S.K. Waller's Blog, page 13

The Season Falling Around Me

Every Fall, I wish I had a shredder-bagger like my dad's. Next weekend begins the usual between the heat of summer and the cold of winter manual labor that has become a ritual at Bookends Cottage. We have 9 old trees that drop their leaves every year, one of them an oak that is nearly 100 years old. It is the greatest offender in autumn, but you know I love it and the shade and contemplation it lends me in the warmer months. Still, being a California native I'm not all that work brittle where raking leaves is concerned. Well, I should say my back doesn't appreciate the job.

The other major chore on the agenda is cleaning out the garage so that no one has to scrape their car windows early in the morning. I don't know how it happens, but things grow out there. A bag of clothes becomes a dresser, a birthday gift bag becomes a stockpile of seasonal wrapping—you know how it is. And I never did find my winter clothes last autumn, which forced me to endure one of our coldest winters with just one sweater and no bulky socks. I'm not going through that this year; I'll find that bag or else. I'm older now and my body doesn't respond well to the cold.

That reminds me. I need to buy two electric blankets, one for me and one for Joel, whose body also reacts badly to waking up cold. I've been doing a bit of online window shopping and I think I can get a couple of reliable blankets (some that won't short out, thus causing a house fire in the middle of the night) for a little over $100. Yes, I comb through reviews!

With the signs of the season all around me, I look out the window at the crisp sky, the vivid colors, and the gently floating leaves and I sigh, "Ugh."

Paul Revere's Midnight Ride

If you grew up in the USA during the Sixties, it was impossible for you not to know of Paul Revere & The Raiders. From 1966 to about 1970 their hits were a constant on the Billboard Top 100, but most of us enjoyed our first exposure while watching Dick Clark's  Where The Action Is in the afternoons after school. They were impossible to miss. It was more than their modified Revolutionary War era costumes (ooh, Mark Lindsay in those tights!), though. It was their showmanship, their humor, and certainly their music, but it also was their stage act, orchestrated by leader Paul Revere with his broad smile and slapstick antics. Yesterday, Paul Revere lost his battle with cancer at the age of 76, which is fitting since the band's image so doggedly adhered to the 1776 theme. This had to be Paul's last laugh, I suspect, and it makes me smile.

Make no mistake about it. Paul Revere formed a well-oiled, professional band and as members came and went all the way through today, he knew what made that band successful: rock-solid musicians, polished stage routines, all-out entertainment value, and a tried-and-true professionalism that's been lacking for decades. Paul was known as a warm, affable, generous, and kind man, but I suspect he also reigned supreme from behind his keyboards. He was a true leader and members who left did so usually due to artistic differences. That's okay. To be a Raider meant that Mr. Revere led the show. Please sign here.

"Generous to a fault with your family, your friends and your band, there seemed to be no limit to your kindness. When you turned your attention towards someone, you made that person feel special and in your spotlight. You had a pet name for each person, and you never hesitated to tell them how exceptional they were. You appreciated the talent, beauty, skills and uniqueness you found in others, and you were never shy about telling them so. All the more reason for people to feel wonderful in your presence." Paul Revere & The Raiders Official Website

Until the advent of heavier music by Jimi Hendrix and Cream in 1967, the Raiders were the only group to pull me away from my blind and blinkered worship of the Beatles. The songs on their albums were a diverse mix that covered everything from novelty rock to biker blues and although some songs could be a little kitschy, there were plenty of rockers to keep me listening for hours while I did my homework or sunbathed in the backyard.

It's a peculiar kind of grief we feel when someone like Paul Revere dies. In most cases we've never met them, much less known them personally, and in a lot of cases we haven't listened to their albums in ages, so why do we mourn? Truth is, their death presents us with a startling reminder that we too are mortal and that our time of departure is creeping ever closer. I won't go any deeper than that, however much I like to wax philosophical here, but I will conjecture that it is for our innocence that we grieve and when such a solid building brick like Paul Revere leaves, we recognize that our foundation of life as a human, and its false sense of security, is really only built on sand. Youth is done, middle-age is ending, and we have entered the final phase of this life.

Ride on, Paul Revere. We'll catch you on the flip side!

Paul Revere 1938-2014

Into October

Usually, I find September a month of release. Probably because it's my birth month, I think of it as a time of new beginnings and a renewed sense of possibilities—my own personal new year. I think I had exactly six hours of that exhilaration this year. Then the doo-doo started hitting the fan and made the past two weeks a constant exercise in determination. But all is not lost. Most of the fires were successfully put out and the restrictions and setbacks seem to have fallen by the wayside. Enter October.

Not only was yesterday what would have been the 88th birthday of my maestro , but we spent the evening at the Wings of Hope   "Metamorphosis" fashion show, where Nettl modeled a great outfit. She rocked it! For the first time, I saw her past experience as a tea room model back in the '80s come to life. The audience loved her! Wings of Hope is a family crisis center that provides safety, hope, and empowerment to victims of domestic abuse and sexual assault. It also is where Nettl found a new and better job in August. Needless to say, we're both pleased and proud to be affiliated with them. (I include myself because they invited me to submit a website proposal; I'm now awaiting the outcome of that.)

Lynette rocks the leather!
What a great beginning to autumn! With a list full of projects that I'm enjoying and a head full of ideas for my current book, I'm looking forward to the season ahead. The darkening months are always creative for me and the idea of working while snuggled in sweaters and mukluks, the kettle always hot, excites me.

___________________________
A New Direction, by Carol Francis

Beyond Walls

It always happens. Just when you finally get your writing mojo working, a wall suddenly juts up in your path. In my case it was my laptop's keyboard. Since last Friday it's been impossible to use. Dead, Jim. Ville told me to use the on-screen keyboard, which has been helpful, but it's gotten increasingly tedious and frustrating. Over the weekend I ordered a replacement keyboard, which should arrive sometime this week. In the meantime I can use Nettl's laptop during weekdays, which is a huge relief. Being back on a regular keyboard makes the on-screen version feel like chiseling words into stone...
I really missed writing over the weekend, usually my most productive days, so I'm planning to spend this afternoon in some quality Ass+Chair+Time mode. (Hat tip to Skinny Artist for that little turn of phrase.) Once I'm back on my own computer I'll have web work to get to; there are a couple of projects that wait, patiently, so until then I'm writing, Jack!

Here's a picture I took yesterday. After five years of failure, I've finally managed to create a tiny spot of my native California here in Oklahoma. It was a joy to see.

California Poppy

On Turning 63 Today

I am a woman full grown,
self-realized, self-actualized;
I am a woman full blown.
Don't feel the need to fight my age,
hide my face,
or fear turning the page.
I refuse to play dumb,
no longer a girl,
I don't wish to be young.
I will not play coy,
hide my light,
or swallow my joy.
No longer sexual prey,
no longer the huntress,
I live in the day.
I have time on my hands,
raised my young, buried my old,
now I'm free of demands.
I have wrinkles and I have scars,
my feet are tired,
so I reach for the stars;
No longer living on hold,
this life is mine and I
no longer fear getting old.
I am a woman full blown.
self-realized, self-actualized;
I am a woman full grown.

If it Sounds Like Writing

“If it sounds like writing, I rewrite it. Or, if proper usage gets in the way, it may have to go. I can’t allow what we learned in English composition to disrupt the sound and rhythm of the narrative.” - Elmore Leonard

Angels Unawares

Growing up in the Southern Baptist tradition (my mom's idea, not my dad's), I believed in prayer, intercession, guardian angels, and Jesus holding my hand. I prayed more than most kids my age and had what's called God experiences through that period in all kids' lives when different centers in the brain open up and begin to gel. I had a healthy relationship with my heavenly father, I believe, because I had a healthy relationship with my earthly father. Throughout my life I've observed that this often holds true with others as well. These days, however, I'm not sure where I stand on the God issue. Actually, I believe that anyone who claims to be agnostic is honest not only with themselves but with others and that people who say they know without a doubt that there is or is not a God are conversely dishonest; none of us know what the hell's going on. That's one of the Big Deals about being human. I begrudge no one for believing what they wish, but at least claim to believe something because it lends comfort or meaning, not because of some circular logic: "I believe in the Bible because the Bible tells me it's the infallible Word of God."
One thing I do know is that if there are guardian angels in this world, they visit us in the form of our friends and loved ones. Not many prayers have been answered in my life, but whenever I've supplicated my friends and family, I always get an answer. Some answers I've liked and some I haven't, but them's the breaks.

For the past week I've lived in misery due to a toothache. If you've ever had to live with a toothache, you know that it's the worst hell one can feel because the pain doesn't confine itself just to the tooth that needs help, it radiates to every other tooth, into the face, eye, ear, and head, and often the stomach. The problem is, I have no dental insurance and dentists charge so much, I can't afford to go in when I need to, much less on a regular basis.

It's a crisis in this country. About 100 million Americans have no dental insurance and the numbers are rising. One of the problems is that dental care is still viewed as largely a cosmetic issue. This needs to be changed in our consciousness not only nationally, but personally. You can break a limb and go untreated and it probably won't end in your death, but people are dying of blood poisoning due to untreated dental issues. Additionally, dentists are reporting more and more cases of severe malnutrition due to dental illness as well. Health starts from the head and works down. That we need to maintain dental wellness is only logical.

The pain has gotten so bad in the last couple of days (despite all of the home remedies of hydrogen peroxide, vanilla, clove, OTCs, and etc.) that I finally said something in Facebook. Enter Ville, for whom Tylenol-3 does nothing. This morning she brought her bottle over and I'm now experiencing an amazing degree of relief. My plan is to get the pain under control and then take myself to the ER in the next day or two to get some antibiotics. That should take care things until I can work out some way to afford a dentist visit.

Over the past 15 years I've learned that if any of us are going to survive this new America with its healthcare, economic, and civil rights problems, it will only be through friends and families pulling together to help each other. Heaven knows the government doesn't care.

I Need a Monday

It has been a weekend of constant distraction and I've not been able to write even one word. My plan was to write all weekend as I did last week, but it just wasn't in the cards. I guess I'll claim my weekend tomorrow. No business dealings, no Alla Breve emails, no business-related phone calls. I really don't want to lose the momentum I'd built up, although this weekend I watched it recede with an alarming velocity. Best to call it back before it's completely washed out to sea.

It wasn't only work that kept jumping my creativity queue, it was putting out fires, worry, and a crushing three-day toothache. Vanilla swabs, Ibuprofen, and caramel Bailey's in my morning coffee and bedtime hot milk took care of the toothache and the worry, but it didn't address the fires. And now I'm out of Bailey's with no date in sight that I can get more...
It's not easy being freelancer and an author; in fact, I got a lot more writing done when I worked the 8-to-5. Generally speaking, my distractions are of the within variety, not things hitting me from without (this weekend has been made of both), which I've learned to manage by, as this article explains , holding meetings with myself.

When I worked in the high-corp world, especially when I was the executive assistant to the vice-CEO of a NASA corporation, I learned the value of regularly held meetings. But my boss held back-to-back meetings all damned day, thus eating up my time with creating Excel spreadsheets, running upstairs to rip them off of the huge Calcomp printer, then running back downstairs to mount them on the wall of his conference room. Hour. After. Hour. Taking care of 12 departmental checkbooks, requisitioning tools and parts, and performing secretarial tasks for his departmental heads had to be sandwiched in between my jogs up and down stairs. It's no wonder that I won an unofficial poll as "Best Legs in the Company" and that I brought home huge paychecks that included three or four hours of overtime every day. Those checks helped me pay for that penthouse with the view of the Pacific, which I seldom saw because I never came home until well after dark. That job taught me the frustration of redundancy and meeting overkill. I used to joke with my boss that he and his heads must be Baptists, who are famous for holding meetings to schedule meetings.

These days I hold a meeting with myself about once a week, usually on Sunday night. I put on music, pour a cup of tea (or a Bailey's au lait—Ole!), and sit with Notepad, making notes about what I need to get done throughout the week which I then copy onto a desktop Post-It. Unplanned distractions can interrupt my flow; little emergencies arise which my clients believe their site cannot survive over the course of a day, an hour, or even the next few minutes.

But tonight there will be no Bailey's. Guess I'd better get to that meeting now while there's still coffee in the pot and enough Sunday left to actually get a few pages written.

The Beast With (at least) Two Heads

Creativity is a funny thing, although I can only speak for myself. I have no idea if it's true for anyone else, but in my experience it's an entity of its own with many arms and legs and possibly more than two heads.

It breathes and then holds its breath. It plays leapfrog with me. It entices and then becomes aloof. Sometimes it recedes until it's all but invisible and then it rushes toward me in a tsunami crush. It shrinks when tickled and then is all over me when it's ignored. But mostly it's unpredictable in a way that has become predictable...
Now that I'm in the heat of writing A Polite Little Madness, other book ideas are sprouting. These show up either when I'm trying to fall asleep or when I'm in conversation when all I can do is mentally file them away until the current book is finished. They're good ideas. One is even so timely that I considered writing it on the weekends while devoting the work week to Madness. I really don't want to do that, though. I do have an income to earn along with all of this, as well as a personal life to maintain.

There aren't as many of me as there used to be.

Of course, the bitch is, this flux of ideas couldn't come when I was sitting around with nothing more to stimulate my right brain than gardening or video games, it had to come now. This is the nature of creativity. It feeds on itself and the more we create, the more there is to create.

Here's an interesting article about creativity .

Whichever Comes First

Lord, have mercy. You just never know how much whining, bitching, inane, pointless drivel you can come up with until you start going through 12 years of blog posts one-by-one. What's worse is that you don't just come up with it. Nooo... That's not enough. You have to go and lay it out on the Web for the world to read until the end of time, or until Blogger folds and is no more, whichever comes first...
It could be embarrassing to someone who gives a toss. I, however, have learned in recent years not to. So here I am, writing what will probably amount to about the same degree of drivel as I've ever been capable of writing.

As I go through my posts—deleting some and reverting others to draft—I'm also creating new labels in hopes of trimming my list down a bit. It's gotten a little out of hand. I've also turned the comments back on for those of you who aren't yet sick and tired of my drivel and would like to class me up a bit. The snafu with that is, my template (which I designed myself, basically) won't turn the comments back on, globally, after I turned them off earlier in the summer. I've had to go through and turn certain posts' comments on individually. This is a gigantic pain in the ass when one has 1800-plus posts, so I've decided, sod it. Nobody's commenting on the old stuff anyway. There have been a couple of other snafus, but nothing earth shattering.

I started this little project because I needed a few days' break from writing. Things got a little heavy at one point and I had to pull away. I'll be getting back to that over the weekend, though.

What? The weather? Really? Oh, okay. After a glorious spring and summer we had about one week of temps that ranged between 95 and 102, but we're now cruising down into autumn and it's like spring in reverse. I still couldn't spend much time outside, though, due to the mosquitoes. That was a drag. They're still out there waiting for me, for those two "walkies" that I take Nigel on every morning and evening.

Ah, drivel, I've missed you so.