On the first day of Christmas my Emergency Animal Hospital gave to me, an outrageously expensive Vet-er-in-ary Bill.
It was for Peaches our poodle. She has bounced back, regained her appetite, and yesterday wanted to eat everything in sight. Yea! Good sign.
Around here? Oh yes, it’s colder that it ought to be. I ask the weather, “This is southern California, why are you so cold?” It laughs at me. The hills, though, look happy, we have had rain, and there is a smear of green spreading like a Disney animated film—green watercolor flowing forth from the paint brush enlivening the landscape.
I’m still working on my Hawaii book. I found The Plot Whisperer by Martha Alderson, also her other book, Blockbuster Plots. Both were recommended by Shreve Stockton who wrote The Daily Coyote, and both are an invaluable contribution to anyone who wants to write. How in the hell, though, am I going to implement all that data?
I’ve found her information on writing a book, even a memoir, to be similar to writing a Screenplay. You know, three acts, a beginning—that is ¼ of the book, middle ½, and the end another ¼. Create a crisis and a climax. Put something pertinent at midpoint. (Remember, in the movie, the Titanic sank at midpoint.) What are the four energetic markers? Plot on a six foot long sheet of paper, make a scene tracker. Oh yes, what is the theme? What is a scene? What is a summary?
Am I going halfway? Can I go full out? Do I feel inadequate? Do I honor my creativity, exuberance, sense of adventure?
“I believe,’ writes Alderson, “that the fragment of a dream or wisp of inspiration that urges you to sit down and write offers you the exact right story to activate not only your own personal transformation but the reader’s as well.” I’m holding that to be true.
“Endure the fear of appearing foolish—achieve your goals, actively pursue them…” Okey dokey.
My head is spinning.
Monday, December 19, 2011
Friday, November 18, 2011
Wait Until He Looks Up
I have a gripe. I hate griping, but I am going to indulge myself right here, right now, a bit.
My gripe? Writings, books, people that have wonderful value in the information they are propagating, but first they have to tell you how horrible is the state of affairs—toxins, poor diet, disease, destruction, chaos, in short a ghastly mess…however, this such in such (whatever they are promoting) will fix it.
Ta Da!
Are we so stupid that we have to be scared into action?
Yep, I guess so.
Soap boxes ought to be short and not so sweet, and followed by a love story. Here is a very very short love story:
“Noticed her legs first. Strong and lean. Long scar on the back one. I took time approaching. Kissed her on the nose. Great horse.”
--from Twitter, I don’t know the author
Daughter from Oregon, grandson, and grand dog are visiting. Daughter spent four days in Texas and we child and dog sat. Natasha our Grand Dog spent the night stretched out between HD and me sleeping with her head on a pillow...Morning found her and Obi Kitty Kenobi cavorting, romping, antagonizing each other like brother and sister, chewing on each other’s legs, neck torso, using our bed for a trampoline, then collapsing in each other’s arms. We need to get Natasha a kitty—I’m not sure daughter agrees though.
Grandson number one and I built a six million piece Lego Star Wars Shadow ship—no he built it, I kibitzed from the sidelines. Who designed these things? And for a six year old to put it together? I’m in awe. Remember when Legos were simple little blocks we put together as houses? Now they fly through space—with the aid of imagination of course—have lights, moving parts, and even put the helmet on Darth Vader via a sliding apparatus.
You know how they say treat a cold and it will be over in 7 days? Or, ignore a cold and it will be over in a week? They lie.
We have been chased by a cold bug around this house for over 6 weeks. It subsides, flares up. Poor baby, I know. Husband Dear has managed to skate through unscathed, the rest of us have been a mess.
We’ve done things though, figuring if we wait until this is over we will never do anything. Thinking we were on the recovery side of our colds we went to Disneyland with our visiting family. (I’m sorry though for our colds flared up with a vengeance after that.) The day there, however, was great. You have heard me talk of Disneyland many times, and now we are thrilled when we find some little out of the way place we hadn’t seen before. On the last visit—it was after dark, and walking back to the entrance a route we had never taken—we came upon a little fairy village tucked into some plantings. Overshadowing the area was a large tree, and on the tree was a stature of a fairy sitting in a bird’s nest. The tree was alive with tiny lights that crept up the branches like miniscule light worms. We held our hands in the light beam, and our hands shimmered as though sprinkled with fairy dust. We are magic now.
Our other astounding find was at the Golden Horseshow saloon house. It is newly renovated, that is the exterior is freshly painted a brilliant yellow gold. The interior seemed the same as I remember from yesteryear. The performance was a hillbilly group fresh out of the mountains of Santa Monica. The fiddler could make a violin do about anything except read the Gettysburg’s address—although he could probably do that. The true stars, however, were the sign language men standing in the box-seat off stage. To the tune of The Auctioneer, the signer contorted himself and made every effort to keep up with the singer who made every effort to challenge the signer. The two signers took turns less they throw something out of joint in their efforts to gallop while signing Ghost Riders in the Sky.
We’re home and recovering—again.
Oh, the surprise from last Sunday. We were celebrating Grandson number one’s 6th birthday, and my bright idea was to get an air flyer—that is a flying shark that swims through the air via remote control. We stumbled upon it a on the internet and it was selling like hotcakes. Baby Darling thought it was funny—on screen—in real life it was a bit daunting. Actually it was scary with its gaping mouth. It works great, though, Husband Dear and I put it together in the garage—fitting those tiny pieces of the remote together was as tedious as dissecting a stomach out of a mosquito. Holding a Mylar helium balloon that felt like nothing in your hands and kept trying to escape was a challenge from which we emerged victorious.
My gripe? Writings, books, people that have wonderful value in the information they are propagating, but first they have to tell you how horrible is the state of affairs—toxins, poor diet, disease, destruction, chaos, in short a ghastly mess…however, this such in such (whatever they are promoting) will fix it.
Ta Da!
Are we so stupid that we have to be scared into action?
Yep, I guess so.
Soap boxes ought to be short and not so sweet, and followed by a love story. Here is a very very short love story:
“Noticed her legs first. Strong and lean. Long scar on the back one. I took time approaching. Kissed her on the nose. Great horse.”
--from Twitter, I don’t know the author
Daughter from Oregon, grandson, and grand dog are visiting. Daughter spent four days in Texas and we child and dog sat. Natasha our Grand Dog spent the night stretched out between HD and me sleeping with her head on a pillow...Morning found her and Obi Kitty Kenobi cavorting, romping, antagonizing each other like brother and sister, chewing on each other’s legs, neck torso, using our bed for a trampoline, then collapsing in each other’s arms. We need to get Natasha a kitty—I’m not sure daughter agrees though.
Grandson number one and I built a six million piece Lego Star Wars Shadow ship—no he built it, I kibitzed from the sidelines. Who designed these things? And for a six year old to put it together? I’m in awe. Remember when Legos were simple little blocks we put together as houses? Now they fly through space—with the aid of imagination of course—have lights, moving parts, and even put the helmet on Darth Vader via a sliding apparatus.
You know how they say treat a cold and it will be over in 7 days? Or, ignore a cold and it will be over in a week? They lie.
We have been chased by a cold bug around this house for over 6 weeks. It subsides, flares up. Poor baby, I know. Husband Dear has managed to skate through unscathed, the rest of us have been a mess.
We’ve done things though, figuring if we wait until this is over we will never do anything. Thinking we were on the recovery side of our colds we went to Disneyland with our visiting family. (I’m sorry though for our colds flared up with a vengeance after that.) The day there, however, was great. You have heard me talk of Disneyland many times, and now we are thrilled when we find some little out of the way place we hadn’t seen before. On the last visit—it was after dark, and walking back to the entrance a route we had never taken—we came upon a little fairy village tucked into some plantings. Overshadowing the area was a large tree, and on the tree was a stature of a fairy sitting in a bird’s nest. The tree was alive with tiny lights that crept up the branches like miniscule light worms. We held our hands in the light beam, and our hands shimmered as though sprinkled with fairy dust. We are magic now.
Our other astounding find was at the Golden Horseshow saloon house. It is newly renovated, that is the exterior is freshly painted a brilliant yellow gold. The interior seemed the same as I remember from yesteryear. The performance was a hillbilly group fresh out of the mountains of Santa Monica. The fiddler could make a violin do about anything except read the Gettysburg’s address—although he could probably do that. The true stars, however, were the sign language men standing in the box-seat off stage. To the tune of The Auctioneer, the signer contorted himself and made every effort to keep up with the singer who made every effort to challenge the signer. The two signers took turns less they throw something out of joint in their efforts to gallop while signing Ghost Riders in the Sky.
We’re home and recovering—again.
Oh, the surprise from last Sunday. We were celebrating Grandson number one’s 6th birthday, and my bright idea was to get an air flyer—that is a flying shark that swims through the air via remote control. We stumbled upon it a on the internet and it was selling like hotcakes. Baby Darling thought it was funny—on screen—in real life it was a bit daunting. Actually it was scary with its gaping mouth. It works great, though, Husband Dear and I put it together in the garage—fitting those tiny pieces of the remote together was as tedious as dissecting a stomach out of a mosquito. Holding a Mylar helium balloon that felt like nothing in your hands and kept trying to escape was a challenge from which we emerged victorious.
Sunday, November 6, 2011
Sunday
What do you think of this new blog design? I chose Mosaic, but it looks as though you can choose any design you want. Strange.
There is a hum of little voices coming from the living room—two grandsons are here, and there is a surprise just around the corner…I'll see if I can get a picture of it for you.
There is a hum of little voices coming from the living room—two grandsons are here, and there is a surprise just around the corner…I'll see if I can get a picture of it for you.
Monday, October 31, 2011
Thomas the Train
What does this have to do with trains? Nothing, except Baby Darling loves trains and we have added our number to the already zillion viewers for a Thomas the Train home U Tube video of a toy train going around a track. Simple, just set up a train, video it, put it on U-tube and get a million hits. There is a train named Chuggington, too, rather cute, and tells a better story than does Thomas. I even saw how they get a train back on the track after it has derailed.
Guess I should write about trains instead of Hawaii and struggle, and redemption, and how to live a happy life. Oh oh, I’m becoming cynical…
It’s my knee talking. I am hobbling, it’s fine when I am sitting here on my chair at the computer, but standing is excruciating. I think I am 16 years old sometimes by my actions. No I didn’t get on a horse—see, one can hurt themselves without a horse. I climbed into the back of the pickup truck to empty the garbage. You know that little pile of garbage that lands right in the middle of the truck bed? Well, I had such a one. I couldn’t reach it from the left side, nor from the right side, or from the tailgate, so I climbed in. Okay, that maneuver was executed just fine. It was jumping out that got me. I felt the twist of one knee when I landed, and for the last three days it has reminded me of how stupid I was.
Yesterday while working on my manuscript I teetered around 70,000 words. Good thing most written works have what is called a “Working Title.” Someone wondered if The Frog’s Song was a children’s book, so I don’t know about that title. Maybe I should call it Currents, or Beyond the Horizon, see I’m still undecided.
And so sitting there putting words in, words out, I would get up to 69,950, down to 69,650. Normally I wouldn’t be so obsessive regarding word count, but hitting a goal of 70,000 was a milestone I wanted to hit. I know Ray Bradbury, said, “A book is over when it’s over,” but since I have accepted the challenge of 85,000 challenge, that’s when it will be over. It will give an editor lots of leverage. One editor sent me this quote, "A poem [or literary work] is never finished, only abandoned." --Paul Valery
Ah well, you are probably tired of hearing me talk about this.
Poor Bear, Daughter Darling’s Newfoundland dog, had a seizure last night. After the seizure he was disoriented for about a minute then he popped up enthusiastic and excited. We don’t know what to think of his condition. Daughter Darling is taking him to the Veterinarian today.
I just rounded the corner by the bar and saw Darling Daughter’s mailings for the day—she must have had 100 envelops labeled and ready for shipment, and I bet she stayed up all night to do it. The mail lost a couple of packages so now, at night, she prints out every label with a tracking number on it. (Don’t know about this post office, losing something, and people get irate if they do not get their package.) On the plus side, her Legos are selling like hotcakes, and she is driving herself cuckoo trying to get up to her goal of 1000 listings on EBay. He hasn’t made the 1000 yet, and as she sells—Hurray, that is what she wants—her numbers slide down, and she plays catch up. It is so great that she has created a business for herself and can stay home with Baby Darling. The name of her store is Happy Bricks. The subject is Legos which is a trade name and cannot be used in the title.
This page is just over 500 words, so looks like 30 pages of this size would complete my manuscript. Guess I better get cracking.
Over and out for now.
Guess I should write about trains instead of Hawaii and struggle, and redemption, and how to live a happy life. Oh oh, I’m becoming cynical…
It’s my knee talking. I am hobbling, it’s fine when I am sitting here on my chair at the computer, but standing is excruciating. I think I am 16 years old sometimes by my actions. No I didn’t get on a horse—see, one can hurt themselves without a horse. I climbed into the back of the pickup truck to empty the garbage. You know that little pile of garbage that lands right in the middle of the truck bed? Well, I had such a one. I couldn’t reach it from the left side, nor from the right side, or from the tailgate, so I climbed in. Okay, that maneuver was executed just fine. It was jumping out that got me. I felt the twist of one knee when I landed, and for the last three days it has reminded me of how stupid I was.
Yesterday while working on my manuscript I teetered around 70,000 words. Good thing most written works have what is called a “Working Title.” Someone wondered if The Frog’s Song was a children’s book, so I don’t know about that title. Maybe I should call it Currents, or Beyond the Horizon, see I’m still undecided.
And so sitting there putting words in, words out, I would get up to 69,950, down to 69,650. Normally I wouldn’t be so obsessive regarding word count, but hitting a goal of 70,000 was a milestone I wanted to hit. I know Ray Bradbury, said, “A book is over when it’s over,” but since I have accepted the challenge of 85,000 challenge, that’s when it will be over. It will give an editor lots of leverage. One editor sent me this quote, "A poem [or literary work] is never finished, only abandoned." --Paul Valery
Ah well, you are probably tired of hearing me talk about this.
Poor Bear, Daughter Darling’s Newfoundland dog, had a seizure last night. After the seizure he was disoriented for about a minute then he popped up enthusiastic and excited. We don’t know what to think of his condition. Daughter Darling is taking him to the Veterinarian today.
I just rounded the corner by the bar and saw Darling Daughter’s mailings for the day—she must have had 100 envelops labeled and ready for shipment, and I bet she stayed up all night to do it. The mail lost a couple of packages so now, at night, she prints out every label with a tracking number on it. (Don’t know about this post office, losing something, and people get irate if they do not get their package.) On the plus side, her Legos are selling like hotcakes, and she is driving herself cuckoo trying to get up to her goal of 1000 listings on EBay. He hasn’t made the 1000 yet, and as she sells—Hurray, that is what she wants—her numbers slide down, and she plays catch up. It is so great that she has created a business for herself and can stay home with Baby Darling. The name of her store is Happy Bricks. The subject is Legos which is a trade name and cannot be used in the title.
This page is just over 500 words, so looks like 30 pages of this size would complete my manuscript. Guess I better get cracking.
Over and out for now.
Saturday, October 15, 2011
Reading and Restaurants
I’m down to the last couple of chapters and I don’t want it to end—not the book I’m writing, the one I am reading, Winter Solstice by Rosamunde Pilcher.
Think of a Scottish countryside, cold, snow, people who say, “Dear boy,” and “It’s lovely.” And they talk of a dram of bitters, and pounds, the snow on the grouse bushes. I couldn’t resist the book when on the first page a 62 year old woman goes into the pound and adopts a dog. After a tragic accident she, when asked, and being an impulsive former actress, accompanies a widower to an ancient Estate house in Scotland. Enter a broken hearted niece bringing with her a delightful child whose divorced mother and Grandmother, with whom they live, do not have time for. They have come to spend Christmas—an event the elder members of the household had decided to forgo that year. Enter a man, an executive who will be refurbishing the old woolen mill, who came simply to look at the house and became snowbound, was invited for Christmas, and entered into the family like an old friend. I love these characters, and the delight in which they prepare for Christmas, and heal, and bring new life to everyone involved. You see what’s coming and you can’t wait to get there. Oh it will set you for a splendid Christmas.
Last night we sought out an Italian restaurant in Murrieta. What a charming area—didn’t know about the old part of Murrieta, and the restaurant. The ad said they made all their own food, pasta, sausages, everything. It was like walking into another world, people hugged, and dressed up for dinner, there was a din of activity, and live music. And standing there at the entrance I was almost run over by the establishment throwing out man who had a guitar and thought he was going to play with the band. They were rather rough with him, swearing and telling him never to return, then apologizing to us for the row. I thought it was all rather colorful. A patron told me, the man had lived in the town all his life, and had been in a mental hospital. I felt sorry for him and wondered how much he was kicked around by people who saw him as crazy.
We waited an hour—Friday night, no reservation, the people were in no hurry to leave and I didn’t blame them. But we were starving, and left without dinner, but Anthony’s has been on my mind this morning and we will definitely go back. Baby Darling cried for a couple of miles saying “Go back.” I, too, wanted to be embraced into the old country.
Think of a Scottish countryside, cold, snow, people who say, “Dear boy,” and “It’s lovely.” And they talk of a dram of bitters, and pounds, the snow on the grouse bushes. I couldn’t resist the book when on the first page a 62 year old woman goes into the pound and adopts a dog. After a tragic accident she, when asked, and being an impulsive former actress, accompanies a widower to an ancient Estate house in Scotland. Enter a broken hearted niece bringing with her a delightful child whose divorced mother and Grandmother, with whom they live, do not have time for. They have come to spend Christmas—an event the elder members of the household had decided to forgo that year. Enter a man, an executive who will be refurbishing the old woolen mill, who came simply to look at the house and became snowbound, was invited for Christmas, and entered into the family like an old friend. I love these characters, and the delight in which they prepare for Christmas, and heal, and bring new life to everyone involved. You see what’s coming and you can’t wait to get there. Oh it will set you for a splendid Christmas.
Last night we sought out an Italian restaurant in Murrieta. What a charming area—didn’t know about the old part of Murrieta, and the restaurant. The ad said they made all their own food, pasta, sausages, everything. It was like walking into another world, people hugged, and dressed up for dinner, there was a din of activity, and live music. And standing there at the entrance I was almost run over by the establishment throwing out man who had a guitar and thought he was going to play with the band. They were rather rough with him, swearing and telling him never to return, then apologizing to us for the row. I thought it was all rather colorful. A patron told me, the man had lived in the town all his life, and had been in a mental hospital. I felt sorry for him and wondered how much he was kicked around by people who saw him as crazy.
We waited an hour—Friday night, no reservation, the people were in no hurry to leave and I didn’t blame them. But we were starving, and left without dinner, but Anthony’s has been on my mind this morning and we will definitely go back. Baby Darling cried for a couple of miles saying “Go back.” I, too, wanted to be embraced into the old country.
Thursday, October 6, 2011
Ho'oponopono
My Hawaii book is up to 69,000 words. Sixteen thousand to go to reach the “sweet zone” of 85,000.
I just got a call from the owner of the property where we live. He is going to pull out the grapefruit trees and plant avocado. These trees are white grapefruits, people like the pink ones best, and the farmers are having trouble making any money with grapefruits, so out go the trees. I think, I hope, I pray, I convinced him to leave the grand old grandmother olive tree that sits in the middle of the orchard. Baby Darling loves it, as do we. Last year it was loaded with olives, Daughter number one took some home and marinated them in brine as one must do to make olives eatable. This year the tree produced no fruit. I’m wondering if it alternates every other year as some of our fruit trees used to do. The owner said he planned to take it out, but will leave it for us. Bless him.
Regarding my Hawaii book, and those 85,000 words, the agent who told me to bring it up sweet zone did me a favor. There was more to say, more to experience, and can you believe, after hearing me whine about the Island for the past two years, I now bless it? It took me a year to get to this place, but I finally got it.
This came about as a result of listening to Joe Vitale talking about Ho’oponopono, a Hawaiian healing process. Perhaps, I thought, I was looking at Hawaii the wrong way. Dr. Hew Len, Vitale’s mentor, spoke to a room (the actual room, not a room full of people) in which he and Vitale planned to hold a seminar. He asked the room, whose name was Shelia by the way, if it was all right to use her for the seminar. She said yes.
And then Dr. Hew Len saw that one of the chairs looked forlorn. He asked the chair what was wrong. The chair said that the last person to sit on it had financial problems, and he felt just dead.
Dr. Hew Len told the chair that the next person to sit on it would be uplifting. And the chair visually straightened.
Have I lost you yet?
Dr. Hew Len says to do Ho’oponopono healing is to say, “I'm sorry. Please forgive me. I love you. Thank you.” This does not have to be directed to the person to whom you have a problem. It is saying to the universe, “I'm sorry. Please forgive me. I love you. Thank you.” As one cleans themselves, so the outside world becomes cleaner as well.
So, I decided that Hawaii needed us as much as we needed her. She gave us the gift of direction. She gave us belief. She gave us creativity. Now it is our turn to let her know how much we appreciate her.
So now I run titles for the Hawaii book up down and around through my mind and ask anyone who will listen. I’m terrible with titles, but here are some that have rattled around:
The Frog’s Song
Swim at the Sheraton
Win
Running Between Raindrops
Life Beyond the Horizon
Talk Story
Choose again!
It’s Working!
Up Stream or Downstream?
“How in the Hell do I do That?”
Buried Treasure
Buried Treasure that’s today’s title—isn’t that what one is supposed to find on a tropical island? What do you think? Any suggestions?
Aloha.
I just got a call from the owner of the property where we live. He is going to pull out the grapefruit trees and plant avocado. These trees are white grapefruits, people like the pink ones best, and the farmers are having trouble making any money with grapefruits, so out go the trees. I think, I hope, I pray, I convinced him to leave the grand old grandmother olive tree that sits in the middle of the orchard. Baby Darling loves it, as do we. Last year it was loaded with olives, Daughter number one took some home and marinated them in brine as one must do to make olives eatable. This year the tree produced no fruit. I’m wondering if it alternates every other year as some of our fruit trees used to do. The owner said he planned to take it out, but will leave it for us. Bless him.
Regarding my Hawaii book, and those 85,000 words, the agent who told me to bring it up sweet zone did me a favor. There was more to say, more to experience, and can you believe, after hearing me whine about the Island for the past two years, I now bless it? It took me a year to get to this place, but I finally got it.
This came about as a result of listening to Joe Vitale talking about Ho’oponopono, a Hawaiian healing process. Perhaps, I thought, I was looking at Hawaii the wrong way. Dr. Hew Len, Vitale’s mentor, spoke to a room (the actual room, not a room full of people) in which he and Vitale planned to hold a seminar. He asked the room, whose name was Shelia by the way, if it was all right to use her for the seminar. She said yes.
And then Dr. Hew Len saw that one of the chairs looked forlorn. He asked the chair what was wrong. The chair said that the last person to sit on it had financial problems, and he felt just dead.
Dr. Hew Len told the chair that the next person to sit on it would be uplifting. And the chair visually straightened.
Have I lost you yet?
Dr. Hew Len says to do Ho’oponopono healing is to say, “I'm sorry. Please forgive me. I love you. Thank you.” This does not have to be directed to the person to whom you have a problem. It is saying to the universe, “I'm sorry. Please forgive me. I love you. Thank you.” As one cleans themselves, so the outside world becomes cleaner as well.
So, I decided that Hawaii needed us as much as we needed her. She gave us the gift of direction. She gave us belief. She gave us creativity. Now it is our turn to let her know how much we appreciate her.
So now I run titles for the Hawaii book up down and around through my mind and ask anyone who will listen. I’m terrible with titles, but here are some that have rattled around:
The Frog’s Song
Swim at the Sheraton
Win
Running Between Raindrops
Life Beyond the Horizon
Talk Story
Choose again!
It’s Working!
Up Stream or Downstream?
“How in the Hell do I do That?”
Buried Treasure
Buried Treasure that’s today’s title—isn’t that what one is supposed to find on a tropical island? What do you think? Any suggestions?
Aloha.
Saturday, September 17, 2011
Four Weeks
Once upon a time two girls began writing—well, they are females, not young, except in heart, one considerably older than the other, and once upon a time was four weeks ago today—Wednesday.
The girls were Daughter Darling and me, and we decided to write a treatment for an Indiana Jones screenplay.
A treatment is a narrative description following the plotline and characters of a screenplay. It is used as a sales tool, and should be written in present tense, have little dialogue, and be 5 to 20 pages in length.
A week ought to do it.
That was four weeks ago.
We knew time was critical. The producers were working on an Indiana Jones script, but were not happy with it. Move fast we thought. Harrison Ford said he was not getting any younger. Neither were we.
Except how in the world do you write a treatment? And how do you write a screenplay for that matter. There is structure to follow, Act 1, Act 2, Act 3. Act 1 is ¼ of the film, Act 2 is ½, and Act 3 is ¼. Set-up, action, resolution, that’s it. Pretty much all films comply with that structure. Oh yes, something pertinent ought to happen at the midpoint. (In Titanic, the ship hit the iceberg at midpoint.) Some turning point ought to occur at the end of Act 1 and again and the end of Act 2. Whew!
Wednesday came and went.
We had a ball doing this exercise. Laughed at ourselves at least 100 times a day. We had an idea, and said, “We ought to write a treatment.” And so we did. During the process we decided that collaborating on a screenplay is the best way to go—you have someone to bounce ideas off of. You can laugh at what you have done and what you are doing.
Then the real work began. We had to get ourselves out of the corners we had painted ourselves into.
We would work on the patio, where I got stung by a bee twice, or we would write at McDonald’s, or at Rosa’s Mexican restaurant where we could sit in a corner booth and eat burritos and chips and salsa. Baby Darling would play with other children at McDonald’s play yard, or sit on Daughter’ Darling’s lap and I would type. It took me awhile to get it that I could edit on the computer instead of longhand then transcribe onto the computer later on. That would be either between the hours of 12 and 3 am, or in the mornings before the rest of the family got up. Of course we were, all the while, working around the needs and desires of a two year old. He will have to sign a non-disclosure agreement so he doesn’t give away the plotline. He has heard the theme song to Indiana Jones so many times he can sing it.
After three weeks the fun wore thin—we had to change hats from brainstorming to getting the job done.
I heard that in Hollywood, one ought never to write in public because someone will come up and ask if you are working on a screenplay, and then tell you about theirs.
Last night we watched the documentary My Date with Drew and I felt inspired to tell you what we were up to. After all I can trust you people not to laugh, right?!
My Date with Drew is fun and will make you believe that dreams can come true. A young man living in Hollywood won $1,100 in a game show. The answer to the last question that won him the $1,100 was “Drew Barrymore.” He had had a crush on Drew since he was 7 years old, even joined her fan club. He decided that in 6 degrees of separation he ought to find someone who knew someone who knew Drew Barrymore. He set out to get a date.
He went to Circuit City and “bought” a camera on a 30 day return policy, for he had no money and had to use his friend’s credit card since his was rejected. He had 30 days to film and a budget of $1,100 to buy film, rent a limousine, clothing, a facial (that was free), body work-out (free again) and get a date with Drew. Bottom line, he got the date. It took 82 days. (And a trip to a different Circuit City.)
Yesterday I found that the producers for the Indiana Jones #5 script scratched it.
“Dum- te-dum-dum!” [Music]
The girls were Daughter Darling and me, and we decided to write a treatment for an Indiana Jones screenplay.
A treatment is a narrative description following the plotline and characters of a screenplay. It is used as a sales tool, and should be written in present tense, have little dialogue, and be 5 to 20 pages in length.
A week ought to do it.
That was four weeks ago.
We knew time was critical. The producers were working on an Indiana Jones script, but were not happy with it. Move fast we thought. Harrison Ford said he was not getting any younger. Neither were we.
Except how in the world do you write a treatment? And how do you write a screenplay for that matter. There is structure to follow, Act 1, Act 2, Act 3. Act 1 is ¼ of the film, Act 2 is ½, and Act 3 is ¼. Set-up, action, resolution, that’s it. Pretty much all films comply with that structure. Oh yes, something pertinent ought to happen at the midpoint. (In Titanic, the ship hit the iceberg at midpoint.) Some turning point ought to occur at the end of Act 1 and again and the end of Act 2. Whew!
Wednesday came and went.
We had a ball doing this exercise. Laughed at ourselves at least 100 times a day. We had an idea, and said, “We ought to write a treatment.” And so we did. During the process we decided that collaborating on a screenplay is the best way to go—you have someone to bounce ideas off of. You can laugh at what you have done and what you are doing.
Then the real work began. We had to get ourselves out of the corners we had painted ourselves into.
We would work on the patio, where I got stung by a bee twice, or we would write at McDonald’s, or at Rosa’s Mexican restaurant where we could sit in a corner booth and eat burritos and chips and salsa. Baby Darling would play with other children at McDonald’s play yard, or sit on Daughter’ Darling’s lap and I would type. It took me awhile to get it that I could edit on the computer instead of longhand then transcribe onto the computer later on. That would be either between the hours of 12 and 3 am, or in the mornings before the rest of the family got up. Of course we were, all the while, working around the needs and desires of a two year old. He will have to sign a non-disclosure agreement so he doesn’t give away the plotline. He has heard the theme song to Indiana Jones so many times he can sing it.
After three weeks the fun wore thin—we had to change hats from brainstorming to getting the job done.
I heard that in Hollywood, one ought never to write in public because someone will come up and ask if you are working on a screenplay, and then tell you about theirs.
Last night we watched the documentary My Date with Drew and I felt inspired to tell you what we were up to. After all I can trust you people not to laugh, right?!
My Date with Drew is fun and will make you believe that dreams can come true. A young man living in Hollywood won $1,100 in a game show. The answer to the last question that won him the $1,100 was “Drew Barrymore.” He had had a crush on Drew since he was 7 years old, even joined her fan club. He decided that in 6 degrees of separation he ought to find someone who knew someone who knew Drew Barrymore. He set out to get a date.
He went to Circuit City and “bought” a camera on a 30 day return policy, for he had no money and had to use his friend’s credit card since his was rejected. He had 30 days to film and a budget of $1,100 to buy film, rent a limousine, clothing, a facial (that was free), body work-out (free again) and get a date with Drew. Bottom line, he got the date. It took 82 days. (And a trip to a different Circuit City.)
Yesterday I found that the producers for the Indiana Jones #5 script scratched it.
“Dum- te-dum-dum!” [Music]
Saturday, August 27, 2011
Shake Your Tail Feathers
Gosh it’s hard to type with a big fat cat nosing my hand, sinking a claw into my chest and purring profusely. After Hope went missing Zoom Zoom has become so affectionate he can hardly contain himself. Maybe he’s afraid of getting beamed up as well.
He just jumped down leaving a flurry of hair on my keyboard. I blow it off and continue my morning communiqué. Daughter Darling got a new kitten, but we all claim him. He is a yellow striped kitty named Obi Kitty Kenobi. (You know, Obi Wan Kenobi from Star Wars). He is not to replace Hope, no animal ever replaces another, but rather he has his own place. He will eat about anything and is hungry constantly—and he has about doubled in size since we got him. He antagonizes Zoom Zoom; actually they have been found play boxing. Obi is fine with the dogs, even letting Bear mouth him. He is an exuberant, fun, playful kitten, quite as stealth and energetic as Hope was. Obi Kitty loves bopping on Peaches who is highly insulted by the leg chewing.
DD and Baby D kept the household running, the critters tended, and Peaches hydrogenated with intravenous fluids, while Husband Dear and I ran away to Portland Oregon to attend our niece’s wedding. What a fun time! We saw my daughter, grandson, sister, brother and nephew, as well as the bride and groom. How beautiful was the bride, how handsome the groom, how beautiful was their love and generosity.
From the airport we got on the MAC, the rapid transit system of Portland, and ran smack dab into Portland’s green perky healthy trees, its fastidiousness, its character. Portland has a juxtaposition of old and new, houses of different vintage and style side by side, many areas where developers have not scraped off the land, but where houses are tenderly placed within the topography and the trees. I was tickled to see the downtown square containing an inflatable full-sized movie screen. I read the ad as we sped past, as best I could figure, they show movies only on Friday nights. I’m from Oregon as so have visited Portland many times, but never had the view from a train.
It was a quick trip and now I am back planting my butt again on the chair, and writing a new version of the Hawaii book, now called Swim at the Sheridan, (on living the life you choose.) I won’t guarantee that will be the last title change. And I am startled to see that while I have 55,000 words in my Book file, I have 54,000 in my discard file. (I’m trying to get the manuscript up to the “sweet zone” of 85,000 words without boring anybody—self included.)
Strange, now I’m feeling self-conscious about blogging. It comes up for me now and again. I never want to censure myself or put a particular spin on my writing to address anyone in particular. It is just my life, my thoughts, my experiences, and those around me that I love. I am committed to keeping it going although I am uncomfortable with it at the present time. Alas, as with many endeavors, discouragement happens, elation comes, believe, doubt, believe again. It happens.
One thing I was struck with, the Oregon trip coincided with the stock market’s craziness and people would ask if I saw the market that morning—I didn’t know until they told me about it, and I realized again that fear is perpetrating the problem. What will it take for us to turn that around? Would happy people create a happy world? Duh.
And they I read a notation on BlogHer, “Shake your tail feathers, celebrate your successes!
To life!
Joyce
He just jumped down leaving a flurry of hair on my keyboard. I blow it off and continue my morning communiqué. Daughter Darling got a new kitten, but we all claim him. He is a yellow striped kitty named Obi Kitty Kenobi. (You know, Obi Wan Kenobi from Star Wars). He is not to replace Hope, no animal ever replaces another, but rather he has his own place. He will eat about anything and is hungry constantly—and he has about doubled in size since we got him. He antagonizes Zoom Zoom; actually they have been found play boxing. Obi is fine with the dogs, even letting Bear mouth him. He is an exuberant, fun, playful kitten, quite as stealth and energetic as Hope was. Obi Kitty loves bopping on Peaches who is highly insulted by the leg chewing.
DD and Baby D kept the household running, the critters tended, and Peaches hydrogenated with intravenous fluids, while Husband Dear and I ran away to Portland Oregon to attend our niece’s wedding. What a fun time! We saw my daughter, grandson, sister, brother and nephew, as well as the bride and groom. How beautiful was the bride, how handsome the groom, how beautiful was their love and generosity.
From the airport we got on the MAC, the rapid transit system of Portland, and ran smack dab into Portland’s green perky healthy trees, its fastidiousness, its character. Portland has a juxtaposition of old and new, houses of different vintage and style side by side, many areas where developers have not scraped off the land, but where houses are tenderly placed within the topography and the trees. I was tickled to see the downtown square containing an inflatable full-sized movie screen. I read the ad as we sped past, as best I could figure, they show movies only on Friday nights. I’m from Oregon as so have visited Portland many times, but never had the view from a train.
It was a quick trip and now I am back planting my butt again on the chair, and writing a new version of the Hawaii book, now called Swim at the Sheridan, (on living the life you choose.) I won’t guarantee that will be the last title change. And I am startled to see that while I have 55,000 words in my Book file, I have 54,000 in my discard file. (I’m trying to get the manuscript up to the “sweet zone” of 85,000 words without boring anybody—self included.)
Strange, now I’m feeling self-conscious about blogging. It comes up for me now and again. I never want to censure myself or put a particular spin on my writing to address anyone in particular. It is just my life, my thoughts, my experiences, and those around me that I love. I am committed to keeping it going although I am uncomfortable with it at the present time. Alas, as with many endeavors, discouragement happens, elation comes, believe, doubt, believe again. It happens.
One thing I was struck with, the Oregon trip coincided with the stock market’s craziness and people would ask if I saw the market that morning—I didn’t know until they told me about it, and I realized again that fear is perpetrating the problem. What will it take for us to turn that around? Would happy people create a happy world? Duh.
And they I read a notation on BlogHer, “Shake your tail feathers, celebrate your successes!
To life!
Joyce
Thursday, July 28, 2011
Ten Thousand Hours
Don Hahn, producer of The Lion King and Beauty and the Beast says it takes 10,000 hours to perfect one’s craft.
Okay, here’s my story: I wrote The Frog’s Song, from the land of fire and water about our adventure in Hawaii. It is 40,000 words. An agent said, “Interesting…bring it up to the sweet zone of 85,000 to 95,000 words and I will review it.”
Holy Moly, that’s twice what I have written. I didn’t even know there was a “sweet zone.” I wrote back, “I don’t know if I can do it.” And here I have been espousing the way of the Disney Imagineers. They sometimes don’t know if they can do an assignment either, but they say “Yes,” bang their heads on their desks and do it.
The agent wrote back, “You CAN do it.”
I need to get over thinking I have to be brief so as not to bore people. I have to get over believing that writing is a self- indulgent endeavor. I once heard a psychiatrist complain about a writer—this was way before I considered being one—but his comment stuck in my craw. “Writing is self-aggrandizement.”
You know what?
That psychiatrist was full of shit.
Here was a supposed healer cutting people off from a source that could bring comfort in times of trouble, joy in times of triumph, and an opportunity to sparkle ordinary days.
Daughter Darling says that by adding more words the book will flow better, and so I begin thinking. I wonder when I began believing in the power of belief. I wonder when I became metaphysical. Life evolves slowly so that while once we were standing on the edge of a tar pit (or in it), we are now on the North Bank. Evolution dictates that when events happen you either change (evolve), move, or die. We chose moving, and, I believe, in the process changing.
And so I plant my butt in the chair, stare at the page or computer screen and begin, again.
After all, it is half-written.
"But listen to me. For one moment. Quit being sad. Hear blessings dropping their blossoms around you." --Rumi
There's a mountain of sorting in our living room. It's Legos. DD's "Happy Bricks"
Okay, here’s my story: I wrote The Frog’s Song, from the land of fire and water about our adventure in Hawaii. It is 40,000 words. An agent said, “Interesting…bring it up to the sweet zone of 85,000 to 95,000 words and I will review it.”
Holy Moly, that’s twice what I have written. I didn’t even know there was a “sweet zone.” I wrote back, “I don’t know if I can do it.” And here I have been espousing the way of the Disney Imagineers. They sometimes don’t know if they can do an assignment either, but they say “Yes,” bang their heads on their desks and do it.
The agent wrote back, “You CAN do it.”
I need to get over thinking I have to be brief so as not to bore people. I have to get over believing that writing is a self- indulgent endeavor. I once heard a psychiatrist complain about a writer—this was way before I considered being one—but his comment stuck in my craw. “Writing is self-aggrandizement.”
You know what?
That psychiatrist was full of shit.
Here was a supposed healer cutting people off from a source that could bring comfort in times of trouble, joy in times of triumph, and an opportunity to sparkle ordinary days.
Daughter Darling says that by adding more words the book will flow better, and so I begin thinking. I wonder when I began believing in the power of belief. I wonder when I became metaphysical. Life evolves slowly so that while once we were standing on the edge of a tar pit (or in it), we are now on the North Bank. Evolution dictates that when events happen you either change (evolve), move, or die. We chose moving, and, I believe, in the process changing.
And so I plant my butt in the chair, stare at the page or computer screen and begin, again.
After all, it is half-written.
"But listen to me. For one moment. Quit being sad. Hear blessings dropping their blossoms around you." --Rumi
There's a mountain of sorting in our living room. It's Legos. DD's "Happy Bricks"
Wednesday, July 20, 2011
Do You Hear God Singing?
Remember Hope our stealth kitty?
She was a couple of months old when Daughter Darling, nine months pregnant with Baby Darling, clutched Hope to her chest and watched on television as Barack Obama, the first black man ever to win the Presidential nomination, was elected as President of the United States.
Hope had her shots like the other animals, and waited her 120 day quarantine before going to Hawaii with us. (That “quarantine” was no sweat; it’s just a waiting game, two rabies shots 90 days apart, a Vet’s clean bill of health, and 3 inches of paperwork.) She flew in the cargo hold of our Continental airplane, and after clearing animal control in Honolulu—all incoming animals have to do that—she was stuffed into a soft carrier, and graciously rode on the airplane with us under DD’s feet. She was always gracious and energetic. I didn’t think anything would catch her. She ran up the trees in Hawaii, onto the roof, skulked through the grass, her green eyes looking as though the grass’s color was shining through, and then when we left Hawaii she rode in her carrier to California where she was again our stealth kitty, tearing around outside, up on the rooftops, up the trees, down, catching rats and mice and rabbits and gophers. She slept on a box in our bedroom in the daytime, and perused the property at night. (Rats. It should have been the other way around. Coyotes and bobcats skulk in the night.)
My friend and fellow blog reader told me my blogs don’t tell her anything like they did in Hawaii. Have I been remiss? “Tell her about my life,” she said. Perhaps there isn’t as much angst going on here as in Hawaii—thank God, or it could be the exotic setting was more exciting. Now I’m just a Southern California gal—but God sings here as he does anywhere else on the planet—even when I’m sad over losing our wonderful kitty.
I wondered one day if Hope had some condition that a coyote was saving her from—she was thin, and her coat not as shiny as it had been, but how would I know, it was wishful thinking I guess—that there was some purposeful good in the event. I hated to think of random acts of violence hurting our kitty. (I know Coyotes have to eat, but not our cat. We would happily donate some gophers. How about that for a judgment.)
I ran across a phrase in the book, Breakfast with The Buddha
by Roland Merullo. “God’s music is playing all the time, for everyone.” And now when I wake up I say I want to hear God’s music. I don’t mean the “music of the spheres” or any physical sound. I mean to be connected to that something we could call music. I think of Jerry Hicks who heard it when a voice spoke to him, “Drive on the sidewalk” and he did and thus avoided being involved in a multicar smash-up. “Why did I hear it and others did not?” he asked Abraham. “You were in tune,” she said. “It was there for all to hear.”How many people would drive on the sidewalk on a whim? How many people hear the singing?
There is a ground squirrel outside my window running around in the grass—whoops, two squirrels—without Hope here they are becoming brazen.
One morning I went to my computer and found the following (see the picture). Daughter Darling borrowed my flash drive, and here she was returning it, held by a Lego Dinosaur, and with a motivational note propped on its side. DD has been selling Legos on EBay—sold a $300.00 unit yesterday. She and Baby Darling do a ton of Lego sorting, categorizing—he will be the most Lego savvy kid in the world. Her site is called “Happy Bricks.” (click to see)
And from Daughter Darling who lives in Oregon:
July 17, 2011
Those of you who have been here a while know that I lost my beloved dog, Ashke in 2009. My family and I have been searching and waiting for the next great dog to come into our lives. On our way back from visiting family in California we picked up this little beauty. My 5-year-old, aspiring-Jedi-Knight-son, said he knew this was the one, because he dreamed about her.
Meet Natasha, a three-month old Silken Windhound puppy.
http://krautpounder.com/Newsletters/
(Scroll down, she's there, I couldn't copy the picture.)
Sunday, July 10, 2011
This That and The Other Thing
A Jedi sleeping with his light saber.
Daughter Darling and I were quite attracted to that hotel and spent hours cleaning it up—in fantasy. We tore out everything but the external shell—I like the exterior—reminded me of a New Orleans hotel, the entrance right off the street, upper deck, back patio. It would make a great “Wedding Place” with its 100 year old Wisteria arbor in the back yard—brought over by covered wagon we were told. That’s a must keep, the antiques that abound in the house, in my opinion, have to go. It is on an acre of land, and has river frontage. I imagined keeping a Belgian draft horse there in a stable—it has to be magnificent, of course, along with a carriage for the Wedding couple if they are into that sort of thing. Wouldn’t visiting children love petting one of those big magnificent horses? We just need a financier.
I just read Honey, Rock, Dawn, a blog by Shreve Stockton, The Daily Coyote
girl, that girl is a marvel, takes photos like an angel, writes like a dream. She is spending the summer in the mountains of Wyoming, off the grid, taking her animal family with her—Charlie, the coyote, and others. People resonate with her for claiming wilderness and freedom for herself—imagine being in awe every moment. When I read of her boyfriend’s horse passing away I became sad again, hoping “my” horses are doing well and are being well taken care of. When she told of riding her horse Ranger in the snow, and the different gait he used, and the snowflakes hitting her flushed cheeks on the way home and closing her eyes and letting Ranger fly. I thought once again of Boots my childhood horse. One morning long ago—I wrote of it in It’s Hard to Stay on A Horse While You’re Unconscious
, so if you read it forgive me—it was one of those times out of childhood emblazoned in memory. A foot or more of snow had fallen during the night. My dad couldn’t deliver the newspapers—he did that for his Mom on Sunday mornings—to the last couple of people on the hill above our house. He asked me to deliver them on Boots.The morning brisk air, the horse excited and prancing beneath me, me sitting bareback and feeling his warmth, the footsteps giving that muffled scrunch scrunch as his hooves compacted in the snow, the air sparkling with frozen droplets—Boot’s dance, his breath in exhaled clouds, tiny ice crystals brushing my face, us being the only creatures out that morning, and our footsteps being the only ones marking the new fallen show.
Wow, that cooled me from the 100 degree heat we’ve been having.
Thursday, June 30, 2011
Deep Fried Butter
Imagine.
Well, its chocolate covered, does that help? "Deep fried butter. Totally deep fried," says an ad at the Dell Mar Fair California. Additional delicacies: “Chocolate covered bacon, Twinkies, and Oreos.”
I figured that was something like Bull Poker where 4 guys each pay 50 bucks each to sit around a table playing poker—with a live bull in the ring. The last man standing or alive would get the pot. They ought to get the Darwin award—that is the award to the person who kills themselves in the most stupid way. One year they gave it to a man who didn’t die—the lawn chair man who went up with a sandwich, a can of beer, and a shotgun to shoot out the balloons that had carried him aloft—so aloft—you know the story—that he drifted into the jet path and was escorted down by the military. After all, he carried a gun.
Okay, that aside, I wrote about my manuscript on the last blog, and here’s the latest: I put it in my backpack and took off for a quiet spot under gigantic Douglas firs beside a gurgling stream. En route I encountered a raging river, and since others were rafting it, and they invited me to join them, I climbed aboard a rubber raft that immediately dropped me about 50 feet into a tumultuous river. Together we cascaded down rapids so frightening it would make your grandma drop her undies. I climbed out shaken but alive. My backpack was damp, but whew, the manuscript was still there. I said good-bye to my team-mates and took off around the bend and was almost flattened by a run-away train from a mine shaft. Gosh, and on my way to that quiet spot too. That train so unnerved me that I dropped my backpack, and white papers littered the landscape like, well, like white pages.
I dropped to my knees scooped up my papers, sheepishly, not wanting anyone to see me looking stupid—a duck did, and after pecking at it and not seeing it was editable, he pooped on it. Page 71, “Living on the Edge,” guess that’s how he felt about it. I wiped Living on the Edge on grass, folded it over and put it between page 70 and page 72, and went off to find my quiet spot—that is if there ever is a quiet spot at Disneyland.
Attribution…that’s the reason I imagined the above story. I think it needs more angst though. Attribution is the story behind the event or object. Since I’m not famous I need a story…
There is a painting hanging in the Louvre that is over 500 years old. It was stolen in 1911 and the face in the painting was plastered across newspapers around the world. More people lined up to see the place where the picture had hung than had ever come to see the painting before the theft. Over the years this painting had acid thrown at it, red paint sprayed on it, and a gift-shop mug hurled at it. Now it sits in a massive room protected by bullet proof glass. It is the rock star of the world.
To the left and right of the Mona Lisa hangs Salvator Rosa’s paintings—really nice, but they have no pedigree, no mystery, and no story. Two equally beautiful paintings—one a legend, the other a nice painting.
![]()
Baby D and Bear on our "Green Trail of Bliss" Hawaii.
Well, its chocolate covered, does that help? "Deep fried butter. Totally deep fried," says an ad at the Dell Mar Fair California. Additional delicacies: “Chocolate covered bacon, Twinkies, and Oreos.”
I figured that was something like Bull Poker where 4 guys each pay 50 bucks each to sit around a table playing poker—with a live bull in the ring. The last man standing or alive would get the pot. They ought to get the Darwin award—that is the award to the person who kills themselves in the most stupid way. One year they gave it to a man who didn’t die—the lawn chair man who went up with a sandwich, a can of beer, and a shotgun to shoot out the balloons that had carried him aloft—so aloft—you know the story—that he drifted into the jet path and was escorted down by the military. After all, he carried a gun.
Okay, that aside, I wrote about my manuscript on the last blog, and here’s the latest: I put it in my backpack and took off for a quiet spot under gigantic Douglas firs beside a gurgling stream. En route I encountered a raging river, and since others were rafting it, and they invited me to join them, I climbed aboard a rubber raft that immediately dropped me about 50 feet into a tumultuous river. Together we cascaded down rapids so frightening it would make your grandma drop her undies. I climbed out shaken but alive. My backpack was damp, but whew, the manuscript was still there. I said good-bye to my team-mates and took off around the bend and was almost flattened by a run-away train from a mine shaft. Gosh, and on my way to that quiet spot too. That train so unnerved me that I dropped my backpack, and white papers littered the landscape like, well, like white pages.
I dropped to my knees scooped up my papers, sheepishly, not wanting anyone to see me looking stupid—a duck did, and after pecking at it and not seeing it was editable, he pooped on it. Page 71, “Living on the Edge,” guess that’s how he felt about it. I wiped Living on the Edge on grass, folded it over and put it between page 70 and page 72, and went off to find my quiet spot—that is if there ever is a quiet spot at Disneyland.
Attribution…that’s the reason I imagined the above story. I think it needs more angst though. Attribution is the story behind the event or object. Since I’m not famous I need a story…
There is a painting hanging in the Louvre that is over 500 years old. It was stolen in 1911 and the face in the painting was plastered across newspapers around the world. More people lined up to see the place where the picture had hung than had ever come to see the painting before the theft. Over the years this painting had acid thrown at it, red paint sprayed on it, and a gift-shop mug hurled at it. Now it sits in a massive room protected by bullet proof glass. It is the rock star of the world.
To the left and right of the Mona Lisa hangs Salvator Rosa’s paintings—really nice, but they have no pedigree, no mystery, and no story. Two equally beautiful paintings—one a legend, the other a nice painting.
Baby D and Bear on our "Green Trail of Bliss" Hawaii.
Wednesday, June 8, 2011
Singing Frog
I read that writers ought to have someone read their manuscript. If the reader says “It’s crap,” send them a bottle of champagne.
Well, that’s assuming it’s an honest assessment of course. A couple of extremely wonderful, courageous, talented people read my manuscript and didn’t tell me it was crap, kind souls that they are. Thank you, thank you. Well, dear readers, it’s different now. I’ve been rewriting, editing, changing the beginning, changing the ending, thinking about it, scaring myself, motivating myself, reliving our adventure, cutting out so many parts my “extra” file is bigger than the manuscript. You know how it is, it’s finished, it isn’t finished. Okay, read it again. How did those types get in there? What? What was I talking about? Okay, who’s toying with my pages?
Once called Life Beyond the Horizon, Secrets from the Big Island, I’ve renamed my manuscript about our move to and from Hawaii to The Frog’s Song, Secrets from the Big Island.
Some of my old time readers might laugh. I have used that title for so long they are probably tired of it. Darling Daughter and I have even acquired that name as a non-profit status—not that we know what to do with it. The name suits me—I don’t know, maybe it’s that I can croak out my words, maybe that frogs have potential to become princesses…
I loved the Coqui frog’s song of Hawaii. It seemed pertinent that I was plunked down in the midst of singing frogs. Many people on the island wanted to eradicate them—frogs that sound like birds, that make the jungle ring, that eat insects and mosquitoes, that do not harm anything they don’t eat, and their song is to call a mate. Right, that seems like something to eradicate.
“The frog calls the rain that settles the dust for our journey.”
Okay let’s move it.
Love from Joyce
Well, that’s assuming it’s an honest assessment of course. A couple of extremely wonderful, courageous, talented people read my manuscript and didn’t tell me it was crap, kind souls that they are. Thank you, thank you. Well, dear readers, it’s different now. I’ve been rewriting, editing, changing the beginning, changing the ending, thinking about it, scaring myself, motivating myself, reliving our adventure, cutting out so many parts my “extra” file is bigger than the manuscript. You know how it is, it’s finished, it isn’t finished. Okay, read it again. How did those types get in there? What? What was I talking about? Okay, who’s toying with my pages?
Once called Life Beyond the Horizon, Secrets from the Big Island, I’ve renamed my manuscript about our move to and from Hawaii to The Frog’s Song, Secrets from the Big Island.
Some of my old time readers might laugh. I have used that title for so long they are probably tired of it. Darling Daughter and I have even acquired that name as a non-profit status—not that we know what to do with it. The name suits me—I don’t know, maybe it’s that I can croak out my words, maybe that frogs have potential to become princesses…
I loved the Coqui frog’s song of Hawaii. It seemed pertinent that I was plunked down in the midst of singing frogs. Many people on the island wanted to eradicate them—frogs that sound like birds, that make the jungle ring, that eat insects and mosquitoes, that do not harm anything they don’t eat, and their song is to call a mate. Right, that seems like something to eradicate.
“The frog calls the rain that settles the dust for our journey.”
Okay let’s move it.
Love from Joyce
Sunday, May 29, 2011
A New World
It’s a new world. I have evidence.
I wanted to send you a picture, but alas when I went back with my camera the evidence had vanished.
Monday as DD and I drove into town we saw sitting on a bus stop bench a full outfit of clothing with no one in them. There was a jacket sitting arm up like Donald O’Connor’s dancing cloth doll in Singing in the Rain. (He animated it.) Beneath the jacket a pair of pants lies uninhabited. A pair of shoes was planted firmly on the ground, pants covering their tops as though a person had recently inhabited them. We laughed. “The rapture happened,” DD said.
Saturday while Daughter Darling, Baby Darling, and I were splashing around in The Plunge in San Diego followed by a quick trip through Sea World, we came home to Husband Dear telling us the world had ended.
“Oh good,” I said, “It’s a new world.”
What if it is?
With a new world DD and I decided we had not thanked Hawaii sufficiently for its gift to us. We were so immersed in the doingness of house renovations, of deciding we wanted to leave the island, of trying to figure out what we were feeling, how much was coming from our own needs, and how much was energy coming from the island that we couldn’t get the hit when it ended. The house sold after 5 months. How lucky we were. We were lucky that someone came in with cash, no waiting for 4 months to get a loan as we did. We were grateful, but had we thanked her (Hawaii) sufficiently?
So DD and I went to the beach again—an earlier trip was to release the Hawaiian experience, (See blog post “Counting Pelicans”), this time we went to thank the Big Island for her gift. I thought of Eckhart Tolle again. In his book, A New World, oh fascinating, I just looked up the title of his book, had forgotten it, and I see we’re talking about the same thing—A New World, in title anyway. Tolle states how spiritual we are has nothing to do with what we believe, but it has everything to do with our state of consciousness.
By state of consciousness I mean to look not so much to what we think, but to where we place our awareness.
It is so tempting to see what is wrong with the world, with life, with anything instead of seeing what is right with it.
A new world?
Sounds like a plan.
I wanted to send you a picture, but alas when I went back with my camera the evidence had vanished.
Monday as DD and I drove into town we saw sitting on a bus stop bench a full outfit of clothing with no one in them. There was a jacket sitting arm up like Donald O’Connor’s dancing cloth doll in Singing in the Rain. (He animated it.) Beneath the jacket a pair of pants lies uninhabited. A pair of shoes was planted firmly on the ground, pants covering their tops as though a person had recently inhabited them. We laughed. “The rapture happened,” DD said.
Saturday while Daughter Darling, Baby Darling, and I were splashing around in The Plunge in San Diego followed by a quick trip through Sea World, we came home to Husband Dear telling us the world had ended.
“Oh good,” I said, “It’s a new world.”
What if it is?
With a new world DD and I decided we had not thanked Hawaii sufficiently for its gift to us. We were so immersed in the doingness of house renovations, of deciding we wanted to leave the island, of trying to figure out what we were feeling, how much was coming from our own needs, and how much was energy coming from the island that we couldn’t get the hit when it ended. The house sold after 5 months. How lucky we were. We were lucky that someone came in with cash, no waiting for 4 months to get a loan as we did. We were grateful, but had we thanked her (Hawaii) sufficiently?
So DD and I went to the beach again—an earlier trip was to release the Hawaiian experience, (See blog post “Counting Pelicans”), this time we went to thank the Big Island for her gift. I thought of Eckhart Tolle again. In his book, A New World, oh fascinating, I just looked up the title of his book, had forgotten it, and I see we’re talking about the same thing—A New World, in title anyway. Tolle states how spiritual we are has nothing to do with what we believe, but it has everything to do with our state of consciousness.
By state of consciousness I mean to look not so much to what we think, but to where we place our awareness.
It is so tempting to see what is wrong with the world, with life, with anything instead of seeing what is right with it.
A new world?
Sounds like a plan.
Remembering Hawaii: I stumbled upon this picture of our road in Hawaii--moving from darkness into light.
"It is a funny thing about life; if you refuse to accept anything but the best, you very often get it."
--W. Somerset Maugham
Quote found in It's Hard To Stay on a Horse While You're Unconscious by Joyce Davis
Thursday, May 19, 2011
Still Wishing on White Horses
I call it imagination.
I wandered the bookstore yesterday looking for such a place. Isn't this a place where dreams are realized?
I tend not to go through the new book arrivals, don’t know why, I just go through the stacks waiting for a book to jump out at me—I’ve had astounding luck so far, recent reads: The Year of the Hare (Paasilinna), How to Bake a Happy Life (O’Neal) Loved it! Older protagonist, heroine’s point of view, a troubled teenager’s point of view, a grandmother’s, a newly found old flame, a new romance, a dream come true, a dog. It is all mixed up with bread recipes that almost made me run to the kitchen, and pull out pans and flour. So far I’ve resisted that temptation. The Lost Recipe for Happiness (O’Neal), Home to Woefield ( Judy), Men and Dogs (Crouch), I’m Over all That (MacLaine), Going Bovine (Bray). The Bushman Way of Tracking God (Keeney).
A question: Why is it that almost every book has “New York Times Bestseller,” printed into its cover? And, do bookstores only stock bestsellers? And how does one get on a best seller list if bookstores do not stock them until they are? Makes my brain ache.
My hand just doesn’t work anymore to open a book that tells me upfront that it will break my heart, that it is bittersweet, that family tragedy propels the protagonist forward. Oh, I know about conflict—“Without conflict you have no story.” I know a plot line is “Chase hero up tree. Throw rocks at hero. Get hero out of tree.” Still I want to feel good when the book is over, and although I have read quite a few Dean Koontz, and admire him, I’ve over-read ways to kill a person.
And then walking out with a book entitled Three Junes—although it doesn’t seem to be the one I thought I was getting--I think my friend June was on my mind, anyway, walking out of the bookstore I pick up Dick Van Dyke’s My Lucky Life In and Out of Show Business, and read that his life wasn’t always easy, broke at times, early show business struggles, wife miscarries twins, but he moves through life with flair such as he had when we saw him dancing on the rooftops in Mary Poppins to the tune of “Step in Time,” with the chimney sweeps.”
How cool it that?!
P.S. Roses cut all within 10 feet of our front door.
Another, How cool is that?
Thursday, May 5, 2011
Genie in a Pickle
Feeling hot, lethargic, about to faint? Eat a pickle.
Not just any pickle. It has to be one of those 6 inch long, salty, salty, salty, dill pickles you just plucked from an iced pickle barrel. One at Disneyland gave both DD and I the power to tackle the park, and its 100 degree temperature with vigor. Probably it is the salt, might be electrolytes, maybe the vinegar, or even the curative powers of the cucumber, whatever, I now believe in pickle power.
This was the second time a genie in a pickle saved me, so I think there is something to my hypothesis. (On top of it, that whole cucumber pickle reminded me of ones my Grandmother used to make.)
Okay, yes we were at Disneyland again—I told DD and Baby D that we would go the day after I got the check in my hands for the Hawaii House sale. That was Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday we rode every train we could find at Disneyland—Baby D is into trains.
Sold houses, and Disneyland, and pickles are all mixed up into a happy dance. The Hawaii house sold, yea, yea, yea. This is the first time in over 40 years that we have not been home owners. It’s okay. I think I have gypsy blood in me anyway.
The nicest people inquired about the house from a site called HorseClicks. On that site you can list houses, horses, tack, trailers for free. Nobody from that ad bought the house but they all seemed like people I would love to have for friends. Many people want to leave the cold and move to paradise. You who have read my blog over the past couple of years know it was an adjustment.
Why would anyone want to leave paradise?
For another paradise.
Onward, upward and ahead from Joyce
Not just any pickle. It has to be one of those 6 inch long, salty, salty, salty, dill pickles you just plucked from an iced pickle barrel. One at Disneyland gave both DD and I the power to tackle the park, and its 100 degree temperature with vigor. Probably it is the salt, might be electrolytes, maybe the vinegar, or even the curative powers of the cucumber, whatever, I now believe in pickle power.
This was the second time a genie in a pickle saved me, so I think there is something to my hypothesis. (On top of it, that whole cucumber pickle reminded me of ones my Grandmother used to make.)
Okay, yes we were at Disneyland again—I told DD and Baby D that we would go the day after I got the check in my hands for the Hawaii House sale. That was Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday we rode every train we could find at Disneyland—Baby D is into trains.
Sold houses, and Disneyland, and pickles are all mixed up into a happy dance. The Hawaii house sold, yea, yea, yea. This is the first time in over 40 years that we have not been home owners. It’s okay. I think I have gypsy blood in me anyway.
The nicest people inquired about the house from a site called HorseClicks. On that site you can list houses, horses, tack, trailers for free. Nobody from that ad bought the house but they all seemed like people I would love to have for friends. Many people want to leave the cold and move to paradise. You who have read my blog over the past couple of years know it was an adjustment.
Why would anyone want to leave paradise?
For another paradise.
Onward, upward and ahead from Joyce
Sunday, April 17, 2011
Sometimes You Wish on the Bay
Look at that eye
That face...As we await the closing of escrow on the Hawaii House, Daughter Darling, Baby Darling and I have been finding solace and loving snorts from an exquisite Bay Draft Horse we found outside of town. He stands about ten feet high, has hooves the size of pizzas, a straight white blaze down the center of his face, and a mane that cascades past his shoulder like Carmen’s hair in the opera Carmen.
The fence is high as you can see, but we manage to give him a good rub, while he whisks a carrot off our palm and gives us sympathy that our waiting period is laborious, and that we do not have a horse.
Aloha for now.
P.S. I just pushed "Publish" on a new website where I shamelessly promote my book, that will, by Book, Nook or Kindle become available sometime in the future. An agent said I ought to have a website, so I gave it the title of "White Orchids and White Horses," and its address is http://www.wishonawhitehorse.com/
That child
That wind over the ears...
Saturday, April 2, 2011
Counting Pelicans
March 23, 2011
We drove to Cardiff by the Sea—the first beach driving south from Encinitas that would allow dogs. We had taken Peaches our little Poodle, and I didn’t want to leave her in the hot truck.
As DD, BD (Husband was in Oregon) and I began to walk down the beach 22 pelicans flew in a single file over our heads. Those huge birds, their black hides and enormous beaks silhouetted against the blue sky were so close we could see the frayed edges of their wing feathers. Little ripples of goose flesh coursed down my back when their shadows touched me.
They cruised over beach sand, not over water, as I would expect. They would glide down the beach, and in a few minutes some would be back, 20, 17, 3. Sometimes they would fly in a straight line sometimes in V-formation, only their V’s were lop sided, with two or three birds on one side, the rest on the other. Twenty five flew by. I thought it would be significant somehow to see 23 as this was March 23, and DD, BD and I were there at the ocean’s edge to have a good-bye ceremony for Hawaii.
We thought perhaps we had not said our good-byes sufficiently. The day before we had received such a blow I threw myself to the floor in shock and horror for a good five minutes.
My problem? Our House in Hawaii was in escrow. The sale was supposed to close on March 29. Forty minutes before the inspection period ended the buyers pulled out—I did not know that earnest money could be returned, but during the inspection time it can. This way potential buyers can tie up a house, eliminate it from the market, spend time there, have it termite inspected at owners expense, although it was under warranty, talk to the neighbors, mull it over, and then get cold feet and pull out.
After those initial 5 minutes, I raised my carpet imprinted nose from the floor, and thought, Can I do as the black minister Johnny Coleman once said, “If you go into work and the boss says, ‘You’re fired,’ you say, ‘Okay Great Master what do you have in store for me?’”
So, we’re at the beach saying our good-byes. I write a letter and DD, BD and I write good-byes on river rocks. We thank the Big Island, and we ask Pele to release us from Hawaii.
With a felt marker I drew a lei of flowers around one rock with a “Good Bye” written inside the circle, and threw it out to sea. While in Hawaii I had wanted to throw a real flower lei into the ocean as old time vacationers used to do to see if they would ever return to the island. If the lei floated out they would not. If it floated back to shore they would. That could be rigged, of course, depending on the tides, but if those rocks ever make it to Hawaii there is no way we could rig that.
As we climbed into the truck preparing to leave a group of pelicans flew over. I counted them.
Twenty three!
P.S. March 30: A new offer on the house. We’re in escrow again.
We drove to Cardiff by the Sea—the first beach driving south from Encinitas that would allow dogs. We had taken Peaches our little Poodle, and I didn’t want to leave her in the hot truck.
As DD, BD (Husband was in Oregon) and I began to walk down the beach 22 pelicans flew in a single file over our heads. Those huge birds, their black hides and enormous beaks silhouetted against the blue sky were so close we could see the frayed edges of their wing feathers. Little ripples of goose flesh coursed down my back when their shadows touched me.
They cruised over beach sand, not over water, as I would expect. They would glide down the beach, and in a few minutes some would be back, 20, 17, 3. Sometimes they would fly in a straight line sometimes in V-formation, only their V’s were lop sided, with two or three birds on one side, the rest on the other. Twenty five flew by. I thought it would be significant somehow to see 23 as this was March 23, and DD, BD and I were there at the ocean’s edge to have a good-bye ceremony for Hawaii.
We thought perhaps we had not said our good-byes sufficiently. The day before we had received such a blow I threw myself to the floor in shock and horror for a good five minutes.
My problem? Our House in Hawaii was in escrow. The sale was supposed to close on March 29. Forty minutes before the inspection period ended the buyers pulled out—I did not know that earnest money could be returned, but during the inspection time it can. This way potential buyers can tie up a house, eliminate it from the market, spend time there, have it termite inspected at owners expense, although it was under warranty, talk to the neighbors, mull it over, and then get cold feet and pull out.
After those initial 5 minutes, I raised my carpet imprinted nose from the floor, and thought, Can I do as the black minister Johnny Coleman once said, “If you go into work and the boss says, ‘You’re fired,’ you say, ‘Okay Great Master what do you have in store for me?’”
So, we’re at the beach saying our good-byes. I write a letter and DD, BD and I write good-byes on river rocks. We thank the Big Island, and we ask Pele to release us from Hawaii.
With a felt marker I drew a lei of flowers around one rock with a “Good Bye” written inside the circle, and threw it out to sea. While in Hawaii I had wanted to throw a real flower lei into the ocean as old time vacationers used to do to see if they would ever return to the island. If the lei floated out they would not. If it floated back to shore they would. That could be rigged, of course, depending on the tides, but if those rocks ever make it to Hawaii there is no way we could rig that.
As we climbed into the truck preparing to leave a group of pelicans flew over. I counted them.
Twenty three!
P.S. March 30: A new offer on the house. We’re in escrow again.
Saturday, March 12, 2011
About Blogging
Aloha good friends.
Tell me about blogging? Is it worth it? Don’t talk about yourself some say, yet myself is the person I know best.
And I like sites of women going off, living their lives then telling of it. I love to hear about the animals and the winds sweeping across the plains slamming tumbleweeds against the side of the house, and stacking them up twenty feet high, and how they get up at 3 am to midwife a calf. Oh, nobody writes of that? Well, they should.
I’m in a rare mood, and don’t know what to do with myself—tell of a friend dying and feeling sad about that? Tell of my little Peaches dog who has Addison’s disease—that is a failure of the adrenals glands—and we give her medication daily and fluids every other day? She was diagnosed way before we went to Hawaii and managed fine for that year. Right now she is sleeping on the floor beside me, and it thrills her to go in the car or truck, so I take here every chance I get. Shall I tell of the 80 degree weather we had yesterday, and the fruit trees blossoming, and the fuchsia-colored flowers in one fruit tree I can’t identify? Or that it is a-buzz with bees?
Shall I tell of the grapefruits wintering-over, and that they are still hanging on the trees shinning golden as Christmas tree balls? Or that they don’t taste as sweet as the summer ones? Shall I tell that across the street the grapefruit trees are square? They trim them with a giant mechanical device that has a blade like a helicopter that cuts the tops of the trees flat, and then the blade is rotated horizontally and it cuts the sides—result? Square trees. Neat though, and looking out over the varying topography the square trees follow the land curving with it, rows behind rows, a graphic grapefruit orchard.
I shouldn’t write about that? Okay. Bye.
We are all a little weird and when we find someone whose weirdness is compatible with ours, we join them and fall in mutual weirdness and call it love. –Dr Seuss
Tell me about blogging? Is it worth it? Don’t talk about yourself some say, yet myself is the person I know best.
And I like sites of women going off, living their lives then telling of it. I love to hear about the animals and the winds sweeping across the plains slamming tumbleweeds against the side of the house, and stacking them up twenty feet high, and how they get up at 3 am to midwife a calf. Oh, nobody writes of that? Well, they should.
I’m in a rare mood, and don’t know what to do with myself—tell of a friend dying and feeling sad about that? Tell of my little Peaches dog who has Addison’s disease—that is a failure of the adrenals glands—and we give her medication daily and fluids every other day? She was diagnosed way before we went to Hawaii and managed fine for that year. Right now she is sleeping on the floor beside me, and it thrills her to go in the car or truck, so I take here every chance I get. Shall I tell of the 80 degree weather we had yesterday, and the fruit trees blossoming, and the fuchsia-colored flowers in one fruit tree I can’t identify? Or that it is a-buzz with bees?
Shall I tell of the grapefruits wintering-over, and that they are still hanging on the trees shinning golden as Christmas tree balls? Or that they don’t taste as sweet as the summer ones? Shall I tell that across the street the grapefruit trees are square? They trim them with a giant mechanical device that has a blade like a helicopter that cuts the tops of the trees flat, and then the blade is rotated horizontally and it cuts the sides—result? Square trees. Neat though, and looking out over the varying topography the square trees follow the land curving with it, rows behind rows, a graphic grapefruit orchard.
I shouldn’t write about that? Okay. Bye.
We are all a little weird and when we find someone whose weirdness is compatible with ours, we join them and fall in mutual weirdness and call it love. –Dr Seuss
Monday, February 21, 2011
"What's doing nothing?"
At the end of a Winnie the Pooh movie Christopher Robin is going off to school, and he tells Pooh that he won’t be able to do nothing anymore.
“What’s doing nothing?” Pooh Bear asks.
“Well,” answers Christopher Robin, “It’s when grown-ups ask you want you are going to do, and you say, ‘Nothing,’ and then you go out and do it.”
Remember being a kid and lying on grass cool against your back and staring up at the sky and being entranced by the shapes of the clouds? I remember being in my crib--taking a nap supposedly—and calling out, “Momma, the sky’s moving.”
We watched the 1938 movie You Can’t Take It With You with Lionel Barrymore, Jimmy Stewart, and Jean Arthur, about a house full of eccentrics who are doing whatever they want. The Momma is writing a novel because a typewriter was delivered to the house 8 years ago, one daughter dances all the time, the little man Grandpa picked up from the accounting office, makes up things, a toy bunny that raises us out of a hat, masks, Three old guys in the basement are making fireworks. Thirty five years ago Grandpa, on the way to being a corporate giant, rode the elevator up to his office, decided he wasn’t having any fun there, and rode it back down, never to return. Now he collects stamps and appraises stamp collections and gets paid for it. Of course trouble comes, but Grandpa takes it all in stride— “Things turn out,” he says, “as they usually do.”
DD asks me how we can live that way?
Any suggestions?
“What’s doing nothing?” Pooh Bear asks.
“Well,” answers Christopher Robin, “It’s when grown-ups ask you want you are going to do, and you say, ‘Nothing,’ and then you go out and do it.”
Remember being a kid and lying on grass cool against your back and staring up at the sky and being entranced by the shapes of the clouds? I remember being in my crib--taking a nap supposedly—and calling out, “Momma, the sky’s moving.”
We watched the 1938 movie You Can’t Take It With You with Lionel Barrymore, Jimmy Stewart, and Jean Arthur, about a house full of eccentrics who are doing whatever they want. The Momma is writing a novel because a typewriter was delivered to the house 8 years ago, one daughter dances all the time, the little man Grandpa picked up from the accounting office, makes up things, a toy bunny that raises us out of a hat, masks, Three old guys in the basement are making fireworks. Thirty five years ago Grandpa, on the way to being a corporate giant, rode the elevator up to his office, decided he wasn’t having any fun there, and rode it back down, never to return. Now he collects stamps and appraises stamp collections and gets paid for it. Of course trouble comes, but Grandpa takes it all in stride— “Things turn out,” he says, “as they usually do.”
DD asks me how we can live that way?
Any suggestions?
Monday, February 7, 2011
Keep Believing
Early Head Start
I have driven myself cuckoo with trying to figure it out—life I mean, manifesting, the Secret, God, all those things, the Ask, Allow, Receive theory of the Universe.
I’m letting it sit. And letting Little Boy D, who on February 2 became a great big two-year-old, provide the answer, Life, Love, Laugh and be Happy.
I’m letting it sit. And letting Little Boy D, who on February 2 became a great big two-year-old, provide the answer, Life, Love, Laugh and be Happy.
This morning I am driving in my pickup truck—my office on wheels—to a place where I can read and write. It is 8 AM. I just pulled off the road to watch the deflating of a hot air balloon. I see 5 balloons, 2 aloft, 3 on the ground still inflated to their exquisite splendor, stripped, variegated, colorful, grand floating orbs.
I watch as a green and blue balloon the size of a garage swings above the heads of a ground crew.
A man on a horse rides up shadowed by a dog trotting at his heals. The horse stands within feet of the balloon, apparently non-pulsed by this gigantic bloating object that is being pulled vertical to the ground by a man tugging on a rope. The great balloon lies on the ground, like a steed subdued by reins, and I can see the balloon’s construction, a giant hole in the top, filled with a lid-like enclosure, a smaller balloon within the hole. I suspect that opening serves as a door or window--something that adjusts the air flow.
I think of Velvet and Sierra my horses, how they would have apoplexy at seeing this monster shrinking before their eyes.
The horse seems okay with it. The dog just circles, watching or going to a person to be petted.
It is sad to see the once majestic balloon lying limp on the ground, reduced to a simple pile of blue and green.
Soon this once majestic balloon is rolled into its own gondola and placed in the back of a pickup. I think of our lives—once over it would be like that balloon lying unenlivened, a simple lump. Yes, we can be that lump or we can be filled with air and rise majestic. Deflated one day, souring the next. Is that how life is? Life, death, rebirth?
Apparently content that the show is over, the man on the horse gallops, the dog beside it, across the expanse of green that was the balloon’s landing site and together they disappear into the citrus orchard beyond.
I feel nostalgic for the rise and fall of a running horse, but happy to see the morning life of a balloon.
P.S. Yes, I know I need a picture, but that would require taking the camera with me.
Monday, January 17, 2011
Hope
The year was 1968.
The Vietnam War was raging. The US was reeling from recent tragedies—J F Kennedy was killed, we saw Lee Harvey Oswald shot in real time on television, Martin Luther King Jr. was gunned down, Bobby Kennedy was assassinated while making a run for the white house, the Apollo 1 module burned in a simulated test, killing three astronauts.
The country was in shock and grief.
Yet three men climbed aboard a flaming rocket and aimed for the moon—an orbit, to prepare for the future landing on the moon. They filmed the famous earth-rise, that incredible blue marble that is us, rising over the moon’s horizon.
We were in awe and it gave this country hope.
And what happened?
Kennedy’s dream materialized. “We will put a man on the moon by the end of the decade and bring him home safely.”
What an affirmation!
In 1969 they did it.
“Have a dream that’s bigger than you can accomplish in your lifetime,” Michael Beckwith told us that Sunday in L.A. Kennedy didn’t live to see the moon landing. Martin Luther King Jr. didn’t see his dream of the day his four little children would one day live in a nation where they would not be judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character.
We won’t get it all done, but we will go for it anyway.
Somebody will get it done.
Hope is alive and well and comes riding in on white horses. I saw a woman do it at Cavalia in Dallas Texas. One diminutive woman came streaking into the arena with a whoop that brought everybody out of their seats. She was standing one foot on one horse one on another as the two horses careened down a slope, over a small embankment, and galloped full-out in front of a gaping audience. She stood, knees flexed, taking up the rise and fall of each horse, one rein in each hand. I can feel it now, the weightless feeling, rather like jumping on a trampoline, of a horse racing, half of the time with all four feet off the ground at the same time—rather like a rocket isn’t it?
P.S. Talk about standing in awe, you will if you watch FROM THE EARTH TO THE MOON a 12 part HBO series produced and narrated by Tom Hanks. Ron Howard was another producer, their objective was to show people what they had never seen before—behind the scenes of the NASA Apollo Mission. This ought to be required viewing for every red-blooded person. Rent it or buy it, you won’t be sorry.
From home: If you ask BABY D—Oh yes, little Boy D, now 23 months—what he is grateful for he says, “My life.”
The Vietnam War was raging. The US was reeling from recent tragedies—J F Kennedy was killed, we saw Lee Harvey Oswald shot in real time on television, Martin Luther King Jr. was gunned down, Bobby Kennedy was assassinated while making a run for the white house, the Apollo 1 module burned in a simulated test, killing three astronauts.
The country was in shock and grief.
Yet three men climbed aboard a flaming rocket and aimed for the moon—an orbit, to prepare for the future landing on the moon. They filmed the famous earth-rise, that incredible blue marble that is us, rising over the moon’s horizon.
We were in awe and it gave this country hope.
And what happened?
Kennedy’s dream materialized. “We will put a man on the moon by the end of the decade and bring him home safely.”
What an affirmation!
In 1969 they did it.
“Have a dream that’s bigger than you can accomplish in your lifetime,” Michael Beckwith told us that Sunday in L.A. Kennedy didn’t live to see the moon landing. Martin Luther King Jr. didn’t see his dream of the day his four little children would one day live in a nation where they would not be judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character.
We won’t get it all done, but we will go for it anyway.
Somebody will get it done.
Hope is alive and well and comes riding in on white horses. I saw a woman do it at Cavalia in Dallas Texas. One diminutive woman came streaking into the arena with a whoop that brought everybody out of their seats. She was standing one foot on one horse one on another as the two horses careened down a slope, over a small embankment, and galloped full-out in front of a gaping audience. She stood, knees flexed, taking up the rise and fall of each horse, one rein in each hand. I can feel it now, the weightless feeling, rather like jumping on a trampoline, of a horse racing, half of the time with all four feet off the ground at the same time—rather like a rocket isn’t it?
P.S. Talk about standing in awe, you will if you watch FROM THE EARTH TO THE MOON a 12 part HBO series produced and narrated by Tom Hanks. Ron Howard was another producer, their objective was to show people what they had never seen before—behind the scenes of the NASA Apollo Mission. This ought to be required viewing for every red-blooded person. Rent it or buy it, you won’t be sorry.
From home: If you ask BABY D—Oh yes, little Boy D, now 23 months—what he is grateful for he says, “My life.”
Tuesday, January 4, 2011
A New Year
“Don’t touch it!” Baby D’s battle cry when he bumps his head or skins a knee. Oh yes, and his mantra? “Soy Sauce, soy sauce!--In a wasabi bowl.”
This is a far cry from the little baby we had a year ago.
A new year. What lies ahead?
I have felt inspired to write something, but what? I’m trying to wrap my mind around what has been going into it lately. Books, and watching The Secret again—you know how it made such a flourish, and then it was gone. A flash. We went to LA on Sunday and heard Michael Beckwith—one of the spiritual leaders featured in The Secret. “We are complete,” he said, “We are only uncovering our completeness. And we will never get it done--if we do our vision was too small."
We read, we listen, we become inspired and then it melts with the first flash of morning. We talk ourselves out of the enthusiasm we once felt, or else we are just plain lazy and don’t pay attention. We don’t believe we can be do or have whatever we want. “It’s not working,” we say.
And what is “Working?’ What is The Secret of the ages? People have hid knowledge regarding how life works, people have suppressed it, kept it hidden, told the secret to only a select few, kept it in secret societies. Do you think all that effort was for naught? That it was the absurd dribbling of wishful thinking? Or do you think there is something there to uplift the hearts of humankind, to inspire, to charge into greatness, and yes to tell them how it works?
Mindless dribble, is that what this is? I read one blogger who called blogging just that, or could this be a forum in which we can connect, in which we share our fears, beliefs, and desires?
If we go back to the spiritual underpinnings of our civilization, of America, of ancient cultures we see a golden thread shining through—the secret, that it lies within us. That God is within. That we need to understand that built into us is a brain, a subconscious, a God-force that drives us steadily onward, and says “Yes,” to our requests.
Ask the greats, Plato, Thomas Jefferson, Benjamin Franklin, Sir Isaac Newton, Leonardo Da Vinci, they knew the secret.
TIME IS A RIVER…AND BOOKS ARE BOATS. MANY VOLUMES START DOWN THAT STREAM, ONLY TO BE WRECKED AND LOST BEYOND RECALL IN ITS SANDS. ONLY A FEW, A VERY FEW, ENDURE THE TESTINGS OF TIME AND LIVE TO BLESS THE AGES FOLLOWING.--An ancient spiritual text
This is a far cry from the little baby we had a year ago.
A new year. What lies ahead?
I have felt inspired to write something, but what? I’m trying to wrap my mind around what has been going into it lately. Books, and watching The Secret again—you know how it made such a flourish, and then it was gone. A flash. We went to LA on Sunday and heard Michael Beckwith—one of the spiritual leaders featured in The Secret. “We are complete,” he said, “We are only uncovering our completeness. And we will never get it done--if we do our vision was too small."
We read, we listen, we become inspired and then it melts with the first flash of morning. We talk ourselves out of the enthusiasm we once felt, or else we are just plain lazy and don’t pay attention. We don’t believe we can be do or have whatever we want. “It’s not working,” we say.
And what is “Working?’ What is The Secret of the ages? People have hid knowledge regarding how life works, people have suppressed it, kept it hidden, told the secret to only a select few, kept it in secret societies. Do you think all that effort was for naught? That it was the absurd dribbling of wishful thinking? Or do you think there is something there to uplift the hearts of humankind, to inspire, to charge into greatness, and yes to tell them how it works?
Mindless dribble, is that what this is? I read one blogger who called blogging just that, or could this be a forum in which we can connect, in which we share our fears, beliefs, and desires?
If we go back to the spiritual underpinnings of our civilization, of America, of ancient cultures we see a golden thread shining through—the secret, that it lies within us. That God is within. That we need to understand that built into us is a brain, a subconscious, a God-force that drives us steadily onward, and says “Yes,” to our requests.
Ask the greats, Plato, Thomas Jefferson, Benjamin Franklin, Sir Isaac Newton, Leonardo Da Vinci, they knew the secret.
TIME IS A RIVER…AND BOOKS ARE BOATS. MANY VOLUMES START DOWN THAT STREAM, ONLY TO BE WRECKED AND LOST BEYOND RECALL IN ITS SANDS. ONLY A FEW, A VERY FEW, ENDURE THE TESTINGS OF TIME AND LIVE TO BLESS THE AGES FOLLOWING.--An ancient spiritual text
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