How About Some Pictures?

So it occurs to me that, in spite of the fact that I said I'd be focusing on my art for this year's project, I haven't actually uploaded anything to the blog.  So I thought what the heck... here's a couple things that I've churned out in the past month.

First off we have just plain ol' doodles done on the tablet:

(Note the commentary-to-self... I do that a lot.  My sketch-books can get a little ridiculous...)

Next up?  One of the three illustrations I submitted to the magazine, tied in to a piece about self-labeling.

So now you can see that I have in fact been drawing at least a little bit- and getting more comfortable with the tablet as I go.

(And I have to say that ever since I hit "send" on the emails that contained the articles and illustrations I've been revising them in my head going, "Stupid!  It would have been so much better if you'd just tweaked this and that..."  ::sigh::)

Snowfall

I have always felt most at home in winter- bundled up in layers, muffled in the quiet that falls across the landscape with the snow.  Last year at this time I became a layer myself- wrapped around you as you grew in my womb.  I felt you slowly spinning, like a snowflake, and I knew you would share my love of this season.

Your father wouldn't let me take you out for the first snow of your life- said it was too cold for you, too cold for your skin like sweet summer roses.  We kept you inside, kept you by the fire, through that first month of your existence- but this year he has finally relented, and here we are, your face tilted up to the soft silver-gray of the sky.  And I watch the crystals gather on the perfect copper sweeps of your eyelashes and I know that I was right to bring you out here.

I lay you down on an old blanket, beneath the twisting limbs of the old cherry tree, just as I did last spring.  On that day the white petals fell on you with every passing breeze, and you waved them away with your baby laugh.  I thought they must have tickled you, the way that the snowflakes tickle me.  But you do not wave away this shower of white.

I sit and watch it gather on your body, becoming a pale coverlet atop the dark wool of your blankets.  Soon you are a just another small hill in the silent woods, the many soft curves of your body smoothed until they are one gentle mound of snow.

That's the power of snow- it covers everything, making even the most terrible things beautiful- or at least bearable.  I know I should have buried you in the earth, but I how could I have stood to look at that ugly scar, day after day?  Every day reminded by the torn up soil, the lack of growing things...  It is better this way- you will become part of winter, and when spring comes again you will melt away... and so will my grief.

New Year's Eve

I don't remember my birth- but from what I understand, neither does anyone else. It was the dead of winter, or so they tell me- and the middle of the night. People drank champagne in celebration, and sang their heartfelt welcome.

Those first few days- what a whirlwind! By the end of the third day I was walking, and they say that by the end of the week I'd begun to speak. Again- I don't really remember any of this, so I have to take their word for it. My memories kick in sometime about halfway through January. And really it's more like impressions than actual memories. But February- oh yes, I remember February. I was long-limbed and awkward, but I didn't know it- my teeth too big for even my wide grin. Valentines day came and I had the biggest crush of my life- I knew I was in love. Of course, by March I knew I was in love again- for real, this time- and we used to drive for hours and hours, augmenting the early spring breeze in our hair with four rolled down windows. But I left for college less than a week later, and that was the end of that.

College! Oh how I loved college- so much to learn, so many people to learn with. I graduated near the end of March, and by April first I'd begun my career! Only apparently I hadn't... because I changed jobs several times that month, and it was at one of them that I met and married the love of my life. We welcomed our second child into the world in May, a month that was full of the ordinary living that seems to boring to those not doing it: raising children, rennovating our little house, settling into our true callings.

As exciting as the first half of the year was, I sometimes think that June was the start of the really good times. I watched our children grow into adults, and finally felt like maybe I'd earned the right to be called adult, myself. On the fourth of July I started thinking about retirement- still a bit off, but close enough to start calling to me. August strolled in, warm and tawny as a lion, and suddenly I was a grandparent! I looked at my first grandchild's fat little feet and wept that there could be such perfection in the world.

The autumnal equinox brought with it longer nights- and I started to feel my age in my bones. Retirement had left me with more time for my grandchildren- but the suppleness of their limbs only served to remind my of the creakiness of my own. By the time Halloween came, I was glad that no one expected a great-grandparent to chase after the multitude of costumed-progeny.

Thanksgiving was a wonder- had all this family actually sprung from my blood? Loud and laughing and comforting to a person who's true love has gone on to the final slumber. We shall pass, but they shall remain. And so shall it always be.

I spent most of Christmas dozing, and I know the time is coming for me to move on, myself. One of my great-grand-daughters is pregnant- maybe she's a little young for that, but she seems happy about it. She's due on my birthday, of all days. I'd like to stick around long enough to welcome this newest little one to the family... but somehow... I just don't... think... I...


(Happy New Year)

Pre-Conceived Questions

sometimes i wonder
how it all went down
in the space/time Before

when we were just
two little twinkles
waiting our turn to be made flesh:

did we work together
to pick out our parents
or were we randomly assigned?

did we play a cut-throat game
of rock paper scissors
for who would go first?

(and if so
was I the winner
or was it you?)

is this our first joint campaign
or have we always battled
shoulder to shoulder?

(i tend to think the latter
because i cannot imagine a lifetime worth living
without you.)

(Siblings)

Abandoned

The sun is setting, casting long shadows over the landscape, and a golden light on the three figures moving through the tangle of bleached weeds. The tallest figure is in the lead, his features obscured by glasses and a dark beard: he is carrying a camera, and has a look of intense concentration on his face. Behind him, following close as a shadow, is a girl with skin like ivory and a swirl of copper hair falling to her waist. Her eyes dart back and forth, always searching… Drifting in the wake of these two, inhaling deeply on a cigarette, is the slightest figure- another girl, but dark-haired and wearing a vivid red pea coat. So bright is this coat that, combined with the trail of smoke, the girl looks like a small fire creeping among the debris.

They are making their way toward a dilapidated old building- abandoned many years ago and now rotting in on itself. Old tires spill out from crumbling walls, and an overwhelming stench of oxidation has the fair skinned girl wrinkling up her nose. She makes an inarticulate noise of disgust.

“I know,” says the fire-girl. “The price one pays for art, eh?”

The bearded boy grunts something that might be a laugh and enters the structure. With a sigh, the fair-girl follows, careful not to touch any of the jagged edges. The fire-girl lingers in the setting sun, finishing off her cigarette, listening to the dry-bone rattle of two empty seed-pods brushing together in the wind.

“The price one pays,” she mutters to herself.

(Abandoned)

Yes, Yes- Still Here

Sorry about that- I've been having difficulty getting my computer connected to the internet, so although I've been writing, I haven't been posting- until now, obviously. But now I've caught up (on this blog, anyway- I have miles to go before I quit the internet, and all that...) so that's good.

I made a cheesecake today- and I think it came out pretty damn well. Cheesecake is my Thing That I Make That Impresses People. I use my Oma's recipe, and I've never had it not go over well. The ironic thing is that, until about three years ago, I didn't even like cheesecake. So I'd make it for people, and just have to take their word for it that it was good.

But now I know for myself. Huzzah!

I went in to work yesterday, but I have the rest of this week off, and am spending it down here with my family- it's pretty nice. Not that we have Awesome Plans for every moment of the day or anything (although I am going to go see Tron later with my brother and Nate and his brother and another dude) but just to be in the same place at the same time- to wander into a room and see my brother sleeping on the couch, and wander into another room and there's my mom on the computer, all the while getting my laundry done as Natan processes photos. It's just... nice.

And tomorrow? Tomorrow I kidnap Katie for a Best Girls Day! Woo!

World-Building Via Trinity

So today I thought I'd share some more of the world-building that's going into my blood-slaves concept (yeah I know, I know- I need to spend some time developing a new word for that...). I was addressing a few things that have come up with my people-with-whom-I-discuss-story-ideas, and one of those things was what sort of religion they have going. What follows doesn't really address the religion, per se, but it does answer the question of who/what they worship... this is rough stuff, and quite liable to change, but at least you can get an idea of my process...

***

Three is a sacred number to the Empire, and things are done in multiples/powers of three whenever possible. The pantheon is, at its core, a Trinity with the following Aspects: God/Goddess/Balance (who is both and neither). Each Aspect has three Roles: Creator/Sustainer/Destroyer. Each Role has three Faces: Youth/Prime/Ancient. Each Face has three Alignments: Order/Chaos/Neutral (have you done the math? That’s about 81 deities to choose from for any given situation). The Universe is comprised of three States of Being, Liquid/Solid/Gas, and within each State there are three Elements, from which everything is built: (that’s nine Elements: water/aether/fire; stone/metal/wood; air/light/cloud). There are three planes of existence, Heaven/Earth/Hell, inhabited by gods/mortals/demons.

***

Also I thought I would share with you the ridiculous, Formal Names I came up with for the six Noble Houses (as opposed to Base Houses, those with no mage blood). They're fabulous, I think you will agree- and only used on the most formal of occasions:

House Opalescent Glory (the Imperial House, from which the Emperor springs)
House Burgundy Crescent (contains the most powerful of the mage bloodlines)
House Saffron Dawning
House Viridian Wellspring
House Cerulean Zephyr
House Indigo Starlight

Aftermath

it’s the day after christmas
(with everything that implies)

the beauty of carefully wrapped
hopes and dreams
left in tattered shreds
scattered about the living room
we hold the unveiled reality in our hands and think
is this really what i asked for? and
why did you give this to me? and
doesn't anyone know me at all?

Those small sweet things
we placed on our tongues
and shared
have turned to bitter stones in our bellies
weighing us down as we seek to flee
into a landscape once wonderful, white
and silent
now churned up
a harsh and gritty gray
by too many feet
too eager to move on
to the next Occasion

(Aftermath)

More Merry Than Contrary

Christmas it not exactly my favorite holiday. It’s not that I’m anti-Christmas, mind you- no one could call me a Scrooge and have it stand up in court- it’s just that it I am not the person you will hear saying, “I love this time of year!” I’m not entirely certain why this is, although I have my theories. Part of it probably springs from the fact that Christmas was my dad’s favorite holiday, part of it is undoubtedly due to the long years spent working in retail, as well as my years spent as a rabid anti-Christian (I’m glad that’s no longer the case- it’s exhausting to be so anti-anything). Whatever collection of influences it is, Christmas simply does not whip me into the giddy frenzy it does many others.

That being said, this Christmas was pretty dang nice. For starters, I got to be with my family, which has not always been the case. More specifically my brother was around, which is extra-special now that he’s in the military. Secondly, my mom made us a traditional dinner- but not traditionally American. She made us schnitzel and a variety of German-style salads, and we ate until we all but rolled away from the table. What I’m trying to say here is that I got actual comfort-food instead of what the media tells us is comfort food (hey, I like ham and corn as much as the next red-blooded American- but not as much as I like my mother’s schnitzel): such food does a lot to put a person in an expansive mood. (aaand the two glasses of wine did not hurt)

I would be remiss if I didn’t mention the presents- excellent presents were certainly had, very thoughtful and carefully selected presents, including a double sleeping bag that Nathan and I cannot wait to try out in the PNW. And, of course, there were the phone calls from old friends, warming my heart with the reminder that distance cannot diminish heart-closeness.

So even though Christmas isn’t really my “thing”, today it kind of was.

Finding Room

The problem with pregnant women is that they will not mind you. They are overflowing with the miracle and authority of creation, and convinced they know how things ought to be ordered in the world. We husbands can do little to dissuade them, and so when I came into the kitchen and found my wife sweeping yet again, I did not have much hope for meeting with good sense.

“Keturah,” I said, striving to keep my voice full of the patience our Lord commands us to have for our wives, “You should be in bed!”

“Manasseh,” she said in her sweetest voice, which I have learned means she is determined to have her own way, “I am a pregnant woman, not an invalid. And in case you had not noticed, the inn is overflowing and we can ill afford to let work start to pile up.”

“But all the guests are in bed,” I took the broom from her hands, “And I can do this. You can supervise if you are feeling restless. Sit there, put your feet up- please, please indulge your poor, beleaguered husband his neuroses.” Keturah sighed and worked her knuckles into her lower back: she still had a month left before the child- our first- was due, but I could not fathom her growing any larger. Finally she grabbed my beard and pulled my face down so she could kiss my cheek.

“Alright I will sit. But only because I do not like to see you so fretful.”

“Thank you, indulgent ruby of the midnight hour.” She swatted playfully at my arm, and I did not dodge the blow- I had also come to learn that she did not like to be reminded of how she was not as nimble as she had been.

“I wish we could have a census every year,” she said in a satisfied voice as she eased herself into the chair I’d gestured at. “Just think of the lovely new cloaks we will have this winter.”

“I could wish we had them only in years my wife was not pregnant,” I grumbled, and it was true. As good as the influx of travelers had been for filling our coffers, it had not done much for my stress levels. I wanted Keturah to be able to stay in bed (not that she would) and for me to be able to see to her every whim, rather than both of us having to look after a great herd of people who were thoroughly disgruntled about being commanded to return to their place of birth for counting. I did not see the sense in it, myself- why not count people where they were? But who is a simple innkeeper to argue with an emperor’s decree? I was just glad we had never left Bethlehem. I could not imagine having to travel anywhere with my wife in her current condition.

Once I had swept the kitchen out to her satisfaction Keturah beckoned me over and placed my hands on her belly. I felt our child press up against my palm.

“He’s excited tonight,” I remarked, and knelt down to place my forehead against the bulge. My wife’s fingers begin to work through my hair, gently unsnarling my tangles back into curls.

“Yes, she is,” she said. “she must sense something momentous about to occur.”

“More likely he’s just not used to so many new voices,” I said, and then smiled as she tugged hard on a lock.

“You have no imagination,” she scolded, and tugged on another one. “Maybe our daughter will be a great prophetess, and then won’t you feel sorry for doubting her in the womb!”

“Mercy, gentle wife!” I laughed. “No more of your torture. If you say our child is a girl, and a soothsayer at that, so it must be! You know we poor men can never hope to understand the great mysteries of life as our wise women do.”

“That’s right,” she said, but gave me another, albeit more gentle, tug. “And as a matter of fact-“

But she was interrupted by a knock at the door. I groaned.

“Not another one!” I’d already turned away seven that evening, and did not relish the idea of telling yet another poor soul that he had to keep going at such a late hour. Some men got so angry it was as though they believed I had deliberately sold all my rooms before they could get there. I sighed, got to my feet, and held out my hand to Keturah, to help her rise. “Take our little prophetess to bed, my wise wife, and I shall join you shortly.” She smiled and tilted her face up for another kiss.

“Be quick, husband.”

I opened the door to find a man maybe ten years older than myself standing there, holding a donkey’s lead.

“Sorry friend,” I started, my voice as sympathetic as I could make it. “But we’ve-” and then I noticed who was sitting on the donkey. A woman- barely more than a girl, really- more belly than anything else. She made Keturah look downright reasonably sized.

“…no more… room…” I trailed off. The man looked haggard, the woman swayed as though she might fall off the donkey at any moment.

“Are you sure, friend?” he asked, in the dull voice of someone who has already repeated his request far too many times. I knew that we were not the only inn overflowing with custom. These two had probably been turned away multiple times tonight. “I can pay well.”

“It’s not about the money,” I said, wondering if I ought to move closer, to catch the woman if she fell. “It’s this census- we’ve sold every room, every bed, every bench, even space on the hallway floors! I’d give you my own bed for the sake of your wife, were not my own pregnant wife already in it.”

The other man closed his eyes and turned to go, murmuring a thanks- and I thought of Keturah, and how I would feel if it were me unable to find a place for her.

“Wait!” I said. “It’s true I have no room left in the inn… but… I am almost ashamed to offer this…”

“Please, we are not so proud as to be offended by any kindness you might offer,” said the woman in a startlingly sweet voice.

“I have room in my stable,” I blurted. “It’s warm and clean, and the hay might make a soft place to lay down on, if you don’t mind sharing space with animals. I could bring you blankets…”

“We’ll take it, and pay you handsomely for the privilege!” the man’s voice held such relief I feared he might cry.

“No need for that,” I mumbled, thinking again of my wife sleeping in our bed, of the movement of our child beneath my palms. “I offer it on behalf of our unborn children. I pray they grow up in a world where kindness is not so rare we feel we must pay extra for it.”

“Thank you,” said the woman, pressing her hands to her belly. “I pray that, as well.”

A Delicate Balance

We have brought our cats (Kink and Krumps) down with us to my mom's house for the holidays. You may or may not remember that there is already a kitty in residence down here: Kahnji (formerly known as Bagheera). This has led, as is to be expected with the (re)introduction of animals, to a lot of growling and sulking and skulking and posturing and the occasional swipe and/or chase.

None of which would be so bad were it not for the fact that a) Nathan has not grown up with cats and thus still is not entirely used to their ways, and b) Nathan is very protective of Krumps (the little girl cat), and thus it is very difficult for him to just let the animals do their own pissy-with-one-another-thing until they get it sorted. Which they will. I keep trying to explain things to him, and he keeps accusing me of being a creepy tv-personality, a la The Cat Whisperer.

It is a little weird, sometimes, to realize that there are people out there who don't inherently understand cat behavior. They've just always been a part of my life- and although I would say I'm not so much a "cat person" as I am an "animal person" in general (but not to extremes), they are the animals I am most familiar with. The idea of not growing up with at least one cat is as foreign to me as the idea of growing up living in the same town for your entire childhood. That is to say, it may be normal for over 50% of the population, but it's weird as hell to me...

Not Much of Anything

I would like to write a tie-in to Nathan's photo, I really would- but I have to tell you I'm feeling pretty drained, both mentally and physically, so I just don't think it's going to happen. Part of the problem is that every idea I've had for that particular image has been sort of depressing (or at the very least wistful), and I'm not in the mood to write anything down-beat. I'm in the mood to go to bed early with my husband and appreciate the fluffy softness of our magnificent mattress. Doesn't that sound like a pleasant way to pass a not-really-that-cold winter's evening? Sure it does... maybe with some hot cocoa...

Lovely Things

Some of you might possibly be familiar with my red Dr. Martens.


More specifically, you might have noticed my love affair with said boots.

It all started back in autumn of 2003... the year I decided to be Punk Rock Dorothy for Halloween (yes there are pictures: no they will not be posted). I chose that costume specifically to justify buying a pair of red (oxblood or cherry, depending on whom you ask) docs. They put me back about a hundred dollars- no small change for a recent college grad. But I got them in the mail and I put them on and they were so gorgeous I knew they were worth every penny... just as they were worth the subsequent months of sheer bloody (literally) misery it took to break the damn things in. But break them in I did, until they were so comfortable the blisters became a gentle, half-remembered nightmare. And you can ask anyone I've dated or lived with since then- I take care of my boots. I'm not quite military-level-obsessed with it, but I do enjoy polishing them, caring for them. Which is how, seven years after the initial semi-impulse of a purchase, they are still a beautiful (and practical) staple in my wardrobe. Audrey Hepburn had the little black dress: I have the supple red boots.

Over the years I have looked at other Dr. Martens- I do enjoy the aesthetic of the brand, after all, not to mention their sturdy construction- and occasionally dreamed of getting another pair. But I never went through with it, for various reasons. First of all, when it comes right down to it, I'm a bit of a miser when it comes to buying myself impractical stuff. Second of all... well, actually, that pretty much sums it up. Sure, docs last forever, but I already had a pair- and they were living up to their long-lived reputation. There was no way I needed another pair, and I just couldn't justify spending that kind of money on something just because I wanted it, when I already had it... or a version of it, anyway... am I making any sense at all here? In a thrifty way?

And then a friend of mine pointed these out to me. And oh, how I lusted.

See, the thing is, my boots? Are distinctly masculine. This makes sense, seeing as how they're men's boots. I like it- I tend to have a fairly distinct masculine streak, myself, and I certainly have never let it stop me from wearing my boots with skirts and dresses... but a part of me saw the feminine detailings on those Manor Alettas and just... purred.

So appropriate for work, I thought to myself, so subtly subversive. Perhaps I shall allow myself to daydream of these boots...

And I did. But I did not, gentle readers, actually purchase them...

Which brings us to today, and the early exchange of Christmas presents with my husband. My darling, wonderful husband, who is also a photographer. Behold:

Boooooooots!

Are they not lovely? Here, have a shot that gives them a better angle:


As you might have guessed, Nathan and I decided to take the opportunity to use his new lighting set-up (Christmas gift from his parents) to try and get a few more "product"y-type shots. You know, the kind where the focus is on the merchandise for sale rather than the model's... assets? (Did I just call myself a hooker? Maybe? Don't think about that- look at this photo!)

(I definitely look concerned that I might be a hooker...)

This is probably my favorite, in terms of what we set out to accomplish:

Can't you just see that in a magazine? With a hand-scrawled "Dr. Martens" across the top? With a catchy little phrase like, "always appropriate" or some such nonsense... anyway it was fun! And as a bonus, here is a picture that shows me with ::gasp:: cellulite!


Yup, little dimples there on the back of the thigh. So I'm here to tell you, ladies (and dudes)- if my highly muscular and sexy legs are showing dimples, then dimples are just a part of life and nothing to fret over so screw those air-brushed alarmist magazines!

Now, if you will excuse me, I need to go polish some boots...

Story Seeds

So here's the thing- I wrote about a thousand words on a fun new story idea I came up with today, but not a word of it is where I'd like it to be before I go around sharing. It's still in the percolating zone, the bouncing-it-off-Nathan-to-get-practical-feedback zone. Composting, as some authors refer to it.

But I'm excited about it, so I want to at least try to sum up the concept for you guys here on the blog... (plus, you know- I have to put something up...)

Mages can take human vessels, combine them with a spark of demon, and bind them with their own (mage) blood, to create super-warriors known as (for now) blood-slaves. A blood-slave is controlled by and can only be hurt using the specific blood used to create him- which means so long as their master/creator survives, so do they. (Which, of course, is excellent motivation for protecting said master.) Blood-slaves don't tire or hunger or thirst, and are faster, stronger, and tougher than mortals. Neither injury nor mutilation will kill them (although they are easier to control when they're whole): they're immortal-within-their-creator's lifespan, basically. You can see how an army of them might be a force to be reckoned with...

Originally there were five Houses that controlled blood-slaves (and therefore the Empire), but it's dwindled down to three- and those three keep one another in check with a careful balance of mutually assured destruction. But the patriarchs within each house are coming close to death- and when they fall, their legions of blood-slaves fall with them- which, of course, opens the way for a new balance to emerge among the younger generations! Cue intrigue and plotting and oh so much more...

Percolation- go!

Purging the Stream of Conciousness

I was cleaning out the studio today, and if you're thinking that sounds like not the best way to spend a lovely Sunday, you're both right and wrong. You're right in that cleaning out a studio is something of an Endeavor (yes, capital E) but you're wrong because the way I feel after a good purge is just... amazing. So I'm feeling pretty good at the moment. I didn't purge as hard-core as I could have, I'm sure, but I purged enough, and it's left me feeling accomplished, lightened, and like I have a place where I can work again (which is going to be pretty essential if I'm going to get up on this new 365 project in January).

Some of the stuff I got rid of included old sketch books. Specifically it included old sketch books from 2005, when I was going through one of the roughest patches of my life. It was... not a pretty time, in the life of O. But it was also, in retrospect, this completely amazing time, because I had been shattered and broken down into nothing, and I was having to sift through the pieces and figure out not just who I was, but who I wanted to rebuild myself to be. Looking back through those drawings, through those writings... I was learning so much about myself and the kind of life I wanted, the kind of spiritual development I wanted... I'm really glad I went through all of it, painful as it was at the time. I would not, could not, be the person I am now if not for that.

Which, of course, begs the question- why did I throw them out?

Because it's past, now. I've learned those lessons. And while I did have amazing insights which I wrote down, I've internalized them... and the thing is, they're the sorts of things that you can't learn by reading. You have to learn them for yourself- so there's no point in me holding on to those old drawings in the hopes of showing them to someone else to save them some pain. They can't learn it from me- it has to come from within. So I let them go. Don't get me wrong- I still have plenty of journals from that time, if I ever need to remind myself how much it sucked- but there's no need to hang on to the drawings anymore. I've moved past that. And I'm glad.

I'm in a particularly introspective mood, anyway, I think. I'd been in a really, truly rotten mood a while back (not the least of which because Nathan and I were so frigging sick) and as I was ranting in my paper-journal (you know, where I can underline things a lot, and draw angry faces, etc etc) I suddenly realized that it had been... months since I'd put into effort into my spiritual development. I mean, I hadn't picked up the Tao Te Ching for study since, like, this summer. And that's just ridiculous. I mean, it's fantastic that I've got so much happiness going on in my life (and oh how I do) but just because I'm not in active need of answers right this second doesn't mean that I should stop looking for them, you know?

Or maybe you don't. But I do.

It's funny to me, these little things that tell me I actually am an adult now. I floss. I study my Tao. I make my bed. I keep my house clean(ish). I try to tell the truth even when it's awkward or not convenient. Not because I specifically enjoy those particular things (although- let's be honest- sometimes I do) but because I know I will enjoy how I feel when all those things are a part of my life. It's like my favorite from the Buddha:

When you realize something is unwholesome and bad for you, give it up. And when you realize that something is wholesome and good for you, do it.

As simple as that, oh Enlightened one. As simple and terribly complex as that...

Firewalker

She doesn't know why she's here. There's nothing for her here- there's nothing for her anywhere, anymore, but there is most especially nothing for her here in this small southern town she swore she'd never return to. Her momma's dead, her daddy's dead, and there's not a soul in this town who, if they recognized her, would be glad to see her. Nothing here but memories, and most of them as unwelcome to her as she is to them.

But there was nowhere else to go, and she is so tired of going to new places only to discover she doesn't fit in there, either. Might as well be here, where she is already familiar with all the ways in which she doesn't belong. It's almost a comfort.

It's August, and the mid-day air is shimmering around her as she faces down the white-washed walls of her parents' church. How long has it been since she's been in this church? Or any church, for that matter? How long has it been since she's talked to God? She thinks she can just barely remember what it was like to sit in His house and hear His voice... but then, she also remembers the anticipation of Santa Claus.

She sighs and turns, sits on the shaded steps and stares out at the main street. It's so hot out that no one is about- they're all curled up in their air-conditioned homes, or at the very least sitting on covered porches with tall glasses of sweet, sweet tea. She considers the abandoned road in front of her, listens to the dull clinking of wind-chimes from across the street.

She thinks back to what it was like to have faith, what it was like to believe in something, to know something. She wouldn't mind being that kind of person again. She kicks off her sandals and spreads her toes, examining her neatly manicured nails. Nothing fancy- just clear polish- but there is something soft about them. How can these pale, elegant feet have sprung from the feet of her youth? Those brown little feet that carried her, barefoot, through streams and forests and down endless miles of grass and clay and pavement.

She looks out at the street again, watches the heat dance above its near-molten surface. It reminds her of a bed of coals, and she remembers a program she watched once, about some island culture where the inhabitants walked on fire. It was healing for them- a test of faith and a proof courage. An initiation.

She stands, letting the sandals drop from her fingers. Maybe this is why she's come back- maybe God is whispering to her again- so soft she can't really hear Him, but just loud enough for her to feel Him.

She takes a step onto the burning asphalt- and then another. The heat is the purest thing she's felt in a long time, the pain a kind of blessed ecstasy to her benumbed soul.

Yes, she thinks, I am ready to come home.

And So You See, the Universe DOES Conspire to Be Nice to Me

So, as you may have surmised by reading yesterday's entry, Nathan and I are ill. So ill, in fact, that the doctor told us it would be a really bad idea for us to go to his family's Christmas gathering this evening (because of the little ones). If it was just other grownups we'd have thrown caution and CDC regs to the wind and gone on over... but the fact of the matter is that pneumonia can kill babies, and we just don't see the Christmas spirit in that. It's not like we're Herod, or anything...

So as you may imagine there was a bit of wistfulness going on in the O'Richey-O household, knowing we were not going to be partaking in a delicious family meal (and feeling all the more wretched since we were the ones who were originally going to provide the bulk of said delicious family meal). I went in to work this morning (my boss wasn't there and there were no clients, which is the only way I felt non-assassin-y going in) and there was a note from the delivery guy saying he'd left us a package next door. So I popped on over, and do you know what I found?

Giordano's, my friends!

Oh, wait- if you've not spent time in Chicago, you might not know why I was so excited. Giordano's is a chain of pizza places in (you guessed it) Chicago, but what's extra awesome about them is that if you pay them lots of money they will ship you one of their delicious pizzas. Well this box was addressed to my boss, from one of our vendors, but since my boss is on a week-long cruise (that left yesterday) and Nathan and I were sad about dinner, I took it as a sign that the pizza was meant for us.

So I brought it home!
And do you know what I discovered? Not one delicious deep-dish pizza, but two! Holy guacamole!


Truly a pre-Chrismas miracle for a couple of house-bound plague monkeys. Even Kink was excited... but can you blame him? (I didn't blame him, but I sure didn't let him get any closer than this...)


Fortunately in the O'Richey-O household we have Freezing Technology, and thus did not have to worry about pizza number two going to waste (because let's face it- your average person can only handle about one (two maybe) slice(s) of Giordano's pizza.


Behold! I'll take this over Scrooge's goose any day.


Seriously- even cold this thing smelled amazing.


But enough of that- it's oven time!


Twenty minutes later we had a pie so good it all but erased our former sadness. Probably killed some bacteria, too...


Look how deep! Eek!


And then it was time to dig in!


And as we bit into our unexpected culinary miracle, all I could think to say was, "Universe bless us, every one!"

(Punchline! Get It??)

There is not much writing in me at the moment, because it is all given over to being sick and miserable. Not so sick and miserable as I was this morning, to be certain, and nowhere near so sick and miserable as my poor, crippled-immune-system-husband, but still. So rather than try to dazzle you with my prose, I will dazzle you with the same quick wit I was entertaining the medical staff with at the clinic (note: if you follow me on Facebook you've already read the punchline. Sorry...)

***

A man and his wife are sitting in a private waiting room, she on the examination table, he in the "extra" chair. He, as he is wont do to, had just said something that he deserves to be smacked for.

"I am going to punch you," says his wife, doing her best to glare at him. It is not particularly effective, given her weakened state. He raises an eyebrow at her, an eyebrow that says, And just how do you propose to do that? She holds up a clenched hand and continues, "I need you to walk into my fist."

Conversation With My Muse

"Not good enough."

"What? What do you mean, 'not good enough'?"

"I mean precisely what I said. This offering is pathetic, and certainly not worthy of reward."

"How can you say that? It's exactly the same thing I gave you last time!"

"Precisely my point. And if you can't bother to be creative, why should I?"

"...I think you misunderstand your role in this relationship."

"And I think you should be more polite to the higher being you're petitioning. Now, come up with a better offering."

"How about extreme frustration? Does that do anything for you?"

"No, but the sarcasm might."

Omega

Recently on Dinosaur Comics, we've been learning the story of Robert Scott. In case you do not care to click on links today, I will sum his story up thusly: tried to be the first to reach the South Pole, ended up coming in second, and then dying on the way back. Oh, and the rest of his crew, too.

Tragic, tragic.

Anyway, part of what we learned about in Dinosaur Comics was that Captain Scott (whose middle name was Falcon how cool is that?!) wrote a final letter to his wife, which, quite frankly, made me cry, especially because he goes on a great deal about how much he loves her and his main regret is that the price of his mission is that he will never see her face again. I mentioned this to Nathan, and he said (incredible paraphrasing going on here), "Don't worry- I have no plans for adventuring: don't want to be the first at anything. I'll be the last."

This, of course, got my story-brain going down the path of people who want to be the first to do something, and what if a guy really wanted to be the first at something and kept narrowly missing, so instead he decides to be the last to do something. And at first I cracked a joke about this guy getting to the South Pole and sitting there and shooting anyone who got within a hundred yards of it, thus ensuring he'd be the last to reach it. But then I got to thinking- well, he's going to die eventually, and then someone else will just come along and do it. So I thought, well, he could do something similar with a planet. Booby-trap it, or something. And now my mind is a whirl with "How would I permanently ensure that my character be the last to do a given thing?"

Excellent fodder, I think. But it will definitely have to percolate for a while. Maybe I'll turn it into a writing prompt for my writer's group...