“ . . . Like it’s dangerous to cry while driving or to talk to strangers or to stare at the sun and a thousand other things” ~ Cole Swensen, from “Five Landscapes”

Bonaventure Cemetery, Savannah, Georgia, by abbey*christine (FCC)

                   

“One

Green moves through the tops of trees and grows
lighter greens as it recedes, each of which includes a grey, and among the
greys, or beyond them, waning finely into white, there is one white spot,
absolute; it could be an egret or perhaps a crane at the edge of the water
where it meets a strip of sand.” ~ Cole Swensen, “Five Landscapes”

Thursday afternoon. Blue skies. Temperatures have dropped into low to mid 60’s, much more seasonal.

Live Oaks at Emerson Point Preserve, Palmetto, Florida, by Diorama Sky (FCC)

Today it is absolutely beautiful outside. I had thought last night that I might try to walk a bit when I got up, but alas, I had a dreadful night with intermittent sleep and lots of pain. Maybe tomorrow.

My voice is going in and out today, probably as a result of my sinuses, or maybe my annual fall cold is on its way. Corey got home around 7 this morning after going in at 3 yesterday afternoon. He had lost his shift on Monday, so this double shift made up for it, which means that he will actually be getting a decent paycheck for this week. Who knows what next week will bring.

I put on my rubber gloves today before I started the dishes, and apparently the gloves were wet on the inside as the nail polish that I was trying to protect stuck to the gloves and peeled off at least three of my fingers. I know that I haven’t mentioned my latest nervous tic: peeling off my nail polish. I suppose it’s better than chewing on my fingers, but it’s frustrating nonetheless as I spend my evenings trying to make my nails look nice, only to peel off the polish the next day.

Seems like more of that spitting into the wind—totally useless with no ground gained.

“Two    

There is a single, almost dazzling white spot of a white house out loud
against the fields, and the forest in lines
receding, rises,
and then planes. Color,
in pieces or entire; its presence
veneers over want; in all its moving parts, it could be something else
half-hidden by trees. Conservatory, gloriette, gazebo, or bandshell,
a door ajar on the top floor.” ~ Cole Swensen, “Five Landscapes”

I came across this poem by Cole Swensen, which I think is pretty cool, but when I turned the sections into headers, the line spacing got funky, so if you are familiar with the poem and are wondering if I took it upon myself to change the spacing, I didn’t. I know that I can use the pre code to make things appear exactly as the original, but in Word Press, that doesn’t always result in the best looking copy.

Colonial Park, Savannah, Georgia, by canopic (FCC)

I have forgotten most of what I learned in that absolutely awful computer infrastructure class, but I do remember bits and pieces of HTML, which I suppose means that it wasn’t a total loss, although I was really insulted by my final grade. Whatever . . . I’ll get over it.

The other night Eamonn came home and declared that he was going to buy a pair of goldfish as his room was lonely. Now this would not be problematic except that he assumed that he could have my fish bowl, which was an erroneous assumption as I have been saving that bowl for the time when I  am finally able to get a red fancy-tailed Beta, something I have wanted for years.

It’s not an extravagant want; in fact, I would say that it’s downright reasonable, and I have been asking for a red fancy-tailed Beta for every occasion: Mother’s Day, Christmas, whatever, but no one seems to have taken me seriously, not until I had the mild tantrum over the fish bowl.

Why do I mention this? Because of the mild tantrum, which is what made me realize that I had forgotten to take my Cymbalta that day. In all fairness to everyone else, on days on which I forget this very important medication, I am, well, prickly, to say the least.

“Three

The trees are half air. They fissure the sky; you could count the leaves, pare
time
defined as that which,
no matter how barely, exceeds
what the eye could grasp in a glance;
intricate woods opening out before a body of water edged
with a swatch of meadow where someone has hung a bright white sheet
out in the sun to dry.” ~ Cole Swensen, “Five Landscapes”

Speaking of prickly . . . I am on day four of this week’s headache. I still have not heard from the nurse at the neurologist’s office, even though I contacted the place that was supposed to be shipping my Botox for my migraines. I don’t know what I’ve done to piss of this nurse, but it must have been something really big because she is really stretching out this entire process.

Wakulla Springs State Park, Florida, by catchesthelight (FCC)

I just want to call the office and say, “PLEASE GIVE ME MY BOTOX SO MY MIGRAINES WILL GO AWAY!” but I know that such an action would not have the effect that I’m hoping to achieve, so I’m just sitting here, writing with my eyes squinting again.

Yesterday, I made the mistake of mentioning to my mother that I want to find a different neurologist, and you would have thought that I had said that I was running away to become a Sherpa on Mt. Everest. “No, you can’t do that. What will they say? What will they think?” My mother is big on the school of what will they (whoever they is) think. Her continual references to this ubiquitous they when I was a teenager used to drive me crazy until I finally broke and said, “Who is THEY? Exactly where do THEY live? What do THEY look like?

She wasn’t too happy. But THEY have existed all of my life. One day I will meet THEM, and THEY will probably have three heads and look like a Dr. Who Monster, which, frankly, I would find very comforting as it would confirm my suspicions.

“Four

A white bird in a green forest is a danger to itself. Stands out. Shines. Builds
up inside. Like it’s dangerous to cry while driving or to talk to strangers or to
stare at the sun and a thousand other things
we’ve always heard
people who wear white see better at night, though they gradually lose this
trait as they age.” ~ Cole Swensen, “Five Landscapes”

So today’s image theme is Spanish moss and state parks and historic landmarks. I love Spanish moss, love the way it drapes and cloaks and creates an air of mystery about anything on which it hangs, and it grows like wild at False Cape (which used to be Seashore State Park back when I used to skip school and go walking there). Unfortunately, the stuff is riddled with critters, mostly chiggers, or berry bugs, red bugs, or Trombiculidae for the purists. For those of you who are unfamiliar with these things, they are a type of mite prevalent in the South.

Wormsloe Historic Site, Savannah, Georgia, by Jeff Gunn (FCC)

After these little buggers crawl onto their host (including humans, they form a microscopic hole in the skin and chew up parts of the inner skin. The result is severe itching and red bumps or hives, sometimes a skin rash. Why do I know this? Because I used to skip school and hike through Seashore State Park.

Actually, a former neighbor brought home a big pile of Spanish moss and put it in his glass coffee table. Result? Infestation.

I read somewhere that Henry Ford used Spanish moss as the cushioning for his automobile seats until it was revealed that the stuff harbored chiggers. Result? The first Ford recall. I wonder if that’s an urban myth or truth . . .

Thank you Ms. Science for today’s lesson.

“Five

The air across the valley is slightly hazy though thinning though patches
remain between the groves of trees that edge a clearing in which stands a
single house. A child in a white t-shirt has just walked out of the house and
is turning to walk down to the lake.” ~ Cole Swensen, “Five Landscapes” from Goest

Okay. I’m not saying that my skipping school was a good thing, but high school was so tedious and boring, and I was able to skip 17 days of French and still get an A without breaking a sweat. Those were different times, though, and if I  had been able to go to a school that specialized in college prep or something like that, I’m sure that I would have been more interested.

Or maybe not.

Oak and Moss, Tallahassee, Florida, by ColetteSimonds (FCC)

Thankfully, the days when skipping was easy have long since passed, and now parents get telephone calls when their children don’t show up at school, which is how I kept track of Alexis and Eamonn. Brett was never a concern as far as skipping school. Some of that old-fashioned do as I say and not as I do in action.

Last night I had one of those really intense dreams in which huge chunks of my life were blended into one time sequence. My boss from the steakhouse in which I worked as a teen was the manager of Dillard’s, and while I was working full-time at Dillard’s, I was also teaching a full load at ODU, only it was the first day of classes, and I hadn’t prepared my lessons, and Mari was there, and she wanted to use some of my colored sheet protectors, and I decided that my office with the window (which was the office I had in northern Virginia) was better than another office that had a better refrigerator . . . Get all that?

And you wonder why I wake up tired and in pain. I mean, I live lifetimes in hours. So I awoke around four and texted Corey to see when he’d be home, and he said that the ship was scheduled to depart at 6 a.m. So being the kind person that I am, I went ahead and proofed his paper that was due today. I don’t know if I was being noisy, but at some point, Brett looked in and asked me what I was doing. I told him homework. He went back to bed.

The dogs were really confused. I finished and collapsed back into bed, and all was right with the world again.

More later. Peace.

Music from The Wellspring, “The Ballad of El Goodo”

                   

Final Autumn

Maple leaves turn black in the courtyard.

Light drives lower and one bluejay crams

our cold memories out past the sun,

each time your traces come past the shadows

and visit under my looking-glass fingers

that lift and block out the sun.

Come—I’ll trace you one final autumn,

and you can trace your last homecoming

into the snow or the sun.

~ Annie Finch, from Calendars

“I never know when I sit down, just what I am going to write. I make no plan; it just comes, and I don’t know where it comes from.” ~ D. H. Lawrence

“Double Image,” August Strindberg (1892, oil on canvas) 

 

“The paper I write on or you write on, every word we write, every cross and twirl of the pen, and the curious way we write what we think, yet very faintly . . . In them realities for you and me—in them poems for you and me . . . In them themes, hints, provokers.”  ~ Walt Whitman

"Wonderland" (1894, oil on canvas)

Rarely do I know what I am going to write when I sit down at this keyboard. I may have an idea generated from a dream or something that I have read in the news, but most of the time it’s more a matter of touching the keys and letting the words come out. No great creative genius is involved. Rather, it is more a matter of need: I need to write, to release, to ponder, to construe, to evoke. I need to do this as naturally as I need to breathe. 

That is my reality, and truthfully, it has always been this way. I have been writing about things since I was very young, before I even knew how to string letters together to form words. I would put pencil to whatever scraps of paper I could find in the house, and I would write. Of course what I wrote made no sense to anyone but me, but I knew what I was saying. And I had such a need to share my thoughts that I would take these scraps of paper and slip them under the doors of my parents’ neighbors in the large apartment house in which we resided in London. 

Some of the people knew that these notes were from me, but others were confused by the nonsensical missives that appeared under their doors with no regular schedule. The doorman in our building knew what I was doing, so he ever so kindly explained to the confused tenants that it was the little girl in apartment 13 who had been writing to them. 

Then when I went to school and learned how to form words, I wrote more. I wrote poems, letters, stories. But my dream at that time was not to become a writer. I wanted to be a hairdresser . . . 

“O, how incomprehensible everything was, and actually sad, although it was also beautiful. One knew nothing. And sometimes it seemed that something never seen yet long desired was about to happen, that a veil would drop from it all; but then it passed, nothing happened, the riddle remained unsolved, the secret spell unbroken, and in the end one grew old and looked cunning . . . or wise . . . And still one knew nothing, perhaps, was still waiting and listening.” ~ Hermann Hesse, “Narcissus and Goldmund”

"Baby's First Cradle" (1901, oil on canvas)

In many ways, this blog is like those indecipherable scraps of paper: I know what I’m trying to say, but not everyone who reads my words can discern my meaning. That’s okay, though. The beauty of blogs is that readers can just close the window if they do not find the post interesting, or appealing, or if the subject matter is not something that coincides with their personal beliefs. 

I’m not trying to please anyone but myself. In the beginning of this blogging stuff, I was more self-censoring, not wanting to offend anyone who happened to be reading. I wrote in more general terms, putting less of myself into my posts. Over the months, though, that changed, as I had thought that it might. My persona began to creep into my posts more and more. My life, my family, all of it, became fodder. So much so that now my posts are a virtual doorway into my life. 

Is this a good thing? Perhaps not. Will I change it? Probably not. Do I regret this progression? A bit. 

“The swarm of words,
and little stories
are just to loosen you
from where you are stuck.” ~ Shitou Xiqian

"The Wave VII" (1901, oil on canvas)

When I first heard about blogs—personal online journals that are available to anyone and everyone—I must admit to being personally appalled. What kind of person puts his or her life online for the world to see? It just didn’t seem right to me, someone who had always hidden my journals from other people, seeing them as both highly personal and private. 

Then a few years later I decided to create a MySpace page. I played a bit with the internal blog aspect of the page, which made me realize that the whole social networking thing was really just a collective blog—people visiting each other’s sites, sharing opinions, leaving notes, posting pictures. Then I was given the assignment to create a web page for one of my publishing classes. The site could be about anything; there were no parameters. 

I decided to create a site on which people could create a community poem. I called it The Poem Makers. In concept, it was a pretty creative idea (or so I thought): I would write the first line of the poem, and then anyone who visited could add a line and/or comment on the poem in progress. As part of the site, I wanted to include a blog page on which participants could post ongoing commentary about the project, poetry, whatever. My search for a blog page led me to WordPress. 

Essentially the project was disastrous, mostly because I didn’t know enough HTML to create an interactive site, that and the fact that I knew relatively little about promoting a site.  I eventually abandoned the website, but I took that experience and decided to keep going with the blog. My first post was in February 2008, which means that I’ve been doing this for over two years. 

“Within all of us is a varying amount of space lint and star dust, the residue from our creation. Most are too busy to notice it, and it is stronger in some than others. It is strongest in those of us who fly and is responsible for an unconscious, subtle desire to slip into some wings and try for the elusive boundaries of our origin.” ~ K. O. Eckland, Footprints on Clouds

"Coastal Landscape" (1901, oil on canvas)

In that time I have gone from basic posts about nothing at all to posts that include images and music and cover a range of topics. I like how I have progressed. I know so much more now than I did when I began; in particular, I realize that bloggers tend to congregate in communities and that if you want other people to read and comment on your blog, then you need to read and comment on other people’s blogs—regularly. 

I have also noticed a change in my writing style: Whereas when I was writing for publication, I was much more sparse with my words, never using five words when three will do, always choosing the simpler word over the multisyllabic one. Now that I’m writing without an editor, I tend to be more verbose. I do edit myself, but anyone who writes knows the limitations of such a thing. I do go on and on, and it’s an indulgence that gives me pleasure. I also take more liberties with punctuation than before. Always a stickler for grammar, I am merciless with a red pen when it comes to editing or grading someone else’s work. Too bad I cannot admit to being as rigorous with my own. 

Oh well . . . 

“The process of writing has something infinite about it.  Even though it is interrupted each night, it is one single notation.” ~ Elias Canetti

"Aleja" (1903, oil on canvas)

I remember how excited I was when the number of hits that I had received went past 200. It was a time for great rejoicing. I am now well past 300,000 hits, but I still love to see who is visiting, what they are reading, how they got here. I don’t know that I’ll ever tire of paying attention to my statistics as they serve as my validation, for now. 

I suppose all of this boils down to a few simple facts: I have come to love the freedom of blogging. I sometimes resent feeling as if I have to post until I realize that no one is making me do so. I no longer feel as if blogs are an obscene violation of privacy spurred on by the blogger’s own need for exposure. I take pleasure in reading blogs that are written well, or are visually appealing, or are in line with my own sensitivities. 

For now, this whole thing is an open-ended experiment. Who knows where it will take me, but I’m going to enjoy the ride while I can. 

More later. Peace. 

All images are by Swedish novelist and playwright August Strindberg, who turned to painting during times of crisis in which he felt unable to write. 

Music from Bare Naked Ladies, “Call and Answer”

 

  

If it’s Friday, it must mean leftovers . . .

 

Video of  Avalanche Creek in Montana’s Glacier National Park by Janson Jones

“Start a huge, foolish project, like Noah…it makes absolutely no difference what people think of you.” ~ Rumi 

Well, one of the only good things about being bi-polar is that sufferers of this condition have manic bouts in which they become very hyper and have a lot of energy. Granted, I don’t have these bouts of mania the way that I used to, mostly because of my medication, but since I’m not taking my medication as I am supposed to, I am now having these spurts of energy. Did you follow all of that?

Anyway, yesterday I don’t know what got into me, but I cleaned the kitchen and then proceeded to do all of the paperwork that has been backed up, which meant forms to seven pharmaceutical companies requesting participation in their patient assistance programs. In addition to the forms, I had to include supporting documentation showing why I need this assistance. After completing the forms online, I then tried to get all of the packages together but ended up confusing myself, so I enlisted Corey’s help in going through each package to make sure that I had everything.

I also had to do an explanatory cover letter, and a cover letter to my doctor explaining everything that I was trying to do. In addition, I finally got the paperwork together for my student loan requesting forbearance due to poverty, and I completed a form for another withdrawal from my retirement, this time to pay my health insurance premium. At this rate, I will have absolutely no money left in my retirement, well, very little.

But the point is that I got all of this paperwork completed and ready to go to the various places to which it needs to be disbursed; I also filed my copies and filed a pile of other stuff that was cluttering up my desk. Finally. And of course, Corey helped. So a very productive day. Today? Well today my back is killing me and I have a headache—the price for doing too much in one day.

“It is not the perfect who always succeed in life, but those who keep trying even in the face of tremendous hardships . . .” ~ Steven Apel

Termination Dust, Chugach State Park, AK by Janson Jones

The director of the publishing program at George Washington University denied my grade appeal, which I predicted he would do, but at least I finally found out what grade I got on my project for the infrastructure class. He claims that the grade was posted on Blackboard, but it was not posted for the three months that I checked. I got an A on the project, but since the project only counted for 15 percent of the grade, it wasn’t enough to balance my abysmal performance on the midterm or final exam.

Quite frankly, that class was a failure as far as I’m concerned. The professors who were team-teaching did not mesh well. Entirely too much material was presented without there being any type of background preparation. It was a very advanced course without a background course preceding it in the cohort.

A bit of background here: The publishing degree that I completed in the summer of 2008 was set up as a cohort, which meant that everyone took the same classes for the sequence of the degree, with the exception of the concentration classes. I took the e-publishing concentration, which included this computer infrastructure class. However, at no point in the sequence was there a basic HTML course or a course in creating a website. As a result, those of us with little or no HTML backgrounds were completely lost in the infrastructure class.

We were also the second cohort to complete the program, which is now undergoing a complete restructuring. In essence, our cohort, along with the first cohort, were the guinea pigs, the ones they got to experiment on to see what worked and what didn’t work. There was duplication among the courses, and then there was the problem with the e-publishing concentration.

Now I must pause here to say that overall, the instructors in the program were wonderful, with diverse backgrounds in the publishing industry. I learned a great deal, and wouldn’t trade the experience for anything. However, I do feel that we were short shrifted in that the kinks in the new program had yet to be finessed. Oh well. Live and learn.

“A thousand words leave not the same deep impression as does a single deed.” ~ Henrik Ibsen 

Paint Cans from marthastewart.com

Now that I’ve complete my major paperwork project, I’ve finally gotten Corey to agree to painting the bedroom. I really hope that he comes through this time. Originally the bedroom was supposed to be painted for Mother’s Day . . . 2008! Since it was never done, the new bedroom bureau has been sitting in the living room taking up much-needed space and is part of the reason for the clutter that I go on about so much.

We have all of the supplies to do the bedroom, but it’s such a huge undertaking that we haven’t gotten around to doing it. We have to move furniture out of the room, move things into the middle of the room, removed everything from the walls, spackle, prep, etc.

To be fair, I know personally how hard it is to get motivated for such an undertaking when you just aren’t feeling right. Being out of work for as long as Corey has been has really taken a toll on him emotionally. His self-esteem is shot, and in essence, he cannot really concentrate on anything too big. I know this feeling well.

But Corey’s job with Vane Brothers is fast approaching; his point of contact said the end of December or beginning of January. I can’t believe that it is almost December, but if we can all make it through the upcoming holidays, things should be looking up by 2010. I know that Corey will like being back at work, and I also know that it will greatly improve his state of mind.

Unfortunately, the apprenticeship with the shipyard did not pan out as Corey does not have the required background in advanced math classes, which is a requirement for acceptance. By the time he takes the 12 hours of math and technology, he will have a semester of college completed. The way he looks at it, and I agree, is that if he has to take a semester of college to get into the program, which he would complete with an Associate’s Degree (four to five semesters of work), he might as well go ahead and register for classes and get his Associate’s in his preferred field.

With the upcoming position with Vane Brothers, the disappointment with the apprentice program has been cushioned, and Corey is looking forward to getting back on track professionally.

 “Success is not final, failure is not fatal: it is the courage to continue that counts.” ~ Winston S. Churchill

As for my own career, who knows? One of the areas that I would like to explore would be book indexing, which is something that I could pursue at home, which would allow me to work at a more comfortable pace without the pressures of a regular schedule. If anyone out there knows or works for someone who is looking for a book indexer, I’m available, and I’m good at it.

However, part of me really wishes that I could go back to a real job, one in which I interact with other grownups, have responsibilities, make a decent living with benefits. The reality is that I don’t know that I’ll ever be able to do that again. But I’m not giving up on the idea entirely. I suppose that it’s just one more thing in my life for which I’ll have to wait and see what the future holds.

So other than those tidbits, I don’t have a lot to report, but here are a few thoughts for Friday:

• How did Heidi Klum manage to walk the Victoria’s Secret Fashion Show only six weeks after giving birth to her fourth child? That woman must have incredible elasticity in her skin, that and very good genes.



Carol Hannah Design from Project Runway Finale

• Speaking of Heidi Klum, Project Runway finished last night with Irina being declared the winner. Personally, I liked Carol Hannah, but I knew that Irina would win. That show is one of my guilty pleasures.
• I read that a man in London has been found not guilty for strangling his wife. Apparently, he has suffered long-term from a sleep disorder and has automatism, a condition in which the sleeping individual has no control over his or her actions. Brian Thomas, the man on trial, strangled his wife because he mistook her for an intruder. Hmm, things that make you go hmm.
• In Peoria, Arizona, a family’s home was burglarized. The intruders took electronics and a music box containing their deceased baby’s ashes. Man, I’d like to know what kind of person steals ashes.
• Linday Lohan is upset that she wasn’t allowed to take $15,000 worth of jewelry from an event. She was promised between $1500 and $2,000 of loot for her appearance. Hello? I would show up wearing a gopher suit to get $1500 worth of free loot, and I wouldn’t complain. I mean, I’m a lot funnier than Lohan, whose only claim to fame at the moment is that she does nothing.
• Hershey Co. is making a bid for Cadbury PLC. This disheartens me. I don’t really like Hershey’s chocolate, but I absolutely love Cadbury as it’s the chocolate that I ate as a child in England. Cadbury Fruit and Nut Bar, Cadbury Caramello. Um Um Good.
• MSNBC regularly posts photographs of people who have had Ambush Makeovers. These are “Today Show” fans who are grabbed off the street and given a makeover. I wonder if they make house calls . . .
• Speaking of house calls, I am seriously thinking of submitting our house for “Extreme Makeover: Home Edition.” I know that we don’t have eight children, but geez, does every deserving family have to have a boatload of kids to qualify? What about normal everyday people who have a real need? Maybe they could consider someone like us for a change.
• And speaking of houses, I’m not liking the current season of “House” that much. I mean, the two-hour season premier was wonderful, but since then, it doesn’t seem to have its usual bite.



Dr. Warner (Tamara Tunie) of Law & Order SVU

• And while I’m on shows that have lost their bite, “Law & Order SVU” might be on its last leg. What makes that particular L&O franchise so good is the interaction with the criminals and the nature of the crimes themselves. This season is spending too much time on the personal lives—a show about Olivia, a show about Elliott, a show about Huang. An episode about ADA Paxton. Get back to the squad room and the victims.
• The long nightmare is over: Jon & Kate are finally saying buh bye. Never watched the show myself, but am soooo tired of hearing about this two. And what’s with her hair?
• And finally, an image of the Virgin Mary holding the baby Jesus has appeared on a piece of glass in a church in Latvia. I don’t mean to be mean, but the image that they are showing looks more like the snow suits that Luke and Han wore on the ice planet in Star Wars: The Empire Strikes Back. Does that make me a bad person?

Many thanks to my comrade Janson Jones for the inspiring video. More later. Peace.

One of my all-time favorite songs: “Chances Are,” by Bob Seger and Martine McBride from Hope Floats.