Here's a new one for you..... Every author I have ever heard, read, spoken with recommends reading and lots of it. Julia Cameron who wrote The Artist's Way has an assignment for me that I am strongly resisting...... ready? That is correct, no reading for a week. Reading deprivation. That is like taking my crack pipe away.

But, everything else she says has worked so I am going to try it. Which means, gentle readers - there will be no blogging this week because I read each of your blogs. It would be a terrible temptation.

So imagine if you will that I am taking a week long blogging vacation and know that I will be missing you all very much. Of course, if you need me, you can email me. I will be checking my personal email. Or you can call.

I will be here contemplating my navel and painting my office Spongebob Square Pants yellow. Maybe not. But whatever I do, I will let you know next Monday morning bright and early.

Signing out, cheerio and all that rot.

SofP

Before I get too wrapped up in my day, I would like to use this forum to wish Henry a very happy birthday. Now, he does not LIKE the idea of getting older but to date, has only come up with one alternative.... and is not all that crazy about that option.

So, happy birthday Heni Boo nee Griffin. *I* wish to celebrate your birthday because on that fateful day in Hong Kong in the year ____, your mother gave birth to a baby boy who would grow into a wonderful, gentle, loving man full of wisdom and insight. That man would find some beauty everywhere he went and indeed, would see beauty in me. This ability to see, to pay attention to the details (where the devil is) is tangible evidence that you are not merely existing. You are indeed living a very good and valued life.

Today the word count leaped - (mostly it plodded, but I tried) to 18,410. Now, there are days when I can hardly keep up with what is pouring out of my head into my hands and hitting keys willy nilly. That is when I am in the groove. Yesterday was an in the groove day. Today, not so much. But I did my usual routine. I put my butt in the chair. Button chair, get it? I got three stilted, make me very unhappy pages together. My inner critics were having a field day. They were all focused on the technical aspects and that is a surefire way to shut down the creativity. But I added words. And THAT is what matters.

Greets Large community of SofP Supporters and that other chick too.

I only accomplished writing 1361 words today. That constitutes only three pages. But - it is three pages closer. AND I was happy with them. They began with, well let me tell you how it happened.

I awakened with an image in my head and a buzzing in my ear. Not alarm clock warning, mozzie buzzing. The image was of the moon. The other evening, we were looking at the moon. I saw two faces, one if you looked this way with your eyes squinted just so. The other if you looked that way, gave a more cartoony affect.

In Amy Krause Rosenthal's Encyclopedia of an Ordinary Life (shameless plug here - great read) she asked that anyone who had a really good description from a book to email her.

I don't have one from a book in print. But I have the one in MY book. Here it is - the opening line of the chapter I wrote today that begins like this:

The summer moon hung her face like a reluctant bride. Her reflection laid out a wide golden path on the waves. It would be no trick to cross the sand and just keep going on the path laid by the moon. Walk right across the water and fall into the sea when dawn broke and took away the path.

That first line, I am certain, was what the mosquito whispered in my ear.

Here is the thing: I want to, need to paint my office. Currently it is beige. What color would be most conducive to creativity. Please don't suggest a color because it is your favorite. Paint your own walls with your favorite. I am looking for the Feng shui philosophy, or some tangible study that shows if I paint my walls a warm chocolate brown that I will write a best selling novel by Thursday of next week.

Thank you.

Sidebar: When Henry reads that I posted a blog past midnight, he will deliver an entire litter of kittens.

That said, here is what my day looked like:

1. I awakened at about 7:30 and fed the dogs.


2. I wrote three pages in longhand. Sometimes words that I don't normally use pop up on the pages. Sort of whacko channeling.


3. Merriam Webster word of the day. Today's was placid. Nothing new to report here. Except it made me think of Lake Placid and my brother and a six pack buried in the sand surrounding the seawall and pissed off parents and David Lang and Beatles records played backwards which required some doing on manual turntables. Kids these days don't have a clue how to do THAT with a DVD.


4. I wrote six pages of the novel that will likely end up shoring a table with a short leg. Or collecting dust under my bed. But really. Sit down sometime with a dedication to write 2 pages. Try it. Then write six. For those of you watching at home, my sweet endearing Boo, the "up the ante" king, when told I had done six sweetly and calmly asked if tomorrow I might do eight.


5. Had the temerity to say no to Jehovahs Witnesses ringing the bell, interrupting my writing. Felt bad.... no, now feeling bad for lying.


6. Wait! Back up this one to number 3A. I spoke with a dear friend in another country. For a long time. It was great.


7. Had lunch with Claudia at Mazzaro's. Saw character. MEAN that. Character - as in chick with guy on leash with collar. Guess who is on MY bus!


8. Went to Tarjay with Claudia. Did role reversal, dragging her kicking and screaming from ceramic cat food bowls. Bought very little beyond clearance conditioner.


9. Got ready for big date night with the Boomeister.


10. Saw Cookin' in Sarasota. Cookin' - picture Stomp meets Iron Chef.

"Free Mojtaba and Arash Day". Arash Sigarchi and Mojtaba Saminejad are both in prison in Iran. They are being held for writing blogs. We, the blogging world, have a responsibility to shout it out to the rooftops, to help get the word out to the free world, indeed the whole world that thoughts, opinions, expression of the same are sacred human rights. That because you imprison the body, you cannot imprison the mind. Blogs are free sites through which people publish thoughts and opinions. Iranian authorities have been clamping down on prominent sites for some time.

Maybe just maybe if today there are thousands of millions of blogs with the title containing "Free Mojtaba and Arash Day" our voices will be heard. We can be a part of history. Please create your blog NOW.

We had a ball. The party was a massive success. There were about 25 of our dear friends and I really believe that they had a great time. I base that on the amount of singing (badly in my case) and the amount of laughter. Most of it took place in the back yard which was decorated with lots of flowers and candles. 

 So I had alluded to what I was doing about Henry's gift in previous posts but I remind you that he is a member of the frequent flyer program here so I couldn't be anything but vague. Now that the cat is out of the bag, I can tell you what I did. I wrote him a book. And what follows is the speech that I wrote for him which was delivered to a very appreciative audience last night. Or, in the alternative, they were busy stuffing their faces with Carol's excellant pate' and meatballs. Then again, maybe it was the shrimp.  

I would like to thank all of you for coming to celebrate Henry’s birthday. Many of you have only begun to get to know him. Sometimes I feel that I am only just beginning to know him.

 It began with an exchange of amazing emails. Before too long, we were multiply ------emailing. I began to realize that he was a writer.

 We arranged to meet in person on Father’s day, June 20^th. I arrived at Harvey’s 4^th Street Grille to see Henry for the first time. There he stood: tall, dark and handsome. Then he stepped down off the curb.

The journey began. Through a series of One Tank Trips, the continuing quest for the sighting of the elusive Green Flash, and our daily email volleying, my trust in him increased. I discovered a wonderful ally in this world of critics. I found a gentle, loving, and kind man with simple tastes and an amazing sense of humor. That he doted on me was a bonus.

From him, I got questions: what do you want to do with your life next? To waste your talent writing form letters to dead people is a shame.

I took another chance and sent him pages. Now please try to understand the risk involved. Many people say, “She wants to be a writer” in the same tone as they would say “she wants to be a princess, or she wants to marry Brad Pitt.”

Not my Boo. He said, “Write more”. If you wrote two pages a day, by the end of the year you would have over 700 pages. After editing that down, you would have a novel. I wrote some days, some days not at all. On the not writing days, I suffered greatly when he asked, “did you write your two pages today?”

I asked when he would take a vacation. He said when I finished something. I made the mistake of letting him know I had written four pages. He upped the ante’. Now he asks “did you write four pages today?”

I asked what I could give him for his birthday. He said that he no longer celebrates his birthday. Well then, I wish to celebrate his birthday. I am extremely grateful that I have had the good fortune of having him in my life.

I asked what I could give him. He said a photograph of me would do nicely. I thought that it would be redundant, what with the 65 that he already has plastered on every wall. I decided to write him a short story, and wrote Store Brands. And when I finished it, I told him to put in for a much needed vacation.

That is where the trouble began. I found a contest in WordSmitten Quarterly Journal of short stories that contain exactly 1010 words. They call it a ten ten. I thought, wouldn’t it be fun to give him a book, a compilation of short stories, say ten of them. Then I could call it Ten Ten Tens. The project began.

On day nine I was worried about finishing in time. I admit that I seriously considered adding one word to each of the nine stories to make them a 10 11. Then I could change the title to Nine Ten Elevens.

So, my dearest Henry, for your birthday, I give to you a book (rough draft) entitled Ten Ten Tens – a collection of short stories. You are my inspiration, my muse, and I dedicate this to you (on the off chance that any of them are ever published).

I am grateful for your constant support and guidance. I am grateful that you took that chance in June to start the journey and I hope that the journey continues for a very very long time. Happy birthday Boo. I love you.

The brain is a terrible waste to thing.

Loops asked about the green flash. If you watch a sunset, when the sun just drops below the horizon, if you are really really paying attention and very lucky, sometimes you will see a green flash. We look for it all the time. We also look for unicorns, but that is another story.

Books should be printed on both paper and plastic. That way I could buy a book that I knew would be read in the bathtub on the appropriate medium.

And to finish this off, and further prove that my bag of marbles has a hole in it......

When I said "thanks for the heads up"  why did I get the image of my head up my arse?

My car has a small glitch that Henry and I discovered last night on the way home from watching the sunset. Henry made dinner, brought it over, and we went for a walk on the beach. I had been writing hard for several hours. I needed decompression time. The beach serves that purpose. The little dashboard engine shaped light came on. I am panicked. We drive home. Car goes to car doctor - diagnosis- I need some new power steering switch thingy. I ask you. Can they not put in a light that indicates a more mild need of attention? Make me think my car may blow up at any moment over some goofy switch?

The sunset was good, although we continue to seek the green flash. Dinner was marvelous. Henry makes this short rib thing that is similar to a beef stew. Fabulous.

And today I went to TIA to get Claudia who hath returned from Alabama. All is right in the world.

Film at eleven.

Priscilla called. I haven't heard from her since 1996 when our relationship took a turn for the worst and did not survive the fall. I got the skinny on how it looked from her side and she got my take.

And then I had that along with other distressing things I have been dealing with on the side. This diet of anxiety is not conducive to my work, my happiness, my writing. This is not part of what I want my life to look like.

I had a particularly bad night. It came to my consciousness that I was hurt by what Priscilla told me. The truth is that she was not there for me. She knew that Joseph died, but she couldn't find it in her heart to call or even send a card. Yet she found herself capable of flying to Florida for the funeral of her boyfriend's son. Now when the son died, I was pretty shaken up. He was 13, a bar mitzvah boy and his mom took him on a cruise to celebrate. He had oysters for dinner, had an allergic reaction. His throat closed up. They got a tube in him and it slipped out. They couldn't get it reinserted in time.

But I go back in time and remember the funeral. There were hundreds of people there. But not the people that I needed there the most. And I know that forgiveness is a gift that I give myself. But bottom line is that while I know I should, it is hard.

I have had my name bantered about on another blog that shall remain nameless (andaloo)about my hybernation. Well. To bring you up to speed, I have a boatload of folks coming over this weekend to participate in the Wild about Henry party.

I am here to state
I'm here to relate
To explain
and make it plain that:
I`m just wild about Henry
and Henry's wild about me;

The heavenly blisses of his
kisses fill me with extasy.
He's sweet just like sugar candy
and just like honey from a bee;
oh, I`m just wild about Henry
and he's just wild about,
he can't do without,
he's just wild about me
Oh I`m just wild about Mandy,
and Mandy's wild about me
Oh, I`m just wild about Henry
and Henry's wild about me.

The heavenly blisses of his kisses
fill me with extasy.
He's sweet just like sugar candy,
and just like honey from a bee;
Oh, I`m just wild about Henry
and he's just wild about me.

A long ago and far away experience was brought back a moment ago by a book. Here I am, cleaning up a small section of my very cluttered office. I managed to find enough stuff that I did not need (if you keep it in a pile long enough, you don't need to take any action on it) to fill the trash basket.

Then I picked up a book - A journal really, of our family and our pets, hobbies, vacations and friends.... and there was Priscilla. Priscilla and I have a rich history peppered with long nights of Joni Mitchell and much drama over a messy divorce. I have a photograph of her, pregnant with her son Jack. I was to be her maid of honor but that got ruined by drama. It all got ruined by drama. The night Joseph came back home from his father's funeral Priscilla called very late and very drunk. We had words and we stopped talking.

I thought of her the other day. She had a painting in her living room, of one of her sisters walking on the beach except her head was cut off. The artist was another sister who had done the painting from a photograph. The head was cut off by the photographer.

Flipping through the book, I saw her name and picked up the phone. Called directory assistance, got a number. Called and spoke with her brother in law. He said he would call her and give her my number. I hope she calls. I want to reconnect.

WordSmitten Quarterly Journal has created a new monster in me. They have a contest for short stories... with exactly 1,010 words. They call it a ten ten. http://www.wordsmitten.com/prologue.html" title="http://www.wordsmitten.com/prologue.html" target="_blank"http://www.wordsmitten.com/pr... 

It is a blast to try to tell a complete story and keep it at 1010. Go ahead, just try it. I dare you.

Is wrapped up! Finally! I have been wracking my brain cells, both of them, for any idea whatever.

BUT since Henry is a faithful reader...... It will remain under wrap until further notice.

I come from a long line of whalers and bastards. I can hear their voices resonating from me still. There is a constant buzz of background noises and the damp weight of long dead spirits whose story was never told. The loudest, most insistent voices belong to the women, the leaking women who spent most of their adult life oozing one fluid or another. Be it breast milk, amniotic fluid, tears or menstrual blood. The women from whence I came oozed and leaked. Their stories are of childbirth and birth bed death and betrayal and love gone all wrong and different from what they thought love should be.

My mother told me intricate tales of the members of my family. It is therefore, not entirely my fault that I have come to make up stories about the other people around me. I came by it honestly. That man over there in the grocery store, do you see him? The bald one with the hairnet and the name badge? He wears the hair net out of sheer defiance of management and he is sleeping with the manager’s son. Of course, I have no idea what I am talking about with the employees of grocery stores and such, but I do know the stories about the people in my family because they tell the stories to me. I hear voices. Really.

My mother told me stories about men who might, or might not be my father. She did this for a specific purpose. If I came to believe that the man who called himself my father had no claim to me, then I might not love him. Therefore, she would not have to compete for my total devotion. It was one of those clever things divorced neurotic mothers like mine do to ensure that their offspring would love them better than the other parent. Do you see? One time my father was said to be the Cushman baker, who delivered bread in a panel truck. Another time he was the Jewish watchmaker in Attleboro. That one backfired on her handily when I announced that I was converting to Judaism.

My mother also told us pretty regularly that she was going to send us to “finishing school”. That one backfired too.

“You are not going to send us to finishing school”, I calmly stated. I think I was about eight.

“Oh yes I am young lady, both of you. You and your sister.”

“No you won’t. You can’t afford it.”

I was right. She couldn’t afford squat. That however was not the criteria for reform school. We were duly warned about this ephemeral “reform school”. Where one was, we never knew. In retrospect, mom must have been telling the story of my great aunt on my father’s side (not the Cushman baker or the Jewish watchmaker, the other one). She was unwittingly telling the story of Hilma Sofia Tenneson.

This is how it goes. I find a bit of history in some dusty newspaper archive or a death certificate or census. I look for this stuff to fill in the blanks because that is what genealogists do and I think I became a genealogist about the same time I converted to Judaism. That was more than two decades ago. To be sure, I have not eaten pork (deliberately) since then. I have, however, the unfortunate addiction to cheeseburgers. There should be a twelve step program for people like me who find it impossible to keep Kosher.

So I find some connective tissue, some thread of information that forms the cloth of the lives of my ancestors. And that is when they begin to get really loud. When I found Hilma’s name, I was pleased as punch to fill in the line next to David, her husband and my father’s uncle. I began looking further into her past. She began talking.

She was born in Norway in the Fjiords.

My dearest,

I have had a fork stuck in me. I am done for the night. For now, it is time to let the stories stay within the covers. They will scream for release again tomorrow. The loudest gets the attention. The squeaky wheel gets the grease.

My intention for tomorrow is to make an "appearance" at the proffered party. Since it is required reading, so to speak. The woman tossing it is merely a person that is connected to another person that is connected loosely to someone I know. 

I am happy with my day, my station in life, my situation. The thing I am unhappy with is the time constraints, the truth that I am but mortal, and my reluctance to share the resources with those who might not appreciate them, but who demand them. In short, I don't want to complete a tax return and I want a wife to take care of the mundane. You have entertained the idea that I should "pay" someone to quilt. You are mistaken about that, quilting fills a void that I need to fill. But you are also correct. I don't need to dust. I should give up the ghost of having my bed death ready every day. Who will care, if I die tomorrow that my bed was made? Conversely, will someone read what I have written? I think that is a truly rhetorical question.

Other than that, I miss your face. I need to talk to you. I need to see you in front of me. I have come to depend on the regularity of that face before me over a bowl of pho'.

AND that said, I am going to slip between monogrammed sheets and hand pieced quilt now.

kisses

Sabine

Yesterday was date night. We never know what day of the week Heni might be off until Sunday. This week, it was Monday. As is our usual habit, we made arrangements to get together around 3pm and go from there. Henry generally lets me figure out what we should do. Many times that means dinner (he cooks, I cook, we go out) and a movie or a "One Tank trip". These are generally interesting times. But on this particular Monday, we thought dinner and a movie or something.

Now, I have this guy pal who is gay and I love him dearly. We go back many years. He has recently fallen in love and looks to me for advice for the lovelorn. I simply listen and remind him that he has value, is worthy of love and will be just fine. He gets us opera tickets and tells funny stories. He is the guy that conned me into having the New Year's eve bash. And on Monday nights, he sings with a group that plays in a local martini bar.

So Henry and I had dinner here. I cooked. Rock cornish hens with wild rice and asparagus. Simple and efficient. Then we went to see John sing. The place was really nice. John had held a table for us up front. We sat down and he mentioned my presence to the audience. Then in Cantonese, he said to Henry apparently throwing my voice "do you think I am pretty? Do you want to go home with me? I am not expensive!"

We returned home and had ourselves a wonderful little chat. Fade to black.....