January has been a little slumpy for me. Here’s to a better February. Wait, February is almost halfway over? Awesome.
(I started this blog a couple of days ago and then, well… you know, I put it aside. Procrastination, you old nemesis! 2017 is going to be on your a$$!)
Pre-New Year’s Eve Post
Now is a good time to eat pie. Because pretty soon, my New Year resolutions won’t allow it. After the cooking and serving and saran-wrapping, you can’t see the fridge light. And then, eating leftovers becomes a bit of a goal. Each Tupperware emptied, an accomplishment. You can see how this line of thinking gets out of hand. I am nothing if not goal-oriented, for some suuuper important things, like emptying the fridge.
Soon will NOT be the time to eat pie, it will be to deny thyself. Whether it be donuts, laziness or procrastination, the New Year is about doing what you don’t want to do (like an early morning run) and not doing what you want to do (like eat ice cream and watch Westworld until 2am). Ah, the constant battle that divides doers and, well, non-doers.
I’m ready (after I finish this piece of pie) to hit the ground running. I’ll spend the next couple of days writing what I call resolutions but are really goals. There’s an important difference. Resolutions say “do better”. Goals say “here is a step to do better”. So I don’t do resolutions. I DO goals. But I really like the word “resolution” so I still use it.
Now it’s time to flurry into action putting away my Clark Griswold Christmas because 2017 doesn’t have room for that kind of chaos! Continue reading
Ahhh college, a time of hubris and risk-taking and, in my case, poetry. From previous blogs Couldn’t Just Sign Your Name, Huh? and Skeletons (aka journals) In My Closet, you might have gathered that poetry has always been a pastime of mine but college was an especially prolific time.
And what is poetry tucked away in your college notebooks? Mummified. Dead. Kindling. Wasted Space. So I dug one out, for old time’s sake, because a tree that falls in the forest…
It Dwells There Still
A house, patchwork doors and eaves
Curtains starving for wind and crumpled magazines
Where the bickering of flames was hot upon the snow
And a dark exhale set out against the brittle light
Smoke snuffing at a noonday sun
Blankets to ash
I dwell there still
The fire I lit
It burned for days
A body opened up to the sky
Charred bones reaching up from snow
It dwells in me
Where tongues of flame licked threadbare walls
Till they were clean and sanctified
Feet washed in tears and dried in hair
A single spark would dance upon the empty shells
The house I dwell within
I told you in my blog post about NaNoWriMo how I was going to spend November 1st.
Aaaaaand there it is… Spades Weasels
Now… back to work!!
The knock at the door made Aiden jump. It seemed like he had barely closed his eyes. But when he looked toward the blackout curtains, a shard of light was breaking through. The knock came again.
“No thank you!” he yelled. Did the housekeeper not see the Do No Disturb hanger on the door?
“Um. Hello?” Aiden sat straight in bed. It was the voice from the machine last night. No. This time it really was Sam.
“Hold on!” he yelled and pulled himself to stand. “Just give me a minute. It’ll just be a second.” His brain was fogged and slow.
He reached for the khaki shorts neatly folded over the back of the desk chair and then shook his head. The mirrored closet door opened easily, hit the wall and rebounded slightly. He knew he’d be hot in the jeans he grabbed from his suitcase but he didn’t care. He popped a shirt off its hanger and when he closed the closet door, his reflection surprised him.
In the low light, he looked older, more angry. He looked like his father.
The shirt wasn’t even over his head before he reached for the chain on the door.
“Sorry,” Sam said looking him over nervously. “I didn’t mean to wake you up.”
Aiden looked at the bedside table. The clock read 9:14.
“It’s fine,” he said. “I was up a little late. Um.” He looked around. “Do you want to come in?”
Sam shrank slightly. “Yeah. I guess.”
He held the door for her and she hesitated as she stepped into the dark room.
“Hold on,” he said. Pinning the door open with the chair, he walked to the curtains. When he opened them, the day was thick with sunshine. The heat of it hit him in the face and burned his eyes.
When Aiden turned back to the door, he almost gasped. She was beautiful, standing there in the light. Her skin was the color of soap; her hair wavy and fluid like desert sandstone. Continue reading
It’s that time of year again for us creative types. NaNoWriMo, you ask? Um… actually I meant Halloween, creativity fodder.
(For those not down with the quasi-acronym, NaNoWriMo stands for National Novel Writing Month. November, the month in which we writer-folk try, or think about trying, to write a book in 30 creatively-fertile and frenzied days.)
Every year I think. Yeah, NaNoWriMo! I should totally do that! And then I look at my to do list and realize I need spray paint and fabric and well, that’s super important, because you know… costumes.