, and he couldn't be bothered to stay for long. He had important things to do. You know, sleep, and everything.

...

I swear I'm not bitter.

ANYWAYS. I got a ho-ho (yes I said it Dave, even as I wrote it) covered in whipped cream for dessert. There was a single candle in it. I made a wish. Maybe this one will come true. The waitresses and my family sang me happy birthday. I ate a vegetarian tostada, with beans and rice on the side. Then I got in my car with my Grandma, and drove to my house. We played our usual game: Me avoiding her questions about my writing (she wants everything finished yesterday! And no secks, either) and her taking subtle jabs at my political views. I'm the liberal pariah of the family. Despite all that, it was lovely to talk to her. I enjoy her so much, even with her senility.

When I arrived home I found the house transformed into party paradise. Okay. Exaggeration much? Haha, anyways, the nieces put up yellow and green streamers, and a big sign proclaiming, "Happy Birthday Anty Apirl! I love you so much. You are so sweet." in almost illegible hand-writing. My grandparents got the tour (they haven't seen the house since move in day) and then we got down to business. We cut cake (fun cake, my favorite!) and I opened presents.

The Loot:

From Amanda and Mike:
1. set of book plates
2. "Books that I've read" notebook (pretty neat, though who knows how much I'll use it. Good intentions, and all)
3. Green flip-flops
4. New socks! In lots of different colors.
5. Pirate t-shirt that Mike owns. we're wearing them tomorrow. Twinz!!1

From my Mom:
1. Pirate t-shirt in brown. I'm wearing it now. It has a gold tooth.
2. Blue tank top with butterflies on it. It's got lots of silver glitter. Scares me a little, but I'll wear it.
3. A white tank top. I specifically asked for this one. It has one of those built in bras, but I'll have to wear a strapless anyways. TMI? Oh well.
4. Awesome ballet flats. They're black and white and have electric guitars on them.
5. tan flip-flops.

Grandparents:
MONEY. Need not say any more, because seriously, awesome.

Then, the grandparents and my Mom left. Our phone and internet were down because some jackass decided to knock our cable down with his truck, so we watched the ending of America's Next Top Model [Jaslene won. wtf. She was seriously a drag queen]. I read the ending of the second Bone graphic novel. Then LOST came on and it was awesome. Seriously love that show. During the commercials I read a few pages of Slaughterhouse Five by Kurt Vonnegut.

A really good day. The best birthday I've had in at least two years.

Thanks DAVE

2007-05-12T12:32:00.000-07:00

A big thanks goes out to Dave for setting up the links on my blog. I'm Html retarded so he was a pal and fixed it for me.

<3

check out his blog. it's the first on my list of links.

(only fair, right?)

A Fish & Bird

2007-05-11T13:45:00.000-07:00

They bought a round for the sailor
And they heard his tale
Of a world that was so far away
And a song that we'd never heard
A song of a little bird
That fell in love with a whale

He said, 'You cannot live in the ocean'
And she said to him'You never can live in the sky'
But the ocean is filled with tears
And the sea turns into a mirror
There's a whale in the moon when it's clear
And a bird on the tide
Please don't cry
Let me dry your eyes

So tell me that you will wait for me
Hold me in your arms
I promise we never will part
I'll never sail back to the time
But I'll always pretend you're mine
Though I know that we both must part
You can live in my heart

Please don't cry
Let me dry your eyes

And tell me that you will wait for me
Hold me in your arms
I promise we never will part
I'll never sail back to the time
But I'll always pretend that you're mine
I know that we both must part
You can live in my heart

How incredibly bittersweet. This is a song by Tom Waits. A friend of mine sent me the lyrics. I don't think I've ever heard it, but I'm going to download it from iTunes when I get home. When I went to bed last night this song was on my mind. Is it possible to love someone who can never be yours? Even if the feelings are reciprocated, can it really be called love? So much stands in the way; the obstacles cannot be scaled, will never be torn down, are the definition of the immovable object and the irresistable force. But as the song says, I'll always pretend that you're mine...

Smiling

2007-05-07T14:44:00.000-07:00

I've been in a really great mood the last few days. And (stubbornly) I'm going to enjoy it and not worry about when the other shoe is going to drop. I've finished reading East of Eden by John Steinbeck. I feel like I've gained a new appreciation for the life. It's like he taught me that it's okay to be bad, it's okay that I have bad thoughts and that the important thing is that I hold onto the good thoughts, the ideas that better myself and the world. That's what the difference is between good and evil. Not the fact that you are good/evil, but what you do with those impulses.

(as an aside, WOW am I using bold and italics alot. But I think it's because right now I'm really everything in a large way. There's nothing small about my moods right now)

Steinbeck has a way of putting in words all the things I've ever thought or felt but didn't know how to say. And that is a sign of a writer far beyond anything I will ever accomplish, but my God is it a hope, a dream to one day instill that kind of awed reverance in one of my readers. It will probably never happen, but I'll keep chasing the ghost.

Also, summer block busters are coming!!! I love movies in the summer. Nothing like escaping the treacherous heat of California in an overcrowded, over-priced theatre on a muggy evening. And if things keep progressing as they are, it appears that I'll be having a special friend to go with me to these movies. I'm most looking forward to Pirates of the Caribbean: At World's End, but also Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, Fantastic Four: Rise of the Silver Surfer and the comedy Knocked Up look really entertaining.

I'm going to try something new starting tomorrow. Usually, when I get home from work I eat dinner, occasionally hang out with the family and then get on the internet. Well, new rule: No checking on Nightly/emails until I've put at least thirty minutes of writing/plotting into We Were Already Dead. That's the only way I'll get anything done. And geez, it's not like I don't want to write it. It's not even that I don't intend to write it. It's just that when I check up on the internet I get sucked into the vortex of chatting and writing to people that I really enjoy talking to. And there's always something to talk about.

No more! At least thirty minutes every day. No exceptions. haha. Who am I kidding. At the very least though, I'll try.

one last thing: omg i'm so excited for the new Harry Potter book. when will July be here.

Before The Land of Rolling Green Hills

2007-05-02T14:16:00.000-07:00

There are many things that I want to do before I die. Some things are idle dreams that will never happen (and that I won't feel actual disappointment for missing) but others are secret little wishes that blaze brightly in the sheltered corners of my heart. These are those things:

Ireland. "Ireland, I am coming home! I can see your rolling fields of green and fences made of stone..." There's no where on this earth that I want to visit more. It's a steady, burning desire that only strengthens in time, like good wine.
River rafting on level five rapids. I've only done level four, and let me tell you, it's intense! But I'd really enjoy going out on the American river and tackling some monster rapids. There's something about how unpredictable water is that makes it unavoidably attractive
Write and publish one book. I'd like to write more, of course, but I want to at least get one of my stories out there. And I'd really like to go on a cross-country book tour too, but that would be icing on the preverbial cake.
I want to own really nice outdoor furniture. Made out of teak with big, soft, ocean blue pillows. Right now I just want to sit in a recliner with the May sun beating down on me, a glass of lemonade at my side, Eve curled in my lap and East of Eden carting my mind into the past.
To learn how to play one of those wooden flutes that pirates used to play. I don't know what they're called, but I'd love to be able to play one! (ps. argh!)
To become pregnant and knit a blanket for my own child.
Win a game of chess. I've never done it. Someday, someday.
A secret kiss with my lover. There's no way I can explain this. You either understand or you don't.

I'm sure there are more things, but this is my list for now. Why are they so important to me? I'm not sure. It's a bit of a mix, isn't it, of profession, personal and familial desires. It suites me.

Waitresses

2007-04-20T08:58:00.000-07:00

I keep forgetting to make my lunches. So I've been going out to eat during my lunch breaks. There's this diner in Pleasanton called Jim's Place that has fantastic diner food. The omelets are made with five eggs, the chili is spicy, and the sandwiches have more meat than most men can even handle. Of course, I'm risking a coronary every time I eat there, but that's besides the point. It's fantastic.

I've discovered something interesting about myself. I enjoy being called "honey". The waitresses there always call me honey and it just makes me feel good. What does that mean? I'm not sure. It's a family owned business, and they have the best service in town. If my soda glass is half empty, it gets refilled. They check back with me to make sure I'm doing okay at least twice. Sometimes when they have time they talk to me about my book that I'm reading. They also always make eye contact. I'm a big fan of eye contact. It makes meeting someone in person different than just talking to them on the phone.

But what it comes down to is this: I enjoy being called honey. It makes me smile. So I give them a bigger tip. If someone told every waitress or waiter this little tidbit of information I would end up going broke. They're smart ladies, but also sincere.

So I'm thankful for good waitresses. And I'm also thankful that not every waitress is as good as the one's at Jim's Place.

Crawling Inward

2007-04-09T16:31:00.000-07:00

We had a nice family get together for Easter, yesterday. My grandparents were there, step-grandparents, sister & co., parents. I love, and more importanty, enjoy them all. So why did I want to get in my car and drive away? Why did I want to be alone, so desperately, that I stuck my nose in my book because anything, anywhere was better than being there?

When I made the massive effort to be social, I had some good conversations with various members of my family. But every time I heard one of my nieces whine, each loud noise from the tv made me want to vanish. I went out front for a little while and sat on the steps with my book. I read a chapter, calmed down a little and walked back inside. Only to feel the mounting desire to leave again.

I've had this happen to me before. Sometimes I just need to be with myself. To climb into the tower of my mind, my thoughts like heavy footsteps on the stairs of solitude. It doesn't usually happen on holidays though. I felt sort of bad, because I didn't really want to talk to anyone, and some of these people I don't get to see very often. I was under the assumption that these moods only struck when I could indulge them. Mistaken, indeed. When the meal, which in all rights was quite good but tasted like powdered milk on my tongue, was done I went into the back yard and played with my dogs.

Soon, half the family followed me out. So that didn't work. But the few minutes I had alone with Billy and Jacket were satisfying. Poor Jacket is ill, and only getting worse. I'll have to make a decision soon, as to when to put him down. He's still happy though, so it can be postponed. I rubbed his fat pig belly and he smiled with his eyes. Billy was neurotic as usual, making moaning whiny noises when I rubbed his ears; I'm the only person he allows to touch them. Everyone else gets a warning graze from his long canine's. So as I sat with him sitting between my legs, I rubbed his ears and rested my face against his forehead, breathing in the scent of him. Peace, for a few moments, at least.

When I finally left I went home and closed myself off in my bedroom. I finished a book, wrote a poem and listened to the same song over and over again. It's called "This place is a prison" by The Postal Service. It's plodding, relentless beat seemed to ease something in my chest.

I suppose I was a bit melancholy, and am still shaking off the effects of the mood. The poem ended up being free-verse, almost stream of consciousness. Lyrical as well, probably considering I wrote it while listening that song over and over.

Follow Your Nose

2007-04-04T15:06:00.000-07:00

Smell and memory. We've all experienced this sensation. A wafting scent, a sudden thought and the lingering emotion that clings to it.

"It is first important to understand the physiology of olfaction. The primary olfactory cortex, in which higher-level processing of olfactory information takes place, forms a direct link with the amygdala and the hippocampus. Only two synapses separate the olfactory nerve from the amygdala, which is involved in experiencing emotion and also in emotional memory. In addition, only three synapses separate the olfactory nerve from the hippocampus, which is implicated in memory, especially working memory and short-term memory. Olfaction is the sensory modality that is physically closest to the limbic system, of which the hippocampus and amygdala are a part, and which is responsible for emotions and memory. Indeed this may be why odor-evoked memories are unusually emotionally potent."

A little lesson as to why this happens. I found it quite interesting indeed. But I don't particularly want to talk about why or how it happens, but rather when it happens.

Sea spray and the ocean. This scent causes the most intense and conflicted sensory memories in me. I love the ocean. I used to sleep with my window open so that I could hear the sound of the buoy bells clanging, the mornful moan of the foghorns and the smell of the salty sea air. Those are good memories, even if the times were wrapped up in lonliness and anger. Whenever I smell the ocean my stomach gives a small clutch of joy, but my heart skips a beat in fear; like a rabbit in headlights. One a sign of an lifelong love affair, another learned.

Candy corns. Instant association with my sister. They're her favorite candy, and she eats them at the most random times. Everytime I smell one I think of Amanda. When I lived away from home, and missed her, I bought a candy corn scented candle, and lit it when I was lonely.

Dog paws. I know, it's weird. But there's some history here. When I was young I had a German Shepherd named Buddy who slept in my room. When I stopped being such a thrasher he started sleeping on my bed with me. He would lay so that his front paws were on my pillow, and more often than not I would end up rolling over and burrying my face in them as I slept. It's an earthy, musty scent, but not unpleasant, at least to me. So now, at the odd times that I smell a dogs paw (sometimes when I clean the foxtails out of both of my dogs feet I catch the scent) I remember the times when everything was safe because I had a dog that guarded my dreams.

Watermelon. High school softball, without a doubt. In the spring and summer the days would get so hot that eating food was practically impossible during tournaments; it would just make you sick. So we supplemented watermelon for food. It was juicy enough to hydrate us, and had enough sugar to keep us from collapsing. Now what does high school softball remind me of? Freedom, control, concentration, disappointment, perseverance and above everything else, joy.

Source for paragraph on olfaction :http://www.macalester.edu/psychology/whathap/UBNRP/Smell/memory.html

Stimulation and other thoughts

2007-04-02T09:43:00.000-07:00

Mental stimulation. It's something I crave, and don't find on an everyday basis. I find it in books sometimes, occasionally on TV, but I prefer it in the form of a person. I love having conversations with people that make me think, that make me ponder my own views of the world. Discussions that break down my own previous conclusions, or expand upon them. I like to argue as long as it's in a friendly sort of way. I have a few friends now who stimulate me, and perhaps they don't even realize how much I appreciate and enjoy it. But that's okay.

I don't like to feel mentally stagnant. And sometimes I do. I also don't like to feel like I'm retarded, but again sometimes I do. It's not something I feel all the time, or something that I believe to be true, but it's a feeling that needs to be acknowledged, nonetheless.

To a different topic: I'm listening to Harry Potter and The Order of the Phoenix on tape while I'm driving. I've been wanting to reread the books before the new one comes out, but my stack of "to reads" was getting perilously precarious. I decided to keep reading books that haven't been read the first time. But, I had the brilliant idea to get HP on tape, and refresh my memory of the goings on at Hogwarts. I'm glad I did. Sometimes I doubt why I read a children's book with such avid enthusiasm. That is, until I find myself in the rich world that Rowling created again. She's genius.

I wish there were more books on tape. I always have a hard time finding ones of books that I actually desire to read. I bet it would be fun to record one. I enjoy reading books to my family, it's something we do on occasion, and they always tell me that I do an excellent job. It's hard work though, keeping the enthusiasm in your voice!

On to something different:
Art. It's something that I enjoy, but simultaneously avoid. I often don't 'get it'. A painting, a song, a sculpture. I don't see what everyone else sees when they look at them. In this area, I have a hard time thinking critically. I've decided, though, that just because I have a hard time thinking critically, doesn't mean that I should avoid trying. That's pure laziness. So I'm sticking my toes in the proverbial pond. I've found it's not as cold as I once imagined.

Again, a new topic:

My 22nd birthday is coming up in a month and a half. There are some things that I haven't done, that one part of me thinks I should have. I'm starting to wonder if the reason why I tell myself I haven't is just a delusional lie to cover up the truth. Perhaps the truth is that I'm just scared. I'd like to think it's not, but I'm beginning to wonder...

Compulsions

2007-03-08T11:18:00.000-08:00

The muse has been riding me hard these last few weeks, like a jockey too heavy with the whip. All I want to do is write and God as my witness I'm so bloody busy that I can't seem to find the time to do it. Last night, I wanted to finally get what I have written down on paper of my story We We Already Dead onto the computer. But I had to do my taxes (getting money back, weee!) and then I needed to look for hotels to book for my vacation at the end of the month. By the time I was finished my eyes were drooping and I couldn't focus on the page.

It's frustrating. It seems that the more I write the more I want to write. You would think it would be the other way around. But lately I have all these ideas swirling around inside my head, gathering and forming into clouds of inspiration. They spit and hiss bolts of lightning at me, angry because I won't let the clouds break; I don't have the time for the rain to come. I'm holding the rain back, but soon I won't be able to.

Soon there will be a flood.

Simple Beauties

2007-02-28T19:39:00.000-08:00

Sometimes it's the little things in life that matter the most.

~~~

Yesterday I walked out of Subway to go to my car and the sky opened up and rained down on me. There was something magical about being under the clouds as they released those first few drops of rain. Each time a raindrop hit my skin on a spot that was dry it felt like I was feeling for the first time in too long. I stood there, staring at the shadowed clouds above, grinning as the images through my glasses stretched and blurred like reflections in a fun house mirror.

~~~

I was driving home in the rain last night after an evening meal with my mom and step-dad. I stopped at a stop sign on a back road and watched a man as he jogged up the street, head bouncing to the music of his heart, fist pumping the air to the beat of the song that only he could hear. There was beauty in that sight, in the simple, joyous expression of movement.

~~~

I watched a raven kill a dove. He tore out the feathers and ripped him apart with his talons in a raw, unapologetic display of natural selection. Blood-tinged ivory feathers flew into the rain-filled sky to drift, lifeless to the blacktop. The raven grasped the dove in his talons and flew into the sky, only to drop the dove to the ground and watch as the last whispers of life bled out of it. There was something beautiful, something primal in that sight. It made me feel alive.

~~~

What is it about the rain that makes me feel so...real?

The Nature of Friendship

2007-02-19T14:25:00.000-08:00

Friendship, loyalty, relationships. These things have been on my mind a lot as of late. I've never been a person to have many friends. Throughout my life, I've been blessed with a few choice people who understand and like me for who I am. Most of my friends from childhood have moved on. They've married, gone to college, drifted away. I'm okay with that, content. Because I too, have moved on. It's natural I think, especially at the age following high school.

But I don't want to talk about them, those distance dreams of laughter. I want to talk about my friends now, the ones that I go to when I'm down, and the ones whose hands I hold when they stumble.

What is the nature of friendship? Where is the line drawn between friend and casual acquaintance? I surprise myself sometimes, by how quickly I become close with people. Most of the time I'm quiet and reserved. But sometimes I meet someone, both in the flesh and online and I just have this feeling that this is a person I want to share my experiences in life with. This is a person whom I want to laugh with, shout with, enjoy stupid little jokes with.

The other day someone called me 'fiercely loyal'. And it fits. Whenever a person makes that nebulous move from acquaintance to friend... it's like a switch gets turned in my mind, or a light comes on that never burns out. They are my friend, and I will, no matter what, be behind them 100%. If they fall, I'll catch them. If they break, I'll find the pieces and put them back together. If they need an army at their back, I'll summon one, and if they don't answer the call I'll stand alone, defiant, waiting for whatever may come. If they do something dumb, I'll hold their hand and break it to them easy. If that doesn't work I'll break it to them hard and take whatever flack I deserve.

I won't lie to them. I've lied in the past to my friends, when I was dumb and young and quickly learned that I don't have the stomach for it. If people don't think I'm cool as is, then that is their loss. I don't need to fabricate stories around myself in order to fit in, because I'm realizing now that I DO fit in. Maybe not into the mold that I originally thought I wanted to be in, but it's so much better, where I fit in now. So much warmer, and real.

For me, being a friend is a lifetime of shouldering each other beyond whatever hurdles come our way. It's grabbing someone before they step in a puddle, or giving them a towel when they come in from the rain. I recently had a friend go through something rough. A lot of bad blood, a lot of torn feelings and a whole lot of people judging him when they didn't know the situation. It pissed me off so much, and I was so angry on his behalf. I hate it when people judge when they don't know both sides of a story. People shouldn't take stories and tales at face value. But even when I know the full story, I realize he probably overreacted. But that's okay, because goodness knows I overreact about things too. I make mistakes and I hurt people and I say things that I don't mean. So I stood beside him, and I still do. I will watch over him and be there for him, whenever he needs me, and even when he thinks he doesn't. Because that's the nature of friendship.

I know that he would do the same for me, and he deserves nothing less. Some people can't understand that, and it's okay. Some people don't understand how I couldn't care less about the other person in the situation. I can only be friends with so many people, and I WON'T care about a person who needlessly tosses people's emotions to the gutter. Someone else will care for her, and she probably deserves that too, but I don't care about her.

I am blessed, because I've found friends who understand and share a similar mindset as me. I have friends who don't mind that I'm catty, and occasionally narrow-minded. And I have friends who will tell me when I'm being an ass, and love me for it nonetheless.

The Intricacies of Writing

2007-02-14T13:32:00.000-08:00

I've neglected my blog. I'm sorry. *pats blog on the head* The last week was uneventful. I was in a cheerful mood, but lazy as well. And apparently I caught a bit of a bug that's been going around. It's called the writer's block. Yes, it's sad but true. It hit me like a run away train, leaving no words behind. Currently, I'm working on a story about a group of old high school friends that reunite after ten years and go on a hiking trip. The story will take place of a period of eight days. I have the prologue, day 1 and day 2 written. I know pretty much exactly what happens on day 4, day 5, day 6 and day 7. But day 3 stumped me.

It's a day for exposition, building the eventual climax. But try as I might I couldn't type a word. Plot points and character development whirled through my head- to no avail. None of it found it's way to my battered notebook. Absolutely nothing. Finally I broke down and asked for some help. I don't think I'm going to use any of the actual ideas that were suggested, but I do know that the suggestions helped spur me into action. Two pages, written long hand today. And hopefully, more to come later today and in the evening.

I didn't realize that the writer's block was blocking me here. But I think it was. I think my brain was saying, "Hey, if you can't be creative you certainly won't be allowed to write in a journal." Stupid brain. So I've written. Take that brain.

Playing Tag

2007-02-06T14:50:00.000-08:00

I've been tagged by ShadowDog, on his blog MP extras.

THE RULES: Each player of this game starts with “6 weird things about you.” People who get tagged need to write a blog of their own 6 weird things as well as state this rule clearly. In the end, you need to choose 6 people to be tagged and list their names. Don’t forget to leave a comment that says “you are tagged” in their comments and tell them to read your blog.

I'm having a hard time coming up with people to tag. Everyone I would have tagged is on SD's list... so I may have to break the rules.

Well, here goes nothing:

1. I really like pirates. It's kind of dorky, kind of sad. I say things like, "Argh!", and "Yar!" and even, "Shiver me timbers!" all the time. I have a jolly roger tattoo. My favorite movie is Goonies. I really want to get another tattoo of a pirate ship! I have a dorky pirate hat hanging off a lamp beside my bed. My brother-in-law painted me a picture of a pirate ship once, and I went and got it custom framed. Sadly, it's in storage right now, but it's still one of my favorite pieces of art. He's very talented, but sadly, he doesn't see it.

2. I have an obsessive personality. When I was a kid, my first obsession was a series of books called Animorphs by KA Applegate. I knew EVERYTHING about that series, the worlds, the characters. Then, it was a TV police drama, High Incident. A whole new level of obsession; I counted down the hours until the show was on, and threw fits if I had a softball game at the same time High Incident aired. That got canceled, and I was depressed. Then, I moved onto baseball. The Oakland Athletics, specifically. From the age of around 13 to 17, I searched and found every statistic on the current A's players that I could. I was a veritable fount of baseball knowledge, I even kept my own scorecards when I watched the games, from both home and the stadium. Now, I've learned how to curb these obsessions in my adult lifestyle. I spread them out. My current obsessions include: reading, a message board called nightly.net, writing, and with more and more enthusiasm as of late, photography.

3. I have feet issues. I don't hate feet, at least not with the passion that some people do, but I have odd little quirks about them. I don't like it when other people touch me with their feet. It gives me the creeps and my sister does it to me whenever she can just to get a shudder out of me. I also don't like my feet to be touched unexpectedly. I don't mind if I'm getting a pedicure, or if someone asks to rub my feet, but if someone just grabs my toes or feet without warning they get an automatic kick in response.

4. I'm addicted to chapstick. And a particular one at that. Burt's Bee's Beeswax Lip Balm is my savior. I have about four or five tubes at any given time. One gets transferred into my current pair of pants, left pocket always (They go through the wash cycle A LOT). Another in my purse, and usually two in my glove box of my car. Right now I'm down to one, but I'm sure I'll find another one lying around soon. I use it like ten million times a day, and if I don't my lips get chapped so quickly. I love the taste and the tingly sensation that it creates on my lips when I first put it on.

5. I live in a garage. That's right, you heard me. And no it isn't a garage refurbished into an apartment. It's a garage, with no insulation. It's really not that bad though. I have a heated blanket to keep me warm at night. We call it the dungeon, and my sister's cat, Grendel (named after the monster in Beowulf, oh so fitting), guard the garage like a dragon from all the other cats. Sometimes she sits by the cat door, just out of sight, and when one of the cats passes by the door she'll burst through the cat door and attack them. Despite this ferocity, she's the biggest scaredy cat in the world when she's outside the realm of the dungeon. Scared of her own shadow.

6. I talk to my cat, Eve, like she's human. She's the only kitty we have (we have six, two are mine) that is indoor/outdoor. I worry about her constantly, even though she rarely ventures away from the back or front yard. Each day when I come home I let her into the house, pick her up and rest her over my shoulder, and talk to her about my day and ask her about hers. I never noticed that it was odd until my brother-in-law started parodying it.

So. That's done. :)

On to the most fabulous news ever! I got a call last Friday from a most-unexpected person. A few months ago I interviewed for this really high paying job that I'm sort of qualified for, but will need quite a bit of training on. I got into the second interview, passed it, but was placed on the hiring list as number 5. They only hired the first two people on the list. I was heartbroken, because I really really wanted the job. But I got over it, and truthfully, hadn't thought about it for almost a month.

Well. They want to hire me! I'm going through the extensive background check as you read this people. I'm going to be making big money, and here in the bay area, there isn't really anything out there more exciting than that. If the background check goes well (as long as no one mentions the incident involving three midgets, a penguin, and a jar of Crisco) then I should be starting work around the end of April, beginning of May.

Finally, financial responsibility, and the chance to really live like an adult. I'm so excited that I've been in an awesome mood for the last five days. I celebrated by going to Borders and buying myself two books that I've been wanting. They are called The Voice of the Gods by Trudi Canavan and Fortune and Glory by Bryan Michael Bendis.

I hope you guys are feeling as cheerful as I am, and if you aren't, remember: everyone has their moment in the sun.

Randomness

2007-02-02T10:46:00.000-08:00

There are some words that just make my ears want to curl up and die. If I hear them, and when I use them I feel like I should spit to get that awful taste out of my mouth. I wasn't going to write about this at all today, but for some reason my fingers started dancing across the keyboard and led me in this direction. So here is the definitive list of words that disgust, annoy and generally should be ripped from every dictionary world-wide:

Boyfriend- Ugh. Whenever I want to talk about a guy I'm dating I cringe at the prospect of calling him this. It's so... high school. I'm not in bloody high school anymore! But the alternatives are worse: Lover- entirely too romance novel-esque, and besides, what if we aren't lovers yet? Significant other- sounds like something an android would call its friend. Boy toy- rude and degrading. Fuck buddy- callous and impersonal. So I'm stuck with boyfriend. *spits*

Moist- Sorry ShadowDog. This one isn't quite as high on the hatred scale as the above-mentioned word, but it annoys me at odd moments. There's something innately dirty about the word, and I always feel a little unclean when I use it. I think, honestly, it's because of the tv show Dead Like Me, because the mom on the show used to always cringe when she heard the word. I seem to take after her.

Reprehensible- I despise this word. I think people who use this word should have their noses chopped off. Every time I hear this word come out of someone's mouth it's always some hoity toity person who uses botox every other week to try and erase their perpetual frown lines.

Panties- I don't hate the word so much as the context in which it's used. Panties are fine and dandy if you're a child. I just can't stand it when grown adults use the word to describe their own under garments. It's so childlike and... weird. Though, I admit, it's very funny to watch my brother-in-laws face when his two children call his boxers 'panties'.

Okay. I think I'm done with that now. I've been on a real reading kick, these past few days. All I want to do is read, read, read. Right now, my current book is Dark Rendevous. It's a Star Wars Exanded Universe book, and it's very well written and entertaining. The last SW EU book I read didn't hold my attention, I had to force myself through it. So I was a little reluctant to pick up this one, but it was a Christmas gift from someone special whose opinion I trust. Sometimes I wish that I could just quit my job and read and write my whole life away. There's really nothing that would bring me more joy, I don't think.

Speaking of books and such, I'm going to apply for a part-time job at Bay Books, a local independent book store. I need the extra money so I can move out of my sisters house into my own place (or at least a rented room). And I think I need the distraction too. My current jobs only perks include health insurance and 8 hours of access to the internet. The pay is alright, but my goodness, is the job boring. The happiest I ever was at a job was when I worked at Borders, and I think it's because I love bringing books to people. Helping people find new and interesting authors makes me more happy than should be allowed. If I get the new job, I won't have as much free time. But I'll be around books, and I'll be making extra money. So I think that balances out the small loss of freedoms.

Sorry this is so scattered, I treated it more like a journal entry than a message to the masses. Not that many people read my blog anyways ;)

My Canvas

2007-01-30T21:24:00.000-08:00

My nieces hiking up a hill. The very beginning of our hike.

My brother in law holding my youngest niece. I was doing a photo essay for the theme "protection".

This tree was awesome. It had so many different shades of green on it. I couldn't help but snap a few photos.

Bouncing Back

2007-01-30T14:58:00.000-08:00

I'm better. Much better, in fact. I was sad for a few days, borderline weepy but I decided that I wanted to feel better. Lucky for me, I have amazing friends. So here's a shout out to two who helped me when I was down. Thank you Leo, for understanding and thank you Dexter, for always being there. I also want to thank my sister, who, though she didn't know what was going on, helped me nonetheless.

You know how they say feed a fever and you'll get better? Well, I didn't have a fever. I wasn't sick at all, except maybe an illness of the heart. So I decided, what the heck, I'll feed myself with things that give me joy. Saturday rolled around and my sister and I went to get a pedicure. I love getting pedicures because I HATE painting my own toe nails. I'm entirely too clumsy. I chose copper nail polish, and anyone from Nightly who's reading this will understand the slightly absurd significance. As an aside, do you ever wonder what those asian ladies are laughing about when they paint your toe nails? I think they're talking about their customers because they always look up and laugh even harder when they see us staring at them with curious expressions. I know I would talk about my customers if I spoke a language I was pretty sure they didn't know.

Anywho, back on track. After that, we went to Gay Nineties, a horribly named pizza parlor. But their fabulous pizza makes up for the awful name. We had a spinach salad and a small pizza with artichoke hearts, mushrooms and olives. Mmm. Then, we rounded out the day by going to Borders Books and Bay Books.

Here's a little info about my sister. We shop a lot together, and usually spend about the same amount of money. But somehow, she always manages to walk out of the store with WAY more product than I do. I'm just an expensive shopper. I see a hardback book, and if I want it, I buy it. I consider books to be one of my staples. They fall somewhere in between food and clothing on my list of necessary expenses. So Saturday, I bought 70 bucks worth of books (25 of which was a gift, so really it doesn't count) and walked away with 6 books, and she spent the same amount, but walked away with 10 books. It's frustrating and amusing all at once. I bought these books for myself (the others were gifts):

Hell to Pay by Simon R. Green
Scar Night by Alan Campbell
The Lust Lizard of Melancholy Cove by Christopher Moore (almost done, it's fab.)

The next day, Sunday, I went for a hike again. I took tons of photos and I think I'll post some of the pictures when I get home. It was peaceful and relaxing. A well-spent day.

So, I've healed. I'm not going to say that I'm not disappointed, because I am. But the salve of friendship and family, and a long bout of crying did me wonders. A good friend of mine told me that I should learn how to build more "emotional barriers". He's worried about me, and it's sweet. But I think I've come to realize that if I do that, I won't feel anything. And as ShadowDog said, that's not really a way to live at all.

Hollow.

2007-01-26T10:45:00.000-08:00

Something happened last night that took me by surprise. I had expectations for how an event would take place, and they didn't come true. In fact, the complete opposite happened. I'm not going into the details because that's not really what I want to talk about. What I want to talk about is how I feel. Sounds mushy, right? It gets worse. I was, and still am, so incredibly shocked by how devastated I felt.

I cried myself to sleep. I haven't done that in years. I haven't cried at all in months. I shocked myself with this sudden influx of emotion. I'm usually so calm, I don't get excited or angry very easily. Cool as a cucumber, they say. But this outpouring of pain and disappointment was so raw and messy. I cried until I felt numb, and the images and broken dreams that I wove in my ridiculous mind finally left me alone. I stared at the ceiling and wondered at the hollow feeling in my chest.

I don't remember falling asleep. I always remember falling asleep. All I remember is waking up hours before dawn with that hollow feeling still there. My eyes are still sad, even now. They want to cry but I won't let them at work.

Life shouldn't be this all or nothing train that I seem to be on. Where's the middle ground? Am I just not meant for it? Do I have to choose between emotion and detachment?

What the fuck?

2007-01-23T15:33:00.000-08:00

I'm a receptionist. Apparently that means that I'm the person everyone in my company can bitch at. I've worked so hard at my antisocial, non-involvement persona here that every one thinks I'm fucking Switzerland which means they can have a free-for-all bitch fest and aim it at me. An example: Today, Kevin, this guy who tried to "befriend" the poor lonely receptionist (so he thinks, geez) comes up to me, points at the Greg's office (which is right behind my desk) and gives me this "what the hell?" look.

Of course I look. I see that he's getting a new computer monitor and rearranging his desk. Smart idea considering he used to have to move the keyboard aside to have space to write. I'm about to say this, begrudgingly because I personally think Greg's an idiot, but Kevin isn't interested in what I have to say. He leans over the counter surrounding my desk, invading my personal bubble. I have a mini-fantasy of taking my pen and stabbing him in the eye, but I restrain myself. He says in this hushed voice that's just as loud as his regular voice but more obvious for its change in tone, "What, Greg doesn't have to work around here anymore?" Obviously this is a rhetorical question; Kevin is too stupid to realize it. I give him my blank stare, the one that says, "I honestly don't give a fuck, but I'm pretending to care," and that was sufficient enough of an answer for him, I guess.

I could care less if Greg did naked handstands in his office all day as long as the door was shut and he answered his cell phone when the brain-numbing jingle starts.

Oh! Another work pet-peeve. This guy Steve always comes up to my desk and reaches over my shoulder to get my stapler. He has his own damn stapler! Why the fuck does he have to use mine? I hate having my personal space invaded. It makes me want to staple his freaking hand.

On another work-related note, I had my three month review, five months after I started working here. I got twos which are good, and a big fat one in initiative. I loled at that. Initiative to what? Answer the phone? Seek out more bullshit busy work? It took all my previous military training to not roll my eyes. Also, I got a three in "harmony". I didn't even know what the category was for. My boss told me that it seems like I "get along well" with everyone in the office and that I don't have an attitude. How little she knows. There's such a big difference between not having an attitude and not letting it show.

Apparently, my mask is successful.

I Will Not Take These Thing For Granted

2007-01-22T14:07:00.000-08:00

I used to be in the military. It was an experience that I am grateful for, but not necessarily something that I look back on fondly. There was a bit too much pain and loneliness for me to to summon anything other than a bitter smile. I'm a person who likes lists. So this is my list of things that I will never take for granted again.

The freedom of a dead cell phone battery. I lived in fear of my cell phone dying when I was in the Coast Guard. I saw so many people get their asses chewed for not answering their phone when the Station called.

Two days off in a row. Two, uninterrupted days that are absolutely work free. No threat of being called at any moment because someone needs help cleaning a boat.

Two words: I quit. Having the freedom, the power to say those two little words that seem so small but hold so much possibility.

Crazy roadtrips to anywhere. If I get a wild hair and want to drive to Arizona, I can leave whenever I want and go for as long as I want. I don't have to get it approved by anyone.

The satisfaction in knowing that my work is what counts; not what I do in my free time. You wouldn't believe how many times I was told, "Well, you're a great worker, but we really don't want you to hang out with so and so during your liberty. We're not telling you what to do, but just know that most people don't approve of that character." I will hang out with whoever the fuck I want to, and my boss has NO say, whatsoever, in who that is.

Eating a giant slice of cake. While in the Coast Guard, I had weight issues. I was always hovering near my weight limit. It didn't matter to my command that I always passed the physical fitness tests, scoring better than most of the super-skinny chicks, what mattered was the little number they put in the box. Every time I had a slice of fun cake I felt guilty, and worse people would note it. I will never be guilty again for eating a piece of cake.

Now, I'm not saying that I hated my time. I really enjoyed the ACTUAL work that I did on the boats, and out on the water. I have somewhat of a love affair with the ocean. It will always call to me, like a siren in the night...

Where dreams take me

2007-01-17T13:56:00.000-08:00

Lately, I've thought a lot about traveling. I'm not sure why. I haven't done any extensive traveling in the past. I've been to Washington DC twice, lived in New Jersey for two harrowing months and visited my neighboring states a handful of times. But last night I dreamt that I traveled, and traveled well. Money wasn't a problem and time was all mine. As far as dreams go, it was a stunner. So I'm sharing. This is where I went last night in the vast landscape of my imagination.

New Zealand

I'm not even sure if I knew where Wales was until the Lord of the Rings movies were made. But ever since then I've been fascinated by the beautiful, harsh, and picturesque landscapes that are so commonplace there. It was there that I walked for miles from hill to mountain and there that I stopped into a pub to have a bite to eat.

Wales

When I was a child I read a series of fantasy books called The Dark is Rising by Susan Cooper. Ever since those five mind-altering books I've been quietly pining for the land that is Wales. Somehow, I imagine the land to be equal parts gentle and harsh like a strict but loving mother. And so lush with people who have an intoxicating soft accent.

Florence, Italy

When I drifted to Florence I had my fix of people and culture. Florence is an expensive consort. You can't stop wanting it because it tastes so rich and is filled to the brim with experience. Maybe that's a bad analogy but I don't care. It fits for me. I want to wander down the streets and get my portrait painted. I want to eat expensive food and espresso. I want to wander through the museums and feel small in comparison to such greatness.

Newgrange, Ireland

It's an ancient tomb in Ireland. I wonder why I went there last. It must be because my subconscious knew that I desire to go here more than anywhere on earth. Newgrange is most well known for its passages and chambers that light up with winter solstice sun. Ireland is the land that has always called to me most. There's something magical about it, something mythical that refuses to die even today. The emerald fields and the soft Ireland rain will always beckon. So it was that this wonderful dream ended with the clean cool grass of Ireland beneath my feet.

Verse

2007-01-16T10:01:00.000-08:00

The stars seem lower as the solstice draws near. Wind whips colder, shredding tender skin. The pixies, they dance with their arms raised high, naked and feral and so much more alive. In the branches baren, in a tree long dead, on a morning hill they dance for the earth, for the blood, for the thrill. The wind, how it whistles, as it streams through their hair but the cold and the chill can not touch then when they are there.
~~~
Do you think about the fae? Do you wonder if it they are real? I wonder, so often. Do they wonder where the gifts have gone? Do they cry because they are forgotten? Where is the honey left on porches? Where are the ribbons wrapped round the doornobs? Where are the offerings of blood?

Do they ask those questions? Are they real?

Eve

2007-01-15T13:24:00.000-08:00

She slumbers, softly smiling.

An Odd Hobby

2007-01-15T09:59:00.000-08:00

One of my favorite things to do is name things. It's strange, I know. Most people don't think about giving things names as often as I do. But when you step back and ponder it, you come to the conclusion that we don't really get to name very many things in this life. If you have children, you get to name them. If you have pets, you give them names. But really, what does that amount to? In a life time, you may only name 10 things.

I enjoy writing. I love creating worlds and people and events; it's something that brings both peace and excitement to my existence. When a character awakens in me, they always feel like a nebulous, fluttering thing that could be snuffed out with a passing wind until I find their name. Then they are real. Sometimes they seem so real to me that I consider them my friends. Does that make me crazy? Perhaps. But it's a crazy I can live with.

I have two cats, one is a gray cat. She's always a little too skinny, no matter how much she eats and she has a bit of a mean streak in her. When I got her I wanted to name her after a character in one of the books that I read. As I held her tiny little kitten body to my chest I knew. She would be Eve, named after Eve Dallas, the heroine of JD Robb's series. How did I know? She was brave and fierce, but something about her was soft. You didn't notice it at first, but it was there.

My other cat I've had for a little bit longer. She is called Mrs. Weasely, after my favorite witch in the Harry Potter books. She's a redheaded cat, much like the character. I named her that because, though she often seems so sweet and loving, she's actually very protective and has strong mothering instincts. I rescued her from the pound, and I think she may have had kittens once.

Last of my pets is my parakeet. His name is Glen. It may not seem very inspired, but it is. I named him after my favorite singer, Glen Phillips. My little birdie has the prettiest song I've heard from a bird, and he likes to mimic songs. He picked up one of Glen's songs so quickly after I got him that I knew I would have to call him Glen.

Now, most of the names I've described are pretty normal. Everyone names their pets, right? I named my car Mr. Feeney. I named my laptop computer Wallace. The list goes on. So if anyone is reading this, I challenge you: Name something today. And don't just name it and forget it. Name something and call it by its name from now on. How does it feel? Am I just weird? Maybe. But I kinda like this weird.

The Wilderness

2007-01-14T17:23:00.000-08:00

I went out today. We had an open house so I had to leave, even if I didn't want to. But I decided that I was going to have a good day. So I went to my Mom's house and persuaded her to come with me. We loaded her German Shepherd, Billy, into the back on my tiny car and headed to my favorite hiking trails. The day was so cold that I wished I wore long johns, and my Mom used every opportunity to complain. Despite that, we enjoyed ourselves. I brought my digital camera and took photos throughout the hike. The stream beds that, by this time of year, should be filled with rushing water were dry. We haven't had enough rain this year. I worry and wonder about this strange weather the US has been having as of late. I keep hearing hushed whispers of "global warming, global warming" on the wind.

I should learn more about it.

Afterward, we went to Bay Books, a small used book store in San Ramon. I got two books, Mom got one. I like to support local bookstores. I probably support them TOO much. I have about 30 books on my shelf that I haven't read yet, but boy am I looking forward to them!

Beginnings.

2007-01-13T19:53:00.000-08:00

A dear friend of mine urged me to share my mind with the people. He is wise, and trusted. So I listened. This, I suppose, is the time for introductions. I am April. I live a quiet life, often viewed as boring by those who don't really know me. Sometimes, when the days are long, I even think it is boring. But it isn't. I am lucky enough to have warm friends and a complicated family. I love my animals, and perhaps I will share them later. I enjoy writing, though sporadically. I read because it is necessary for my survival like breathing, or water. It is a joy but also an obligation.