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 |  Impromptu writing, whatever comes...on writing or whatever the question of the day is. |
    I've been blogging all through my days without knowing that it was blogging; although, this isn't necessarily the only thing I do without knowing what I'm doing. Since I write on anything that's available around me, my life has been full of pieces of scribbled paper flying about like confetti. I'm so happy to finally have a permanent place to chew the fat.  So far my chewing the fat is on and off.  Maybe, I lack teeth. Feel free to comment, if you wish.  Thank you very much, Cindy, for this honor and the beautiful graphic.  This Blog Continues in "Everyday Canvas "    |
| Fires, floods, plane crashes and murders, terrorists, do-gooders, politicians, liars, lawyers, East, West, North, South, different continents, seas, oceans, men, women, children, globalization, prejudice, treaty, war...this world is a tour of disaster and joy. They say, "Don't try to understand the whole world at once. Take only a small part of it." So I took as small a part of the world as I could take: The Treasure Coast Square Mall at Jensen Beach, Florida. I walked around the food court, big stores, small stores, kiosks in the middle that give the place the aura of a white elephant sale, the pedicure joint emanating nose-wrenching odors that chase me away from entering Borders next door, Cell Phone venders, a dollar store, Zales displaying its not so pricey jewelry due to the fact that the main store is going through a renovation (good stuff must be hiding in a safe somewhere while the sales is in front of the store in a boxlike place), health food and vitamin stores, Radio Shack, Abby of London photographers, Coach bags, Victoria’s Secret, which is bound to put on view whatever it is that should be secret, and the fancy coffee sellers. Through all this and the choo choo train of the kiddies, for me, the most interesting scenes were the women who used their hands as ladles to stir the contents of their purses and handbags, searching for that one elusive item, whatever it may be, their car keys, cards, or something to quiet the kiddies with. I watched their motions with complete comprehension. Some women lifted a leg and rested the purse on the leg as they searched. Others added frowns, stuck out tongues, and wrinkled noses to the dance. Still others cursed and muttered under their breaths. One person decided on the method of elimination and gave her items one by one to her husband as if he were the cloak room. A few hunted for a flat stable place to lean on as they rummaged inside their Ali Baba’s cave. Others went for a flat surface like a store counter to position their bags. One emptied all the contents on a bench until her bag looked like an deflated vessel. Among the numerous contents I espied a flask, a styrofoam cup and a part of what looked like a bagel. I assume most women were looking for a credit card that slipped from a wallet. And they all disemboweled their life stories as they stirred their sacks, backpacks, handbags, shoulder bags, hobo bags, slings, and totes. So I stirred mine also, acting as if I wasn’t hearing my curious hubby’s, “What are you up to?” line of questioning. He never understands that I want to follow the pack, so I don’t bother to explain. I fished out two WC pens, one WC pencil, my sunglasses in their case, my wallet, my money purse, a pack of Dentyne Ice sugarless peppermint gum, my medicine cabinet in a zippered bag, an empty plastic bag just in case, comb, checkbook with the appointment calendar, a tiny notepad, a WC journal, a pocket pack of Kleenex, eyeglass repair kit with a magnifier, few customer copy versions of checks from Dolphin Bar, a pack of Prilosec, a tiny bottle of Excedrin, earplugs, and car keys. A few crumbled pieces of paper lined the bottom, but I didn’t bother with them. Thus I smiled triumphantly, for here was another part of a small world, a very small one, considering this bag is among the smaller ones that I carry. |
| Haha! Not that I didn’t try, but it did not take. I am writing this because, after reading the financial advice article down below, I recalled something that happened in my family about twenty nine years ago. Here is the beginning of the article: “Kids Can Learn by Helping With Shopping Wednesday, August 15, 2007 3:49 PM EDT The Associated Press By EILEEN ALT POWELL “NEW YORK (AP) — For Lori Mackey, the back-to-school shopping season is a time for teaching. While her children are busy selecting notebooks and new outfits for the first day of class, she's busy explaining to them the importance of comparison pricing and staying within a budget. "You have families that can spend $1,000, and you have families that can spend $200," said Mackey, the founder of Prosperity4Kids Inc. in Agoura Hills, Calif., which specializes in financial education for children. "It really doesn't matter how much you've got — it's an ideal opportunity to teach kids the value of money." Easy to say for Ms. Powell. I bet she never met kids like mine. When my children were small, I was of the same opinion as that writer; so, two days before school opened, I took my kids shopping for school supplies. The younger one was all excited about his promotion to first grade and the older one liked the teacher who was assigned to his class. Our shopping spree went very well. The boys seemed to understand the basics; we all had a great time with our comparison shopping; and afterwards, we enjoyed a happy lunch at the mall. When we came home, we put the supplies inside a large drawer in a cabinet in the den. I told the boys they could get what they needed when they needed it, be it pencils, note-books, and other stationery items. After four or five days, the older boy screamed in shock. “Mom, we've been robbed!” When I asked what happened, he led me to the school supplies drawer. I couldn’t believe my eyes. From all those supplies only two note-books and two pencils were left. “Why would anyone take only the school supplies?” I wondered out loud. Then, I thought maybe the younger one took them to his room, because lately, he had gotten into the habit of taking the knick knacks inside the house to his room and sitting on the floor to examine them. I checked his room and other rooms but found nothing. At that time, he was in the backyard playing with a neighbor’s child. I called him inside and asked him if he knew anything about the missing supplies. He looked at me funny and then said, “Sure. Weren’t they for school? I gave them all to the kids in my class. You want me to share, don’t you!”  I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. As a result, more shopping was done and stricter rules were set. Truth is, he is still the same way. He gives the shirt off his back and walks around shirtless. Some things never change. |
| Sometimes life plays practical jokes on a person, and if that person is a goofy goose, anything covered within the Murphy’s Law may descend upon her. My passport expired in March, and since I might travel out of the country again, a renewal was in order. So, after downloading a renewal form, I went to get my picture taken. Consequently, I am already reeling from jetlag even without stepping in an airplane. To start with, I have difficulty assuming a blank expression on demand, even if normally my expression is blank. Then, the last time I had my passport photo taken in NYC, the photographer had told me to take my glasses off and to remain with no-laughing, no-smiling, no-grinning face with my mouth closed. Closing my mouth? For me, climbing Everest would be easier; how can I resist the temptation to snicker or to make an offhand comment, but then, no grinning is also difficult, because I find I always have to grin at life, finding it so ridiculously funny. This morning, therefore, I stood in front of the white background, took my glasses off, took off the headband holding my hair from spilling over my face, and looked into the photographer's shutter. I should have combed my hair and looked into a mirror before looking into the lens, but the photographer was waiting, and acting nonchalant is my modus operandi, even if inside me I am intolerably chalant. Looking into the shutter also proved to be a task, because my eyes went out of control due to the existential torment brought on by the requirement of blank expression, and I stared at the photographer’s left cheek with the black, permanent Sharpie ink stain. After he clicked and the posing ordeal was over, the discovery of the result became my second venture. “Here you are,” said the photographer while placing the photos inside the bright blue card case. I took the case from him and unfolded it. The result almost made me shriek, but with another gargantuan effort, I forced that blank expression on myself again. When I raised my glance, I noticed the smirk on the photographer’s face. I still kept a straight face, I imagine, since all this was not really the photographer’s fault, although he could at least wipe off that smirk from his face. After all, wasn’t I nice enough not to comment about the ink stain on his left cheek? Now, in the photo, I look like I am on the ten most wanted list. Even the shoe-bomber in the news looked more docile than me. Worse yet, I’ll have to contend with this passport for another ten years. On top of getting jet-lagged and confused about which airport we have landed on, I’ll have to put up with the photo on my passport and its implications. Still, I am too cheap and too traumatized to repeat the process. I think…either I should stop traveling or I should brace myself for whatever may happen. Heaven forbid that I lose my bags or go into a wrong waiting line… With this photo in my passport, you may never hear from me again. |
| The lesson is: Don’t chase your hat especially when it lands in the middle of a highway. “Trucker Hit by SUV While Chasing Hat” “Monday, August 13, 2007 4:42 PM EDT DES MOINES, Iowa (AP) This happened when the trucker stopped to secure a load he was carrying. The news says, “A gust of wind blew off the brown baseball cap that he had worn for years. The cap landed in the median.” Luckily, the trucker is alive except for a broken wrist and a dislocated shoulder. This bit of news got my attention, for I am known for chasing after things floating about with the wind either in the real or the metaphoric sense. I could definitely chase after my Writing.com hat, come what may. When I was six years old, I almost fell down from a third story balcony, chasing after a floating balloon that sailed out of the window. Someone grabbed me in half nelson and pulled me inside the house. This caused my mother to faint, which was quite commonplace since my mother fainted at the drop of a hat (forgive the pun). On the other hand, I made her faint quite a few times, because “chasing after the wind” with speed and maneuverability has been a skill I was born with. Now in this age, because I have lost some of the speed, I am trying to master the last minute face-offs with the wind. And the wind is catching on to me and it is the one chasing me. Depression No: 4 in the Atlantic is one proof of that, and it is making me crankier, forcing my chasing skills to the forefront, as I imagine myself running after our roof flying in the wind. Still, maybe I won’t chase after the roof in the wind, but the roof better not sail away with my WC hat. Okay, okay! I am allowed to get silly. It is the age or the wind, you might say. |
| I learned a gigantic lesson today. I must never sing, especially in Seattle. And I admit to being “yellow.” According to AP news, “A woman attacked a karaoke singer belting out Coldplay on Thursday night, telling him he "sucked" before she pushed and punched him to get him to stop singing, bar staff said. The man was singing "Yellow" when it happened. "It took three or four of us to hold her down," bartender Robert Willmette said.” According to the bartender, the attacker had only one drink. I guess some singing can make people crazy with or without a drink. If a man feels he is chanteur enough to sing in a bar (okay, so what if it is karaoke!) and he gets attacked, can the poor of voice like moi ever have the courage to get up and croon? The lesson here is one should never howl out of tune, even if one is having the time of his life. At this juncture, American Idol comes to mind where the art of singing, or rather dreaming in public, has turned into a murder/mystery performance. Yet, nowadays everyone sings for any reason. Even the respectable senator from Arizona, John McCain, sang, "'Bomb bomb bomb, bomb bomb Iran,” to the tune of Barbara Ann in a VFW Hall sometime in mid-April. Luckily, he was greeted “with thunderous applause.” Could that applause wake us up? I guess now the ball is in the Democrats’ court. More singing, anyone? We’re awesome, you know, when it comes to singing out of tune. |
| Finally…A teacher up high! It is about time that we held teachers as the cream of the crop and carried them over our heads…even if as a first step, we send them over the atmosphere on a risky mission. This Endeavor is quite late in coming, but it is here and hats off to NASA for sending Barbara Morgan to carry the idea of education high above the ground after her late forerunner McAuliffe. Morgan said in an interview released by NASA, "Christa was, is, and always will be our 'Teacher in Space,' our first teacher to fly" in a shuttle. She truly knew what this was all about -- not just bringing the world to her classroom, but also helping ... to show the world what teachers do." According to AP News, “Morgan will speak with students in Idaho, where she taught elementary classes before moving to Houston in 1998 to become the first teacher to train as a full-fledged astronaut. If the mission is extended from 11 days to 14 days as planned, thanks to a new station-to-shuttle power converter, she'll also have a chance to answer questions from students in Virginia and Massachusetts.” What Morgan will do up there in no man’s land is attention getting, true; however, the message she is carrying for the youth of this planet is even more significant than what will happen to a teacher in space. Because she is an educator, she may be able to get the attention of students, parents, and legislators to the importance of education in our lives. She may be able to coerce them toward the attainment of knowledge, not by pouring money into dead-end projects, but by truly giving the importance to solid education that our youth so desperately needs. NASA scored with this Endeavor, maybe to boost its own image, but still NASA scored. I wish, in future, NASA will continue supporting and encouraging teachers and education, without the fanfare of sending them to space or on dangerous missions, but maybe employing them in some teaching capacity to encourage learning on the planet earth. Teachers ARE important. |
| "Nearly 75 percent of men said they would prefer to work for a man than for a woman. One reader's explanation: "They die sooner."" Reported by Jackie Farwell in "Business Watercooler Stories" AP. Hmmm, ha ha ha funny, but I wonder why. Could it be because we are pms'ing every minute or is it because guys want mommies to cuddle and give in to their whims? Or is it a long-established habit to look down upon and discriminate against women in general, even if--as a society--we deny our prejudice against those (!) second class citizens? Interesting questions like these keep coming to mind, but then, this is nothing new, and old wounds need to take their time to have their scars erased. Sometimes, the scars stay for good. Actually, the deeper the wound the more adamant the scars. Maybe that's it. The depth of our prejudices is directly proportional to our scars. A Harvard researcher and Richard Clarke Cabot Professor of Social Ethics at Harvard University, Mahzarin Banaji, discovered that people are more prejudiced than many of them think they are. The bias shows in their brains. It is actually there in the make-up of the mind because the fear center is activated. Moreover, discrimination shows itself in the brain scans of people The Harvard Gazette says: "The research, done in collaboration with William Cunningham and Marcia Johnson at Yale University, suggests our conscious brain can lead us away from the prejudices of our unconscious mind... "A liberal scholar of Indian background, Banaji was shocked when a computer test she uses to uncover prejudice in others revealed her own unconscious bias toward black Americans and elderly people... "Another unexpected finding reveals an unconscious feeling about women pursuing careers rather than staying at home. You'd think that would be strictly a male bias, but men and women show it equally. And to a startling degree. Eighty percent of test takers associate men with a "work" category and women with a "family" category." We should all watch ourselves with that discrimination, prejudice thing. We might actually be inflicting a serious disease on our minds. |
| According to yesterday’s news, Russia is planting its rust-proof ftitanium flag under the North Pole with a bravado of undersea colonialism. The flag will be lowered down by two Russian submarines, in a capsule. Btw, doesn’t anyone remember what Russians did to their submarine Kursk when it stalled in deep waters? Dear Santa, please watch it; your territory is in jeopardy. But I think the fault lies with Al Gore. He shouldn’t raise Cain by making so much noise about the Arctic’s melting. According to sources, “Melting polar ice has led to competing claims over access to Arctic resources.” And… “President Vladimir Putin has already described the urgent need for Russia to secure its 'strategic, economic, scientific and defense interests' in the Arctic.” The guy has some nerve plus gall and wormwood to pull his weight and muscle against international laws. Current laws say countries may control only an economic zone of 200 nautical miles beyond their land borders. The North Pole is not currently regarded as part of any single country's territory and is therefore administered by the International Seabed Authority. Putin can’t just plant a flag anywhere he wants and claim it as his territory, unless it is in another galaxy and he and his buddies want to move away for good. Russia’s claim to a piece of international undersea property, because it is rich in oil, gas, and mineral reserves, is challenged by several countries, starting with USA and Canada, and rightfully so. Yet, Russians or rather Putin and the likes of him say this is “one heroic mission” or “scientific expedition.” They also claim “The Arctic is Russian.” Oh, puhleez! Are we still in the Middle Ages when people can put up a flag anywhere and claim the place as their own? Also, isn’t it strange that while Russia cannot even dig into its extensive natural resources in its own land (Siberia comes to mind), Putin stakes a claim to the Arctic? Here in WC, SM better hire some border patrol. I don’t like where this flag affixing is leading us to, next. Who knows who else will put up a flag on our site!  |
| This morning I read an article titled, “Titters, Snickers and Guffaws, With a British Accent,” in NY Times. Its byline belongs to Ben Brantley and I suspect the article, about the British TV and summer theater season in London, has also ran in the Times. Although the author snickers about some British productions, he admits to enjoying their penchant to provoke laughter. He also addresses the differences between the American and the British sense of humor. I agree there is a difference. The difference, however, is not in the silliness or seriousness or the understanding of comedy. It is in the originality. Anything original, here in US, we use it non-stop and abuse its originality until it stops being original. British, on the other hand, try to find novel ideas and approaches to comedy, taking it to new heights while we hash and rehash same formula with nauseating frequency. I believe this is true because our right-wingers are also tight-wingers, and their raised eyebrows can scare away brilliance. Accordingly, since they mostly own the media, their approval or disapproval halts artistic expression in its conception. The British, on the other hand, are not afraid of rattling a few sensitivities. In US, we do create different situations and settings, but the general formula usually stays the same. Do not the British stoop to formulaic situations? Surely, they do, but with what little I saw in their productions, their reverting to a formula stays inside the same production or sit-com series. I adore the British comedies on TV. Since I can’t go to London for theater each season, I watch or tape the British sit-coms when we run across them on PBS or on a cable channel. One of my old favorites is “Alo, Alo,” a sit-com series, starring a Frenchman, a resistance-aiding but greedy café owner. About ten or more years ago, I used to watch it on the PBS channel. The storyline of the series were repetitive but cleverly and candidly repetitive, within the same series’s framework. Coming back to the article, although the author hints at Shakespeare’s lack of inventiveness for not coming up with original plots, he also says, in comedy, the tale does not count as much as how it’s told. What he has so eloquently said on this subject made me smile, because it so corresponds to the way we revise our items in this tiny cyber community of ours in order to learn writing. “Adjust the volume, tweak the contours, refine the timing and, if need be, fiddle with the setting, and the hoariest yuck-fest can seem as dewy as a morning in May.” Still, the author's faulting Shakespeare did not sit too well with me, but to each his own. Maybe in US, we needed to come up with our own Shakespeare, or at least, some version of him. Maybe then, our response to the hunger of our citizens for comedy would not stop at producing a horde of stand-up comics who think shocking the audience with foul language can mean a solid sense of humor. At the end of the article, after wondering why the hit play “Boeing, Boeing,” shown in London’s West End, did not survive Broadway, the author says about London: “Who knows? Maybe it’s something in the water here, a microbe that breeds receptivity to silliness.” I must be as silly as the British, even if I don't drink their water. |
| According to AP news, Tacoma, Washington transit workers are busybees installing speakers into Tacoma Mall Transit Center, to stop drug deals at the bus stop and other troubled sites. The idea comes from a psychologist and will serve to shake the routine to throw criminals off balance. A city bus driver thought the idea could stir things even more. “The reason we don't have music on the buses is that you can't please everyone. It would just cause drama,” he said. This makes me think that maybe psychologists should learn to drive buses to avoid false reasoning. Not that I don’t appreciate sonatas, concertos and the like. I listen to them quite often when I write, especially Bach, Brahms and Beethoven. So far, they haven’t prevented me from bad writing. On the positive side, drug dealers may learn to appreciate classical music, making their deals to, say, Diabelli Variations. Then, we might call their practice 'Highbrow Dealing.' I just love funny news! |
| Sometimes--though not always--when I write in first person, a few readers here think the story is real. I’m so flattered, but if the story were to be my real-life story, I would choose personal or experience from the genre selection. The funniest example of this took place about four or five years ago when a character at the end of a story announced her pregnancy. Following that, a few people e-mailed to congratulate me on my pregnancy. I told them a pregnancy would be a medical miracle at my age, although I admit some women older than me have given birth during this last year. Now, the latest story "Invalid Item" managed to make me of Mexican descent. I assure everyone, I have no Mexican blood in me that I know of, even if I adore Mexicans, but I am flattered and immensely flattered that four out of six reviewers thought so.  As a matter of fact, the only true incident in that story I managed to sneak from my childhood memories into the writing is the recollection of a pond in the backyard with red fish in it and of a cat scooping out a fish to eat it alive. I remember bawling my eyes out for not being able to avert that catastrophe. That’s it.But then, first person point of view does that. It gives intimacy with the readers, even if, when it comes to plot and motivation development, it may fall short. That is the reason most teachers advise writing students to use the third person, because then, the narrator is inside the minds of all the characters in the story. On the plus side, first person POV captures the personality and the voice of the narrator fully. Probably, the most popular variation of the first person point of view is when the protagonist is the narrator, telling of the events that occurred to him from the way he sees things, subjectively. Sometimes this POV may be objective, but the feat is almost impossible to accomplish, even when it may be assumed that the protagonist has used and can use some introspection into his own psyche and into other characters effectively. The other first person narrator can be a witness. Remember, “Call me Ishmael.” Alternately, the third type of first-person can be a re-teller or the gossip monger who is relating a story he has heard. There is yet another first person and not just one person but a group who tell the story from the first person plural point of view. This rare POV is also called the first person collective. Maybe an untold pitfall for using the first person can be this: the limited nature of the first person may instigate the confusion of the writer with the character, even when the treatment of the story is less than perfect. Oh well, I am flattered anyway.  |
| Is social etiquette more important than one's individual rights? I asked myself this question after a comment to my Rat Meat entry. In China, etiquette is, the commentor informed, you have to eat everything offered by the host. That should do it for some people and for the Olympic games that are going to be held in China. Not that I was planning to attend, but even if I were, I would have canceled the trip. Yet, I shouldn't talk big, because this is not new to me. During a trip in Middle East, a few decades ago when Americans were not deemed as ugly, a host and hostess acted as if they were wronged by me, when I refused to eat more than my stomach could hold. "I cooked for you with my own two hands, and you are not eating. Maybe my cooking is not to your liking," the hostess said, acting slighted as if I murdered a member of her family. This wasn't only with one household, but everywhere I went. Not only that, but people uttered the same refrain as if they were made to memorize it as soon as they learned to talk. Some even added a little more drama to it; others apologized for their ineptitude with the food. "I bought it only this morning. I swear it is fresh." "Did I make a mistake in cooking that dish?" "If you didn't like that dish, I have another one in the kitchen. We could order what you like, also." "You must have much better food in your country.So I understand you won't like ours..." etc, Insistence by the hosts that you eat up, whether you like it or not or whether you can hold it or not, seems to be the accepted norm in quite a few places. I believe, since everything is going global, a global etiquette's existence or at least its preamble is in order. If we had observed the global etiquette to start with, we would not have traipsed into other people's rights to eat, to dress, to believe, in short, to exist as they choose to; thus, in return, neither would they have into ours. Something to think about! |
| I just read this in Yahoo News. "As tasty as a truckload of rats BEIJING (Reuters) - Live rats are being trucked from central China, suffering a plague of a reported 2 billion rodents displaced by a flooded lake, to the south to end up in restaurant dishes, Chinese media reported." It seems a flood has hit Northern China where the rats have abounded. So they are being brought by truckloads to the Southern chic(!) areas. There is more...from the Chinese news: "Guangzhou people are rich and like to eat exotic things, so business is very good," it quoted a vendor as saying," I like exotic things, too, but not that exotic! Now I'll go through the day, saying "eeeewww!" I guess some in India are saying the same "eeeewww!" about our butcher shops. |
| When the news broke that Romney could take the new Florida governor as his running mate, I was delighted beyond belief. I am sure our governor will make a wonderful running mate, and God willing, a vice-president, which will mean Florida will need a new governor. That is the idea! If only we could get Jeb Bush back! After Jeb Bush, the new governor scared away the spineless property insurance companies by putting a cap and provisions on the rates. Then, several new fledgling insurance companies surfaced to make a mess of everything. Our new (!) insurance company changed our rate three times after we paid them in full. They still keep sending new stuff and confusing the population and themselves. Although we have paid up for the next year, I can’t trust this company or any other youngster company. The mature well-established companies have left the state or are on the verge of leaving. The state’s insurance reform plan lowers rates by selling insurers discounted reinsurance. But the first few companies--ours included--to make rate filings have canceled announced rate reductions and instead are raising rates. If so, why did the governor scare away the good ones? The new proposed rates are waiting for the state insurance commissioner’s review. After that, who knows! I know it is easy to blame the companies for price gouging, because they do gouge the prices at every chance they get. Yet, isn’t it easier to pay a little more for insurance from a respectable company and feel safe in a state where almost every town is within the possibility of a hurricane hit each year than paying just as much or more money to a fledgling company that probably will not fulfill its promise? The state is--supposedly--offering the insurance companies cheap reinsurance, and also is promising to provide every company in the state with a golden umbrella that will cover them in the event they have to pay for a real catastrophe. The reality is, in the last hurricane event, even the Florida-government-backed Citizens insurance has given a lot of trouble to its insureds. Now that everyone is talking against the big insurance companies, it seems heresy to be siding with their greed. Still, as much as I don’t like to pay too much, I’d rather feel safe. After all, a $250,000 average home’s $3000-4000 yearly insurance rate in a hurricane zone should not have been any reason for carping. Imagine losing your entire home and belongings and getting paid two years later 20,000 for a 200,000 home and wasting your life in the courts, after you've paid up all your premiums through many years. Stories like this did happen quite a few times over. At the end, our fledgling, not-so-believable new insurance company is still charging us much more than the old, stable company that promptly paid up for our losses, and the deductibles of the new company are much more. To start with, they are not covering the outside structures like the pool enclosure, the covered porch and the outside bathroom and storage area. The old bad(!) boys covered everything and paid up promptly. All this insurance confusion is the result of new Florida governor’s doings. And I feel bad because I voted for him. So, please, take Charlie and put him in the vice-presidential seat. He’ll be safe there. |
| Writing deserves the best possible emotion: passion. People who practice some form of Zen say: “The idea of writing is to be eager, to have a sense of wonder.” Especially the professional must take care here; for he develops a mind-set that everything he does must be perfect the first time out. “Forget about it!” as the great Soprano man says. Any writer shouldn’t expect to be perfect at first draft. “Be open. Don’t have expectations. Don’t think, do.” Yup! Don’t think, do! That’s why we have "Invalid Item" . But, still, do we? Nope! I try, but do I? That is a question I ask myself every writing day. We all want to be perfect right from birth, the first breath, the first word, the first sentence. Yet, the impulse that everything has to be perfect is a huge creativity killer. If you can’t fight your impulses, go for the opposite. Write several crappy pages. The world doesn’t stop and no one really notices, especially if you make at least one note-book or one book item “first draft only.” Then, through the following revisions, you may pick out the good stuff, season the unpalatable, spice the combo and do what you want with your work. Then and only then, you’ll need to expect to stomach sincere criticism. Picking out the good stuff may be tricky, too. At times, it will be like prospecting for gold. Sometimes you’ll have big chunks; other times you’ll need tweezers to pick out your good stuff. Never say I only write in the bumblebee genre. Let yourself go when you write. Let your genre flow into other genres. Make mud, if you will. Mixing colors always brings a fresh approach, and even if it is only mud, it will be your mud. You can be the most talented writer in the world, but if you are not sitting down and writing, what use is that talent? Or do you think your talent will blossom when it goes into hiding? Fat chance! I can’t tell if it is the same for everyone, but stopping for too long kills the daring and the enthusiasm. Given enough rope, unexpressed desire and creativity may shift shape into lowered moods and anger. That anger may even turn inward. Why chance it? So write everyday. Write even if what you write is just a paragraph or one thousand paragraphs. If your computer is down, if your hand is hurt, if you can’t see, you can still write. Use a pencil and paper. Use the back of a napkin. Write inside your head. Dictate something into a tape recorder. Creativity is active like water, for like water it needs to flow. If kept still, it turns into a mildewed, stale pool, attracting flies and disease. Now that I have yakked and yelped on the subject…if I can only go and take my own advice… |
| Finally! I can write even if for a short while. I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to put any two words together since I haven’t written in such a long time. A month really, but it felt like a century. It was the eye thing. Worst is the doctor says the eyes will take a year to fully recover. He is reluctant to prescribe glasses, yet. He must have been expecting me to stay put. Haha! Fat chance! I bought two over-the-counter reading glasses. They are a big improvement over the magnifier. I raised the font size to largest and increased the dpi, which I suspect did a number on the mouse, but I can write; although the eyes need to take a rest every few minutes. I did try to write during the whole ordeal with pencil on paper without seeing well. Some of the writing surfaced with lines all jumbled up. Later, they got a bit better, but by then, I felt disgusted and gave up. Aside from the writing dilemma, other funny things happened. Since I kept breaking dishes and glasses in the kitchen, hubby suddenly got the urge for us to eat out. If I knew this was the trick, I would have thought of breaking things earlier. I have been feeling like a princess, now, although a useless, clumsy one; for on top of getting driven around, people suddenly have put themselves at my beck and call. Not bad! I don’t work anymore, or answer the phone, or take messages since, starting with me, no one can read what I write. During the last month, I listened to books-on-tape, which means quite a few book reviews are glimmering on the horizon. Since I can see the distance much better, I can watch TV. TV viewing was never a favorite thing for me, but some of the extended cable channels are interesting and thank God for the DVD’s and music CD’s. I might not have liked it at all, but this has been an experience which may have produced some material for writing. Well, each cloud has a silver lining, and I am glad to be easing myself into writing again. |
| No kidding! I am worse than you know who, for I am going to throw a tantrum and rant in my old age. Paris Hilton cried her eyes out, not to face jail time. I am mad because my eyes are keeping me out of WC. A few days ago, I had an eye surgery. I thought I would be perfectly okay, give and take a couple of days. Those who went through the same stuff (my husband and my cousin) chirped about their splendid sight right after their patch was removed: “I see so much better!” Well, I don’t. I see so much worse. I told the doctor to do something so I can at least go online. “For some, it takes longer,” he said like a frozen fish filet. “I need to be on a certain site,” I begged. He asked, “Which site?” I answered, “Writing.com.” He looked at me like I pulled a kangaroo out of a hat. “Oh, that… find something else to do.” “You don’t understand. That is my oxygen,” I murmured. “I can see how it can be important for some,” he said absentmindedly, pushing my chin onto the chin plate. “All the way over. Rest your forehead here, all the way up.” As he shone a cobalt blue light into my eye, he murmured. “Some like online sites. I really cannot find time for such (pause) things.” Afraid a four letter word that wouldn't be "love" or something like it could escape my lips, I shut up, replacing the pause in his last phrase with “frivolous.” Although he didn’t say it, now I am fuming at what he might have said, on top of the frustration over my wayward right eye. The expression on my face must have threatened him, because he allowed me half an hour to an hour computer time and put hubby in the sentry shack. Unfortunately, when this eye heals, I’ll have to go through the same thing with the left eye, and I can’t help remembering Shakespeare: “Kill all the lawyers!” Today, I can replace “lawyers” with another profession easily. I wonder how Paris Hilton got that sheriff to break out of jail. I might need a sheriff after all this or the sheriff might come after me for replacing the profession Shakespeare named (ahem!) with another certain one. |
| During the 1970’s on Long Island, my husband and I bought tickets to a Tony Bennett concert. When we went there, they announced that Tony Bennett had come down with the flu and Julius La Rosa was going to take his place. They said they’d return the money to those who didn’t want to stay. Nobody asked for a refund and everyone stayed. We all had a wonderful time with Julius La Rosa's magnificent voice, then dancing and dinner that was part of the deal. At the time, Julius La Rosa was a show host on the radio and I used to listen to him. During the dancing we met many people we knew among the crowd. Among them were a finance advisor and his wife, a couple of good friends, my appliance repairman and his wife, several couples from my husband’s job, an old neighbor, and several other people we had met here and there. The reason I am telling all this is because on the local PBS channel tonight they have a program of oldies going on, called “Moments to Remember,” and Julius La Rosa sang a few songs, his fantastic voice still intact. As soon as I saw him, curiosity killed the cat. I asked my husband the name of the hotel this event was held. I even told him that a part of the place was being renovated and they had separated by a curtain the stage and the hall where the tables and the dancing took place. He barely remembered it, and neither of us could remember the name of the hotel. When something like this--no matter how insignificant--starts to bug me, I have to find it out. Not one word we tossed in between us sounded right. A simple Google search didn’t produce any results, not even on LongIslandHistory.com. We dared to call a friend who still lives on Long Island. He and his wife didn’t remember it, either, but they said Marriott has a hotel in its place. Googling Marriott didn’t give any results. By this time, I was going nuts. If I had Julius la Rosa’s or Tony Bennett’s phone numbers, I’d have called them; no kidding! Then, suddenly, the name Motor Lodge popped into my head. When I googled Hauppauge Motor Lodge, I found someone had a page on it, but called it motel from hell and he had a picture. This motel’s name was Olympic Motor Lodge and it didn’t look anything even close to the fancy place we went. Then hubby reminded me that we had dined with another couple at a Greek restaurant called Olympic Restaurant around that place, and that’s how I remembered it. I still wouldn’t give up. The curiosity was killing me. I googled Hauppauge 1970 Lodge. Bad bait; nothing bit. While I was struggling, wallowing, lurching, and reeling with any name that popped into my head, I found a tiny entry that showed a lawsuit by or against a Colonie Hill Complex. That was it! I screamed. I checked with hubby if he remembered the name Colonie Hill. He said it had to be, because it was so, so familiar to him. Then I googled 1970 Hauppauge Colonie Hill Hotel NY. Yessss, it was there. Actually there were several entries, some of them obits; nevertheless, that was it. Phew! The things I do to myself! I wonder if Koontz can come up with a horror story related to forgetting names and titles. |
| I am reading Inés of My Soul (Inés del Alma Mia), Isabel Allende’s latest book. I love the book; however, it seems to me the women writers of today are writing historical fiction with almost accurate historical facts, but by giving a stronger voice to the women of older eras. Laura Esquivel, the writer of books like Like Water for Chocolate and The Law of Love, too, has written such a book called Malinche. Malinche was a real woman and a mythic figure as Hernán Cortés's interpreter and lover, and she accompanied the conquistador on his travels in the New World. Malinche is on my reading list. The preliminary introductions to the book Malinche claim that Laura Esquivel, too, wrote her novel by making the woman heroine sound stronger than and almost as liberated as the women of today. Yet, I doubt that these women could be as strong in those days. The understanding then was misogynistic in the entire world, because cultures deemed women to be nuisances and impediments to the success of men who were made to undertake “serious” tasks and responsibilities. True, in the literature of earlier centuries, women are sometimes thought of as being more compassionate and understanding of the suffering of others, but this was hailed as a weakness, not a virtue (Schopenhauer - "On Women") If we remember the witch hunts of European nations between sixteenth and eighteenth centuries and the accusations of all kinds against women by the entire societal structure with men and women alike, Inés Suárez’s witty, knowledgeable, brave, and conquistador-like actions and her handling of men bordering on control appear to be wishful thinking by Isabel Allende. This is not so bad if Inés Suárez were to become a role model; however, the concept in the novel feels to be very far from the truth and it may minimize the original problem. The question is: Wouldn’t it be more serving to women’s rights efforts to tell the truth as it was and show how women were underrated in history? My belief is--inside the general apology of the Roman Catholic Church--Pope John Paul II’s apology for the actions against the dignity of women and minorities helped more than the fictionalized characters of strong women in history. Making a woman so strong--as she had not been in real life--may reflect a society’s tolerance for women. Yet, it wasn’t so in those days. There was no tolerance toward women's success. That is not to say that there weren’t strong women in those days, but maybe they used more cunning and wits to get their way; otherwise, they would be done away with. Anyhow, I mean no disrespect to Allende’s writing prowess, and she is one of my favorite writers. The book is well written and I hate to put it down. I’ll write a book review as soon as I finish reading it, even if the characteristics of this historical heroine may be more fictional than real. |
| Someone mentioned this morning that European Union had decided some time ago to put the Europeans on diet because they were getting so fat. And we thought we were the only ones! A search gave this information from April 23 from Reuters: “Europe is facing major health and social burdens and the rise in obesity is reaching "epidemic" proportions, the 15th European Congress on Obesity in Budapest was told on Sunday.” Budapest, maybe, but I can’t remember seeing so many obese people in Western Europe. A very few plump and happy ones here and there, and that was it. Not as much as I have been observing the overflowing girths around here during the recent years. If terra firma had built-in weight scales, our country’s measure would sink the continent. When it comes to putting it on, we must be breaking all the records. Otherwise, why would Jay Leno start or finish quite a few of his quips with “How fat are we getting?” Comics know everything. They have to. If they didn’t, they couldn’t find any material to make fun of. Maybe it is a better idea to just listen to comics to get the current news. Real news has turned tabloid and is either trying to scare us or modern newscasters are, in reality, fiction writers. Coming back to the fiction of fat in Europe, I wonder if size zero, one, two, and three French models have managed to reach to size four. Now, that must be alarming. I wonder if this is why some of the diet pills first originate in European labs. But then, if Europeans are getting chubbier, why did the publications on the subject of French women never getting fat become best sellers? Also, what happened to the famed Mediterranean diet? Or is it do as I say and not as I do? Maybe what is happening to Europe has something to do with us. Maybe we are the new super-sized invaders super sizing everybody. |
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