The Dingo Ate My Baby

Re-entry is difficult.
Have been home from Mexico 15 hours.
Clothes in suitcases.
House is a wreak.
Kids are bouncing off walls.
87 emails.
One contained critique of Christmas movie.
YIKES! He no likey!
Decided to only write short sentences.
No commas needed.
Less problems with punctuation.
Critique burried me alive.
May quit writing and take up salsa dancing.
Seriously, he hated it.
Damn, there's that abhorrent comma.
Where is the Caballero with the tequilla?

Saddest sight in Mexico? I know you probably think I'm going to say something that involves the intense poverty of the country but no...

65 year old drunk man at the airport, falling down in the food line. Grabs a hold of a teenage boy and explains to him that he's in a band! His lead guitarist and singer passed out on stage and he had to finish the show by himself. Clearly he finished the tequila as well. He was drooling his soft drink down his shirt as he belted out one of the bands songs. Does this man have any idea how ridiculous he is? This teenage boy was very gracious to him and let the guy tell him his story. Even checked back with him later to make sure he was getting on his flight.

Let me just say, the critique I received (and paid for) was far less gracious. Not a single word of encouragement. Pretty sure he could have just said, "this is shit" and saved himself all the effort.
I knew I wasn't paying for hand holding from my mother, but I also didnt expect him to dangle my baby over the balcony.

I think I'll let it set for a while, and then go back to see if I can come up with anything constructive to salvage.

Maybe I can start my own band.

Cujo

Cujo was written by Steven King totally blitzed! He admits to it in my absolute favorite book of all time, Steven King On Writing. He seriously doesn't even remember writing it.

It leads me to wonder whether we let the little elf speak his mind better after a couple of cocktails. Let’s test, shall we…

My very good friend Sue just sent me a recipe for Cosmos. It’s not just any recipe- it is the BEST RECIPE EVER!!! I can only give this opinion after my third. My typing is slow but my mind is a racing. I happen to think the best poem I ever wrote, was after a few glasses of a fabulous Cabernet. I will include that at the bottom.

For now, lets just go on an exploration.

I had a thought the other day about humility. What does it mean, and can a human being actual achieve it at any complete level? So, we’ll start the story there…

Brad Pickens walked with the confidence of a three hundred pound prizefighter. No matter that he was really a buck twenty, and had the acne of an eighteen year old. Even at the ripe old age of forty-two, he knew where he was going, all the time.

Today his goal was a park bench in the middle of Grand Avenue. The place in his sights, was teeming with vagrants and pigeons, the dirty little things begging for every last bite. As he rounded the corner, he saw his goal, and swiftly placed the bag as he strode past.

Fifty feet from the target he stopped by a tree, as if to tie his shoe. Slowly he turned and leaned, without any overt action, he watched to see what would take place at the bench he had chosen.

Ten minutes past, then twenty. Pickens busied himself with a newspaper someone had haphazardly thrown away in the trash bin next to him. As his timer rounded to 22:22, she came along.

Kate Williams was coming from a doctor’s appointment. She was mulling over the facts revealed to her in a completely clinical manner. “Mrs. Williams, your biopsy came back positive. It’s cancer…” the information after the fact, was a blur. All Kate needed at that moment was a place to sit down. She stumbled to the bench and placed herself upon it as delicately as she would fine china. Then she sank into her misery.

How can this happen to someone so young? How can this happen to someone with so many plans?

Pickens watched her with exclusive attention, biting his nails and wondering about her story.

Finally, Kate looked up through her clouded eyesight, and noticed the bag resting attentively next to her. Her first thought was to leave it and go home. Then, the curiosity that had been a part of her since she was four years old, won the battle. She opened the bag.

As she pulled out the money, Pickens walked away. She found the prize and what she did with it from there was her plan, her decision. He walked away without knowing what the tears meant that fell unabashedly down her perfectly shaped face. He didn’t need to know. All of that wasn’t part of his story.

Kate frantically searched the faces around her, looking for someone that would reveal to her what was happening. How does this bag of money relate to the worst possible moment of her life? How can it be sitting here without any strings attached? The questions were too much for the moment.

Slowly Kate lifted her spirit from the bench and walked from the park towards her home.


(from suz) I’ll have my editor check the commas’ later. Ha… here is the poem I wrote in a happy elf speaking state. I love it; I think it tells the story of my sister and her husband very well. Thank you August Briggs.


The Music Never Lies

See through drops of wine
Run down my perfect glass
I ask myself quietly
Why don’t the good things last?

A perfect love between the two
A girl and boy so young
Of all the lyrics playing
A perfect song they sung.

He always loved the music
Different kinds, a different tune
Their lives the perfect melody
All gone, disappeared too soon.

She lives her life in memories
Her boys they live it too
All shades a constant reminder
The memories seem so few.

Now everything is different
The road that they had taken
So suddenly it ended
In happiness forsaken.

The killer hides in constant shadows
Of how it could have been
How happy the life of four
No truths will ever amend.

The lies are not uncommon
Among the guilty parts
Their truths are deeply hidden
Among their troubled hearts.

And in the end, who pays the price
But not for she who cries
Her boys and her will always know
The music never lies.

My Elves

My sister and I went to a talk yesterday by Elizabeth Gilbert, author of Eat Pray Love. It was a really interesting and fun time. She gave some wonderful anecdotes, some advice and her perspective about not only the book but about writing and finding your own path.

The thing that struck me most about her was the same as when I was reading EPL. She thinks a lot like me. She seems terribly scattered. One of her first stories was about missing a plane while sitting right next to the boarding gate. She wasn’t meditating or thinking about anything life changing, she was simply in her own world with her everyday thoughts. The plane boarded with people all around her and she missed it all.

She went on to say that on the other end of this mishap, that is completely part of her personal make-up, was a room full of people who paid to hear her talk about how spiritually grounded she is now. How she has gone from being a depressed mess to a whole person. She didn’t intend to let anyone down, it just happened, but it conflicts with the message that people may read from EPL.

I find that happens to me.

I think people have an impression of who I am that is not completely flattering. They think I am flaky, and not particularly caring. How else can you explain the fact that someone close to me just told me a very personal and significant story about themselves and I never heard a word of it.

I tend to fade when there is drama. You know the everyday kind that seems terribly important to those that are in the eye of the hurricane? It’s really not that I don’t care. I just simply lost the connection. Dropped the call. Slipped off the edge, right in front of you.

Elizabeth spent the second half of the event answering questions. Someone asked her how she handles the criticism that EPL is very self absorbed. I suppose that’s what people think of me. Too busy with my own thoughts to listen or remain present. And I suppose in a way that’s true, but the thoughts that are usually causing such a stir that I can’t ignore them are not entirely about me. Usually they are about completely fictional characters or situations.

Elizabeth called it your Genius. Not that I think I am one, but she described artists of the past as having Genius that is similar to having a little elf in your house. A house elf, you know, like Dobby from Harry Potter. I can relate to this well. The thoughts that distract me most often almost seem like a conversation between this elf and myself.

I start down a path that was constructed by someone I am talking with. The first thoughts might actually be real and related to the conversation but within a couple of seconds they jump around like little Mexican jumping beans and land somewhere completely fictional and honestly more interesting.

I suppose this is all very hard to understand, as it seems hard to explain. And I am a little afraid that if I explained myself better you all might think I am psychotic. Little elf voices in my head, Yikes!!

I was just very satisfied to know that I am not the only one out there with these particular obstacles. It also bolsters my confidence to know, I am not self absorbed or uncaring, I am simply easily distracted by elves. See it’s very simple…

Evangelicals Among Us

I had an opportunity last night to sit with 10 other women and discuss religion. It was a phenomenal group and I was extremely pleased with the energy and overall tone of acceptance. We all came with different backgrounds and experience that led us to our beliefs and understandings of not only religions but also our faiths. I have been thinking about it all morning.

I really enjoy situations like last night, where intelligent people can discover each other’s opinions and insights in an unthreatening manner. I was probably the most threatening person in the group, constantly asking for more information and prying into the personal beliefs of these women. No one seemed offended and no one told me to mind my own business, so I happily delved as far as possible.

The part I found most fascinating is they all held very strong beliefs. Even the women that don’t have religious beliefs held strongly to their point of view. No one, not one single woman in the group, claimed to be “right”. I thought this was incredible. I know that in our hearts we all believe ourselves to be right, why would we hold on to any idea that we were unsure about? But in this gathering of confident, articulate women, no one felt the need to force their ideas on anyone else.

Don’t get me wrong, there was some preaching, some definite ideas of how things should be done, but through it all, it really felt like the women understood that this subject is very personal. I guess that’s why so many people have a hard time talking about it.

We had a segue that specifically dealt with the idea of evangelizing to others. Some felt that it’s just inappropriate to try and sway people toward your point of view. I argued that maybe it’s not in the presentation of the information that is at fault, but on the receiving end. If you don’t want to hear it, kindly say so.

The questions become, is it evangelizing when you are telling people what you believe and why? Or is it in the tone that it is offered? Are you trying to persuade me with your ideas or simply sharing more about yourself? Is it only okay when you are specifically asked?

I think that when voicing our opinions we are always trying to persuade. It doesn’t mean that I should be offended. It doesn’t mean that I will change my point of view. I simply appreciate the opportunity to hear others thoughts and feeling about important subjects. I enjoy knowing how they got to that understanding or belief. I thank these women for sharing with me. I am richer today because of them.

this place of disarray

I’m in a strange place. It is crowded, dark and loud here. The cacophony confuses me and leaves me without understanding of any single sound. I see a light and try to follow it out, only to find myself lost in a different place. Someone reaches out to me, and tries to draw me out, but their grasp is weak and soon falls away. I wander, seemingly enjoying myself. How can that be when I am lost? But still, the echoes of a thousand sounds reverberate around me creating some comfort. The light that escapes a small crack in the interior blinks like a cursor waiting for the next word. I stumble and fall, bruising my ego and as I try and erect myself I realize… it’s safer here, nearer to the ground. As I grope my way along the tangled map that is this place, I finally recognize a sound; the first to make any sense. It is my name. Someone is calling me from this sanctuary? Insisting that I come out. They don’t see that this dim surrounding is my comfort. This is my home, this is my creativity, this place… is my own head.