L.Y. Levand's Blog, page 33

January 09th, 2013

"For eleven months and maybe about twenty days each year, we concentrate upon the shortcomings of others, but for a few days at the turn of the New Year we look at our own. It is a good habit." ~ Arthur Hays Sulzberger

It is indeed. I believe the quantities should be reversed, in fact. Spend eleven months and maybe about twenty days contemplating your own faults and how to fix them, rather than just the week or so around the new year. The proverbial log in your own eye needs to be removed so you can clearly see the speck in your brother's eye.

January 08th, 2013

Did you make a resolution? Did you make several? You probably made at least one. And if you did, how have you done on your first week?

For Tuesdays this month, I'm going to be looking at some of the most popular resolutions, and trying to find ways of helping you succeed with them.

One of the most popular is being healthier, or losing weight. So we'll start with that one, yes?

For starters, you should begin small. Going all gung-ho the first day almost guarantees your failure a few days or weeks down the road. Start small, and work your way up. If you want a quick, easy way to get started, you can try out my Weekly Challenge blog posts that I do on Mondays (you can get more info on them here).

What was your resolution?

January 07th, 2013

So...I had an interesting thing happen today, and I thought I'd share it.

I was cooking dinner, and I needed milk. So I got it out of the refrigerator, and poured what I needed out. Then I left the milk on the counter, thinking I'd put it away later when I wasn't so busy. I forgot about it, of course.

Eventually, though, my mother found it sitting on the counter, and couldn't find the lid. So I went to the kitchen to help look for it. We spent several minutes in search of the missing lid. When we couldn't find it, we decided to just drink what was left, since there wasn't a lot.

About an hour later, my dad went in search of something. "Hey, weren't you looking for the milk lid?" he asked.

"Yeah," I replied.

"It was on the shelf in the fridge."

I went "???!!!!?!?!"

I must have put it there at some point...although why, or how, I have no idea.

Building Your Health and Habits

Weekly Challenge:

Do a minimum of twenty crunches three days this week

Everyone wants a trim and toned tummy. One of the first steps to that goal is to work the muscles there. There are many different types of crunch to choose from, so I'll let you pick your own. You can even do three different kinds - one for each day you do them. Then you'll be working different muscles. Good luck!

If you have a favorite type of crunch, feel free to post it in the comments! :)

January 06th, 2013

The new year is a time many people associate with new beginnings, and for good reason. The end of an old year signals the beginning of the new. It's a time to start over again, turn over a new leaf, and make resolutions for the year.

Resolutions are a good thing; but most people can't stick to them for very long. I wonder if maybe it would be better to make resolutions throughout the year, smaller ones, so that when the next new year comes, you've built better habits to start with. Building habits takes time and persistence. It takes three weeks for something to become a habit, and less time for that habit to go away afterward. It takes diligence. So why not give yourself an ultimate goal, and then set resolutions that are steps toward it, instead of trying to do it all at once? You might have more success that way.

January 05th, 2013

Beenie and Troy gasped simultaneously, and then ducked down behind the wall.

"It's big," Beenie said in a hushed voice.

"Very big," Troy whimpered. "Lots of gnomes."

Lots of gnomes indeed. Beyond the window, inside the tree, was a vast room, filled with scurrying figures. Beenie, having gotten her first good glimpse of a gnome, understood why Troy was so frightened of them. They were thin and bony, with hunched backs and gnarled fingers. They had very little hair, and what little they had was scraggly and white. They had darting black eyes that looked cold and mean.

"What are they doing?" asked Beenie, afraid that she would get caught if she looked again.

"You expect me to know?" Troy said, his voice a high-pitched squeak.

"You didn't see?" Beenie asked.

"No. Didn't you?"

"No."

"That means we have to look again, don't we?" Troy asked, resigned.

"I don't really want to look either," said Beenie. "I don't want to get caught. But I'm looking anyway," she declared. And she stood up slowly, until her eyes were again peeking over the windowsill. She hoped Troy wouldn't notice her knees shaking.

There, in the big room, was a big...thing...covered in cloth. Parts of the enormous sheet were fastened up to reveal wooden wheels, metal springs, and other things that Beenie couldn't identify. Gnomes were working industriously in the places where the sheet had been lifted, metal and wood tools in hand. Beenie ducked down again.

"What did you see?" Troy asked anxiously.

Beenie told him, and when she'd finished, Troy scratched his head.

"Sounds like a big toy," he said. "Why would they want a big toy?"

A loud noise drowned out Troy's last words. Beenie rocketed upward to look in the window as she recognized it. Cheering.

While they had been talking, a gnome had pulled the sheet off what appeared to be a mechanism made almost entirely out of wood. All the gnomes in the tree were cheering loudly - so loud that Beenie and Troy could hear them through the walls of the tree tower.

Troy joined her, cautiously poking his head up.

A group of gnomes were now pushing a pile of dried grass and leaves into the room in a wheelbarrow. The leaves and grass had been strapped into a rough rectangle that they tipped onto its side, so that it was balanced on its smallest edge. The gnomes shifted it this way and that until it met with their approval, and then they backed away.

The other gnomes had cleared a space between the machine and the rectangle.

A gnome that was larger than the others walked up to the machine, grabbed hold of a lever, and gave a mighty yank. The mechanics of the thing sprang to life.

In that single space of time, a massive boulder whistled through the air from an arm of the machine, and crashed into the rectangle, crushing it to bits.

'Picture Windows' By Michael Twist

Picture Windows
By Michael Twist

People suspect I’m not much of a thinker.  And I’ll admit, my
mind’s not what it once was any more than my body is, but I’m
convinced my mind’s still sound, even if I do keep most thoughts to
myself these days.  I do some of my best thinking at night, on walks
with Rex, where it’s dark, cool and quiet, the neighborhood settling
down for the evening after a bustling day.  We take our stroll after
dinner,  Jeopardy, and one of the various hour-long crime shows
featuring brilliant detective work by socially awkward but inordinately
attractive agents.  Rex knows the routine well: leash, coat, hat, gloves
and a plastic bag for droppings.  On rare occasions an umbrella is
needed, making for some awkward handling with a loaded plastic bag,
leash and umbrella handle balanced between two often gloved and always
arthritic hands. 
 
Margaret, Rex and I were the first to live in our brand new
single-level duplex that borders an older neighborhood.  Margaret had
insisted on down-sizing after the kids had finally all moved out, saying
she wanted less space to clean and a dog that wouldn’t talk back or
eat us out of house and home.  I think the real reason had to do with a
fall she had taken on a short flight of stairs, but the reason doesn’t
really matter because the duplex is perfectly accommodating.
 
It is chilly outside, and we are greeted with a faint breeze
distributing an abundance of vibrant smells not unlike most
neighborhoods with grass and shrubs where cats, dogs, kids, and vehicles
congregate. The sky is clear, with stars shining through the mostly
empty branches of the mature oak trees that line the street.  Most
weekends see people raking leaves, with another accumulation ready for
oversized black garbage bags or burn piles by the time the next Saturday
rolls around.  I love fall and all the smells that accompany it,
including the smoldering of leaves and yard debris for several days,
even after a fire’s been doused.
 
We walk slowly through the neighborhood, Rex seemingly at peace with
the pace, rarely pulling on the leash since he’s nearly as long in the
tooth as I am.  Neither of us moves quite like we used to.  I enjoy the
pace, though, as it gives me a chance to study the neighbors who have
left their curtains or blinds open.  Big picture windows reveal living
rooms like aquariums, with both the living and deceased swirling around
and through one another, peacefully coexisting in houses that often
serve as their only common link.  The living are seemingly unaware of
the dead, and the dead appear entirely untroubled by the living, as they
often occupy the same furniture simultaneously.  I suppose I should be
grateful I can’t see into any bedrooms. 
 
Some of the homes are considerably more crowded than others; a
phenomenon I’m not entirely convinced I understand, although I’ve
formed a theory.  I’ve come to suspect that the spirits or specters
going about their business - possibly even the routines they held when
still among the living - are those who died in the home or for whom the
dwelling was their last real address.  Mrs. Weathers, for example, can
be seen knitting in front of the television in the home she lived in on
Sycamore Street for thirty-three years before going to the nursing home
where she died less than a month later.  Alice and John Remington came
to our home for dinner shortly thereafter, and Alice mentioned how poor,
dementia-plagued Janice Page, who had gone to live with her daughter in
Des Moines some five years ago, had finally passed.  Every night for
months after hearing this I looked for Janice through curtains, once
hers, that were open more often than not.  I failed to find her but
would bet I could see her through her daughter’s Des Moines windows if
given the chance.  I could well be wrong, but I don’t know how else
to explain why some houses are so much more active and occupied than
others.
 
Strange is the way some of the houses have drawn similar families and
personalities over the years.  1402 Chestnut, where the Fitzgeralds
currently reside, features two disheveled middle-aged men who rage
drunkenly about the house wearing grungy, sleeveless white undershirts.
At first I thought they must be brothers who had lived together, but I
saw them chasing women who could only be their wives, and the women’s
clothing definitely suggested different eras.  I mention this only
because Fitzgerald himself sits most nights in front of the television
with a can of Schlitz - never in danger of growing cold - on a small
table at his side,while the pale blue light from the set dances on the
popcorn ceiling above him.
 
One home on Sequoia Street houses three widows: two of the women are
inevitably reading while the third cross-stitches.  Mr. and Mrs. Collier
currently call the place home, but the missus, who was a voracious
reader until her eyes began to fail, is on oxygen and sports a pallor
that doesn’t look long for this world.  The same Alice Remington
commented that Mr. Collier has already planned to move in with his
brother’s family after the inevitable takes place.
 
Of course, not all houses share inexplicable similarities.  Most of
the rooms I can see into are busy with mostly elderly people coming and
going, shuffling about, laughing, playing cribbage, eating, drinking or
just talking on phones with curly cords. Their attire differs, but the
mannerisms and habits are largely the same; people being people,
regardless of time. 
 
As we near our traditional turnaround point, Rex darts toward the
narrow path between houses at the end of the cul-de-sac.  I follow
reluctantly.  This is the shortcut kids use when heading toward the
middle school soccer field that backs up to the development.  When Rex
is out of sight he looks around nervously before proceeding to urinate
against a sapling.  He’s actually more modest than I am, and I chuckle
to myself as we head back up the trail to the bulbous shape of the
cul-de-sac.  I notice the old boy needs to urinate much more often these
days, and I wonder if there’s some kind of prostate issue in play.
 
We take the Elm Street route home, which always saddens me because of
the lime-colored house we pass where two boys roughly eight and ten
years of age play checkers every night in front of the fireplace,
ignored by the current family that spends most of its time in rooms
other than their living room.  Each boy wears a pair of overalls with
one strap undone over dingy-white long-sleeved thermal underwear. It’s
clear they are brothers, but it’s unclear what caused their early
demise, and I try not to speculate.
 
Rex and I pick up the pace a bit as we are able to see our duplex
after rounding the corner of Hemlock and Pine.  I often wonder if Rex
can see what I see in the windows of these homes.  I try to remember
when I first began to see the dead mingling among the living.  I know I
never saw this around the countryside where I was born and lived while I
was young.  But then again, my family built the home we lived in, and so
far as I know, no one ever died there during my youth. 
 
The walk ends on a good note, as I am always able to see into Mrs.
Kindell’s kitchen.  Everything about her demeanor suggests she is
happy, from the expression on her face to the brisk movements she makes
while sifting flour or taking a prize-winning pie out of the oven.  I
strain to hear the song she’s singing and can’t, but the thought
buoys my spirits all the same.    The gravy on a good walk comes in the
form of a cat I’ve dubbed Sour Puss, which always hisses at us before
darting through a hole in the fence and retreating into the night.
 
When we enter our home I can see Margaret bustling from the bathroom
to the bedroom in her bathrobe, rubbing lotion into her desiccated hands
while she glides from room to room.  She always seems to be doing two
things at once, whereas I’m lucky to have the energy to do even one. I
think about the love I have for her and hope I never return from a walk
to see her ethereal form through the front room window of our duplex.
Rex looks at me, and for a fleeting moment I suspect he is thinking the
same thing. 
 
A creature of habit, Rex knows the routine well:  lock front door,
hang up leash, set alarm and kick off shoes.  I smell the smoke from the
backyard leaf burning in my coat as Rex takes off his.  I then saunter
into the bedroom and assume my rightful place on the bed at Margaret’s
feet.

~~~

You can find Michael Twist's website here and his Facebook here!

The Author's ABCs

A: Art. That stuff that goes on the front of your book to make it look cool.

B: Book. That huge block of text that you've spent what feels like half your life obsessing over.

C: Cover. The place where you put the art that you hope will help propel book sales through the roof.

D: Dumb. What you yell at the computer when it crashes after you've been writing for hours and haven't saved anything.

E: Effort. It may not be the kind that makes you sweat, but it should count as exercise anyway.

F: Flash fiction. Those super-short stories that you enter in contests, hoping to get more attention for your writing.

G: Goodreads. The website you go to so you can connect with the millions of people who are going to read your work. Someday.

H: Horrible. The word you scream at the top of your lungs while erasing the worst chapter you've ever written in your life with the speed of a jet, in the hopes that no one will ever read such garbage again.

I: Imperfect. The manuscript you upload/send to a publisher, no matter how many ways/times you've edited.

J: Jail cell. What your office or work area turns into on a bad day.

K: Killer. A type of villain you may or may not write about.

L: Lazy. What family and/or friends may call you when you say 'I'm an author' in answer to their 'what kind of work do you do?' question.

M: Maniacal. A description of a laugh that may be heard when a character you despise gets what they deserve.

N: Noise. Something you either love or despise while you are writing.

O: Oops. A word you dread when it's spoken next to your computer.

P: Procrastination. May include stupid excuses to leave computer, video or computer games, and Facebook usage. No known cure.

Q: Quest. A typical story theme, usually seen in fantasy stories.

R: Redo. A painstaking process that requires you to do everything again, because you weren't satisfied the first time.

S: Sacrifice. Something a main character often does in any book with any sort of 'epic' theme.

T: Terrible. Another word to yell at the ceiling when in the grips of dissatisfaction with your work.

U: Underdog. Indie writers.

V: Victory. Someone bought your book, and so you dance around the room like a crazy person.

W: World. That place you created that you would now like to live in.

X: Xesturgy. The process of polishing - polishing a book, which takes a million years longer than polishing wood.

Y: Young adult. A genre you may or may not write for.

Z: Zero. A number that is deplorable when seen in your 'sales' column.

January 02nd, 2013

“Tolerance is a tremendous virtue, but the immediate neighbors of tolerance are apathy and weakness.” ~ Ralph W. Sockman

I've seen a lot of talk about tolerance. Tolerating someone and being a weak, apathetic person are two different things, but if tolerance is taken too far, it can lead to the other. I don't think anyone wants to be weak or apathetic, so it's a good idea to keep that in mind when lecturing on tolerance. There are some things we should tolerate - and others we should not. It takes a wise person to tell the difference.

Happy New Year!

I hope everyone had a happy (and safe) new year's celebration. I also hope that everyone has a wonderful year ahead of them; hopefully better than 2012, since I know it was a difficult year for most of us.

And, since the beginning of the new year is the PERFECT time for new beginnings, I would also like to take this opportunity to announce a few changes I'm going to be implementing.

As some of you may have noticed, the site picture has changed, and so has the quote on the home page. This is partly because I got bored with the exact same thing all the time, and partly because I want this site to be dynamic, and for everyone who visits to have new things to look at every once in a while. It's for these purposes that I'm starting a monthly site theme. This month's is, obviously, the new year. The plan is to have most of my blog posts play off the theme for that month - but we'll see how that goes! With all the blog themes I have, it may be impossible.

As always, comments are appreciated. :)