...Out Like A Lamb

It's almost April and I've spent the whole week in sweaters and knee socks. It's been cold and rainy, in short, very un-L.A.-like. Also, not very lamby.

Oh, The Weather Outside Is Frightful

It's raining outside right now, so hard that the windows are no longer transparent. I have my workshop on Tuesday nights and it seems that every Tuesday night this semester, it has either rained on my way to or from school. I have taken advantage of this afternoon with a heating pad on my feet and by reading. Not a bad way to spend a rainy afternoon.

This is sort of a cop-out. Not the reading, but the fact that I have paperwork up to my ears that I have justified putting off until the last minute. Getting older has not curbed any of my last minute tendencies, as I once figured it would. Russell says that my saving grace is that I'm extremely organized and quick, so I can put things off until the last minute and still turn out something good. He shakes his head at this, since he works very differently. Anyway, I have a lot of things to do -- paperwork for scholarships, grants, and any other sort of writing people might want to pay me to do. I've been getting great feedback on my novel by people who have nothing to gain by being nice to me, and thus, I think, are probably being truthful. That's a good feeling. I wonder if my potential agent in Atlanta, who read the first chapter and then asked for the entire manuscript, is drumming her fingers on her desk, wondering where it is because she has to know what happens next. Okay, probably not, but isn't it fun to dream?

Tomorrow night might be a close-to-all-nighter. If so, I'm sure that you'll get it in blogging.

Arizona Blues...Wait, Make that Bright Yellows

I am in Phoenix, Arizona right now, in charge of three dogs and a mound of reading and writing. Russ and his parents went to go visit friends and lounge around their timeshare. My feet are propped up on a balance ball while Tanya has somehow managed to wedge herself into the crevice beside me. On the floor in front of me is a 17-year-old arthritic Irish Setter mix named Brittany, who can no longer feel when she has to poop. So there've been some accidents. Green, gelatinous accidents. To the left is Elka, a 70-pound German Shepherd who is sweet, yet has almost knocked me to the ground a few times and pawed a mole off Brittany's forehead today. The funny thing is, Elka idolizes 10-pound Tanya and follows her around everywhere. If Tanya jumps up on the bed, Elka follows. Elka will only drink out of Tanya's extra-small water dish and only eat out of Tanya's extra-small food bowl. I image that if she could, Elka would snuggle into Tanya like a puppy.

I like staying here. There's a great patio and lots of comfy study chairs. There's always the good creamer and the Wightman's make sure their orthopedic spa is fired up when I come to town. It's also nice to be in a temperature-regulated house, where you can walk barefoot without frostbite, unlike Oakfordshire (our Monrovian-British estate). Russ and I decided we needed to change Oakfordshire now that King Oak is gone and Queen Oak is sort of awkward and patchy. But Oakfordshire just might stick, like the name of Russ' car that he hates but will forever stick because I can never help laughing when I think of it, Brownie the Flying Turd.

I'm listening to the jazz station on the Wightman's cable cornucopia. My favorite jazz guy is Monk. Gene Kruppa just finished, and that was good, but a lot of the music sounds more like smooth jazz. I'm not a fan of smooth jazz. I wasn't a fan of jazz, nor knew anything about it, until I absorbed Ken Burns' jazz 11-disc series this past summer. I think this summer, time permitting, it will be KB's Civil War, which I used to watch at least once a year with my grandpa as a young nerd. I used to dream of marrying a southern man in the mold of Shelby Foote. And I always thought Mary Chestnut was annoying. But I'm thinking that this time around, I'll understand her more, a woman sitting around in her parlor, writing about the war going on around her. She'd totally be a blogger, had she lived in more digital times.

I just finished Thom Jones and enjoyed it. I'm pretty sure that he's from my old stomping grounds of Aurora, even though he's reclusive and there's nothing biographical about him to be found, on the internet or elsewhere. He not only mentioned Lake Street (sort of a hub), but Garfield Goose and the Fox Valley Shopping Center -- you have to be a real Auroran to remember Garfield Goose and shopping at Fox Valley. He won the National Book Award, but there's no mention of him on the “Welcome to Aurora, City of Lights” signs, no honorary street named after him downtown. Yet another reason that I no longer live in Aurora.

I am now reading the Selected Letters of John Fante, which is like permissible voyuerism. Fante was a bit of an egomaniac and kept carbon copies of all the letters he sent out, which is largely why this book exists. In classic egomanic fashion, he didn’t keep any of the letters that many others, including his wife, sent to him. That Fante.

Last night, we went to a pratice game between the Oakland A’s and the San Diego Padres. We tried to get tickets to the Giants vs. the Cubs (Russ=San Francisco, Sarah=Chicago, yet Dodgers trump both), but it was sold out. We sat in the fifth row, behind home plate and the giant net, which was comforting. I don’t like sitting anywhere there’s a fair-to-excellent chance that an errant foul or pop-up will come spinning. Like Drew Barrymore in Fever Pitch, I have also been a victim of ball-smack-in-the-middle-of-the-head action. Unlike her, I was standing in right field during gym class, daydreaming, and didn’t see the ball coming straight at me. By the time I did, I put my glove up and I completely missed. The ball hit me in the forehead-eye-nose bridge. That was the beginning of the end of my softball career.

They Don't Make 'Em Like They Used To

I am a nice person. At least, that's what people tell me. Apparently, it's one of my enduring characteristics -- curly hair, smile, niceness. I, myself, don't think I'm all that nice, but I know myself a lot better. For instance, at this moment, I am contemplating how to start a letter to an old friend that I probably hurt a while back. It was one of those situations that I always flash to when people tell me that I'm the nicest person that they know. The other situation that I think of is when I told my then-and-now friend Rebekah that she wasn't "cool" enough to be friends with me after freshman year of high school. I tell people that and they can't believe it -- "You said that?" they ask. When I nod and shrug, as in, I was stupid and young and petrified about my reputation, they say, "Man -- that's so mean! You were a mean girl!"

So I'm admitting it. I was a mean girl. And believe me, I am still capable.

Today, I spent the last half of the morning running errands so that I could write during the afternoon. I'm very excited about the direction that my novel is taking -- a sort of meaningless side character that I wasn't sure why I was including turned out to be very important and the pivotal figure in leading the main character back to a painful memory. I love when that happens -- you're not expecting success, you're actually expecting total and utter failure, and then, all the sudden, a moment comes together and although it's not toally clear, it's clear enough that you can get down the outlines of the image. Then the outlines become clearer and clearer and you revise once, twice, seven times, and afterwards, you have a moment in focus. Having a moment in focus, just as I know it ought to be, is probably the most rewarding part of writing fiction for me. It's why I crave to be in my writer's chair, tapping away and staring into space all afternoon.

But before I get to that, I have the real world to worry about. Money. Bills. Food. Netflix envelopes. So, I hop around town, from one destination to another, trying to get it all done as fast as I can so that I can get to the part of my day that matters. I ended up at Rubio's for lunch today, which is not unusual. In fact, all the lunch time workers know who I am and probably roll their eyes at each other when they see me coming because of my very complicated, Sally-in-When-Harry-Met-Sally order. I always get a fish burrito, but without onions, cilantro, salsa, sour cream, and black beans. And I get the white sauce, but I get it on the side. There's a method to my madness -- I get containers of the salsa at the salsa bar and then, mix the white sauce and salsa together so that I can both pour it over my burrito and dip my chips into it. Much of the time, I later walk back up to the counter to ask for a take-home box because I only eat half of the burrito. I always bring a book, get a 3/4 Diet Coke-1/4 Coca-Cola, and relax among people that I hear, but don't have to talk to.

Today, though, there was no relaxation to be had, neither at Rubio's or Kinko's or Von's. And it was because of children...curs-ed children.

Many of the people who know that I'm nice also know that I'm not a child person. I'm not kid-friendly. I'm a sharp edge. I like a few kids, ones that I've warmed up to over time, like my niece and some kids at church, but as a rule, I dislike merging with kids in public. It's partly because I'm uncomfortable talking to kids in any voice that is higher than my natural one. I find that kids and parents of kids enjoy falsetto cooing and squeaky exclamations. One thing I like about my niece is that she looks at me weird if I pull a voice like that. The other part I dislike about kids in general is the constant activity. Enough with the bouncing off the walls already. Just sit down and read a book. Or draw pictures and imagine stories to go along with them. That's what I did when I was kid. That, and played in Illinois mud puddles after thunderstorms. If any one ever wants to blackmail me, they'll have to look no further than my sister.

So imagine me, with my burrito and my Thom Jones at Rubio's, and as I start to eat, some cutesy music starts to blare from the table next to me and the falsettoest of falsettos shrieks, "Hola!" That would be the one and only Dora the Explorer. On a portable DVD player. Two kids with their mom and grandma were watching this DVD with no consideration for anyone around them who might want to eat without having to listen to Dora shrilly say, "Look at what Diego found -- un perro!" The real kicker is that once Dora was over, the kids whined and complained until the moms put in a Strawberry Shortcake DVD and let it play just as loudly. I don't know who I was more annoyed at, the adults or the kids. In any case, my annoyance happens often at this particular Rubio's, since there is a Gymboree in the same shopping center and from overheard (loud) conversations, I've gathered that the moms have some sort of post-play pow-wow.

I have often thought about what would happen if I wasn't so nice. If I turned to parents of the Dora-DVDers and said, "Hey, don't you remember how annoying it was when people's kids were making a racket before you had any?" If I said, "How would you like it if I picked a fight with someone on my cell phone and you had to listen to all the details?" Or how about, "Can we keep DVDs out of food joints and just in houses and cars? Because some of us are trying to enjoy our food without a side of Dora."

But maybe I am a nice person. Because I would never, ever say any of that outloud. I may think it, chew my specialized burrito a bit resentfully, but when it all comes down, I would never sass a mama.

Weekend Update

The best part of Saturday Night Live these days. Also, a recap of what I did over the last four days.

This weekend, Russ and I made like Puxatawny Phil and climbed out of our den to see if winter, aka the incessant studying and designing and writing and working inside our house, was a shadow of former months. Albeit, a good month and half later than old Phil. The good news is, it was indeed a brief lapse in the world of hibernation. We celebrated the end of Russ's winter quarter with mojitos at Xiomara and dessert at Cafe Bizou, visited the Norton Simon (free for students!), cheers-ed each other with brisket and cabbage and potatoes and beer at Christina and Emilio's brisket fest, and spent time rearranging our kitchen cabinets, which counts as fun because we had funky tunes blasting and did some spontaneous grooving.

Russ and I also hopped over to the Getty yesterday, just to see what's been going on there lately, and I must highly recommend the Robert Adams landscape photography show. The photos are focused on the disintegration of nature in Los Angeles and Colorado and also, what humanity can't wreck in nature. That Robert Adams is a smart man cookie -- reading his quotes on the wall and beside his photos made me want to pick up one of his many books. There's also a Degas show, which is a must see if you are a fan or just enjoy being crammed into a smallish room with fifty other observers. Some beautiful sketchings and some interesting experimentations with photography toward the end of his life are standouts.

The gardens and outsides at the Getty are just fantastic right now. We could see all of L.A. from the railings. I think the Getty is sort of the castle of Los Angeles, perched on a high hill, overlooking its kingdom. Unfortunately, Russ and I both forgot our sunglasses and the glare from the travertine had us wandering around, squinty and watery-eyed. Sort of groundhoggishly, if you will. So if you go, don't forget the sunglasses.

Good night and have a pleasant tomorrow.

Best Parking Ticket I Ever Got

Being on MySpace has really made me feel nostalgic. It's sort of nostalgically addicting. Among other things, it's made me think about opening up the photo boxes in my house, which have been waiting to be put into multiple photo albums. Basically, that's never going to happen. I'm just too uninterested in such a tedious task. But I decided to open up a photo box yesterday and that was great fun. I saw faces that I hadn't seen in years, remembered events that I'd forgotten, and thought about how much my past is still with me, even when I don't remember it specifically.

Among other things, which I may or may not be posting about in the future, I found this parking ticket:

Happy St. Patrick's Day, by the way. I broke my rule of not wearing holiday color on holidays by donning a kelly green polka-dotted head wrap. So don't pinch me. Today, Russ and I...okay, Russ cooked Bailey's-based pudding to bring to Brisket Fest, where we will eat brisket and cabbage and drink medium to large quantities of Irish beers and maybe even make a few Irish Car Bombs. So, if you don't hear from me for a few days, now you know why.

Agree With Me Or Else. Or Else What? Exactly.

Upon picking up Tanya at Petsmart, from "doggie daycare" (part of her learning-to-work-well-with-others practice), I found myself staring at a Brownie-Girl Scout cookie table. Now I'm not one of those who is swayed easily by doe-eyed children selling chocolate for their basketball team or ski trip or whatever. I try not to be a total bitch, of course, so a lot of the time, I'll say "No thanks" when what I really mean is "Take your chocolate and shove it because I know it's all just an elaborate scam for your chocolate pimp." Not to put too fine a point on it.

But I approached the table. For one, the mother and daughter just smiled at me when I walked in, didn't jump on me screeching, "Would you like to buy some Girl Scout cookies?" Just because they're Brownie-Girl Scouts, doesn't mean they aren't capable of freaking me out, which is what happens when they scream at me like that. Second, the girl looked just like my niece, whom I adore. And third, she was dressed up as a Brownie bite. The costuming, something I remember at least aspiring to when I myself was a Brownie-and-Girl Scout, put me over the edge. This girl was obviously dedicated to the fine art of cookie selling. And so, I approached.

Right away, I knew this little girl was kick ass because she knelt down and started petting Tanya, who actually nuzzled up to her. I couldn't believe it. The dog who hates children was nuzzling one. Incredible. Or, as it's said in Portuguese, incredible.

I talked with her mother for a while and learned that she was trying to win the most cookies sold this year in order to be the one who gets to throw out the first pitch at Dodger's Stadium. Wow, that's so cool, I said. When I was a Girl Scout, I think the winner of the most cookies got to have a pizza party at Chuckee Cheese with five friends. The Girl Scouts have obviously evolved since I counted myself as one of their ranks.

I bought a box of Samoas, which I believe are the best of all Girl Scout Cookies. Disagree if you dare. But I challenge anyone to prove that any of the other cookies are as delicious, as perfectly conceived, as the Samoa. What could be better than a chewy coconut mixed in with chocolate casing and drizzled with chocolate on top?

Help the coolest Brownie in the world win the most cookie sales by purchasing all your cookily-goodness at the Petsmart off of Foothill in Pasadena. By the Best Buy and the Gold Line station. I told her mom that I'd get the word out about helping her win and as you know, I always keep my promises. Girl Scout's honor.

One Reason Worth Getting out of Bed in the Morning, Even When It's 48 Degrees

I spent a good part of my morning reading in Starbucks rather than at Westminster. I could blame this not making it on the fact that I had a mojito nightcap at Xiomara with Christina, celebrating our resepective triumphs over the last few months. Her school just had a WASC visit, which she was in charge of and has been working on for months. Happily, she and her school got glowing reviews by the WASC committee. Mojito worthy stuff. And Xiomara has that cool machine, the King Cane, that actually grinds up the stalks of sugar cane.

The real reason, though, was that I didn't go because I just couldn't bear getting out of bed. Yes, I was physically capable, but totally unwilling. Our house was built in 1906, one of the oldest structures in all of Monrovia, and it hasn't exactly been modernized. I doubt it's up to code in most respects (and we've made it worse by not replacing any of the batteries in the smoke alarms). Case and point -- there's no insulation and a ton of windows, so the damp cold seeps through in winter and the stale heat creeps in during the summer. It's liveable most of the time, but when the temperature drops to 40, like it did last night, it's almost deabilitating. We have two space heaters, two heating pads, two paris of REI insulated socks, and one anicent looking gas-heater unit on the wall. I'm sort of afraid to turn it on. Okay, not sort of, really. I imagine the explosion scene with the helicopter a la Independence Day. Plus, Russ and I have accumulated so many books in the last year, that it's become a bookshelf and we'd rather be cold than move all the books. And so, we are.

Perhaps the thought of a warm church would've gotten me out of bed, but alas, Westminster is also very cold. It's a gothic-style cathedral, built about 20 years later than our house, but sadly, not many more technologies in heating and cooling had been devised. Gothic cathedrals aren't exactly designed to be warm and cozy, either. Everything is stone and brick and dark wood, which might be okay if the ceiling wasn't also 40+ feet. As we all know, heat rises. So the pigeons and church mice are all very cozy up in the ceiling and bell tower, thank you, while we silly humans rub our hands together and shiver on the ground level. It means that you wear layers of socks and blankety wool wraps in the winter. Add to this the fact that Westminster's boiler is constantly on the fritz or as in the case a few years ago, destroyed by vandals, and you can see why I did not leap out of my bed.

What actually motivated me to finally get out of bed today was the thought of spending the morning at Starbucks, reading. I know, I know, Starbucks sucks and so does corporate America. But I actually like the one Starbucks by my house; I know a lot of the workers and they like working at this particular Starbucks. Many of them are grad students, artists, lifers. The chairs, it's true, are uncomfortable and the wall art is hideous and some of the clinetele are extremely loud when on their cell phones, but there's always steam coming off the espresso machine and enough heat to keep your feet warm without the special socks. What was actually more exciting than the thought of heat, glorious heat, was reading a book for fun. Something I haven't done in a few months and in a way, needed much more today than warmth, though I didn't know it at the time.

I just read Dog Soldiers, a book that took me three days and a total of seven or eight hours to finish. That's a long time for me. I was further frustrated by the fact that as I read the final pages, I wasn't sure that I understood the book at all. Granted, it's about the developing drug community in 1970s California for which I don't have a lot of context. Even more, though, I just felt like I didn't understand exactly what Robert Stone was trying to do. He felt inscrutable, way too cool for me. I felt like I wasted a lot of time reading a book that ultimately excluded me.

This made me feel rotten about myself as a reader. It's a National Book Award Winner, after all. Stone must've been doing something right -- and not only something right, but something important. Something that would be mind-blowing and earth-shattering if I could only figure out what the hell he was talking about, especially in the last 100 or so pages. But, I didn't. All I felt was a vague sense of shame and a little bit of anger, as in, what's wrong with me?

When I went to Starbucks this morning, I cruised through my bookshelves (and heater shelf) looking for something to read. I have a lot of options. But instead of reading something that I have to read, I chose a book that I'd already read once, a memoir by a writer I respect and who has written me a really nice note in the past. Plus, I like her funky cat-eyed glasses. So I pulled it down and brought it to Starbucks, along with another, more academic, book. I figured I would reread a little bit of my memoir, get my groove back, and then tuck into the other book.

But I never even looked at the other book. I found myself rapt in a voice, in stories, in perspective and beliefs. I'm a sucker for great humor and for great sadness, and I was manically laughing and then, by turns, wiping the corners of my eyes as sentences and stories sprang off the pages at me. But more than anything, I love a story full of hope; to me, hope means possibility, a way to look at the world and imagine "What If?". As a writer of fiction, that's my job, to look at what is and imagine it as other. It's a very bold, very hopeful sort of thing to do.

It took reading this book to remind me why reading is so joyful, such a huge part of my life. It also took reading this, and feeling deeply connected to the words on the page, to get me to take a deep breath and say, "It is okay that I was frustrated by Dog Soldiers." Not every book is going to get me all hot under the collar and it's, whether I believe it or not, normal. And it's okay if sometimes, the books I'm supposed to love most as a writer end up frustrating me. It put me in mind of a book I'd read a few months ago by Andy Besch, who wrote a book about wine, which was a revelation to me. He said the biggest mistake that people make with wine is not knowing what they like. And if you don't know what you like, you'll never have a satisfying wine experience. If you base your wine choices on Wine Spectator (or other reviews), you're simply adopting someone else's likes and dislikes. The most important thing you can do, he said, is to experiment by trying lots of different wines and figuring out which qualities appeal to you and which don't.

I think the beauty of Andy Besch's approach is that it's about learning to trust your own judgments as valid. This is what I'm slowly learning how to do, with wine and with everything else. So much of the time, I know I rely on others to tell me what's valid and what's not. I'm glued to Amazon, Metacritic, and Rottentomatoes, to how others judge certain books, music, and movies. I want my opinion to not only be informed, but confirmed. But really, when it all comes down to it, Kenneth Turan or Michiko Kakutani can only tell me what sets well on their palates. They can't tell me that how it will set on mine. There will be days when I may choose a memoir over Joyce, or a bestseller over the obscure. There will be times when I go that movie that no one liked and get a kick out of it. But that's okay. That's where the joy of reading, or anything else, happens, in discovering what affects and resonates.

And if that's unhip, what of it? You should see me in double socks and a ski cap at home.

On This Wild Night, We Have...

Hail. Yes seriously, hail the size of dimes. It's a L.A. snowstorm. Undeterred by frozen water balls, Russ went outside and did a little Shawshank spin for good measure.

(I also have a friend named Hale and I keep typing his name instead of the meteorological phenomena. Hail, not Hale.)

Two trips to Traders Joe's within 1 hour. The cashier, Brian, joked that we forgot the food the first time. Ha ha ha, Brian.

The first two DVDs from Season 1 of Reno 911. There's a lot of numbers in the previous sentence -- try to wrap your head around the numbers as best you can.

Papers to write on creation myths and land art, books to read on Dog Soldiers. Novels to continue on aquariums, Scrabble, and the fine state of Tennessee. I'm going to visit Tennessee sometime soon, hopefully this summer. Also on the agenda this summer: Illinois, North Carolina, and Panama. Possibly Italy for two weeks in the fall.

Dodgers season tickets with Eitan, Kristan, and Hale (not hail). I call all the games vs. the Cubs.

Endless distraction by Blogger, MySpace, and Ebay. I check to see if my favorite bloggers post all the time. I'm definitely disturbed. I probably should've given up this incessant checking for Lent, but have decided that I am taking this Lent off. If you can do that. Which I am.

Steak and creamed brussel sprouts for dinner, homemade bread pudding with chocolate and cherries for dessert. Green tea optional.

A cleaned out refrigerator, a cleaned out trash can, and dishes out of the sink. I spent the day de-smelling all three locations. I won't tell you what I found in each. It would make you gag. Grad school fridge, trash, and sink is not pretty.

A renewed appreciation for the designs of Ella Moss. She makes the most comfortable t-shirts in the world.

The guilty pleasure of watching What I Like About You. It's silly, yes, I know, but sort of edgy at the same time. Not Sopranos or Arrested Development edgy, but a little bit Sex and the City edgy.

Freesia blooming in the back yard, irises and daffodils in the side yard, Mexican evening primrose in the front. In short, a good smelling yard, now covered with hail (not Hale).

A desire to see the movie version of Ask the Dust. I was invited to go with Shanna and Rob, but alas, am low on entertainment cash.

Perhaps, just perhaps, a heated game of Nertz later on. Not know Nertz? Check it out, if you dare.

Hail, not Hale. And Hale, not hail.

Portrait of an Artist in a Small Town

Today, when Tanya and I took one of our thrice daily walks around the block, I again noticed the peach house on the corner of Alta Vista and Lemon. I might've pointed it out to Tanya, but she was busy sniffing an old gummy-Backstreet-Boys wrapper on the ground. The house perfectly sums up the block on which I live.

I've never actually seen the woman who lives in the house. I assume it's a woman, though it's not totally unlikely that a man would secretly decorate his large front porch for every holiday - even Flag Day - and bouce atmospheric lighting off a bunch of Japanese-style paper lanterns hanging in the adjacent tree. Color coded per holiday. The weird thing is the secrecy of it all. I have a feeling that this holiday fiend goes on all-night decorating benders. For instance, I went to bed on Valentine's Day and everything at the house was red, pink, and white. By the next morning, however, the porch and lanterns were already Irishy green. It's not your typical Creative-Memories-Scrapbooking-Slut sort of decorations. There are the usual, innocent sorts of decorations, such as shiny green shamrocks hung like paper chains across the length of the porch. But then, there are the mannequins. One of the several for St. Patrick's Day is a scary leprechaun, leering over the front railing of the porch with a huge stein in his hand. It's not at all friendly. It's like the Lucky Charms leprechaun grew up and became a violent drunk who eats passers-by, not cereal.

Believe it or not, the holiday house is not the only house on the block with a mannequin on the front porch. Ever since I've lived here, the semi-creepy old man who lives around the block poses a female mannequin in various positions on his front porch couch. She is scantily clad and scarily life-like. Sometimes, when I'm walking by, lost in my own thoughts, I'll suddenly jump because he's just changed her arms from crossed against her chest to pointing out toward the street, like she's ready to charge.

'Scuse Me Whilst I Recommend

I procrastinated like crazy last weekend and am paying through the nose for it now. Anyway, excuse my own lack of posting but I'm now playing catch up on all my work.

So let me recommend my favorite blog-read of the week: Do It Again, Parts 1 and 2. If you've ever wondered whether there was any connection between John Milton and Buffy the Vampire Slayer -- now you know.

Meditations on a Saturday Afternoon

Everything is beautiful and blooming today.

Mountains, mountains. So clear you can see to the top of Mt. Wilson.

It smells sweet and spicy, like pink jasmine.

Hummingbirds dart from tree to tree. They especially like the oak trees (even though this is not an oak tree in the picture).

Tanya keeps watch on all these things for us. She loves to perch.

Didn't We...?

I got tapped to carry this on by the one and only Eitan:

Okay, I really never do this, but this one is really good...

If you read this, if your eyes are passing over this right now, (even if we don't speak often) please post a comment with a COMPLETELY MADE UP AND FICTIONAL memory of you and me.

It can be anything you want - good or bad - BUT IT HAS TO BE FAKE.

When you're finished, post this little paragraph on your blog...

I Feel Like An Ash

Today is Ash Wednesday, that moment on the Church calendar when we all go and think about what we would like to give up over the next forty days, what bad habits and behaviors are holding us back from being the people we want to be. We write these things on slips of paper and watch our pastors dump them into a caldron of sorts and light them on fire. As the smoke rises, we are called forward and marked with the sign of the cross on our foreheads, using the ashes from the caldron. There is some beautiful symbolism in this service. It's one of my favorites.

That's why I was so surprised when Russ called and informed me that today was, indeed, Ash Wednesday. I had no idea. I was busy thinking about dog mange, theses, what to eat for lunch, and if this was the day that Los Angeles was going to get bombed out of oblivion. There's no connection between any of those things, by the way. It's just my hyperlinking mind on paper. There's no way to make heads or tails of it.

I was also thinking about how glad I am that there's a new episode of Lost on tonight and how I really want to watch The Life Aquatic now that I've been writing to the soundtrack for the last few days. But thoughts about ashes and my internal, non physical state of being? Far from my mind.

I began to think of other things I missed. I did not realize it was already March. I realized it has been a very long time since I called my grandma in Illinois. I have not been out for a drink and a chat with some of my good buddies in a while. It has been way too long since I last did yoga and breathed deeply and cleared my mind of outer distractions (even though I always struggle with that last part). I have not dirtied my hands working in the flower beds around our house all year and as a result, there are mounds of dandelion greens and other California nusiances sprouting up. It has been a while since I sent out a card for no reason.

So I'm off to take a walk in the daylight. To look around a little, see what's going on outside around me. Just in case I've been missing it.