tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-56095913747695922702024-03-05T02:59:56.094-05:00Oktober SkyA Writing SpaceAging Opheliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14360783709169946256noreply@blogger.comBlogger106125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5609591374769592270.post-82714697154704501272019-01-30T23:15:00.000-05:002019-01-30T23:25:34.131-05:00<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Hey there-- it's been a while.<br />
<br />
The snow is deep and the temps here in WNY are keeping us on our frigid little toes--businesses closing early, deliveries running late, people swathed like mummies to ward off frostbite. Winter in Buffalo.<br />
<br />
The edge of disaster has been my horizon for a while now, but fuck it; I'm taking this February off of my nail-biting activities** to write some songs during FAWM-- that is February Album Writing Month. 14 songs in 28 days. Go to fawm.org to check it out.<br />
<br />
When I first hit FAWM in 2009, I felt unstoppable. Through trials and triumphs, I pushed out about 30+ songs every Feb. I wrote more in the summer edition, the 50/90: fifty songs in 90 days. I've been lucky enough to have exceptional songwriters from all over the world collab with me there. It's been amazing and I never dreamt I'd lose the hang of it.<br />
<br />
But I did. in 2014, I started slipping. Honest, it was a horrible year followed by several more horrible years, blah blah blah, but so what? Bad times and crushing loss are fodder for songwriting, or should be.<br />
<br />
I kept trying, but every year, FAWM became less solid for me. Blocked, unable to finish most of what I started songwise. I lost the knack of writing with my songwriting partner & bandmate since the mid-90s, Joe Todaro, as well. Since I've had a backlog of lyrics/melodies and Joe is prolific as all fuck, we've managed to keep coming up with new additions to our set list, but it still feels like I'm running on empty. Unacceptable.<br />
<br />
This year I'm taking my February back. I intend to to write a daily haiku or other poem, working from prompts, and then use the poems as prompts for songs. I'm also open to challenges and collabs.<br />
<br />
Meanwhile, my band (in its current iteration, Cheaper Than Vinyl, or CVT for short) is playing a small poet-allied gig on 2/11 at Circleformance in Buffalo. We do originals. Check out this space for the pertinent info in a day or three. I'll also be posting whatever poems I write for this adventure. They will be rough drafts at best...<br />
<br />
<br />
Here's to taking back our wasted promise and shoving it up the universe's bunghole. Happy February, Happy FAWMing.<br />
<br />
Peace, Mari<br />
<br />
<br />
**I stopped biting my nails, cold turkey, at 15. But you know what I mean. </div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer">OKTOBER!</div>Aging Opheliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14360783709169946256noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5609591374769592270.post-81107835387473041542017-09-09T07:25:00.001-04:002017-09-09T07:25:18.373-04:00Ricky Gervais wants a worldwide ban<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="270" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/7ZkkOE1bdJk" width="480"></iframe><br /><div class="blogger-post-footer">OKTOBER!</div>Aging Opheliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14360783709169946256noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5609591374769592270.post-61514665928212487942017-05-05T23:50:00.000-04:002017-05-05T23:50:38.023-04:00Writing Practice During Story-A-Day May: Five Days In, She Finally Begins.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
For a couple of weeks now, I've been staying up past my bed-time. Not to do particularly useful things, either. I just stay up doing this and that till I'm exhausted, then fall into bed and find myself wide awake for up to an hour. The alarm goes off @5am, and I stumble through the early morning routine of helping my hubby get out the door to his early shift at work, then feed the cat, and get my ass back to bed. Where it takes me another hour to fall asleep.<br />
<br />
Not sure how I got on this jag, but I suspect it has roots in my recently intensified internet habits-- the Ted talks I've been watching to fill my mind with new ideas, the vloggers I watch and interact with, the survey sites I've been working for giftcards. I watch podcasts and listen to music I miss from my dance-hall days. I follow makeup artists, vegans, skeptical thinkers, feminist warriors, and inhale their theories. Learning and unlearning. <br />
<br />
Maybe it's more that I'm stuck inside by weather, lack of a car to drive, places to go. That makes you sluggish, after a while. I walk around the house for 20 minutes, using a microwave timer, to get my exercise. It's less boring if you do it in seven 3-minute spurts than all at once, but I mix it up, and also walk outside in decent weather. Still not a lively life by most standards. Most how-you-should-live standards have never applied to my life. My mind is active, a hive, but not as productive as most hives- well, I have ideas shooting through there constantly, just shooting through, not landing for long.... not being given space to land. <br />
<br />
There are a few regular activities that get me out of the house, out of my over-flowing mind: I sing in a choir, I run a writing group. On Saturdays my band has our rehearsal, then on Sunday nights I play RPGs with a long-running gaming group of friends; but that's over Skype, without video, so I don't even have to wear a bra to engage. <br />
<br />
This is not a bad or horrible life. I do what I want, more or less. I get to watch late night thunderstorms, like the one just beginning now. I have enough food and fairly decent shelter. My family loves me, I have great friends through the 'net and a few IRL, whatever that means for me. <br />
<br />
Truth is, I was born a nightowl, and I miss the night-work life I had when I was young enough to work in bars, getting great tips for wearing pounds of eye makeup. I miss the sense of adventure I felt getting ready to go out at night; I don't miss the letdown that so often followed. And I miss walking the Monon Trail with my best friend in Indianapolis, and getting caught in the rain when we walked, and going to Paco's for a big, cheap quesadilla afterwards. <br />
<br />
At night I think too much, in daylight I think too little. It needs to get turned around, because things start to slip if you get your best thoughts at a time when you can't make them stick. I can write at night, do some small sketching. When someone is asleep in the other room, your creative streak has to keep quiet. Keeping quiet takes me out of the zone. <br />
<br />
I need to get to bed and sleep, so I can remember the books I want to write and the cakes I want to bake. My house is falling apart a little bit, and I'm the handyman here-- there's a sink to fix and pipes to consider, plus my laptop needs a new fan, and no one on earth wants to fix it for me for less than the worth of the damn computer. I have to accept that it's up to me. My brain should be sharp for that experiment. <br />
<br />
Some of the streetlights in my neighborhood have gone out from the storm. The crazed maple in the back yard is just a few spookily moving shadows through the back door glass; I like it when it looks creepy. That doesn't happen during the day, but I should get to bed, to sleep. My mind is still buzzing, my hands are cold, my throat's a little sore. It's a dark and perfect night. <br />
<br />
<br />
--Aging Ophelia</div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer">OKTOBER!</div>Aging Opheliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14360783709169946256noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5609591374769592270.post-27527912817357641162017-01-16T13:21:00.000-05:002017-04-23T12:50:15.642-04:00Honey is a Rebel<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
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<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Continuing my new “thing” of Writing Practice, ala Natalie
Goldberg’s writing lessons, most posts here for a while will be just that: <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>a practice, and for the time being, a practice
of random thoughts on random subjects. Here’s what hit at 7am, while I was
making a cup of coffee.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">Honey is a Rebel<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When I used to use
sugar in my coffee, and also drink weaker coffee, it wasn’t nearly as good as
my daily cup is now. Hell, I would drink two to three cups per morning. That
stopped sometime after I made the switch to honey for sweetening my morning cup
of mind. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I got started on that
practice accidentally, when I performed with an acapella trio called The Java
Girls.* We rotated hosting rehearsals but most often practiced at J’s house.
She didn’t use white sugar then (still doesn’t far as I know), but served us
coffee or tea depending on mood, and always put out the glazed earthenware honey
pot for us to use, along with some half-n-half. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The stronger but more
subtle enhancement of honey was odd, at first. You get that honey taste and it
seems like an extra, but after a few times of using it, I was hooked. Elements
of the coffee’s flavor that sugar had apparently covered up, like fruitiness or
spiciness in a given blend-- those were basically being introduced with fanfare
to my happy tongue, by the honey. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So I bought
some for myself, clover honey, and began learning the way of the honey jar—and there
was plenty to learn.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sugar is your whore.
You buy it, you own it, you pour it in and it goes exactly where you expect;
then you close the lid or tip back the dispenser and you’re done. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Your drink is sweeter & you go about your business.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That doesn’t work
with honey. Like the cat you feed every day, honey is a still a wild thing
inside, beneath the smile of that cute plastic squeezy bear, and it will surprise you if you
try to force it to your will. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s a natural
product, even after some processing: as long as it’s still honey it will behave
the same way, which is not to behave according to anyone’s will. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Raw or no, honey
flows and settles in its own time. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It
follows its own pathways, moves to its own rhythms. And if you interrupt that,
if you try to stop or rush it, you get a mess. Honey will not give in to your
demand for speed or accuracy; it will not fall where it is being forced to go. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But if you wait, if
you simply allow yourself the few extra seconds it takes to let that gold
slowly work its way down, you’ll be rewarded with incredibly complex sweetening
that doesn’t make your bloodstream shiver and your hands get jittery. Without a
mess.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I learned all of this
through watching, and asking, and cleaning up sticky spots on the counter. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As soon as I moved a jar of honey onto my
kitchen table in place of the sugar bowl, someone gifted me with a honey dipper,
one of those odd looking wands with a carved or ribbed bulbous knob at the end.
You know what I mean, you’ve probably seen them in some gourmet shop & wondered what
the hell they were.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"></span> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUHV_3A1vdA04ooDpjgmXzdLD8286hv06Eq17t6H7Zf7nsEDTQs-6AfTX4OQb_b5mJT0J8sLfTR6-r1mhHle8h4s0-wfP1hmxJbLkAAaynCx-n5h30UpPwpq8KHrQ8kD-PiZBCnxtuTpw/s1600/Honey-dipper2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUHV_3A1vdA04ooDpjgmXzdLD8286hv06Eq17t6H7Zf7nsEDTQs-6AfTX4OQb_b5mJT0J8sLfTR6-r1mhHle8h4s0-wfP1hmxJbLkAAaynCx-n5h30UpPwpq8KHrQ8kD-PiZBCnxtuTpw/s320/Honey-dipper2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><o:p></o:p></span> </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I didn’t know how to
use the dipper, despite having watched J use one to expertly convey honey from pot
to coffee mug without spilling a drop at least 30 times. When I tried, it
worked to get the honey out, sure, but what was the benefit over a spoon if you
still had to stir with it? I experimented, and I cleaned up more sticky spots
until the next time we had rehearsal at J’s. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She demonstrated proper usage, I paid attention, and I found out that those weird wands are a genius product. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">They work with honey’s natural tendencies. You dip in, twirl
around, and slowly lift, still twirling so that honey winds itself around—it wants
to stay in the grooves, basically, and will for a moment or so, giving you
ample time to hang the dipper over your cup or mug. Then-- and this is the
crucial part-- you wait. Let it happen. Don’t move the dipper around, don’t stir
with it, don’t bother to bitch how much time it’s taking. Just wait. And every
blessed gleaming drop will stream into your hot tea or coffee, there to
dissolve with minimal effort on your part. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Truthfully, because I
was “busy” then, with my choir and my band and my lover and my jobs, I wasn’t
so very Zen about it. I still got frustrated a few times, grumbling and trying
to rush things along. Maybe I was even annoyed with honey, stupid as that
sounds, because I wanted what I wanted when I wanted it. It took a while for me
to fully understand and appreciate (<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">and
if you’re sitting somewhere reading these 1700 words or so about what my friend
John happily calls Bee Poop, surely you have enough patience to begin your own
journey of appreciation</i>) the gift of honey to my daily life, a gift for
which I will always be grateful to J, remembering her generosity, her delicious
coffee, and her example of patience that, eventually, I put into practice
myself. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">That said, I’m still learning. My conversion to honey in my
coffee is coming close to thirty years ago now, but just a few months back I
had to re-learn a small truth. Being poorer than I was, I have to buy the stuff
in plastic as often as in glass jars, and those tiny holes in the lid are a pain if you
try to close it right away.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You push
the lid back down after you pour out, put it away in the cupboard, and the next
time you pull out the container there will be a dribbled stream of honey stuck
to the sides, calling all ants. I spent some time blaming my hubby-man for
making the mess before I figured it out. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Watch it yourself—take a honey bear or other plastic container
and pour out even a drop of honey, then set it on the counter. You’ll think it
is going down and is okay to close, but then instead, a tiny balloon of honey
will form and billow out above the miniscule opening. Again here, if you use
force by shaking or tamping down, you’ll get a mess. It will gasp over the edge
and over the side, wasted. If you are patient, you’ll see this gorgeous golden
balloon thin out and rise and then pop, collapsing in on itself like a thick
silken wave, and sliding back towards the bottom of the inside as gracefully as
a ballet dancer doing her plies. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That is what I watched
happen this morning, humbled again by the gift that is honey. While I’m not
knocking the usefulness of sugar (I’m a baker!) Gale Gand has written on that
with more clarity and elegance than I could ever muster in her book <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Butter-Sugar-Flour-Eggs-Irresistible/dp/0609604201/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1484660386&sr=1-1&keywords=butter+sugar+flour+eggs" target="_blank">butter,sugar, flour, eggs,</a> </u></b>and I took to Word Starter today to pay homage to
honey alone. Like many of the most radical radicals, it doesn’t mean to be so rebellious;
it doesn’t set out to get your table sticky. That happens only when you try to
work against its normal flow. It may be quiet and slow, not fast & flashy,
but you still cannot force it without facing consequences (like any
revolutionary you care to name). Our society and our rules make rebels out of
anyone or anything that is true to their own nature or who follows their own
path. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Just being themselves, they get
branded as troublemakers, misfits or witches. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And good honey, even
not so good honey, does have some real magical qualities. You can’t go just by
glycemic index, although honey is somewhat lower than table sugar** and
depending on variety may be significantly lower. Used in moderation you’ll likely
notice as<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I did that it doesn’t work the
same way in the body as plain old sugar—there’s a calmness to it, instead of
that sharp spike and drop, and it’s more sweet, too, so you can use less. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There’s heft and a lively energy present in
each drop. Honey is more like sustenance, not just sweetness. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Ask any bee or bear.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Better varieties have
more micronutrients, antioxidants & trace minerals. It’s healing & good
on burns and other wounds, both as a barrier and for its antibacterial/antimicrobial properties***,
and also makes a soothing, moisturizing face wash or mask. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Alone or mixed with a few other things you
have around your kitchen,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>a honey mask
draws out impurities without stripping your skin, with no chemical after burn,
and no need for a toner either—just rinse off with warm water, then splash with
cool. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For a sore throat,
nothing soothes and coats better than the liquid formed when lemon slices steep
in honey awhile. You can drink the juice as is, eat the coated lemon slices, or
put a heaping tablespoon of the mix into tea or warm water. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Singers often use light tea with honey to relax
& prepare their throat before a performance. The tea brings clarity,
hydration and calm, and the honey provides a healing buffer for the tea tannins
that would otherwise tighten the throat and make for less flexibility. Personally
I prefer a few sips of a simple, refreshing beer before singing, but I understand
the reasoning.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So we’re brought back
to singing, which is what brought me to honey in coffee close to three decades
back. I’ve come pretty far in the craft of a singer/songwriter since then, just as my super strong,
freshly ground Starbucks Espresso Roast made by pour-over method and smoothed out
with the minimal addition of honey & half-n-half is far from my childhood
cup of percolated Maxwell House with lots of white sugar and Rich’s non-dairy creamer.
Instead of two or more oversweet, very white cups of weak-ish caff, I am fully
satisfied by one full rich mug, and I’m more than patient enough to wait an
hour to close up the honey, mess free, and put it away till tomorrow. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: "calibri";"> Good morning, and good afternoon--</span></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: "calibri";"> Aging Ophelia</span></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: "calibri";"> </span></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*The group practice of drinking coffee while
rehearsing/songwriting actually preceded the band’s moniker. We’d already rehearsed
plenty & had performed in public when we thought up the name, inspired by
our love of J’s excellent coffee.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">** http://www.livestrong.com/article/422895-glycemic-index-for-grains/<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">** </span><a href="http://nutritiondata.self.com/topics/glycemic-index"><span style="color: blue; font-family: "calibri";">http://nutritiondata.self.com/topics/glycemic-index</span></a><o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">**http://www.drweil.com/diet-nutrition/food-safety/is-honey-healthy/</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">***https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pubmed/23782759<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer">OKTOBER!</div>Aging Opheliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14360783709169946256noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5609591374769592270.post-71539217081984034082016-10-24T07:17:00.000-04:002016-10-26T14:20:30.826-04:00On Becoming My Grandmother<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
10/24:<br />
<br />
This morning when I woke up and caught sight of myself in the bathroom mirror, for a second I looked just like my grandmother. Not Gram when she was 20, in that pretty photo everyone always says I looked just like, but Gram from when I was a kid, when she was old. <br />
<br />
This isn't terribly terrible. She never had a ton of wrinkles that showed, even when she was in her high 80s. And her skin then was so soft, still fine-textured and beautiful. I don't know if she ever used moisturizer, as I have since the age of 12, but her skin was lovely, pinkish pale & fairly clear of spots, unlike her next door friend Mrs. Walters (Betty), who had age spots all over her arms and face in her early sixties.<br />
<br />
Gram's shape was barrel-like from having children well after her 40th birthday, but she was otherwise slim and what you could see of her legs below the hemline of her perpetual housedress was good, with well-turned ankles. And I don't have the barrel-- instead there's a small mail pouch of a lower abdomen, from having a hysterectomy at 49 when my organs and muscles were already loose/ damaged from my Dermatomyositis. I don't look exactly like her from the neck down. And on closer inspection, my face isn't really there yet, I just look tired.<br />
<br />
No, what shocked me when I saw this sudden preview of 15-years-forward, I suppose, was the resemblance of expression as much as the physical manifestation of age. While I don't go around thinking of myself as 20, imagining I have the social power and pull I had as a 20-something girl, I discovered as perhaps most 50 year olds do that that is still the age of the self inside of me, the self that dreams & plans and wants. When we're younger we expect that to change, and the trick on us is that it doesn't; we're left with young longings in a body and a society that prevent us from reasonably acting on our most youthful desires. I can handle that part since I've never felt the right age anyway, and have only just begun to have some friends that aren't either 10 years older or equally younger.<br />
<br />
But my memory says that Gram spent the last twenty some odd years of her life just waiting to die, and I don't want to show that, I don't care to feel that. I'd rather take after my mother, who is active, who has a ministry at each of her churches, who still picks up new hobbies and learns new skills. She still reads, she plays online Scrabble with me over her own netbook everyday, she knows how to post a picture on FB and she has been known to Skype with family in other states. She still experiments with makeup colors at 85 and has recently begun using Josie Maran Argan Oil moisturizer. That is an elder life I can understand. I've never seen myself as the old lady that spends all of her time sitting around worrying over nothing, or just sitting in a chair in the bedroom, as Gram did all too often.<br />
<br />
To be fair, when I was very little, and my uncle dumped my poor Gram on us because his wife was a stone cold bitch (She was; sorry Uncle Dex! Sorry, cousins!), Gram was more active. She went to church with us on Sundays and sang in the choir, which was a feat in itself, as the choir loft there was only accessible by a long, steep and winding stair such as you generally only see in a gothic horror movie, with the first victim lying at the bottom with a broken neck and a head turned all the way around, staring up in an expression of permanent terror. <br />
<br />
She also had friends, and cousins, that she'd visit from time to time, along with her hair salon. But gradually, as these folks died off, the invitations stopped and her world became smaller. Her cataracts got worse, and she stopped reading, then sewing, then doing her embroidery. She left our flat less and less. Her twice a year perms became once a year, and she needed more help getting up and down the front steps. <br />
<br />
To get her perm & haircut, I remember how she would always powder her nose and wear lipstick, dolling up to for the hairdresser and wearing her nicest dress. When she came back, we all told her how pretty it looked, but secretly I always felt she looked harsh and less like herself when she first came home from getting beautified. Only after she'd set her own hair again a few times did she become my familiar Gram, washer of dishes and maker of cookies. At the end of her life, that yearly salon visit was her one & only non-family-oriented social occasion. Most of the daytime, she just hung out with our cats.<br />
<br />
I don't remember when she stopped coming to midnight mass with us on Christmas Eve, but I know it happened. I know she was stuck with us, a growling large family of frustrated creatives still recovering from the influence and effect of an alcoholic father, and living on welfare for some of those years. She was put there by the son that had been the light of her life, too. Then she lost her ability to enjoy her hobbies through the simple accretion of bodily time. <br />
<br />
What I wonder is, was that why her approach to life, at the end, was just to wait-- was it because she was beaten down? Or was there a fundamental difference between her outlook and my mother's, whose attitude I hope to emulate; my mother who has had as hard a life as anyone and still works to savor her days by whatever means. <br />
<br />
I thought that I was naturally headed down the Mom path of continuing change and growth, but what if my nostalgia, and my own sadness and beaten down-ness, (for which this has been a banner year), has turned my feet onto the other trail, the one that ends with me sitting in a chair not thinking or doing, not learning new things, trying new recipes or enjoying any creative outlets anymore?<br />
<br />
It's a chilly morning in more ways than one. Keep warm--<br />
<br />
Aging Ophelia<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
</div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer">OKTOBER!</div>Aging Opheliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14360783709169946256noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5609591374769592270.post-82000905568726391502016-10-23T18:39:00.003-04:002016-10-26T14:50:51.781-04:00The LipGloss Made me Do It.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
10/23:<br />
<br />
<br />
Did you ever find yourself searching out blatantly nostalgic items from your childhood, for no apparent reason? Of course there's a reason, but it's not obvious at first. Or not obvious enough.<br />
<br />
An hour ago, I finished binge-watching The Dick Van Dyke show on Netflix. I've always liked it, and I maintain that it's still one of the funniest shows ever written. Not why I watched it, though, or not totally. I sense that it is part of a bigger nostalgia trip, one that has been coming on for a while. <br />
<br />
A few months back, I began looking up old Avon products I used to own, on Etsy & eBay--- I think that started with an old lipgloss compact showing up in my Pinterest feed; it was a plastic compact shaped like a fried egg, with two pale frosty glosses such as I wore in my teen years, nestled inside the yolk. Cheap cute junk for kids/teens, early 80's style.<br />
<br />
There's backstory here: that compact, along with another one, some other makeup items and whatever else I had with me, were stolen one night when I was 17. I'd put my favorite little clutch, a pale leather one that had flowers painted on it, onto the bar at Shadrack's* on Broadway, when I went to dance. There were at least a dozen other purses piled there, but mine was the one that got stolen. I thought then that maybe some guy took it, thinking there was money in it, but now I realize it was probably some girl that saw how much makeup I had with me, when I was touching up in the horrid bathroom, and decided to help herself when she got the chance. That would be why it wasn't thrown away outside the bar after the wallet was found empty. <br />
<br />
I loved that purse, and I had lots of my favorite makeup with me that night, so I was pissed. Also, I'd borrowed some of my Mom's cards, store credit and such, to use in case I got asked for ID-- you could do that then, in bars here. Sometimes I got in easy, sometimes I got in with an ID my boyfriend had borrowed from a female coworker (yeah, I realized later that there were details about that situation I'd never questioned enough), but I usually got into the bar one way or another. This time they hadn't even asked. I still got in trouble for losing Mom's cards and her having to put a stop on all charges and all of the other inconveniences. And I didn't have my keys and it was 2:30am by the time it was clear I wasn't getting my purse back, so my boyfriend took me to his family's house all the way on Grand Island for the night. More trouble, since I couldn't reasonably call home to let them know why I wasn't there until morning. <br />
<br />
See, this whole episode came to my mind, clear and full, when the Pin of that fried egg lip compact flashed onto my computer screen. I saw that someone was selling one on eBay for some large amount, and I almost bought it, just to have it back.<br />
<br />
Next up, I began looking for the colognes I wore back then, like Love's Fresh Lemon. I watched commercials for it on youtube, and found some for sale that was just too expensive for me to bother with. I did get an old decanter shaped like a dogwood blossom, filled with the authentic apple blossom cologne I had worn for years, off an eBay auction. Then I looked for paper dolls and kid's books I remembered vaguely-- no luck. I searched out more commercials, and children's shows, and albums, from my teen & young adult years. I successfully tracked down a heart pendant necklace I'd once owned, but remembered that back then they used lots of nickel in cheap jewelry, which I cannot put near my skin without getting a rash.<br />
<br />
There are so many ways to wallow in memory today, thanks to the 'net; so many magic pools as in The Wood between the Worlds, tempting you like Digory and Polly to jump in and drown in the trends of the past; but for me it all started with that plastic fried egg, with the pale pink and paler peach lipgloss inside.<br />
<br />
I don't wear colors like that anymore. There are items from the present that I need, for real, like a pair of boots that aren't falling apart-- yet the wave of pure desire that filled me when I saw the thing for sale-- whole and untouched, in the box-- almost overrode all good sense. I can still feel the edge of that want, and it seems obvious now that it's my own young self I really want back; the person that still has so many options, only now, I'd know what to do with them. <br />
<br />
Or maybe not, because every second you spend in longing for some past opportunity you missed, is a second you don't spend doing something better in the now, like setting up the website for your band so you can sell the music you've been recording, or drawing patterns you can color in, for fun. Or playing with your cat, who is bored and needs you to be attentive. <br />
<br />
There are things I haven't attended to, during my several months' long nostalgia bath, but a part of me wants to know if there's more substance or enlightenment here-- where is this leading me? Can I get something out of it besides regret and $6 worth of 35 year old cologne? <br />
<br />
At least I enjoyed Dick Van Dyke, one of the best physical comedians ever to walk the earth. Give me him, Flip Wilson & I'm set.<br />
<br />
<br />
Have a good night, dreaming dreams of your own misspent youth--<br />
<br />
Aging Ophelia<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
*Shadrack's was a working class Buffalo bar for locals, 20-somethings and barely legals, with well drink specials & a decent DJ on Wednesday nights, where my 22-year-old boyfriend liked to take me for a cheap date where he didn't have to be all that attentive. It was kind of a hole, and the lav was always awful, always short of paper too-- I would stuff my purse full of tissues before we went there, to make sure I was covered. I wouldn't go there now if you paid me, but back then, on Wednesday nights, I was the damned Dancing Queen, and I loved the place. </div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer">OKTOBER!</div>Aging Opheliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14360783709169946256noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5609591374769592270.post-75559825494573036622016-10-21T15:58:00.001-04:002016-10-24T07:20:58.756-04:00Well into Oktober... A Belated Month of Writing Begins<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I have decided I will do NaNoWriMo after all this year, so this prep month of writing is necessary. I shall simply take my notebook writing practice, ala Natalie Goldberg's system from Wild Mind, and begin it fresh here. You've been warned!<br />
<br />
<br />
10/21:<br />
<br />
<strong><u>Dough and Do Nots.</u></strong><br />
<br />
The babka dough is rising. It's a chocolate babka, unlike the dried fruit version I grew up eating on special Sunday or holiday mornings. This is from the pages of<a href="http://www.pdfmagaz.in/wp-content/uploads/2015/12/28/food-wine-usa-january-2016/Food-Wine-USA-January-2016.jpg" target="_blank"> Food&Wine magazine</a>, more or less. I've tweaked the filling by adding orange peel & ginger, and using clabbered plant milk for whole cow's milk; and I've decided to shape the loaves differently. <br />
<br />
Tweaking recipes is my usual thing, but I didn't start out cooking that way on purpose. It's just that when I first moved out of mother's home into an apt., I didn't have the greatest set of cookware or a budget for exotic ingredients (and back then, fresh ginger was exotic, fresh cilantro was unheard of). So I learned to substitute flavorings or skip steps, as when I first made a flourless chocolate cake by <a href="https://www.viamagazine.com/sites/default/files/styles/565w_no_crop/public/images/chocqueen_medrich_JF06.jpg?itok=BdWkcYG_" target="_blank">Alice Medrich of Cocolat</a> fame, and decided not to waste cash on blanched almonds that were just going to be ground into almond flour anyway. The cake was delicious, perfect, gorgeous and dramatic, with it's subtle topping of sifted dark cocoa, ringed with caramelized dried apricots. <br />
<br />
Years later, she now makes the same cake with whole raw almonds, as I did way back when. Validation!!! Of course, I've also read that during that time, she had so many mags and such asking her for recipes (while she was running a full-time food biz), that she didn't actually test all of the spinoff versions (like the one I made) of certain of her most famous recipes; like me now, she could come up with changes that she KNEW would work, and send them off. I do that all of the time in the kitchen-- if you have a good grounding in the type of recipe you're making, you don't have to measure or test to tweak successfully. You just have to understand how flavors work together, how the physics & chemistry of baking works. <br />
<br />
Hell, I never even follow a recipe or use measurements for some things, like shortbread crusts. I know the components, I know what it should look, feel and taste like, and I know when I want it sweeter or more buttery or more floury. Only if I was making a grand production type of dessert from some specific Patisserie recipe, say a special torte from<a href="http://d.gr-assets.com/books/1320389203l/341754.jpg" target="_blank"> Kaffeehaus</a>, would I follow the measurements for that kind of crust or bottom layer, because then it's a matter of having the right balance for the whole.<br />
<br />
And then sometimes, you make a bread or pastry exactly as the recipe says, and the balance doesn't suit your own taste. In these cases, I'll tweak like a mother**er the next time I make it, if it is worth making again otherwise.<br />
<br />
Once I tweaked a crumb topping beforehand, just from misreading the amount of butter, and when I realized my mistake later, I had to wonder what the hell the woman that gave out the recipe originally was thinking-- because my topping was perfect (and that topping, I DO use again and again, for various baked goods). Hers would have been way too gooey to be properly called "crumb."<br />
<br />
The whole recipe was for a crumb-topped apple pie, one made with chunked rather than sliced apples-- it's become my go-to apple pie recipe, and several other people have said it's their favorite ever. What's great about it is that dicing six cups of peeled apples is much quicker and easier than slicing them, and you don't have to worry so much about the arrangement either, just pile them up and pat them in. I think I might have to make one next week, to celebrate October.<br />
<br />
And right now, I have to go check that babka dough; it's probably ready for shaping now. <br />
<br />
--Aging Ophelia<br />
</div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer">OKTOBER!</div>Aging Opheliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14360783709169946256noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5609591374769592270.post-11305528410947231492016-07-14T17:10:00.001-04:002016-07-14T17:37:44.730-04:00July Comes Early... Grumpy Thoughts on Summer.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Something about summer always seems to take me by surprise. I'm not one of those sun-loving people that looks forward to the season. I don't dream about planting my garden all year, I don't enjoy weddings, baby showers, bug-infested night-time concerts or park-shelter picnics, and I don't ever have enough money to go to the ocean. I <em>love</em> the ocean, being in it, being near it; if you get me into the ocean I'll stay there till I'm sunburnt & dehydrated and you have to pull me out. The last time I was there, the aftermath included three days of virtually bathing in Aloe with Lidocaine with a headache as big as the sea, and I would have gone back and done it all again the next week if possible. But as I said, I may never get near an ocean again, and definitely not in 2016. <br />
<br />
Our long cool spring probably had a hand in helping summer sneak up on me this year. Then busyness took me over: writing and worrying about my mother's health and trying to find a part-time nanny job and trying to figure out how to pay the mortgage. And now, halfway through July, I look up from my computer to find it's either too hot to bake fruit pies or too rainy to sit in the yard; that I haven't weeded the flowerbeds yet, the roses are besieged by crawling vines, and the annoying weed of a tree that I cut down to a nub last year has grown out from its hiding place under the toolshed for the third year in a row, so big it's blocking the door to the tools I need to cut it back (clever b*tch!). Real, sunny-hot summer just got here and I'm already behind on seasonal chores & activities. Not that there are many activities I go in for; getting fresh cherries to eat & bake with is nice, and making watermelon salads, or drinking wine at the table in the backyard. <br />
<br />
I can't remember when I stopped looking forward to summer. Like every other school kid, from age 6 & onward I loved seeing June arrive, knowing my daytime freedom was coming. My family didn't take vacations anywhere and we got to the beach maybe once per year, but it didn't matter; my little sister and I loved being outside from morning till night, playing & riding bikes or whining that we were bored till Mom told us to go back out and give her some peace; or eating drippy popsicles and watching ants on the sidewalk. We loved our summer clothes and our cool back bedroom, an add-on room in our rented flat-- it didn't have heat and was well shaded by a huge maple tree, so it was super-cooled year round. In summer we'd play Barbies in there when it was too hot to go out. And although most nights we moaned and groaned about having to come inside to get ready for bed, I always enjoyed slipping into the nice cool sheets and closing my eyes. Then the morning would come, and let's face it, what's better for a kid than waking up to summer sunshine through the window & knowing you get to go outside & play in about a half hour-- <em>if </em>you want to?<br />
<br />
Somewhere between then & now, that joyful, hopeful, excited savoring of summer left me. Maybe the summer I was twelve, and we lived in a new neighborhood with no kids my age and nowhere to walk to but a few residential blocks that looked just like mine, chipped away a bit of the enjoyment. It was the most deadly dull neighborhood I've ever lived in. <br />
<br />
The couple of years I spent summer babysitting my oldest sister's kids while my little sister became popular & hung out with her friends all the time rollerskating, might have changed me. The year that I knew I'd have to go back to a middle school where I was a complete and utterly despised pariah, wasn't a great summer either. But was it those experiences that altered my perception? Was it later, when I lived in Indianapolis and it was 90 degrees or worse almost constantly from May to September? <br />
<br />
I haven't wondered about it before, not really. I thought it was more of an immediate thing-- since I moved back to Buffalo in 2007 and had a relapse*, and especially the last few years, I haven't been able to do much of what I'd like to do to prepare for any season, so as to fully enjoy. I'm often unable to be outside, and I used to loved being outside in all but the harshest weather-- and sometimes even then.<br />
<br />
I'll never forget this one long, long walk I took with my best friend in Indy, on a summer day that went from nice to superhot to grey & drizzly to a damn 40 minute long downpour, with thunder & lightning. We were both soaked. My Jackaroo hat had waterfalls pouring from all around the brim, my mineral face makeup washed away, my skirt was absorbing so much water I had to keep wringing it out so the weight of it didn't stop me from moving forward along the Monon Trail, and Mike's long curly hair kind of tripled in size from all the moisture; and still we walked, on and on. We walked so long, we finally got dry again, except for our squishy wet booted feet. Then it rained for another hour. I think we ended up walking back to a Taqueria we liked, for cheap quesadillas, dripping all the way. <br />
<br />
So, I can't do that anymore. The auto-immune disease that made me disabled and damaged my muscles took my physical confidence & stamina to a lower level, as well as taking away, maybe permanently, some muscle memory; which until you've lost it, you don't realize how you've relied upon it constantly for things like walking downstairs without having to see the steps as you descend; or putting on socks and a half dozen or more other daily actions we all do without forethought. Well, I used to.<br />
<br />
Is this why I don't love summer anymore? Hot weather, illness and the financial struggles that came with it? Was it that easy to lose? Or did it come away piece by piece, starting from those first few bad summers in teenagehood, and keep slipping as more unpleasant changes or forced seasonal activities gradually built up to a "block" against summer? Did the weddings & baby showers & that one horrible camping trip in sixth grade, all those activities that are hell to an introvert because of the vapid chitchat and the draining over-stimulation from hours of forced sociability while wearing uncomfortable clothes, did they play a part?<br />
<br />
I don't know. There's more I could look at, to begin to understand the process. I do have good summer memories: riding my bike down quiet cemetery paths pretending I was in Mirkwood; making love under swaying maple branches at midnight; grilling pizzas for friends using homegrown tomatoes & herbs; helping to make a movie with almost no budget but lots of imagination, commitment and resourcefulness; singing at a gig in Terre Haute where the music came through me so perfectly I was illuminated, transcendent; backyard theater nights & playing bocce ball with my family & having a sweet baby boy fall asleep on my shoulder; for every bad idea about summer, there's a good memory to counter. And I'm a make-the-most-of-it kind of person, so I've kept trying, at least most years I can remember. <br />
<br />
Yet here I am, on a lovely July afternoon with no schedule to keep, no one to please but myself, on a warm but not hot day with beautiful breezes coming through the back screen door. There's beer in the fridge and ice cream bars in the freezer, a cat to play with, and books to read, and I'm sitting here thinking how I don't like summer anymore...<br />
<br />
Or maybe now I have more time to learn and practice whatever I want than I've had since I was a kid, maybe I'm learning to like summer again, and this whole exploration is how I'm facing that weird reality. For years I've thought of myself as a summer hater, and now I feel it changing... I hope.<br />
<br />
<br />
*I have Dermatomyositis, a debilitating, incurable auto-immune disease. Feel free to look it up, or not. I can vouch for this-- it kinda sucks.<br />
<span style="background-color: yellow;"></span> </div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer">OKTOBER!</div>Aging Opheliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14360783709169946256noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5609591374769592270.post-26386052807298866852016-05-04T10:03:00.000-04:002016-07-14T17:40:53.582-04:00Dolled Up & Ready to Go... Where?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span lang="">May 3. True story.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
As a kid I wanted dolls to play with; Barbies, babies, etc., & my little sister felt the same. So that's what our Christmas presents usually were. Being poor, we felt lucky to get any gifts. <br />
<br />
We didn't know we were making a choice that was supposed to represent our major life interests. We didn't know to ask for telescopes, spaceships, microscopes, easels, guitars. Those were things I could have wanted, given a chance-- I don't know about my sister. I wanted drums, I wanted a mummy, I wanted to be Mr. Spock, but didn't know how to ask for those. Maybe being trained in girl-ness for six years was enough to show me I shouldn't ask. After all, the train set I had asked for never appeared. The Hot Wheels track in the basement belonged to my older brother, and despite my enthusiasm for playing with the cars, on the rare occasions he allowed that, nobody ever considered that I might want race cars & a track as well. No one asked if I wanted them instead of dolls.<br />
<br />
Why would they? I was a little girl during the early 70s, and that meant I could play house (they should call it HouseKeeping 101), put on pretend fashion shows, play with baby dolls, Barbie dolls, color pretty pictures, use my BFF's Easy Bake Oven. Oh, and read, which I did, daily. Any interests I had outside of the conventional set were not going to be overly encouraged, at home or in school. No one was going to notice how, before actual 'play' I spent two hours setting up every detail of Barbie's house, made of discarded shoeboxes and whatnot, and think that I had a talent or desire to design & organize. The teachers at school didn't see that while the other girls were swinging & braiding each other's hair at recess, I was playing Star trek with a (boy) friend, roaming invented galaxies and negotiating with aliens. <br />
<br />
To be fair, I was encouraged in some ways-- my Mom made sure I got books on whales & archaeology, two of my interests, and got me art supplies & books on how to use them. But I was miserly with my paints, knowing there wouldn't be more anytime soon, and was afraid to really experiment and thus use them up. A side effect of being poor. I guess another issue was that I learned better by being shown how to do something, than by reading instructions (still do). So the How-To books didn't work for me, and my lack of production of a masterpiece was taken for lack of strong motivation, although I drew constantly, on any paper I could scrounge.<br />
<br />
This kind of unconscious choice we make, as kids & adults, is almost heartbreaking to me, now. I carry some guilt to this day, for not somehow intuiting the methods & techniques to become A Great Artist; and that I didn't figure out how to ask, despite the behavorial programming, for the guidance & gifts to become some kind of scientist. And I bristle when I see children being locked into similar choices, choices that they too are unaware they are making. <br />
<br />
I wanted it all-- to be an artist, to understand whales and dig up ancient civilisations to study, to figure out the mysteries of space, to learn to play drums and to create my own fairy tales. My heart was full of all these desires. And still, I asked for dolls, mostly, and that's what I received.<br />
<br />
</span>C 5/2016<br />
by Mari Kozlowski</div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer">OKTOBER!</div>Aging Opheliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14360783709169946256noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5609591374769592270.post-35590878855931342982016-05-02T23:41:00.000-04:002016-05-04T10:10:14.166-04:00<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
May 2. <br />
<br />
This is just a beginning-- there's more to come later this month or week.<br />
<br />
<br />
<strong> Hang in There.</strong><br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none;">
<span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>"Dammit, Malky!" he said, nearly
tripping on the cat as she raced by him; and then, not paying much attention,
he looked up and caught sight of something new. Not Jenna's usual style. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none;">
<span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Len would never have noticed the
poster hanging next to the desk in his wife's office if the cat hadn't
tear-assed by him so that he had to stop short to avoid stepping on her long,
furry tail, & breaking it, very probably. He was jostled, in other words,
and so just accidentally saw that where there used to be, had always been, an
illustration of a kitten clinging to a branch beneath the sovereign advice to
"Hang in there, baby!" now there was a drawing of an evil looking typewriter,
along with the message "If you were in my novel, I'd have killed you off
by now."<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none;">
<span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He stopped to take it in, a rare
concession to fate's whims. How you make a typewriter look nasty, vicious even,
was beyond his artistic scope, but not beyond his comprehension-- the thing was
menacing, along with the words, and Len slowly absorbed the oddness of finding
such a piece of snark in his wife’s personal refuge. Now he saw that the paint
just above the left corner of the poster had been scraped, getting the old
picture down. She hadn't fixed it, or asked him to, or mentioned it. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none;">
<span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";"></span></span> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none;">
<span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">C 5/2016</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none;">
<span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">by Mari Kozlowski</span></span></div>
</div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer">OKTOBER!</div>Aging Opheliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14360783709169946256noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5609591374769592270.post-74085236825202500072016-05-01T22:05:00.000-04:002016-07-14T17:39:18.041-04:00<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
May 1, 2016.<br />
<br />
Story-A-Day May.<br />
<br />
<br />
<strong>Bird Wars</strong><br />
<strong></strong><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none;">
<span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";"> This morning I saw a sparrow being attacked by a pack of crows. It was an
unfair fight. The sparrow kept struggling up, struggling to stand his ground,
while the crows kept swooping in to pick and bitch at him, one & two at a
time. He didn't really try to defend himself, and I'd say he was as shocked as
I was. His posture & movements seemed to say, You can't mean to do this,
can you? He was as baffled as I was, I'm sure. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none;">
<span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I'd never seen a skirmish like this
between the birds of the neighborhood. Sure, if there was food in the street (a
rare happening, as we have regular weekly street cleaners here in my suburban
village) there might be a couple of birds that tried to steal it from each
other, though never as violently. But there was no dropped food or any other
obvious cause for the conflict I witnessed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It's hard to imagine what could drive a half dozen or more big crows to
beat up a little sparrow on a sunny Sunday morning. They were so cruel to him,
a robin actually came over to help, strafing the crows as they hit the poor
little guy, then taking care to fly away fast after each run.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He was still taking a chance, and he knew it,
but he couldn't do much against so many, brave as he was. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none;">
<span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My ragamuffin cat & I watched
from the window, horrified and fascinated (it all happened very quickly) and
then suddenly the sparrow was down, and not getting up. On his back, eyes closed
as far as I could tell, and not moving.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>His attackers noticed, too. After a last peck at his silent form, the
whole gang of crows took off, while I ran to find a box and a small towel. I
intended to try to revive the bird, if possible, or at least keep him safe
& warm in his last moments.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I hoped
it wouldn't come to that.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none;">
<span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In a minute I had dressed &
found what I needed. I hurried out to do what I could, wishing I had been fast
enough to rescue the sparrow before he got seriously hurt. It was early, not
yet 7am, and I had been barely awake when the birdfight began; I'd only come
out to the front window to say Good Morning to the cat before making some
coffee. Now I was going to the front lines to tend the wounded, sans my daily
caffeine ration.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none;">
<span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Outside it was cool, and quiet, now
the combatants had fled the scene. My hands were trembling as I walked across
the street to where the sparrow had fallen-- I was not simpatico with birds,
generally. I found them interesting, but they found me scary, probably because
I spent a lot of time with cats, and had the smell of cat fur on me. Thus I had
some trepidation about getting the bird into the box, if it was still alive,
but that didn't matter. He needed help, and I was the only witness able to
respond. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none;">
<span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When I reached the battleground, I
was surprised: the downed sparrow had gone, whether flown away or carried off,
I couldn't tell. Not a trace of discord remained, & there was nothing to
show what had occurred moments earlier-- not a spot of blood nor a dropped
feather. I hunted around to be sure the poor creature hadn't merely crawled
under a bush to die, but no; he was gone, the brave robin was gone, and all was
now as peaceful as a spring Sunday ought to be. I was relieved, but a touch
worried over the circumstance of the sparrow's disappearance, and wishing I had
been awake enough to do more. I tried to take comfort from a thought that the bird
had only been stunned, then recovered. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none;">
<span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Soon my neighbors would wake and
begin their weekend rituals of yard work & dog-walking. The sun would warm
up our lawns, and my cat would shift his attention to the back window to watch
the usual rabbit action on display there. No one would know about the strange
little war I'd been privy to, or my ineffectual attempt to participate. I
slipped into my morning routine again without much effort, but as I sipped
fresh coffee and watched my cat watching the backyard, I wondered, over &
over: what was the war about between the crows & sparrow?<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<br />
C <span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">5/2016<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
by MK</div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer">OKTOBER!</div>Aging Opheliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14360783709169946256noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5609591374769592270.post-75570872331332355342015-05-24T21:56:00.001-04:002015-05-24T21:56:13.811-04:00You must submit!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
...If you want to get your share of writing rejections, the true sign of a persistent writer. This month, I submitted a short (1600-ish words) piece of fiction to a nice lit mag. <br />
<br />
I'm determined to keep working on the edit of my first novel, The Fall, and Further Fall, of Miriam Bronski-- but also to submit some of the other work that I have been finishing and polishing, that is piling up all over my hard drive. Especially as Bronski is going to be a long haul.<br />
<br />
As I recently re-embarked upon the edit, I had a crazy burst of clarity that showed me that I did not in fact have a full first draft (as I'd been telling myself), but a really long draft that was missing about 8 years of the MC's life, and 8 important years at that. This chunk of life will have to be written, now. <br />
<br />
Aaaand to do it right, I kinda need to visit Syracuse, NY, and Cincinnati, Ohio. And do some other research. And I need, at some point, to figure out exactly how the non-linear timeline works for this. So, major work still happening with Bronski.<br />
<br />
I've found I need to periodically distract myself from the main effort by knocking off side projects, so I have a few other novels and a dozen more short stories that I mess around with, and the occasional bit of poetry, odd essays, and of course songwriting. I'm glad I have a critique group to run my stuff through the gauntlet before submitting-- if you don't have one, find one or start one. It's really helped me to keep plugging away. <br />
<br />
I'm even thinking of submitting a short piece to <a href="http://www.asimovs.com/2015_06/index.shtml" target="_blank">Asimov</a>, because why the hell not? <br />
<br />
Wish me luck!<br />
<br />
<br />
</div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer">OKTOBER!</div>Aging Opheliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14360783709169946256noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5609591374769592270.post-29488532781975612062014-10-03T12:40:00.000-04:002014-10-03T12:43:10.327-04:00Walking into Sunset, Con't.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Patty’s car was wedged
tight in the last space she could find, a long block from the restaurant, and
she wondered how on earth she’d get out again when the night was over. A sharp
tap on the window drew her out of her reverie: it was David, bending towards
her, as handsome as a man had ever been, holding an umbrella as he waited for
her to unlock the door of her little coupe. She smiled and did so, and he
opened the door for her, helping her out with a gentle arm under her elbow, and
making sure she was sheltered, at his own expense. </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<o:p> </o:p>“Thanks,” she said. “Well, still raining. I guess.”
Brilliant conversation, Patty, keep going and this will be a very short night.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
“I’m sorry our gorgeous walk at the lake didn’t come off.
We’ll do it next weekend, even if it’s chilly. Maybe Saturday afternoon, if
you’re free?”</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
He was already talking another date— not terrible to hear.
It calmed her a little more. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
“I’d love it. But I have to admit something— I don’t like
calamari. In fact, I don’t eat any seafood. Didn’t want to be a pain, though.”</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He adjusted the
umbrella to cover them both perfectly, and started walking her towards the
gargantuan gold and black doors of Olivio’s. “They also have the best Chicken
with sage, artichokes, and Spaghetti Aglio E Olio you can imagine, I promise.
There’ll be some incredible dish you’ll never forget— unless you don’t like
Italian.” He looked at her, smiling deep, from his eyes, and Patty felt a
little too charmed all at once— a gooey-good, scary feeling.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
“Amo italiano; e` il cibo degli dei,” Patty purred in almost
perfectly accented Italian. </div>
<br />
<pre style="margin-top: 2.25pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt;">David’s smile broadened, hearing her. <span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: SimSun; mso-fareast-language: ZH-CN;">“Sono d’accordo,” he replied, “It <i>is</i> food for divine beings, as
I’m sure our host would agree. I’ve known him 30 years, and he’s probably going
to ply us with so many antipasti we won’t have room for secondi, much less the
contorni his daughter will insist on providing."</span></span></pre>
<div style="margin-top: 2.25pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: SimSun; mso-fareast-language: ZH-CN;"></span></span><o:p><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></o:p></div>
<span lang="EN"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;">David’s prediction turned out to be true.
Olivio, a slim and gracious but very stubborn man, absolutely refused to let
them wait in the bar for their table, bringing them instead to his special
tasting table in the kitchen, where he poured glass after glass of a deliciously
tart and bitter cocktail for them and the several other people that had paid
actually paid for the privilege of being spoiled by the owner-chef. The
antipasti were a feast unto themselves— cold artichokes in spiced oil and hot
ones cloaked lightly in the crispiest breading; buttery soft sliced meats,
fruits stuffed with an herby cheese filling, peppers fresh and roasted, and
sauteed tiny baby squid flecked with coarse salt and sprinkled with
lemon--<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>that was before the pasta even
arrived. Luckily, their private table was ready by then— Patty wasn’t sure she
could manage even a single bite each of the several kinds of pasta Olivio was tossing
together for his delighted guests in the kitchen. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Their own booth was cozy, almost secluded, in
a sort of pocket off to one side of the large fireplace that dominated the main
room of the restaurant. Patty sat back against the deep fabric of the banquette
and watched David scanning the menu.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;"><o:p> </o:p></span><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;">“That was— an
experience.” she said.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;">He looked up,
eyes twinkling in the candlelight. “It was. It always is, with Olivio. He
started as only a dishwasher here. Watched and learned, nagged his grandmother for cooking
tips, begged his way into pasta prep, and just went from there.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;"><o:p> </o:p></span><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;">“So it wasn’t
always called Olivio’s?” </span><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;">“No. It wasn’t
even a fine restaurant then, just a pasta and pizza place— one of those good
old red sauce & chianti joints, with the checked tablecloths, you know?
Tony’s Tomato Pie, I think it was called. My family used to come here then for
birthday parties. But when Tony wanted to move to Florida and retire, he
offered Olivio a great deal, and Olivio decided to make it over from the ground
up. It’s good location, and he kept all the staff that wanted to stay— and most
of the old customers, too.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;">“That’s amazing!
He is a fantastic cook.” She only hoped she’d make it through dinner while
still retaining her ability to walk.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;"><o:p> </o:p></span><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;">“He is,” David
said, but he must have read her mind, because he took her hand and squeezed it,
adding “And I’ve found it’s wise, with Olivio's cooking, to practice the fine art of
doggy-bagging. Otherwise I’d be wearing a suit at least three sizes bigger by
now.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;"><o:p> </o:p></span><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;">Patty relaxed her
hand against his, enjoying the feel of it; he held on loosely, she noticed, but
didn’t let go till their wine arrived. </span><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was a wonderful meal. The pasta came in a
sauce both light and subtle, with accompanying vegetables Patty would have
loved to get the recipe for. She and David chatted easily about jobs and cats,
their long-gone college days, and the troubles of being a homeowner vs a renter,
all the while drinking in each other’s presence as they sipped a superb Pinot
Grigio. <span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: SimSun; mso-fareast-language: ZH-CN;">He made her laugh out loud at least a dozen times
during a certain story about a boyhood attempt at pancake-making gone horribly
wrong, and there was definitely a strong current flowing between them by the
time they’d finished their main course.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;"></span> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;"> Olivio visited their table just once, to
bring a palate cleansing sorbet, and <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>the
perceptive chef must have sensed they had more than food on their minds,
because he sent over only two desserts more than they’d ordered, along with small
snifters of Frangelico to go with their espresso. When the extras worth taking
were wrapped up for them, Patty was sure it was enough for several more meals.
Olivio himself came to see them out, hugging them warmly, each in turn. “Make sure you bring
her back soon, Davide,” he told her date seriously, “or you only get one pasta
dish from now on.” </span><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;">David nodded without hesitation,
Patty was happy to see. “We’ll be in before the month is up, if she agrees,” he
promised, taking her hand. Finally they left, stashing the take-home bag
in Patty’s car. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
</div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer">OKTOBER!</div>Aging Opheliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14360783709169946256noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5609591374769592270.post-16845086157004643212014-10-02T17:34:00.003-04:002014-10-03T12:14:02.441-04:00Walking into Sunset<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
She ironed the fancy tee she meant to wear to her date tonight-- the first in 30-odd years. Her suitor (calling him that in her mind helped keep a lid on the creeping panic) had suggested dinner and a walk on the pier, at sunset. Romantic, but not overly so, as they both knew there would be a good crowd of families and other couples doing the same, everybody savoring the last week or two of warm weather they were likely to get. Still a nice idea, and knowing where they'd eat meant she could pre-plan a decent meal that wouldn't be heavy on the garlic, the calories, or the more gas-inducing vegetables, which had all become something of a consideration after her 52nd birthday. <br />
<br />
Picturing it in her mind helped-- the kids running after the guy that sold helium balloons, the paired off teenagers pretending they were too cool to hold hands when they were dying to, really-- all of it against a backdrop of melting bronze and softly lapping waves. Patty could see it, now, and if she could see it she could handle it, however bad or good-- it was the unforeseen that often rattled her. Her afternoon was blocked out to avoid worry-- pressing her outfit, a cool bath, a quick home pedicure to show off with her new sandals, and then she would put on her makeup slowly, not in the usual rush. Her hair had been cut and colored at the salon yesterday, and didn't need more than a final flick of styling gel. She'd get there early and wait at the patio bar, sipping a glass of wine, calm and pretty-- a perfect plan.<br />
<br />
----------------------------------<br />
<br />
The downpour began while she was in the tub. She cut herself shaving her legs, and cursed the rain, but maybe it would stop in time to dry up and leave her plan intact. Then an hour later, as she started to apply her foundation, the phone rang: it was David, calling about their evening. It was still raining while she answered. <br />
<br />
"They say it's going to keep drizzling for hours, so I was thinking, maybe instead of me meeting you by the water, you could come downtown-- I know a fantastic Italian place, they have the best calamari you've ever tasted. We could window shop or go hear some music afterwards; what do you think?"<br />
<br />
Patty was glad he couldn't see her grimace at the mention of calamari, but she wanted to be flexible, so she forced a cheery tone in reply, "Sounds wonderful. I'll just bring an umbrella."<br />
<br />
David chuckled, a throaty, sexy sound, "You won't need it. I've got one, and we can walk for a mile and a half under awnings here and never get wet."<br />
<br />
"Where do I meet you?" she asked, and he gave her the directions. It was just about as far downtown as you could go without leaving downtown, she realized as she hung up-- and she'd have to hurry to get there in time. Why hadn't she asked for an extra half hour? Plus, her sunset-on-the-pier outfit was too casual for dinner downtown. The sandals, too, would have been fine for a slow walk on sand or the wooden walkways near the lake, but they weren't going to be as comfortable for walking a mile and a half of pavement. Worrying over a new outfit made her hands shake, and she messed up her mascara, wasting more time. <br />
<br />
"You're fussing yourself into a bad night," she told the woman in the mirror, and the woman smirked and gave her the finger. They both laughed, and she teased her hair into shape with her fingers, quickly. The overall effect was not bad-- it didn't look as if she had rushed. Her wide cheekbones looked reasonably fresh and dewy, and her lipstick was subtle, giving most of the attention to her eyes, deep set and brown flecked with a little gold. It was a face she could live with, provided the rain didn't make it all run and pool on her chin. She spritzed on a modest amount of Miss Dior and hurried to find a new outfit-- something that didn't need ironing.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
</div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer">OKTOBER!</div>Aging Opheliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14360783709169946256noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5609591374769592270.post-33334109764481269012014-10-02T12:04:00.002-04:002014-10-03T12:10:13.606-04:00Spaced Out<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
This is empty, to put distance between past posts and the NOW.<br />
<br />
Writing experiment to follow throughout Oktober.</div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer">OKTOBER!</div>Aging Opheliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14360783709169946256noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5609591374769592270.post-32566687449350660202014-07-26T23:58:00.000-04:002017-01-17T09:07:02.497-05:00Bradbury's 52: Week One.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Week one has passed, but here finally is my effort, begun then, and finished as I can stand to make it tonight. The prompt for the week was-- Ghost, breakfast, school. I had an immediate idea, due to my personal past, and I used that idea for this story. It is in fact not pure fiction; rather a slightly fictionalized version of a true story, with no names changed to protect the innocent. As you read, I think you'll see that the innocent were hardly protected then, so why bother now? Enjoy. <br />
<br />
<br />
<u><strong>Living your stories</strong></u><br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
My grandmother used to tell this story about a ghost. Well,
a poltergeist, of sorts. The tale went that a man moved into his new house,
spent a few days unpacking and ordering his cupboards, only to find a plate and
cup on the table one morning, as if set for his breakfast. He washed them and
put them in the dish rack, thinking maybe he had left them out after eating a
morsel. Or maybe he pulled them from a box, set them down while overtired, and had
not remembered to deal with them. </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
The next morning, there were the same plate and cup, set in
place at the same seat at the table. The man began to worry for his memory, but
he put the clean dishes back in the cupboard and forgot about the incident
during his workday. </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
The next morning, the dishes were back. The man was furious now,
sure someone was sneaking into his home to play this low prank— perhaps a
schoolboy, or a mischievous neighbor. He rinsed the dishes quickly and set them
in the rack to dry, then went to the stove to make his coffee— when behind him,
he heard a light clinking sound. He turned just in time to see the cup settle
back in place, the plate already set. They had moved of their own accord! The
man ran out of the kitchen, and didn’t return till evening. The plate and cup
were back in the dish rack, and he wondered if he’d imagined the movement. Still,
he didn’t bother to put them away this time. </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
The next morning, the usual change had taken place, and the
man was shaken, not knowing what to believe, or to do— it seemed certain he
should do something, but what that should be, he couldn’t fathom. As he sat across
from the empty cup and plate, drinking his coffee, there came a knock on the
side door. It was an older lady from down the street, with a plate of freshly
baked muffins for him. He asked her in, and they sat at the table with coffee,
chatting a little. </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
The woman noticed the empty place set, and asked if his wife
would be joining them soon, but the man explained that he was a bachelor. </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
“Just like the man who used to live here!” she exclaimed.
“He always sat there in the mornings, having breakfast. He’d make coffee, and
I’d bring him muffins too, sometimes.” She sighed, and motioned towards the
empty plate, “I do miss him. With that place set it’s like he’s still with us.”</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The man tried to hide
his dismay at the thought, while the old lady reminisced about her dead friend.
</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
After she left, he thought about the situation for a while.
The next morning, instead of putting the cup and plate away angrily, he poured
some coffee in the cup, and buttered half a muffin to put on the plate. He
drank his coffee and ate his own muffin, and chatted out loud, to himself, or
whoever might be there. He talked about the nice weather that week, and his
business prospects in this new area, and his sadness because his cat had run
away the week before he moved. And after breakfast, he cleaned all of the
dishes, and left.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The next morning, the
dishes were still in the dish rack. They never set themselves to a place again,
either.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
This, said my grandmother, was because the man had soothed
the ghost’s spirit, a spirit that had perhaps passed away a little too
suddenly, and had needed just one more normal day to accept it. Once the
ghost’s former morning ritual had been played out, it could move on. This
showed two things— that ghosts were real, and the value of a kind & understanding
approach to people. </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
I accepted this story as true, or provisionally true, till
well into my teens. After that, it moldered in the backrooms of my thought,
sitting uneasily amidst my growing skepticism. But my Grandmother believed it,
always. I am sure she never thought that she would end up as a ghost, herself.
And from my godless and rational perspective, she couldn’t have— yet after her
death, there were strange moments that I still cannot explain fully.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
You see, she lived with us from the time I was about four,
until she died. I was seventeen then, and no longer in high school, having quit
at 15. Being between shit jobs, I tended to sleep late after staying
up all night watching kung-fu movies and writing, or going out with my
boyfriend. So I was the only one at home that morning, and when I woke, I
noticed that Gram had not yet emerged from her room— odd for her, as she
usually woke fairly early. She had been sick with some bronchial issue
recently, and I began to worry. I knocked on her bedroom door, and it was too
quiet. </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Before I could steel
myself to intrude on her privacy (we never opened her room without her
permission) my mother called from work— she was worried too, as Gram had felt
worse again the night before, and now I had my orders to check on her. I
knocked very loudly, and went in. Gram was lying in bed under the blankets,
with a pinched, pained look on her face. I called to her, nothing. I tried to
rouse her, but she was stiff, hard, cold. Marble cold. She was absolutely
motionless. I knew she was gone. I had known before I opened the door. </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My heart sank, as I
did a double check to be sure. Then I called my mother back at work, told her
to sit down, and broke the news to her that her mother was dead. That was the
worst thing I have ever had to do. It was a sad day all round, made worse by
the fact that Gram’s crumpled, stiff body did go through the bedroom door
easily, and they had to break a leg to get her out. It was also clear from her
face that she had had at least one big pain at the end, and that is where the
weirdness began. </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
I have always been very impressionable— I couldn’t watch the
bloodier horror movies as a teen, although I loved horror, fantasy & sci-fi
from childhood. There were books I couldn’t read straight through, needing time
to absorb strong images. And so it was that that first sight of Gram’s pained,
dead face haunted me night after night in dreams, and in waking, for days. I
couldn’t get it out of my head, until the day she was buried; that night, I dreamed
of her, telling me she knew that I loved her, and it was okay. Then the awful
vision left me, and never returned, in dream or waking. </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This part, I
understand rationally. Some of my family had sort of blamed me for a day or
two, that I hadn’t heard her call for help because I was lazy and sleeping,
etc. It was lazy of me to sleep in, because I had broken the social contract of going to school and accepting further indoctrination and at least ten other things. I had gone from a once favored baby to a part-time scapegoat. No matter that my room was at the other end of the house from hers, or
that I might not have heard her from outside her door, if she called out. She
had been dead for some time when I found her, perhaps while there were others
in the house; but only my mother blamed herself, for not forcing Gram to go to
a doctor (she always refused, and the one doctor that used to make house calls
just for her had retired and moved away some years back). </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
My mind clearly needed to salve itself, to clear away the
lingering guilt laid on me, and the guilt that rose naturally from within. My grandmother & I had had arguments
recently— age versus youth, our usual misunderstanding of each other’s
thoughts— nothing serious, but I was very glad that since the last sparring
match, I had hugged her and told her I loved her. </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
“Do you?” she’d asked in her quavery voice. “I didn’t know
that.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Of course, I had assured her, my
disagreeing with her didn’t mean I hated her. But she was old school, and loving
children didn’t disagree. They didn’t argue with you and make you feel
unneeded. </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
They didn’t quit the church, and school, and have boyfriends
that weren’t of the same race, and so many other things I did do. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
When she told me in my dream of her, that she understood all
of that finally, it was surely wish fulfillment on my part, the wish of having
an adult understand my position clearly— and more important that it be my sweet
Gram, who loved us wonderfully, if in an old-fashioned way. I never wanted her
to feel unloved by me. </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
But the weirdness of that dream, and its instant effect of
banishing the constant horrible memory of her death mask, was added to in
pieces over time. First, when my younger sister also dreamed of Gram one night, a few
months after the funeral.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Carole was sick with a fever for two and a half days, and on
the last night of it, she dreamed Gram sat at her bedside and slid a cool hand
over her forehead, smiling at her. When she woke, her fever was gone. She told
me about it, and we discussed our two dreams and what they might mean. </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
We began to notice that one of our cats had taken to sitting
in an odd way, beneath the kitchen table, looking up at the empty chair where
Gram used to sit. He did this only in the middle of the day, just around <st1:time hour="12" minute="0">noon</st1:time>— the time when Gram would eat her luncheon
sandwich and drink her single cup of hot tea, with two of her homemade cookies.
It was hard not to think he was waiting for her, as if he had seen her recently
at her routine, and was expecting a scrap of lunchmeat to get slipped down to
him.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
The scarier strange part came over a year later, and
requires some explanation. </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
My grandmother lived through the Great Depression, and she
retained a strong sense of frugality. Thus, when she was older and moving in
and out of the tub was not so easy, she “saved water” by bathing only once a
week. “I don’t get dirty walking around the house,” she’d say, and she was
right, she never looked dirty or unkempt. Her hair was always done, her
housedress neatly ironed, her face washed, her teeth white into her advanced
80’s, her hands spotless. She did, however, have a certain highly specific odor, due to some
unaddressed women’s ailment that caused her a lasting problem of some kind of
discharge. My own evil theory, which my family would hate me to mention, is that it wasn’t truly a women’s ailment, but a STD
given her by my grandfather before he left her for good once their four kids
were all grown. Just a theory, though. <br />
<br />
<br />
That scent-- it wasn’t strong enough to reach across the room,
but the day or two before her bath, you knew it. Yet she would not accept help
getting in and out of the tub. Her views on nudity, sex, and exposure were a
mix of puritan and extreme Catholic— you didn’t let your relatives see you
undressed, period. Her bath remained a weekly event we all looked forward to,
and were grateful for afterwards. </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
We had long since gotten used to this mild funk, as you do to any
indoor smells with time. It had been two years since her death when Carole
& I, sitting one afternoon at the same round wooden kitchen table, suddenly
looked at each other in surprise as a wave of Gram smell washed over us. A
faint breeze through the screen brought it stronger, rather than blowing it
away. Instinctively, our heads turned to look through the bedroom door, that
was open behind me— nothing but my mother’s bed and dresser, her having taken
over Gram’s old room so that Carole and I could have separate bedrooms for the
first time in our lives. Not a thing moved, the window was closed; the smell
didn’t seem to be coming from in there, either, though where else but the room she mostly lived in?</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
We talked about it later, wondering if maybe some scent
still clung to the carpet, (despite Mom’s use of scented rug freshener) or the bedframe and
maybe we hadn’t noticed it before, and it got picked up by the moving air, etc.
We agreed that it must be some natural occurrence like that. We kept agreeing
every time it happened again, which added up to three more times. </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Nowadays, I’m certain Carole thinks that Gram was somehow
watching over us. I know this can’t be true. My Grandmother lived a long life,
with some heavy events and bad stuff, but also lots of love, and her family
always around her. It is sad to me that she spent the last twenty years of her
life marking time, waiting to die, with her daily routine as her strongest
anchor, instead of forging a more active, interesting second stage for herself;
but I cannot believe she would, even if souls did exist, hang about to bother
the living. If there was a heaven, she had friends there she’d want to see. She
loved us and would never do anything to scare us, in life or death. She had wanted
to rest, she wanted to be at peace, freed from her pains. That doesn’t make for
good poltergeist material, and anyway, I don’t believe in spirits.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I just don’t know how
to explain the feeling of her presence that came along with her scent, the
overwhelming press of the smell of her small, barrel-shaped, house-coated body,
next to me, as I sat in her chair drinking a cup of hot tea.</div>
</div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer">OKTOBER!</div>Aging Opheliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14360783709169946256noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5609591374769592270.post-55190233708891077072014-06-02T16:03:00.001-04:002014-06-02T16:03:36.366-04:00Bradbury's 52-- the beginning.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
This week I began an adventure-- writing a short story (with a given prompt as a starting point) each week for 52 weeks in a row. It came about through Ray Bradbury's suggestion to new writers that no one is capable of writing 52 bad stories in a row-- so if you write one per week, you're bound to get something good eventually. <br />
<br />
Always a fan of writing challenges. I jumped on board pretty damn quick. Whether or not I've completed a challenge, I find each one I undertake useful, and fun-- NaNoWriMo may be painful fun, but still fun. <br />
<br />
I'll likely post the stories here, with the prompts at the end.<br />
<br />
Ready? </div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer">OKTOBER!</div>Aging Opheliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14360783709169946256noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5609591374769592270.post-3152232226515916552014-02-10T12:32:00.004-05:002014-02-10T12:32:39.267-05:00FAWM-a-licious things to think about. <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
It is once again February Album Writing Month, a challenge I have been unable to resist since the moment I came across a link to <a href="http://www.fawm.org/">www.fawm.org</a>, the January after my first NaNoWriMo-- or <a href="http://www.nanowrimo.org/">www.nanowrimo.org</a>. <br />
<br />
As this is my blog, my own personal ongoing writing experiment, I though I'd jump in late and use this space to throw out ideas, titles for, and snippets of songs-in-progress. <br />
<br />
<br />
To see full songs, try this link: <a href="http://fawm.org/fawmers/heavyhedonist/">http://fawm.org/fawmers/heavyhedonist/</a> or this one: <br />
<br />
<a href="http://fawm.org/fawmers/explodingmary/">http://fawm.org/fawmers/explodingmary/</a>. I keep my various personalities there, on display, year round.<br />
<br />
Now, for some possible titles--<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Scatter Me (Wide)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Kittah Glittah<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Wrestling Your Inner Shark<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">The Rosebush Dies<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Sparkle Moles Doin' It<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">I Danced with Your Brother, too<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
--------------------------------------------<br />
<br />
Haven't tried one of these yet. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
</div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer">OKTOBER!</div>Aging Opheliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14360783709169946256noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5609591374769592270.post-35890442304877277892013-10-29T16:32:00.002-04:002013-10-29T16:33:48.433-04:00Oktober Sky: Changes in the Air, Part Two<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
here the boys moved in their uniforms, moving inside them, if you could see close enough, moving inside their cold-clogged minds and hot tiny young bodies under the shoulder pads, moving through meaningless drumbeat yells into the field, burrowing into their white pants and cups towards a hope of safety... <br />
<br />
She saw the warrior through a gluey patch of mucus that covered both aged eyes. Her instinct was to wait, but her desire told her to fly, now, fly above the danger and away. She acted on desire, and was hit with a missile twice her size. <br />
<br />
</div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer">OKTOBER!</div>Aging Opheliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14360783709169946256noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5609591374769592270.post-23497010801965819802013-10-15T12:58:00.001-04:002013-10-15T12:58:16.672-04:00Oktober Sky: Changes in the Air<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Walking beside the water just before sunrise, her soft shoes barely disturbed the sand. Her footprints were subtle and hard to read, for she had learnt a pattern of stepping that caused little sound and less imprint. It worked with sand, with dirt, with grass, even in the underbrush of a forest, and her muscles were long since trained to the peculiarity of those movements. The slight ache she might feel after a day of travel meant less than travelling free of followers. <br />
<br />
Though she avoided being tracked routinely, today it was a conscious choice. Her plans if known could call up trouble of a serious nature, and she had built towards this day, this working, for several months in order to avoid notice. The gathering of materials, the choice of a meeting place, the precise wording of the envisioned spell had been pieced together with a seeming randomness, a delicate embroidery of many hands moving at scattered times. No loose ends had been left, she was assured repeatedly, and she'd verified each assurance. Now, on the day itself, a sense of watchfulness filled her like an omen of pain. <br />
<br />
She had been very careful indeed, was still approaching her point most carefully, and yet the sky had filled with ominous clouds, grey edged with yellow; the wind had died to a damp stillness; the normal, gentle sounds of the sea and shore ceased; all the world seemed to wait with indrawn breath.<br />
<br />
Her actions, and perhaps intent, had been noted, and she paused to let that knowledge settle in. To carry on might mean death, or worse... to stop meant the end of her mind's peace, perhaps insanity. <br />
<br />
She breathed deep the dank air around her slowly, tasting the clammy tang of her own indecision, then gathered her skirts and ran full out, unmindful of the clear path left on the sand behind.<br />
<br />
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<div class="blogger-post-footer">OKTOBER!</div>Aging Opheliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14360783709169946256noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5609591374769592270.post-47476413694396649132013-10-14T13:30:00.001-04:002013-10-14T13:30:43.092-04:00Oktober Sky: Changes in the Water<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
To work strong magicks effectively, the practitioner must prepare in many ways-- she must cleanse herself of dirt, and of cares, clearing mind and body to be a proper conduit of the energies she will use. She must prepare the area wherein she will cast her spells-- this may require cleaning, adding objects to an altar, oiling candles or other special preparations; the practitioner must, in every case, be aware of each mote of dust, each dim corner, each sunlit leaf, each crawling ant that lies within the space where her spell will be built. In this way, she retains as much control of the spell's result as possible. <br />
<br />
Total control is not possible. To keep your spell tight, you must work hardest before the moment you conduct the pure flow of energy, then let it go freely, with a calm and clear mind. Some will say this isn't so, wanting to save themselves time in the beginning of a spell, but all such haphazardly approached enchantments end up weak in effect, or worse-- they may turn against the spellworker. The clearest, strongest, best magick is made by strong and deliberate actions taken by careful, patient spellcasters. A lazy individual, a careless magician or one who seeks haste in the working, will get little good from their indifferent attempts.<br />
<br />
A good spellcaster takes her time in all things. A good spellcaster watches her tea even as it steeps, noting the changes in the water. Thus informed, all her deeds are well done, and life tastes sweet. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
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<div class="blogger-post-footer">OKTOBER!</div>Aging Opheliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14360783709169946256noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5609591374769592270.post-17430299311032800482013-10-13T14:42:00.003-04:002013-10-13T14:44:23.101-04:00Oktober Ski: A Night at the Overlook<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
The reflection in her eyes tipped him off-- the man behind him, as he lifted his arm to hit Mack, showed as a blurry glitter of movement-- Mack slid aside, kicking out as he went, dropping the surprised attacker onto the floor. In a flash, the edge of Mack's hand came down on his throat, and he was out of the game. The girl didn't stick around to see the results; she turned and made for the door as fast as she could, scattering her scarf and cheap bag in her hurry, and Mack let her go. <br />
<br />
He could have caught up at the elevators, maybe, but it didn't seem important. He knew who'd sent the pair, and he knew why. It was the ring, again, always that damn ring. Sitting in a safe ten floors below, it had managed to call trouble to him, for the third time. A cursed sapphire, not technically the legal property of anyone for over two centuries, although Mack's employer claimed hereditary ownership. His own short guardianship made Mack wonder why possession of this weirdly cut stone in its old-fashioned setting was so hot on everybody's list. Each day since he'd acquired it had brought some new problem, and he had five days left till delivery-- a meeting he'd begun to wish was happening a lot sooner, despite the luxurious accommodations he'd been paid to enjoy. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
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<div class="blogger-post-footer">OKTOBER!</div>Aging Opheliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14360783709169946256noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5609591374769592270.post-52542757356870647652013-10-10T14:31:00.004-04:002013-10-10T14:32:11.421-04:00Oktober Ski: The Miso Diary<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Day 6 of the diet that can't possibly miss-- <br />
<br />
I have to pee every five minutes, all day long. Not sleeping for more than two hours at a time and my skin looks like hell. Forget sex. Forget watching a movie. I may have lost some weight just from all the running to the bathroom. <br />
<br />
My supervisor hates me now, for the constant up/down/up/down during her big-ass meeting yesterday morning. I left 5 times to urinate. She spoke to me afterwards and pretended to understand, then told me to see a doctor if "my problem" doesn't change for the better-- immediately. She's not going to let me do that again-- looks like it's adult diapers during the morning training montage. <br />
<br />
More later-- I have to pee again.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
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<div class="blogger-post-footer">OKTOBER!</div>Aging Opheliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14360783709169946256noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5609591374769592270.post-70704315093036182622013-10-03T12:45:00.001-04:002013-10-03T12:45:32.267-04:00Oktober Ski: Cantrip Castle<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
In my first novel, I wrote a throwaway line about a book two characters had read, called Cantrip Castle. I've worked on the real book since, but never finished. Here, I begin again, adding from the middle. <br />
<br />
<br />
<strong><u>CANTRIP CASTLE</u></strong><br />
<strong><u></u></strong><br />
<br />
Lil dropped the frog onto her bed. <br />
<br />
"You're not going to stay there for long," she warned him, "so don't get comfortable." <br />
<br />
He hopped over her pillow and onto the nightstand, looking around him. The room was full of pink things. Pink, and frilly, and dry.<br />
<br />
"I'm amphibious, baby. Cotton percale duvets aren't exactly my idea of cozy. Can we get a basin in here, with a couple of stones in it, maybe?"<br />
<br />
"What's a basin?" Lil asked. <br />
<br />
The frog sighed. <br />
<br />
"It's a big, deep bowl, preferably with some water in it."<br />
<br />
"Oh! We have one of those." <br />
<br />
She jumped up, heading for the pink-on-pink door. <br />
<br />
"Not too cold!" he called after her. Her head nodded as she skipped out, and the frog found a place on the nightstand to wait, and ruminate on his options. Clearly, this relationship wasn't going to be easy. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
---Mari Kozlowski<br />
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<div class="blogger-post-footer">OKTOBER!</div>Aging Opheliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14360783709169946256noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5609591374769592270.post-50769999448983693842013-10-02T14:44:00.000-04:002013-10-02T14:44:57.146-04:00Oktober Ski: Fiction, Fiction, Fiction<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
After many beginnings in September, most having gone unreported here, we are into Oktober, which is always reserved for instant fiction. This year, the plan is to alternate between a few prospective books, adding some new work to each. The first is a fanfic I've just dreamed up, a gathering of stories that may or may not become interwoven, called:<br />
<br />
<br />
<strong><u>A NIGHT AT THE OVERLOOK</u></strong><br />
<strong><u></u></strong><br />
<br />
<br />
His wife was trying on earrings now. She'd picked up ten different pairs so far, holding them near her head in turn, assessing their effect against her perfect coif.<br />
<br />
Brennan sat heavily in one of the Overlook's leather club chairs, realizing he might have to wait another half hour or more just for the jewelry to get picked. Then she'd need to decide on shoes, and last of all, a wrap. All of this to go downstairs and mingle with the richest scum in America on a cracked ballroom floor under aging chandeliers, while they ate dried out canapés and lobster that was sure to be overcooked. <br />
<br />
He grabbed a newspaper, bored already. His wife turned from her vanity mirror, hands on hips. <br />
<br />
"What do you think about these?"<br />
<br />
He lifted his head from the sports section just as the first bullet ripped through her middle.<br />
<br />
</div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer">OKTOBER!</div>Aging Opheliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14360783709169946256noreply@blogger.com0