Tuesday, January 4, 2011

the one where I change directions in the middle of the creek

Weekdays when my daughter is here, my alarm goes off at "sixohthree, it's three past six." Classic rock mixed with current stuff. CNN news' musical theme blares into my face (because I sleep facing my clock radio most of the time), and Bill Caiaccio tells me what the "top stories" are for this news hour.

I will not rant/whine/bellow about the politics that Bill Caiaccio (what a cool name!) led off announcing this morning (the new face of Congress and what the members intend to do and undo). I go through phases where I over-educate myself on various topics related to our government, to politics. In 2007 and 2008, for instance, I read everything I could about every candidate out there, read up on the issues, tried to educate myself, even read essays on economics that were so complicated and so terrifying (CORPORATE OLIGARCHY!), they made my eyes bleed. I've been boycotting broadcast news for more than three years, specifically television news.

(In case you're wondering, I'm a pansy, pinko, pacifist, leftist (sort of) poet. And from now on, after that debacle that was the mid-term elections, I'm voting my conscience rather than voting for Democrats simply to try to make sure Republicans don't get elected.)

Usually, I'm somewhat relieved when Mary Burkhart's soothing voice announces local and state news stories. But this morning, Dear God, the top story was about a 10-year-old boy from Holmes County (Ohio) who shot and killed his 46-year-old mother after an argument.

All I really want to do is remind myself that I need to consider waking up to something less diabolical than morning news blips.




I need to get back to my Work. Sunday, I had great plans to focus on specific aspects of specific projects yesterday (Monday). But I woke up feeling kind of dreadful, so after I took my daughter to school, I returned home and did absolutely nothing, darling, nothing at all.

I think if I sit down with that big, fat, spiral bound notebook where I hide story and "self-therapy," if I find a favorite pen, suck the tip to remind myself of the magical flavor of ink, put pen to paper and scrawl out the first line that is my next line, I will be able to get going.

I can even start on a scene I haven't reached yet, if I want to. Who says I have to write my stories in chronological order? Not me, no sir.


I see him so clearly, this character. He's so clear, I worry that I stole him from a film or someone else's story. But I know the truth is that I've dreamed about him. I see his glossy skin with its orange tint, the slight jowls, the chest that might once have been hard and toned but is now soft, hairless. He twitches his shoulders.....

sheds black feathers.



- pay that
- write this
- write the other
- find birthday card for brother (he turns 60 Thursday!!)
- pick up girl from school
- take girl to drum lesson (write check for January lessons - ouch)
- while girl is at lesson, go to library
- return DVDs
- write in paper journal
- pick girl up from drum lesson.........
- etc.
- etc.
- yada
- blah


Speaking of diabolical, my cat was determined to wake me up last night and again early this morning. He jumped up to the top of the refrigerator where my daughter had stored a tub of tiny, boy- and girl-shaped sugar cookies, knocked the tub to the floor, pried off the lid and was about to start gnoshing on the little delights. 2 a.m. 2 a.m.! I nipped that dastardly plot in the bud.

At 5:40 a.m., he decided he needed to make sure I was alive (I was; I was also awake), leaped up onto my bed, purred like mad as he sniffed my face, jumped off the bed and spent the next 20 minutes alternating between trying to claw open my closet door and jumping back up onto the bed to either stare at me or paw at the notebook I'd left lying next to me.

Seriously. He's diabolical.


  1. How on earth did he pry the lid open?? My cat would be seriously impressed if I told him, which I won't. Don't want him getting any ideas.

  2. ditto ditto ditto ditto
    and some me too. on so many counts. (except the cat part)