When I started writing over four years ago, the advice came fast and furious. If you know me or went to school with me, you know that it takes me longer than most people to retain information. Once I grab hold, though, it would take a tornado to make me release it.

The first lesson that stuck with me is that walking the line between self-confidence and despair is absolutely normal. I thought it was time to see the shrink, for surely I was losing what little mind I have. Turns out, it comes with the territory, like writer's cramp and writer's block. I'm sure there's a name for it, but I can't quite put my finger on it, so I'll call it Borderline Personality Writing.

A dear friend of mine has Borderline Personality Disorder, and when I asked her to explain the malady she summed it up this way:
"I love you. I hate you. Please love me."

Bingo! That's how it feels to pour your soul out on the page. One minute the words look fresh and lively and you think, "Damn, I'm a genius." Five minutes later the same string of words could be at home only at the bottom of a bird cage.

When taking a test, your first instinct is usually correct. Not so with writing. You must write instinctively, but that's not even half the battle. The real work comes in editing.

I love editing--other's writers' work. Unfortunately, in my own work, I haven't figured out when to leave well enough alone or scrap the entire piece. I will slap that puppy up, down, and sideways until it barks for release. Sensible people know when to give up. I never give up. Perseverance is good. Perseveration is counter-productive.

Four years later, I still can't let go of my preciousssss. No less than 32 stories lie on my hard drive, awaiting my inner editor--many of them so vague and unrealistic it could take weeks to repair each one. Yet, there's a kernel of deliciousness inside--a killer ending, an unexplored theme, or a character begging to be loved or hated.

So I keep writing, and I keep editing. Because with every story I pull from the inner recesses of my mind comes knowledge--not just tips on writing, but also information about how my gray matter processes and retains information. What truly matters to me shows up in the themes and morals I don't realize I'm inserting.

That's the main reason I write: to know my own mind. It stops the voices that haunt my twilight sleep; kills the monsters lurking underneath my dreams. I hate them. I love them. And if I trap them on the page I can rest. At least for five minutes.

An old friend from high school turned me on to this group. I passed several times, seeing a grungy young man on the icon. Boy was I wrong about the cover of this CD. These four adorable young men happen to saw a tall tale as shocking and clean as the blazing fiddle. This is the type of song I wish I could write. Bluegrass. Timely. Evocative. Soulful. Comforting. A modern, universalist, folk hymn if you will, as the voices turn from desperate and greedy to hopeful and peaceful. So Mote It Be.

Kimchi approves this message as 100%, genu-ine, boot-scootin, down-home, country-fried Soul Food.

http://www.crowmedicine.com/media/video-ihearthemall.htm

I hear the crying of the hungry
In the deserts where they're wandering
Hear them crying out for Heaven's own
Benevolence upon them
Hear destructive power prevailing
I hear fools falsely hailing
To the crooked wits of tyrants when they call

I hear them all
I hear them all
I hear them all

I hear the sounds of tearing pages
And the roar of burning paper
All the crimes in acquisition
Turn to air and ash and vapor
And the rattle of the shackle
Far beyond emancipators
And the loneliest who gather in their stalls

I hear them all
I hear them all
I hear them all

So, while you sit and whistle Dixie
With your money and your power
I can hear the flowers a-growing
In the rubble of the towers
I hear leaders quit their lyin'
I hear babies quit their cryin'
I hear soldiers quit their dyin', one and all

I hear them all
I hear them all
I hear them all

I hear the tender words from Zion
I hear Noah's waterfall
Hear the gentle lamb of Judah
Sleeping at the feet of Buddha
And the prophets from Elijah
To the old Paiute Wovoka
Take their places at the table when they're called

I hear them all (9 times)

~Old Crow Medicine Show~

 

You say you got a real solution
Well, you know
We'd all love to see the plan
(the Beatles for you whippersnappers)

Yesterday was the day the music died, if you ask me. John Lennon was the heart and lyrics of the Beatles; his death 30 years ago left the world a poorer place to live. A place with less peace, love, and music.

But this isn't about him; it's about us. Our over-consumption. Our excess packaging and our need to have it all and have it now.

I suppose someone started this revolution with canvas, reusable bags. However, that doesn't go nearly far enough. We need to rethink how we pick up our items and tote them to the car. Do we really need to put a huge jug of apple juice in a bag? It has a handle--use it.

When I go to 7-11 to pick up one tiny container of Coffee-Mate and a cereal bar, the clerk tries to put my items in a bag. Why? I have two hands. I can carry 5 or 6 items at once. Maybe it was due to waitressing for years, but I don't think so. People are lazy and don't think.

All the clerks know me, so they've stopped looking at me like I'm nuts. But they still ask, "Are you sure you don't want a small bag?"

Why would I want a small bag I'll use once and toss? Has the whole country gone mad?

But if you want to see total confusion on someone's face, go to a fast food drive through and order a meal. Say "no bag." Watch the gears turning in the cashier's head, as if translating Farsi to English. *sigh* Just wrap a damn napkin around the sandwich and hand it to me. Then hand me the drink and the fries. I'll find a place for them, I promise. The van is loaded with little niches, including a tray that you can no longer set your cigarette in because it's lined in plastic.

I'm not asking anyone to change the world, just to think before we act. We can make small changes here and there that together, add up to saving a tree or a quart of oil. In the words of P Funk, "Free your mind and your ass will follow."

The ghost of John Lennon approves this message.



 

To everyone getting their undies in a bunch over the supposed "political correctness" of wishing someone "Happy Holidays", here's the real skinny.

First of all, "holidays" is a contraction of "holy days". Since December contains several holy days, (sorry, Christians don't own an entire month) it is completely harmless to wish someone a little happy in their holy.

Secondly, it's hard to tell someone's religion by looking at them. You might feel it is well and mete to wish me a Merry Christmas, but what if I'm Jewish? Jews do give gifts at Hanukkah. Pagans give gifts at Yule. Heck, even atheists give gifts at Christmas! Whether you realize it or not, a bit of consideration for others is not a sin. Not sure how being thankful and generous became a bad trait. Commercial, yes. You can thank Coke for that.

Third, Jesus is not the reason for the season no matter how much you may wish it so. The Pagans were here first, and every tradition you've conveniently adapted as "Christmas" was created by Pagans. Tree? Check. Candles? Check. Gifts? Check. Mistletoe, holly, Santa--all Pagan. Don't believe me? Just ask the Babylonians, the Romans, and the Celts.

We've been very nice about letting you borrow them, the least you can do is get the history correct and stop lying about the meaning of symbols. December 21st is the rebirth of the SUN, which is a fact of nature no one can wish away. Three hundred some years after Christ was born, Pope Julius I switched the day of Christ-Mass to December 25th to convert Pagans, and he succeeded mightily.

It would have been blasphemy to erect an evergreen in a church before the 1500's.. Red berries were the blood of the Goddess before Jesus was a twinkle in Mary's eye. Mistletoe was so HOLY that enemies were required to lay down their weapons if they met beneath it. Through the years we turned that into kissing. (Hey, I didn't say the natural morphing of cultural celebrations was bad, just the blatant revisionism Beg, borrow, steal all you want--just cite yer sources.)

Listen, I got nuttin' against Christians. Some of my best friends are Christian! I do love me some Jesus Christ; he's my home boy. But you can't have it both ways. You can't just steal another group's traditions and then condemn the same group for sticking to the original meaning of the pilfered items. Well, you can, but any anthropologist worth her trowel and era will call you on it.

Checking out

ID: 1207944   (Rated: E) Quotation Inspiration: Official Contest  Use the quote to inspire your creativity. Write a Non-fiction essay and win big prizes! by Diane

(Written December 9, 2007)

I finally got to my sister's house last night for a dose of holiday cheer. We wrapped and conspired, gave unwanted advice to the youth, and generally had ourselves a fine time planning our families' entire month. (They have no idea... )

I realized that I miss her when I don't see her for a few days. This bond is odd to me; I grew up by myself. Most of my friends still live in the country, and we don't see each other often, so I'm used to long stretches between visits. And even though "Aunt KK" is my biological sister, she's really my best friend.

We did not meet until I was 5 and she was 7. Every few years our Mother would bring her and my other sister, KL, to visit on my birthday. I knew I had another family, but they didn't seem real. I had the impression that they didn't want me, and even though I felt like an alien from Mars where I was, I knew the woman who kissed my hurts and made me eat vegetables as Mom--the one person who would always love me.

So I never got to know my sister until she got married and moved to Germany. She was 18 and I was a 15 year old emotional mess when she invited me to walk with the family in her wedding. I barely knew the girl, but that never stopped her from loving me unconditionally. I think she was born with a huge capacity to give.

She stole my heart the day we met. A thin girl in pigtails jumped from the car and ran to hug me. "Please don't cry. I'm your SISTER! We brought you a present from Disneyland!"

I calmed down immediately. While my mothers talked, we chased each other around the front yard, kicking up dust. She talked non-stop the entire time, about everything and nothing important: gymnastics, TV, and what we learned in school. When she wasn't talking, she was smiling and laughing. I thought she was the coolest kid in the universe.

When they left, she told me that I would always be her sister and she would always love me. And she has never for one second gone back on that promise.

I would list all the things she's done but that would be boring. The most important thing she has done is be there for me, every day, whether she's pissed at her husband, tired or sick, or overwhelmed. She drops it all to be in the moment, to comfort me, to give me advice.

All because we have the same mother. While many take that for granted, I never will. She didn't have to include someone she barely knew in her wedding. She didn't have to send cool German stuff half the way around the world to delight a teenager. She didn't have to invite me to live with her after our mother died, but she did. Thick blood or not, she chose to be my friend. I have a feeling we've been friends before, and thankfully, one of us recognized that.

Recently the baby in this picture tied the knot, and KK presided over the affair, as always, with the grace of a queen, the enthusiasm of a child, and the patience of a saint. This is how my heart will always visualize her--bubbling over with enthusiasm for the moment and emanating love.

Doodle turns 8 today! We made the cutest RIP tombstones out of black cardstock with pastel letters, and inserted a Halloween pencil and eraser. She wanted to give them to her teachers, so we made the rounds this morning. They were definitely a hit, as she made the mistake of giving one to a friend before I could tell remind her not to. I have no training on how to hold off a mob of zombie children, so we ran for our lives with me yelling behind, "Wait until after school!" Jeez, you'd think kids don't already have a ton of cheap trinkets their forbearing mothers have to pick up off the floor and threaten to toss in the trash!

In all seriousness, 8 is the new 12. It seems to be a transition between "little girl" and "girl" that I wish wouldn't happen. She's less likely to climb on my lap, snuggle in bed, bring me flowers for no reason, sing incomprehensible rhymes and turn in circles to catch a shaft of sunlight on her nose. School pushes logic and reason and problem solving and responsibility down her throat. I know it is right and mete, but I want her to believe in unicorns and fairies and our ability to communicate with each other in our minds.

She asks me if ghosts and fairies and demons and Santa Claus are real. She asks me if we can really do magic. How can I deny one and allow another?

There's a reason why we didn't get to open her Medicine Bag last year--it wasn't time. This year, we will review all the gifts she was given by her God and Goddess parents on her Blessing Ceremony. Candles for courage and strength, a mirror for self-reflection and confidence, a Buddhist saying for wisdom, a gold heart necklace for love. I've forgotten the others, as the golden pouch sits untouched, high on a shelf, at the end of the painted rainbow.

So if I must sum it all up so it makes sense, I'll say, "The power of the mind is very real." We create Magic as well as the demons that plague us. The nitty-gritty details of religious belief she'll decided for herself over the years. For now, demons in Disney movies are not real, fairies leave mushroom rings in our yard, the only ghosts are our happy ancestors who visit on Chinese New Year, and Santa Clause will come down the chimney this year!

And I will personally write him and ask him NOT to bring that stupid Barbie video camera she wants.

I held my stepfather’s hand the other day—probably for the first time ever. He’s not a hand-holding kinda guy. He lay in the hospital bed, sagging more to the right with each head nod, each guttural response, each fidgety grasp of the sheets with his good left hand. It was all I knew to do—to slip a few fingers through his clenched right fist, although it reminded me of a plastic Halloween prop, the skin bloated with saline gone awry like a perfect soufflé.

The other thing I know how to do is laugh at pain. So when the fidgeting turned to full-on frontal exposure, I had to make a joke about him showing his junk to the whole world. He appreciated it. Even paralyzed, even with his mouth hung open in a state of surprise, he managed to laugh with his eyebrows. You’ve got to give the man credit for hanging in there each day, through the delirium and pain and his body’s betrayal. He hasn’t slept in his own bed since September 1st. Of course, if you’ve ever met him you know he’s been through worse, in The War. The man really does live a charmed life, although I fear his magic wand is almost empty.

When the blood tech came, my sister left to demand pain meds, and I moved to the other side of the bed. Through the maze of brightly-colored wrist bands his left hand was an antique photo, scratched and splotched with brown, and when I picked it up, lighter than I would have guessed and surprisingly smooth. He placated me for a moment with the hand-holding, then went back to tugging on the covers.

I thought of my adoptive father, of holding his hand in a similar situation. Stroke. Aspiration and a turn for the worse. Talk of feeding tubes and issues of life support. Damned if that man didn’t make an almost total recovery. (We have our suspicions he only got well to escape my sister’s motor mouth!) He’s still the same, stubborn man he’s always been, just a bit slower and unsteady. Then again, eighty-one years will do that to you.

My stepfather is 86. Whether he “makes it” at this point is irrelevant. The point is that he’s comfortable and he feels safe. Judging by the scoreboard of injuries and attempted assaults on nurses, I’d say he’s the same, strong, stubborn, sexist man he’s always been—but he probably doesn’t feel safe. The remedy is simple enough: while he’d prefer we turn Republican and listen to Fox with him all day, he’d probably settle for us holding his hand. And so that is just what we will do.

 

Happy Blogday to Me!

Felt it was time for a new start, as Thursday will make 4 years here at WDC. My, how the time skitters away when you aren't looking. Looking over my last blog, I can see that it was too personal, so this one is footloose and fancy free--no personal stuff, just silly crazy writing practice.

Enjoy, Facebookers:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S7MuwPlOiNQ