Incurable Insomniac

Accepting Love

2009-11-15T14:37:00.001-06:00

Whenever I find myself in a difficult situation or experience, I try to ask myself, "What is it about love that I'm not learning?". Sometimes the answer is a bit convoluted and I have to dig around a bit to find it, and sometimes it's looking me in the face.

It's my belief that all we're really here for is to learn love. The Beatles were right when they sang, "All You Need Is Love", because if you boil everything down--the so-called good and bad lessons--it's only about love: love for others and love for ourselves. Love covers a multitude of sins, and I know from my own experiences that when I apply the love lesson to any given situation, I'm prompted to act from the best part of myself rather than ego or fear. I'm no saint, as we all know, so it's not always easy. It's never easy because it's so easy to act from fear.

We've been going through a financial crisis for so long now that I've almost come to accept it as our lot in life. Almost. Right behind that defeatist attitude, however, lies the knowledge that it's only a test. It's a test that I intend to pass though. When someone offers help, my first reaction is to feel small and undeserving--a failure--but when I ask myself, "What is it about love that I'm not learning?", I know that I'm supposed to learn to accept love, to turn off the negative voices and allow people the joy they receive from their selfless actions.

By accepting assistance from others I not only allow them the blessing that giving bestows, I also keep the flow moving so that when it's my turn, I'll have what it requires to help others. It's a continuum of energy that sets us up for an ever-expanding dance of giving and receiving. That's what the adage, "'Tis more blessed to give than to receive" means. And isn't that what life is about anyway? All creatures on this planet benefit from working together for the good of all--it's only human beings that have distorted that into the I, me, mine mentality that plagues and poisons our society, which comes from fear and which is the opposite of love.

How can I ever expect to be in a position to help others when I cannot receive or accept help myself? Today, I not only accept the love that my friends send, I return that love to them by not stopping the flow that they've set up, and when I am able, I shall pass it on to the next person in need.

Sunday Pate

2009-11-15T09:56:00.000-06:00

My new book, With A Bullet, is a story set in London in the 1970s. It's about four people in the world of popular music who are dealing with their individual issues, some having to do with acquiring fame and fortune and some with living with it.

The title comes from Billboard's Top 100 jargon. When a record goes "Number 40 with a bullet", for example, it means that it shot up out of nowhere and is predicted to go straight to the Top 10.

I actually wrote this book many years ago, but it was pretty godawful. The manuscript was one thing that I was glad went in The Great Dump of 2001. A few months ago the story started haunting me and I knew that I could rewrite it into something worth reading. The characters are so firmly etched upon my life that my brain actually missed them (see this entry, The House I Never Lived In, for an explanation). The book is no longer self-indulgently autobiographical; they have evolved their own identities quite apart from those they previously had. I've grown up, it seems, and I can create characters that have little to do with me. That's the gift that years of experience gives us writers.

Here's a little taste, from Chapter 4:

     The salmon pate was about the best thing Katy had eaten all day. In fact, it was all she’d eaten. She took a sip from her wine glass and looked at Shelly, who sat across the room talking about skiing in Colorado.
     Yet another party, this time in the Mayfair home of her lawyer, John Dunne, and his girlfriend Denise. It was an intimate get together though, which Katy appreciated. She was tired after a full week of promotional appearances on London’s television talk shows, and longed to go to bed.
     With help from the cozy warmth of the room and the soft conversation around her, Katy felt her eyes become heavy, and she stood to pay another visit to the buffet table, which was laid with a pleasant array of cocktail party fare. In the foyer the doorbell rang, but she paid no mind. The pate beckoned, and she slathered a fair amount onto a pita triangle and took a bite.
     Someone came into the room, making an entrance that caused Katy to turn and look. She knew the face, but for a fraction of a second she was at a loss at placing a name to it.
     “Of course,” she thought. “Jason Talmadge!”
     Jason had been a member of one of the most celebrated bands of the Sixties, and now he had a new band whose records were topping the charts every time one came out. He was tall, with coarse dark hair, expressive eyes, and boyish good looks that still made his fans quiver. It didn’t matter that he was married and had kids, every girl was sure that he would marry her, if only they she could somehow meet him.
     He put across an air of approachability although he was a very private person in reality, but then, Jason was the quintessential rock star, and knew how to butter his bread on all sides, while remaining untouched by the whirlwind around him. His was a charmed life, or so it seemed until recently. Word had started going around that his marriage was in trouble. The fans would of course welcome a divorce, but to Jason, it was catastrophic; he needed the solidarity of family life to balance his own legend.
     Not wanting to appear excited, Katy turned her attention back to the pate. Without warning, the hors d’ouevre was suddenly snatched from her hand and she turned to see Jason stuffing it into his mouth, a huge, playful smile on his face.
     “That’s just to let you know that I’m not giving you everything in this town,” he said, a piece of pate falling from his mouth and onto his tie. He roared with laughter, wiping it off with his finger and licking it.
     “Did you plan this?” she asked.
     “What? Meeting you? Yes.”
     “No, I mean your tie being the exact color as the salmon.”
     “Of course!” he said and paused to pour a glass of wine. “I suppose introductions would be completely redundant,” he said after a moment.
     “Maybe not,” she said blithely. “What’s your name again?” They both laughed.
     “Do you think you can get away with this then? I mean, knocking me out of first place on the Top Ten?” he asked.
     “Me knock you out? Right. Like that’s going to happen.”
     “Oh, you haven’t heard the news then.”
     “What news?” she asked cautiously.
     “You’re Number One, love. I just heard it on the way here.”
     Forgetting that they’d only just met, Katy placed both her palms against his chest as if seeking strength to remain standing.
     “You’re kidding…”
     “Nope!” He grabbed an olive and popped in into his attractive mouth. “I never joke about the charts.”
     “Wow! I mean, wow!” She bit her fist, then looked at him again, remembering who he was and realizing the importance of what he’d just told her. “Oh, Jason, I’m sorry. Here I am—and you’re—”
     “Don’t sweat it, kid. Welcome to the asylum.”

World Beat Music

2009-11-13T00:22:00.000-06:00

I'm not writing tonight. In fact, I'm going to go to bed as soon as this entry is posted. I wrote all afternoon and now I'm just plain old tired.

Meantime, enjoy this composition by James Plakovic, who is known for what he calls his "two dimensional sculptures of playable music". I'm not sure when this piece was composed, but the entire composition is scored for 37 instruments and contains a total of 32 measures. The total playing time is approximately 40 seconds. The link below will take you to a midi version of it. You can hear the fully orchestrated version on his website, but I couldn't get the sound clips to work. This piece, which is titled, World Beat Music, doesn't sound as unpleasant as I thought it was going to. Click the image to enlarge it, and Listen to it here.

See and hear more of Plakovic's music here.

Afraid of Death? Not Anymore!

2009-11-12T14:25:00.004-06:00

Click to enable enhugination.

Speelchicker

2009-11-12T00:52:00.002-06:00

I'm having a hard time tonight knowing where to take my story. There are a number of frustrating issues with my new book, you see, not the least of which is the fact that this was something I wrote way back when. I mean wa-a-ay back. The only good thing about it was the characters, so I've resurrected them. The story had potential, but it needed a lot of surgery. I'm working all that out as well, and I'm liking the results. The story hasn't changed all that much, but it has matured; I've added some twists that I wasn't able to invent when I was younger. I think it's going to be good.

Actually, I know where I'm taking the story, but tonight I'm stumped with how to get from point A to point C, because I haven't completely worked out point B. I shut down Word and played a game or two of Sudoku, then I looked over at the bookcase and saw that RW's book (which you should read, by the way) is neatly tucked between Mary Shelly and Dylan Thomas, and I realized that I must get firm with myself. Plus, Nettl's book is out, and here I sit playing Sudoku. It's not that I'm competitive, I just vaguely mind when someone completes something and I haven't.

Another problem is that I don't have the original manuscript; I'm reinventing it as I go. Actually, that's probably a good thing because I won't be tempted to take the lazy way out and use something I'll regret later. And there's so much of that crapola in the original.

Yet another thing is the damned spellchecker. It's a very good tool, but do I really need to have it on while I'm writing? Doesn't my constant stopping to correct something kind of break the creative flow? I think it might, so I've turned it off until I'm finished writing for the night. Then I'll turn it back on and make my corrections. We'll see if that helps anyway.

Now I must stop blogging so that I can get back to work. I refuse to think of blogging as one of my ways to avoid writing, however...

I Always Miss the Fun News

2009-11-11T11:16:00.003-06:00

On January 10, 1992, twelve 40-foot containers holding 28,000 plastic bath toys were washed overboard off a cargo ship into the middle of the Pacific Ocean and broke open. The floating toys, which were on their way from Hong Kong to Tacoma, Washington, included yellow rubber duckies, blue turtles, red beavers, and green frogs that have since been caught up in the world’s ocean currents and continue turning up on the most improbable shores. Curtis Ebbesmeyer, a retired oceanographer, saw from the beginning how valuable the toys could be in tracing ocean currents, and correctly predicted their trip through the Northwest Passage.

The "Friendly Floatees", as they became known, made their first landfall in mid November of 1993, when the counter-clockwise Subpolar Gyre started dumping the toys on Alaskan shores. It took the ducks about three years to drift full circle on the Gyre. They turned up all over the Pacific: Japan, Hawaii, North America and Australia.

As Ebbesmeyer predicted, some of the toys escaped the Gyre to flow North through the Bering Strait into the Arctic. Between 1995 and 2000 they slowly drifted eastward, frozen in the arctic ice, at a rate of 1 mile per day. Since 2000, the ducks started reaching the North Atlantic, being sighted from the shores of Maine to Massachusetts. In 2001, the ducks reached the site where the Titanic sank. In 2003, the plastic toys reached the shores of the Hebrides, off the coast of Scotland.

If you spot one of these plastic toys on a beach--its colors probably faded, with the imprint "The Early Years" on it--then you’ve found one member of the plastic armada that set sail 17 years ago. At some point, the scientific team that tracked their progress offered $100 apiece for the ducks, provided you could tell them when and where you’d found them. The offer was valid only from July through to December 2003, and only for Friendly Floatees found in New England, Canada, or Iceland. However, Friendly Floatees have become so famous that they can fetch up to $1,000 at auction.

Hat tip to Strange Maps and Wikipedia.

What's in a Name?

2009-11-10T11:00:00.004-06:00

Life could have been so much easier for me if my parents had either 1) given me a name they intended to call me, or 2) called me by the name they actually gave me. My name has been a big frickin' deal my entire life.

I was christened Sheila Kathryn, but did they call me Sheila? No. When I was a baby, it was Sheila K, but all I remember is Kathy. At the age of 9 this was changed to Kaye, and until their deaths, my mom still called me Kathy while my dad called me Kaye. I preferred Kaye, and used it until 1999, when my pen name, Steph, took over by the use of online friends who never knew Kaye. But even that began as a masculine nom de plume, Stephan Karl, which is what my parents had planned to name me, until I emerged from the womb and my gender was plain for all to see. Still, all through my school years, the kids called me Kaye while the teachers called me Sheila, which, for some reason, gave the kids reason to make fun of me. WTF.

In there somewhere is Kate, which my English friends dubbed me in the late Seventies, and even that was split into Katy and Katesy by some of them. Various nicknames included Johnny, Wally, Jody, Kayeberger, Berg, and Wolfi. We won't even go into last names. I was widowed once and divorced once, so that gave me two of those, but I simplified that decades ago by sticking to my maiden name.

But nowhere in my moniker nightmare was the name Stephanie ever, ever used. So why do people insist on calling me that? I've had Nettl introduce me, "This is my partner, Steph," and the lame brain turns right around and says while they're shaking my hand, "Nice to meet you, Stephanie!"

GRRR! If someone tells me their name is Bob, I don't go and call them Robert, do I? I figure, like any polite, sane person would, that the name I am told is the name they prefer. Duh!

Last week when I called the pizza place, I made an order to be delivered and the guy says, "So this is [insert address here]?" "Yes," I replied. "Okay, Stephanie, we'll have it there in 30 minutes!"

Hey, when did I ever tell you numbnutz that my name is Stephanie!?

Lately, I'm really missing being Kaye. I've always been happy that my parents didn't give me an "ie" name (not to insult all you Debbies and Suzies out there). Well, except for Kathy, and I hated being called that for other, more personal reasons. If I'd known that "Stephanie" was going to be such an issue, I would have stuck with Kaye in the first place. It's a strong name.

Frank was the only person ever to call me Sheila. Well, and the IRS. But this name business has always been a thorn in my flesh, especially where my trolls and stalkers are concerned. They seem to think that knowing my full name gives them power over me somehow, but that borders on the nefarious to me, like something out of a novel about witches knowing one's true name and using it to cast spells.

I like Steph a lot, but Stephanie will not be tolerated. It just doesn't fit.

"Who Am I?" #6

2009-11-10T01:32:00.000-06:00

We are brother and sister though a lot of people wouldn't expect it. We have spent our lives in movies, but we've always worked separately. We've each won Academy Awards and we are known for being eccentric.

Who are we?

Happy Birthday Spotlight: My Son, Micah

2009-11-09T06:59:00.003-06:00

I thought that for Micah's birthday today, I'd share with you some things that people have said about him. Micah is a brilliant, innovative musician, composer, producer, artist, craftsman -- need I go on? Let's make it simple. He's a true Renaissance Man in every sense of the word. Genius is a word that I don't use much because it's as overused as the standing ovation (also something I don't do unless I really feel the performer deserves it. Nowadays, everyone gets a standing ovation, rendering the gesture meaningless. But I'm rambling...). Micah is a genius, and I'd say that even if he wasn't my son. He masters everything that he sets himself to and he's a deeply spiritual man, fun-loving with a playfully self-deprecating sense of humor. But this is what I say. Here's what other people say:

"I've always loved listening to Micah's compositions because they're always so musically interesting. He has lots of content and his soloing is never overkill. He shows a lot of room for growth and potential and has direction in his approach." George Lynch (Dokken/Lynch Mob)

"I have been a fan of Micah's for some time now. Temple [Temple of Unmanifest Dreams, his CD] just sweeps you away to somewhere else. Most of what you're hearing is a guitar, too! I am in awe of Micah's musical genius on this CD. Having heard some demos of what is to come, I can say keep your eye on this guy. If anyone today is breaking new ground in guitar music it is Micah!" Marauder

His Bio:

Micah Atwell mixes nostalgic, brooding, ambient soundscapes with edgy, organic rock influence to define a new dimension of electronic guitar. His unique blend of emotive minimalist complexity is constantly making new impressions with listeners from all backgrounds and preferences.

Raised between bustling southern California and rural, spacious Kansas, Micah developed a dichotomous affinity for time and rhythm. At age 16, he began teaching himself guitar and spent his formative years writing blues-based hard rock instrumentals. Over time, he shifted his evolving sound and style towards the more experimental electronic and ambient genres. This has allowed him to tap into a much greater list of influences, technical experience, and creative freedom.

Micah produced and self-released his 2008 debut album, Temple of Unmanifest Dreams, an emotionally charged and meditative ambient/electronic guitar odyssey geared for audiences of such popular radio programs as the nationally syndicated Hearts of Space and similar regional broadcasts. This haunting, meditative compilation is an astounding testament to what a guitar can convey, and it continues to receive sweeping reviews at every turn.

He also has a growing interest in the production music industry and Internet music collaborations. Micah has scored music for video and animation and is active with artists in the US and UK, co-writing and co-producing some very eclectic compositions.

Micah Atwell has received numerous positive critiques from legendary guitarist George Lynch and in 2008 secured a Top 40 ranking in the industry-sponsored international Guitar Idol competition.

His Website
His Facebook Profile

Happy birthday, Micah. I love you and am very proud of you!

A Little of This, a Lot of That and Maybe Too Much of T'other

2009-11-08T20:55:00.002-06:00

Man, am I glad that project's in the can! After months of helping Nettl by editing, formatting, and designing the cover as well as the promotional website, her book is finally published and up for sale. We've invested a lot of ourselves in this book, and I think it's worth it.

It's titled, So Faithful A Heart - The Love Story of Nancy Storace and Wolfgang Mozart, and is an historical fiction. Check it out!

Last night we were invited to our neighbor's house for a dinner party, and we had a great time. His wife and two sons were there, as well as another professor at the theater department and his wife, and a singer, Tyley Ross, who was in Tulsa, on tour. Matt had him over because he was to teach a workshop this morning at the university. He's a really nice guy and has a beautiful tenor--nearly counter-tenor--voice.

We were served three kinds of chicken: garlic, fennel, and rosemary, some rosemary garlic potatoes, bell peppers stuffed with tomato, mozzarella, and basil, and about a barrel of wine. Before dinner, we sat outside enjoying pate, cheese, and summer-like weather, sans mosquitoes! We all drank too much, but we were having such a nice time talking about the Arts and such.

Today, we spent all day trying to upload the cover of the book. It was way too frustrating, but we got it at last. Now we're experiencing the let down that always comes after a book is finished. Now to get busy on mine...

Armchair Circumnavigator: Sable Island

2009-11-07T11:26:00.005-06:00

43°57'0"N, 59°54'57"W
(Click images to enlarge)

Sable Island is a narrow crescent-shaped sandbar located about 15.5 miles off the coast of Nova Scotia. It is approximately 16 miles long and less than a mile across at its widest point. Because it's basically a sand bar, its shape and size have shifted dramatically throughout its recorded history. It emerges from shoals and shallows on the continental shelf which, in tandem with the area's frequent fog and sudden strong storms--including hurricanes and "nor'easters"--have caused over 350 recorded shipwrecks. It is often referred to as the "Graveyard of the Atlantic". The nearest landfall is 100 miles to the northwest near Canso, Nova Scotia.

Since the time of the earliest European visitors to Nova Scotia, Sable Island has been the bane and saviour of sailors. Many of the sailors wrecked on the island's shoals survived by swimming or floating to shore to wait for rescue. The Sable Island Rescue Service existed for many years to help sailors caught in the treacherous waters.

The first recorded shipwreck off the Island occurred during a voyage in 1583 by Sir Humphrey Gilbert, whose expedition lost a ship and many lives when poor planning and lack of patience brought a small fleet to the island at night. This was to be repeated time and time again throughout history as sailors and ships ended their days on the sands and rocks around the island. (See shipwreck map.)

The island is home to 5 people--4 Environment Canada Station personnel and one resident researcher--but in the summer, seasonal contractors, research scientists, photographers, etc. come to the island. It is protected under the Canada Shipping Act, which means that permission must be obtained from the Canadian Coast Guard to visit the island.

Sable Island was named after its sand (Sable is French for "sand"). It is covered with grass and other low-growing vegetation. In 1901 the federal government planted over 80,000 trees on the island in an attempt to stabilize the soil; all died. Sable Island is believed to have formed from large quantities of sand and gravel deposited on the continental shelf near the end of the last ice age. The island is continually changing its shape with the effects of strong winds and violent ocean storms. It has several freshwater ponds on the south side between the station and west light, and a brackish lake (Lake Wallace) near its center. There are frequent heavy fogs in the area due to the contrasting effects of the cold Labrador Current and the warm Gulf Stream. During winter months, the moderating influence of the Gulf Stream can sometimes give Sable Island the warmest temperatures in Canada.

The island is home to over 300 free-roaming feral horses, protected by law from human interference. They are descended from horses confiscated from Acadians during the Great Expulsion in 1755 and left on the island by Thomas Hancock, Boston merchant and uncle of John Hancock. In the past, excess horses have been rounded up and shipped off the island for use in coal mines on Cape Breton Island, or to be sold, but the Government gave full protection to the horse population in 1960 and they have been left alone ever since. No human is allowed to interfere with any of the island's wildlife because it is a wildlife preserve and is protected by the Canadian government.

A life-saving station was established on Sable Island in 1801, and its crew became the first permanent inhabitants of the island. Two lighthouses, one on the eastern tip and one on the western tip were built in 1872. Until the advent of modern ship navigation, Sable Island's two light stations were home to permanent lighthouse keepers and their families, as well as the crew members of the life-saving station. In the early 20th century, the Marconi Company established a radio station on the island and the Canadian government similarly established a weather station.

The November of My Life

2009-11-06T11:45:00.003-06:00

The other night as I sat here writing, I looked down at my hands and noticed that they've suddenly aged. I held them up and really looked at them, recognizing how much they look like my mother's hands. I've also noticed lately that my hair isn't as thick as it used to be and that I have two pads of extra skin on my jawline, between my chin and the curve that leads up to the ear. My cheeks aren't as plump and my eyes seriously need to have some skin removed; the lids have gotten far too heavy, which makes them feel tired all of the time. I'm not into cosmetic surgery, but if I could, I'd have my jaw and eyes done a little--not much though--just enough to get rid of the tired look I've acquired.

I don't look in the mirror much, not because I dread what I might see, but because I'm just not one of those people who spend a lot of time there. I gave up the glam and the makeup nearly 20 years ago--a miraculous feat considering I used to be one of those who wouldn't even go to the mailbox unless I was perfectly turned out. Nowadays, if it's a really special occasion, I use a couple of passes with a mineral powder, a little eyebrow pencil, and I call it a done deal.

The plus for me is that, regardless of having grown up in southern California during the surfing craze of the Sixties, I never spent much time trying to tan. I'm a natural redhead and I'm no fool. Because of this, my skin is in great shape. Plus, I've always been petite; I still have a great butt, and outside of a few extra pounds gained during the Hashimoto's debacle, my body hasn't changed all that much. I'm not gloating though, because I've never exercised or dieted--I'm far too lazy for that. This is genetics pure and simple: neither of my parents looked their ages as they grew older either.

Maybe it's because I've always appeared 10 years younger than my actual age--and have a lot of youthful energy--but aging hasn't been that big a deal to me. Even now, people mistake me for being in my 40s instead of nearly 60; it wasn't until I was nearly 35 when liquor store clerks and bouncers quit carding me. I've always wondered how long I will be able to milk this. Now I'm seeing very real signs that I'm about to enter the December of my life. Well, maybe the November. And you know what? After I passed 55 it was no big deal. Sure, I'm considering my mortality a bit more, but because I tend to be a spiritual sort, I'm able to look at it without dread or fear. I think of all the people whom I admire who have made it through the veil and I know that I'll make it too. I'm even kind of excited to find out what the fuss is all about; it's the ultimate adventure, don't you think? And if there's nothing, I won't know, and all the time spent in angst would have been for nothing.

At this time of year especially, I see my life reflected in nature. Everything falls, everything fades, everything lets go. Fortunately, I have a personal faith that gives me assurance that we, being part of nature and not separate from it, are no different than the oak tree out in the yard: we grow lush, we bear fruit, we fade, we go dormant, and it starts over again, over and over, season after season as the wheel turns ever on.

So what are wrinkles and sags but the marking of our adventures in the travel diary of our journey? Write on!

Chong and L'il Cheech

2009-11-06T00:01:00.010-06:00

When I left Ventura to return to Denver in 1999, I had to leave (among many precious personal belongings) all of my house plants. I love houseplants, and I have two green thumbs; friends bring me their sick plants and I'm almost always able to revive them. Maybe it's the Hobbit in me, I don't know.

Anyway, while in Denver for those short seven months, I bought a Dragon Tree (Dracaena marginata) in a 4" plastic pot. You know, the little plants at Wal*Mart that cost, like, $1.49. When I moved to Stillwater in August of 2000, I brought it with me. A few months later, when Nettl's mother died, her dad gave me all of her plants. One of them was a tiny Dragon Tree, not taller than 4 or 5 inches. I immediately moved it in with my other Dragon Tree, which by then had grown to be about a foot tall. They were happy together for about five years, and because one was tall and the other short, and they looked like they had busy heads, I named them Cheech & Chong.

Sadly, Cheech died in 2006, leaving Chong all by himself. I almost lost him, too. The culprit? Our cat decided their pot (yuk yuk) would make an attractive litter box. I took Chong out of the pot (he was about 5 feet tall by then), shook all of the soil out of his roots, and gave him new soil, covering it with potting moss to keep the cat out of it. It worked, and he started getting well, and continued to grow.

After he'd spent last summer outdoors, I brought him in and noticed that a new Cheech had spouted, and right out of Chong's "neck"! They're now happily ensconced in a corner of the dining room, and growing; Chong is probably 7 feet tall now.

And that's my entry for Friday. Until tonight. Tonight, I plan on taking part in NaDruBloMo.

Lubricate That Blog

2009-11-04T03:20:00.001-06:00

My pal Monty, over at The Daily Bitch, posted an entry that really challenged me. As always, she's on the cutting edge of something fun, or the slippery slope of something dangerous... Whatever.

I don't know if you're aware of it, but we're (meaning everyone in Blogsville) in the heat of NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month). Yeah, I tried to join last year, but writing something just because someone fires a starting shot really doesn't appeal to me. It doesn't inspire me. What really inspires me is wine. I'm one of those writers that needs a little mental/spiritual lubrication when I sit down to write, and I almost always sip on two or three glasses of wine when I'm up all night writing. I think that NaNoWriMo is a fine idea--for some people (obviously, many people, judging from their numbers every November). I like the little word-count meter you get to put on your blog, but what's better, what's really up my alley is NaDruBloMo!

NaDruBloMo (National Drunken Blogging Month) is holding its first annual event, beginning, well, last Sunday, and I intend to do my part to see that it's a success. I'm not sure what night I'll be posting my entry here, but you'll know. It runs all month, so there's time.

Feel free to join in the fun! Grab the badge, link back to Monty, and be sure to leave her a comment when you've post your entry.

My Britcom Musical

2009-11-03T09:25:00.006-06:00

I've had it in mind for about two years to compose a musical based on the Britcom of the 1970s, Are You Being Served?. The music has been rolling around in my head, but not having any text, I didn't want to write it down. The problem I had was finding someone with the right sense of theater and humor to take on the job of writing the "book" (the libretto or script). I even have two of the parts cast in my imagination (Dr. Scott as Mr. Humphries and Lynette as Mrs. Slocombe). Both have a background in theater and opera and have said that they'd love to take on the roles.

Because AYBS was created around the older theater traditions of the English operetta (which Gilbert & Sullivan got from composer Stephen Storace, who brought it with him from Vienna in 1787 where he studied German Singspiel with Mozart), it has many of the elements of, say, The Marriage of Figaro: An over-the-hill man who's bored with marriage and is always after the soubrette (Capt. Peacock/Count Almaviva and Miss Brahms/Susanna), the older lady who fancies herself a femme fatale (Mrs. Slocombe/Marcellina), a smart-as-a-whip but basically lazy young man who's also after the soubrette (Mr. Lucas/Figaro), two older men who are basically good for nothing except causing trouble (Mr. Grace/Don Bartolo and Mr. Grainger/Don Curzio), a romantic young man who's full of panache (Mr. Humphries/Cherubino), and the "blue collar" worker (Mr. Harman/Antonio). There is no Countess Almaviva role though, unless it's Mrs. Peacock, who shows up once in a while, but for the sake of a comedy she is easily left out. The tradition of the commedia dell'arte is obvious in this show, which makes it perfect for the stage.

A few weeks ago it dawned on me that I already had the perfect librettist, a young woman I know in Seattle who writes and produces off-the-wall shows for her group, Operadisiac. I approached her with the idea yesterday and she expressed a lot of interest.

She has the perfect sense of comedy for this project, and we've been nuts about each other for a number of years. If we end up doing this together, it'll be a lot of fun.

The hard part will be all the red tape with the BBC. There could be issues with using the characters. I'm writing them a letter today to find out about that. Wish us luck!

_________________________
UPDATE 12:25 pm:
As I wrote this entry, I was wondering about the role of Mr. Rumbold, and thanks to Ville's comment, I've deduced that both he and Mr. Grainger are Don Bartolo types. That leaves me wondering about Young Mr. Grace. Perhaps he's Don Curzio... Fun to analyze.

Black and White America

2009-11-02T00:01:00.006-06:00

A few days ago, Deni posted a link to the following article in Facebook. The photography was so wonderful that I had to post one picture in hope that you'll go look at the rest. Why oh why were talents like this kept from white America? What did society, our civilization, gain? Aren't we supposed to be better than that? When we hide another's light under a bushel, we hurt not only them, but ourselves. As Shakespeare wrote, "All are punished." Sorry, but racism is something that just chaps my ass. I just don't understand it. We are one family on this planet, and we need to take pride in each others' gifts, helping each other along. Anyway, here's the article. Please go look at the photographs when you're finished reading. (This photo will enlarge if you click it.)

In the 1950s, photography was hardly considered art. If you wanted to be taken seriously as a photographer, you photographed mountains and models, not your neighbors. You also had to be white. But one man, Roy DeCarava, turned all of that on its head. He died this week at age 89.

DeCarava was born in Harlem in 1919 to a single Jamaican mother. He had plenty of odd jobs before he picked up a camera. He was a shoe shiner, a newspaper salesman and an ice hauler. But his natural artistic gifts eventually led him to art school, where he began as a painter. It wasn't long before the lens replaced the brush.

In 1952, DeCarava applied for the prestigious Guggenheim Fellowship. He was the first black photographer to receive the grant, and he used it to photograph Harlem. The photos from this period eventually became the contents of a book. The Sweet Flypaper Of Life was made in collaboration with Harlem Renaissance writer Langston Hughes. It showed Harlem as a mix of quiet ordinary moments, everyday struggles and tiny triumphs.

DeCarava continued to photograph throughout his life, most notably the New York jazz scene. He captured all the greats; the musical genre suited his improvisational style and democratic eye. But the most important thing to DeCarava was that the old woman next door deserved a photograph just as much as John Coltrane. The black man on the stoop merited a frame as much as the white supermodel.

According to Ron Carter, legendary jazz bassist, DeCarava had a sixth sense. "My impression of his photographs is that he sees the music," Carter said in an NPR interview. DeCarava saw the music in jazz performances -- but also in kids playing in the street, in a young woman staring out her window, in men on park benches. He saw the music and the beauty in black Harlem, and he showed that face to America.

Article by Claire O'Neill
Photo by Roy DeCarava

Click here to see the other photos.

In Praise of Naps

2009-11-01T00:01:00.001-05:00

“Naps are nature's way of reminding you that life is nice - like a beautiful, softly swinging hammock strung between birth and infinity.” Peggy Noonan

Is there anything in life more precious than an afternoon nap? I’m not talking about the 10-minute power nap (at which I happen to be pro), I’m talking about that luxurious hour when the world outside ceases to matter and life goes on just fine without us. The Spanish have always had the right idea; they’ve always known about the benefits of the siesta. They know that there isn’t much in our workaday world that is so important that it can’t wait an hour.

There is a certain kind of light that can make me instantly ready to take a nap. I haven’t encountered it often, and I’ve spent a lot of money in the past trying to create it. I’ve used all kinds of window treatments, but I finally discovered that the secret is simple, diffused light. I prefer ivory pull-down shades drawn a little over halfway, and white or off-white sheers, or lace. This light reminds me of taking naps at my grandmother’s house when I was child, lying on her white bed with eider pillows and a champagne-colored quilted satin comforter. When I do encounter this special light, and can indulge in a nap, never do I sleep more soundly and blissfully.

The only thing better than taking an afternoon nap is taking one with someone you love. Naps are intimate somehow, and make you feel close to that person, whether they’re a lover, a friend, or your child. I used to love napping with my boys when they were little. I must also add that napping with a pet is nice, too. Cats are especially conducive to a great nap, because they somehow give you permission to sleep as guiltlessly as they do.

Indulge in a nap this afternoon, and not the kind on the couch with the TV on. Set the light in your room, get on your bed, and take a one-hour vacation from the world. It's healthy physically, mentally, and spiritually.

_________________________________
Art Credit: La Siesta, by Frederick A. Bridgman

Groupthink: It’s Okay to Hate Clowns!

2009-10-30T11:13:00.004-05:00

Disclaimer:
I almost didn’t post this entry because on Thursday, Willow made a post about her dislike of clowns. I want to say right off the bat that this is not in response to that post. I had decided last week to post this entry about clowns for Halloween. I understand why Willow feels the way she does–she has some bad memories–so she's not the kind of person I’m addressing, okay?

If you perform a Google search on “scared of clowns”, you will get 813,000 results. “I hate clowns” brings 1,090,000 and “clowns should die” harvests a shocking 6,260,000 results. There's even a site dedicated to the hatred of clowns, an anti-clown online community, and a number of similar forums.

What is it you hate or fear about clowns? I’m not talking about a casual dislike of clowns and clowning, or actual, diagnosed clinical coulrophobia (fear of clowns). I’m talking about those of you who say you hate or fear them because it's part of the groupthink. The truth is, we've been programmed to find fearing and hating clowns totally acceptable. Let’s face it. It’s safe. I mean, if you were to say in a group of people that you hated or feared knees (genuphobia), or paper (papyrophobia), they’d look at you a little strangely, or suggest you get help. But say that you hate clowns, or that they terrify you, and everyone breathes a sigh, starts laughing, and echoes, “Me too!”

I understand not liking clowns, but whole websites and forums dedicated solely to spewing violence and venom against them? That, I don't understand. It tells me more about the hater than it does about the clown. It tells me that in some cases, there's more beneath the surface than an unpleasant childhood experience, or a personal disinterest. We can no longer voice that kind of vitriol against race, gender, age, or sexual identification/orientation, so we have to put that somewhere (I guess). Human nature has always demanded a scapegoat, and the clown seems to be it at this time. But clowns are people trying to bring laughter and happiness to our world. They're not cartoons or concepts, they're people.

Throughout the centuries, most cultures have had clowns. A pygmy clown performed as a jester in the court of Pharaoh Dadkeri-Assi during Egypt's Fifth Dynasty, about 2500 b.c.e. Court jesters have performed in China since 1818 b.c.e., and when Cortez conquered the Aztecs in 1520 b.c.e., he discovered Montezuma's court included jesters similar to those in Europe. Most Native American tribes had some kind of clown characters, who played important roles in the social and religious life of the tribe, and in some cases were believed to be able to cure certain diseases.

The fool, or jester, was intended to show the simplest state of a human being--a person without money, social standing, or intellect. With our modern sensibilities, most of us are uncomfortable with the idea of ranking someone because of the misfortunes of birth or circumstance. We like to de-emphasize the differences that separate us from the less fortunate, rather than emphasize them. Things were different in earlier centuries, however. The fool or simpleton was unabashedly mocked and scorned on the one hand, but on the other hand became a vehicle for many profound ironies. In Shakespeare, for example, it's the fool who speaks the most profound truths. A clown acts as a mirror, showing us the hidden parts of our nature that we prefer not to reveal. So you see, it’s not the clown who is hiding something, it's you.

It has been said that our response to a clown might depend on where it is seen. At a circus or a party, a clown is expected, perhaps funny, but the same clown knocking on your door at midnight is more likely to evoke fear rather than amusement. This effect is summed up in a quote by actor Lon Chaney, Sr.: "There is nothing funny about a clown in the moonlight." This may or may not be true, but I've seen paintings of dogs playing poker, and I'm not afraid of or feel any hate for either poker or dogs.

When people tell me they're terrified of clowns, I ask them if they're also afraid of Carnival maskers. What's the difference?

Why do we find this worthy of loathing and fear...

...but find this pretty, even exotic?
I'm not talking about the esthetics,
I'm talking about the absurdity of fear and hate.

Certainly it's not, as some say, about people hiding themselves, or frozen, expressionless faces, because traditionally, clowns over-emphasize these while Carnival masks are expressionless. Talk about hiding something! Who knows what's going on under those masks? With a clown, it's no secret.

In my surfing around anti-clown forums on the web, I was surprised to read so many comments by people who said they hate clowns because "they're fake", "their make-up is weird", and that "they're creepy". Oddly enough, most of these were people who would have no problem watching a Marilyn Manson video, or complimenting each others' facial piercings. And most of them, young toughs whose every other word was "f***" or "Fa**ot" said they were afraid of clowns. Big men. I'll bet it doesn't keep them out of McDonald's.

The fear and loathing of clowns wasn’t so prominent before the slasher movies of the 70s and 80s. With the circus no longer a town’s annual “big” event, kids have seen more of these scary clowns than actual, trained clowns. Hollywood, being what it is, took something innocent and morphed it into a monster, exploiting both clowns and children.

As a final thought, allow me to add that I'm in no way confusing this issue with other kinds of hate and discrimination; I doubt that most people would actually physically attack a clown, refuse to rent to one, or deny a clown a table in a diner. If I decided to go to clown school, I doubt you'd suddenly turn on me. I know that it's not the people who become clowns that bother so many, it's what clowns represent. And that's my real point. To see a clown in a dream, symbolizes absurdity, light-heartedness, vulnerability, and the childish side of your nature. The countenance of the clown is a reflection of your feelings and emotions. Perhaps you fear or hate clowns because you mistrust these things in yourself.

Ready for Halloween

2009-10-29T16:14:00.002-05:00

The pumpkin is carved, the seeds are soaking in the kitchen, and I'm ready for whatever is going to happen between tonight and Saturday night. As you can see, we're not into all the decorations, probably because, raising five kids between us, we're pretty tired of the whole thing! Maybe next year we'll get some stuff. Click to enlargiate.

I put one of those amber 'flame' bulbs in the

porch light, and we cut the pumpkin from the

bottom so that it could sit in this prominent place.

A little closer in. The porch looks so bare

without all of the green plants!

Jack's close-up! We wanted a traditional, happy

Jack-O-Lantern this year. Pay no attention to the

peeling paint; that's a job for next spring.

Jack's View.

A basket of acorns from our oak tree

sits by the front door.

Winter is on its way!

Halloween in a Bible Banging Town

2009-10-28T23:15:00.003-05:00

As if the powers that be couldn't get any more idiotic, the people who run the City of Stillwater have decided that Trick or Treating will be held tomorrow, rather than on Halloween. And why? Football. That's right, there is a game on Saturday night and our City Council doesn't feel that Stillwater parents can sufficiently handle their own children to ensure their safety where traffic is concerned.

Whu???

This means, of course, that people will get Trick or Treaters on both Thursday and Saturday, because 1) not everyone will receive the news in time, and 2) some people will just flat out rebel. And, of course, this means that Wal*Mart will make a killing selling more Halloween candy than usual.

Come on, Stillwater. This is a nationally observed holiday. Do you think other, larger cities do this whenever a home game coincides with Halloween? And I'll bet you wouldn't pull this if a game coincided with Christmas or Easter, because that would be messing with Jay-sus.

____________________________
UPDATE Thursday the 29th:
According to a comment that Nettl left earlier today, the real reason is because OSU is playing Texas on Saturday (their biggest rivals) and the game is going to be televised. Whatdaya bet they're moving this nation-wide, ages-old tradition so that parents don't have to either take their kids out, or answer the door to dole out candy? Of course, they didn't move it to Friday night because there's a high school football game that night... It's pouring rain today. I'm betting that most parents will ignore the change and adhere to Saturday night. We'll see. All the same, I still have to carve our pumpkin today, when I wanted to do it with Nettl on Saturday afternoon. Humph! This has really put a damper on something that's supposed to fun, and I'm just no longer in the mood. I wouldn't be so upset if we hadn't just had an entire weekend given over to Homecoming.

Those Were the Days, My Friend

2009-10-28T18:51:00.000-05:00

See that sweet, innocent l'il thang? That was me 40 years ago. 40! Where does the time go? That was my senior picture. My high school (Adolfo Camarillo in Camarillo, California) is having our 40th reunion this weekend, and although I probably wouldn't go if I still lived out there, I'm still waxing nostalgic over the website that one of our classmates put up.

I was looking through the senior pictures and I knew only about three people, because we moved to Camarillo from Solvang the summer between my junior and senior years. No time to get to know anyone, really.

Anyway, in those days I stood 5'2" in my bare feet and weighed 95 pounds soaking wet. Sigh... Enough of that. Just thought I'd share; I haven't seen this picture in years!

Welcome Back, Baby

2009-10-28T11:15:00.000-05:00

After only about two hours of sleep, I was wakened by the FedEx guy. My laptop is back!

What! Me get some sleep before getting into the arduous task of reloading all of my programs and data files? Are you nuts? I'll sleep... sometime...

My First Real Autumn

2009-10-27T15:02:00.003-05:00

Last night when I returned with Micah from the airport, we pulled into what used to be a driveway. Both it and the back porch area was a veritable ocean of oak leaves, and the thought of raking them was exhausting. "It would be a monumental task", I told myself. "Screw it. It's Oklahoma. Let the wind take care of it." But when I looked outside this morning, I knew that the wind would only blow it onto the lawn, and it had a sea of its own (which I'm going to ignore, allowing it to mulch the grass). Looking up at the leaves that remain on the Oak tree, I knew that we were only about half-way through the battle. If that were to be added to what was already on the ground, we'd need a crane to get out of the driveway. I put on my sweater and went outside to start the job. This photo isn't of my pile of leaves, but the pile was at least this size. I would have taken a picture, but I scattered the pile into several smaller ones, which doesn't look quite so impressive. When it was one huge pile, it must have stood about four feet high.

I imagine that by the weekend I'll be out there doing it again. This is new to me. I'm from southern California, where few trees lose their leaves, and although I've lived here for 9 years, this is first house we've lived in that has real trees. It wasn't so bad, really. It felt good being out in the crisp air and in the sunshine.

(By the way, does anyone know what tree is in the right side of the picture? It's my favorite, and I'd like to get one for our front yard. Click to enlarge.)

I Need a Weekend

2009-10-26T01:45:00.000-05:00

This weekend was one of continual work on Nettl's book, which we hope to release within a couple of weeks. It's crunch time and I'm beat!

We relaxed a lot at Ville's annual Halloween party on Saturday night. We all needed a good party, so we got silly and childish, playing a game we called, "Ceiling Fan Ring Toss". It consisted of one spinning ceiling fan and a bunch of those glow-stick necklaces. You figure out the rest. Joel got the night's best "ringer" as the rest of us tried to top him. As I said, we all really needed to get stupid, and we did not disappoint.

Sunday was spent napping and eating, with some work on the book on Nettl's part. I played Sudoku. During the evening we played no less than five games of Scrabble, then she went to bed and I worked on some last-minute edits and posted another chapter of Night Music. Tonight at 8:30 I leave for OKC to pick up Micah at the airport. I can't believe it has been two weeks already!

I've been told that I should be getting my laptop back tomorrow, or Tuesday at the latest, which means that I'll spend one of those days reloading all of my data files and setting it up again. Despite that, It'll be nice to have it back. I miss it.

Next Saturday is Halloween, isn't it? That means that I'll be carving our pumpkin, sweeping the leaves off of the porch, and throwing a bug bomb under the house. Sounds like fun.

The Intergalactic World Wide Web Somethingorother

2009-10-23T13:23:00.001-05:00

Well, now I know without a doubt that I'm experiencing blogger guilt for not posting as much as I'd like to. Last night, or this morning, I should say, I dreamed that Blogger sent out a message that if we didn't respond to a certain confirmation email within the hour, our blogs would get deleted. They were trying to get rid of all the dead blogs and marketing schlogs. In the dream, I woke up an hour too late and I saw my different blogs as a file folder icon on my desktop, full of exploded files, which looked kind of like sawdust. I was irate. Incensed, as it were... I went online and started searching the situation and found that Blogger had merged with a worldwide cult called, The Intergalactic World Wide Web somethingorother and complete takeover was eminent. This must be symbolic of how unhappy I am about the merger between Blogger and Google, and how Firefox figures in there somehow.

That's what I get for working until 6 a.m. on Nettl's manuscript. We're tantalizingly close to a publishing date now and I want to make sure that every i is dotted and every comma is spliced. I'm a perfectionist that way. It's taking me from regular (and decent) blogging, but I'll be finished soon, I promise.

Now for another cup of coffee and back to work!