The Pedantic Bohemian

New Blog

2011-06-12T16:28:00.001-07:00

Profound apologies for not updating this blog for nearly two years.

I finally have a home and have finished TYPICAL MALE.

Please drop by the blog I've created for my JAG Justice Series here:

http://pedanticbohemian.wordpress.com/

Thanks to everyone for their kind thoughts and support through my time of trial and tribulation. God bless you all.

HOMELESS in Washington

2009-08-31T13:41:00.000-07:00

Yes, that's right my Faithful Readers. Despite two months of desperate and diligent searching, scrambling and researching by myself, my caregivers and dozens of members of my church, I have no home.

My insomnia has come in handy throughout as I sat day and night, pouring over Craig's List and every real estate site in the region desperate to find something I could afford. I would catch a couple of hours of sleep each morning from 8 or 9am to 11:30 when the alarm would go off and I'd start all over again.

I've drank literally gallons of coffee just to keep alert despite all the medications for depression, nightmare suppression, pain, et al. I've had 4 bad falls, the last causing quite a furor when torn chest/ribcage muscles and cracked ribs mimicked heart attack symptoms, resulting in an ambulance ride to the ER.

I've been stalked online by and gotten at least two nasty, threatening emails from my landlord. Obviously, he doesn't shy away from bad press. Maybe he doesn't realize that Oak Harborites--particularly the membership of my church (the oldest and largest one on the island)--don't take kindly to a Navy guy who puts impoverished cripples into the street. He's even threatened to sue for damages, despite the fact that I've been living here (a total of 6.5 years) without a lease since 2004, never paid a damage deposit, did not have a walk-thru when I moved in, and found this place in a disgusting, filthy bachelor-pad mess upon my arrival. Never have I had to clean a place from top to bottom as I did this one.

My suggestion to this landlord would be to discuss his problems with the men who lived here prior to my moving in. Perhaps THEY did a walk-thru and can be held accountable since, by law, I cannot.

Oh, and the cats are physician-certified THERAPY/SERVICE animals and cannot be denied to me by ANYONE, irregardless of pet policies. That's the LAW.

So, farewell my Faithful Readers. I do not know when I'll have access to a computer and the internet again. Keep Lucas, Kira, Curzon and myself in your prayers as we continue to live in hope of finding a place to live.

Goodbye....

I will be staying with church friends for 2 weeks. After that...who knows.

God is out of the striking-people-dead business, obviously

2009-08-18T20:12:00.000-07:00

I just got off the phone with my friend, Ashley, who is my primary in-home caregiver. She and I have spent the last 2 months desperately searching for a place for me to live since my landlord of 6.5 years is selling my condo out from under me. I have until August 31st to move, or he will evict me.

Ashley has been carrying a lot of the load because, due to my PTSD & depression, I've reached a point that I can no longer cope with the things going on. She talks to the people that would have me sobbing hysterically. She tracks things down, prints out things and a million and one other things I'm not physically or mentally capable of doing anymore.

Today, she called the realtor/property broker that my landlord hired to sell this condo. It was NOT a pleasant conversation.

This woman is a member of my church. She's been here, spoken with me and laid down a very thick layer of BS that cost me 3 weeks of searching. Lies like, "Don't worry, hon. I know every broker on the island. I'll get you a nice house with no stairs. You just sit back and I'll take care of it." I foolishly waited those 3 weeks, trusting this person because she's a member of my church. When I heard NOTHING, I finally called her and was treated with a good deal of cold, "I don't know what to tell you" blame-shifting. She can't help me, she tells me. She can't actually talk to me at all, but maybe I can talk to her husband." etc. She did add that she'd found this one place--for $950 per month (after I'd told her $600 is a hard stretch for me)--and if I can come up with the extra money, she'll get me right in.

Obviously, this woman is NOT living in the same reality that I live in. So, once again I explained that as a cripple on a fixed income of $1088 per month, I CANNOT afford anything beyond $600. Then came the "Well, it's not fair OF YOU to ask him to take so much less."

NOT FAIR OF ME!?

I told her, I'm not asking him. I don't even know who this person is and would NEVER ask someone to drop the rent that drastically. Certainly never a stranger. This was when she told me to ask the church to pay the extra $250 every month.

WHAT THE HECK!?!?

So, I explained to her that I was on the board of United Methodist Women for our church. I broke down exactly how much we raise a year, how we raise it and what every penny of that donated money goes for. THERE IS NO EXTRA MONEY TO PAY OUT EVERY MONTH. Period. She then told me to ask our Pastor anyway. As if I'd not just explained the entire financial structure of our church 30 seconds before.

I then explained to her that there were more poor on the island than there is affordable housing. The waiting lists for Section 8 island-wide (statewide, honestly) is between 6 months and 3 YEARS. You cannot just go fill out an application and move in. Even with 100% disability like myself, you go on the waiting list and wait. It's the same thing with HUD housing assistance vouchers. Only the wait is much longer. The HUD representative told me: "YEARS or NEVER" since everyone ahead of me on the waiting list has to leave the welfare/DSHS system before I can be considered.

That conversation concluded with a phrase I have come to hate and despise over the years, 'Well, I don't know what to tell you." She also added the oh, so Christian and loving, "But you'd better get busy looking for something."

Well, I would've been very busy if I hadn't believed her lies that she had it all under control and would call me when she had a place for me. That's the day I started looking everywhere in the area for a place to move. Nearly 2 months ago now.

That brings us to today--with a lot of blood, sweat and tears for Ashley and I as we've desperately scrambled to find a place, come up with all the necessary paperwork, application fees, etc.

This morning that same broker called and left a message on my answering machine. Apparently, my landlord wants to know "What's going on."

Well, as my friend Arlynda so wisely pointed out, it's not August 31st yet, so what business is it of his OR his broker?

Indeed.

Because I've gone way past my limit mentally, emotionally and physically, once again Ashley called on my behalf.

This woman was not only cold with her, but high-handed, ignorant and did not listen to anything Ashley tried to tell her. Ashley has NO problem speaking her mind, so I can only imagine how this phone conversation went. Ashley is the most loving and mothering person I have ever met. She's gentle, easy going and sweeter than you can possibly imagine. She'd give you her last slice of bread if she knew you were hungry. She'd walk 10 miles barefoot to fetch you a glass of water if you were thirsty. So, rest assured, the conversation was nasty if she came away wishing she could strangle this woman.

First this broker told her that she couldn't understand why I hadn't come up with the money to move into this $950 per month place. Why hadn't I asked DSHS for more money? (Shockingly, with $1088 per month, I make way too much to get financial assistance) Why hadn't I asked the church to pay the difference? Why hadn't I asked HUD for the money? Why haven't I gotten on the Section 8 waiting list?

Obviously, the broker NEVER listens to a word said to her.

Ashley then went into great detail explaining away all her idiotic misconceptions--funny how the wealthy always think things are so easy for the poor. The woman peppered Ashley with "why nots" and "well, she shoulds" as Ashley tried to make her understand that WE HAVE DONE EVERYTHING and there is still nowhere for me to go.

Then, this fine Christian sister of mine from my very own church tried to blame it all on me! Yes, unbelievably, I should have FOUND a way to get that extra money to rent this place that she and this mysterious unnamed man who owns it have been, "looking forward to having me move in to."

When Ashley blasted her for that comment, she turned it around and made it all the church's fault for not helping me. "I just figured the church would do much more to help."

She then informed Ashley--as if to a moron who has no concept of how this sort of thing works--that if I am not out by the 31st of this month, my landlord can begin eviction proceedings against me.

God help me. I am dead and this is hell. And it's filled with heartless imbeciles.

I wish this conversation had been recorded. I would go to church on Sunday and play it for the entire congregation. This is the sort of thing the church folk need to know about fellow members. She may be in church every Sunday, but nary a message has sunken in. She has absolutely no sense of reality.

This entire process has been like dealing with a psychotic person. You can talk all you want and explain everything in a clear and logical manner, but they simply can't hear your words.

I am beyond my wit's end. If I could say anything to both my landlord and that horrid broker, it would be this:

Even if I have NOWHERE to go, I will be out of this condo on August 31st. I am a law-abiding citizen. My number one rule of life is "BE IMPECCABLE WITH YOUR WORD." I said I will be out and even if I have to sleep in the streets and spend my days sitting in the park, I WILL BE OUT.

I know God will make something beautiful out of all this, but it's so very hard not to be afraid.

Idiot's Guide to Organizing Your Life - Oops, I'm doing it wrong!

2009-08-10T20:15:00.001-07:00

A veritable mountain of stuff in my office awaiting its turn to be packed into boxes for this horrific move coming up on/before 31 August 2009. (Thanks to my landlord--may the fleas of a billion camels infest his nethers.)

I find endless hilarity in the presence of my copy of "The Idiot's Guide to Organizing Your Life" amidst the rubble. I turned to my caregiver, Ashley, today as she took this photo and said, "Obviously, I've not read it yet."

Bullet Train Time

2009-08-04T19:07:00.000-07:00

Looks like I was right. That light at the end of the tunnel IS a Japanese bullet train.

Less than 29 days left until I'm HOMELESS. The reality of it is almost too much to take. I keep telling myself, God hasn't brought me this far just to leave me helpless, crippled and alone on the street with no shelter and no hope.

But, it's certainly shaping up that way.

I had hoped to move into a Section 8 apartment here in town, but yet again the actions of others are screwing me up.

When the low-income apartments ran my credit, they discovered a $6,000 tax lien from the state of Maryland on my credit. I knew immediately what it was and told them, but that doesn't help my situation.

A few years ago, the state of Maryland--location of the duty station previous to Whidbey Island for the wasband and I--erroneously charged state taxes against the vehicle we purchased there just prior to our transfer. Since the wasband was active duty and neither of us were Maryland state residents, they have no right to tax either of us.

The wasband apparently found out about this following our divorce, complaining to me what a pain it was to get it off his credit. It was on his credit, but not mine because the car was purchased in his name. Without income, I was considered a "housewife" and not a candidate to purchase the vehicle.

During the divorce, the wasband was ordered by the court to pay off all debt related to the vehicle. Until it was satisfied, I would have ownership, but the car remained in his name on the registration.

In 2005, he paid off the car and we had it transferred into my name.

Now, mysteriously, the state of Maryland transferred their erroneous tax lien into my name in 2005. Yet, I've never received one notification letter from them about this. I had no knowledge of it on my credit whatsoever.

When confronted by my caregiver, Ashley, the wasband claimed he didn't know what she was talking about. When she called and confronted him again, he suddenly remembered about the tax lien. When asked for documentation proving it was erroneous, he claimed he'd taken care of it online and had nothing to help me.

Typical. He's going to make good on his threat to see me either dead in a ditch or living in a box on the streets with the cats all because I had the nerve to go to the emergency room after he raped and battered me. He raped and battered me because I'd found out he'd been sleeping with dozens of people during the last year of our marriage and I confronted him about it.

And now, 6.5 years later, the rape continues.

Now, I must fight the state of Maryland over taxes that should have never been issued in the first place. Unfortunately, it has now gone through a court case, a judgement has been issued against me and a lien made. All of this without my knowledge.

Unless I can prove this is erroneous within the next few days, I will lose any hope of getting the Section 8 apartment. That will leave me with absolutely nowhere to live. Without a place to live, I will lose my food stamps, medicaid and caregivers program. Since I can't function without these things, I have no idea how to cope.

I've had to go out so many times in the past month with my caregiver, Ashley, trying to find a place to live, and get all the paperwork the Section 8 place has asked for, I've overdone it. I've had several bad falls and my gait has deteriorated to the point that I now need to return to physical therapy just to learn how to walk with my cane and without falling yet again. It took 9 months the last time around and was gruesomely painful. That was 4 years ago. The nerve damage is considerably worse now.

Needless to say, the nightmares have now returned making my days even harder to cope through. I've been placed back on the nightmare suppressants, and am suffering the side effects of being perpetually stoned and confused.

As I've told Ashley, and my Stephen Leader, Linda, I feel God is telling me it's time to kill myself. I mean, how can we know that He means for me to go on living? If He did, there would've already been a miracle, instead of continuous road blocks and tragedies coming, rapid fire, one after another.

Luckily, I did my internship for my criminology degree at the coroner's office and learned first-hand how to commit suicide without making any mistakes. I've already told Linda, as well as my nurse practitioner that I will kill myself rather than be homeless. I'll see to it that the cats are suitably placed in a loving home, then I'll do the deed.

And this is why we victims/survivors of abuse don't leave our abusers. The world hates abuse survivors who try to stand on their own two feet and make it. It sees to it that there is no help and no hope when everything goes wrong. It feels like God does, too.

Just ask all the abused women in California now that their bafoon of a governor voted the budget for domestic abuse survivors be CUT BY 100%!!!! But what might one expect from a misogynistic womanizer?

NOH8 Campaign Public Service Announcement

2009-07-22T21:00:00.000-07:00

Proposition 8 made many human beings in California unequal. It is not the purview of governmental agencies and law makers to decide which consenting adults can love and marry and which cannot. This is a constitutional violation of human rights, voted into law by hate and fear mongers and the ill-informed who would be led like sheep. As Americans we've fought, killed and died to protect our rights and Constitution. Don't let this law stand unchallenged. I'm straight and I do not hate! No HATE! NOH8

Want to get involved?

And if you're reading this, saying "she's supposedly a Christian," here's the bottom line for all those who want to quote Leviticus. READ THE REST OF YOUR BIBLE and get your head out of your backside. "Judge not lest you be judged." Jesus commanded us to throw out all that came before, to love God, and then to love others as we love ourselves. So, HATE is the sin. NOT love. Do you really want to be holding a "God hates fags" sign when the Rapture comes?

Hoisted by someone else's petard

2009-07-17T11:29:00.000-07:00

I've been away from my writing for weeks now.

The matter of survival has kept me much occupied. True, I distract myself as I can with trifles, but the thought of, "I'm going to be homeless in about a month" is never far from my mind.

I was tweeting with the very dear Dirk Johnson this morning about the situation. My feeling of being on the razor's edge of a panic attack every minute of every day. The sense of being trapped in circumstances not of my own making. My inability to employ my PTSD-inspired hyper-vigilance to keep myself safe. The return of the chronic nightmares that have haunted me since I was two and the sexual and physical abuse first began. And the psychological torture. Can't forget that part. It's funny--and not in a ha-ha sense--that six months sans nightmares spoiled me.

I'm hoist by Brian Carey's petard. Documents have been coming in the mail. Looks like he's in serious, criminal trouble with the Federal Government. He's also behind on his taxes here in Island County. The tax assessor has contacted me trying to track him down.

Now, as a tax-paying, law-abiding woman who has never even had a parking ticket, I'm not moved to pity my landlord. In fact, I've been praying very, very hard not to hate him. I've spent my life walking on eggshells, developing a chess master's sense of how to plan ahead a dozen, two dozen moves. So, when people like Brian, and my ex, the Toad of Darkness a.k.a Leon Guidry, blow their own worlds apart with their lack of foresight and openly shady dealings and take me along for the jaunt through hell. . .well, let's say I'm not amused by it.

This is a repeated pattern in my life. I've literally lived like an alley cat to survive other people's problems--OPP as Iyanla Vanzant terms it.

The problem this time, however, is that the variables are completely stacked against me and the very real possibility of being checkmated looms like the headsman's axe. Literally the sword of Damocles.

The facts:

I cannot work.
I am 100% disabled and require home health professionals to assist me.
I get $1013 per month.
I have $368 in bills that must be paid.
I receive $114 in food stamps per month
That leaves $645 per month from which I must:
Pay rent.
Buy everything food stamps do not cover.

I have discovered, to my horror, the average rent here starts at $850. Some ROOMS rent for $400-$500 per month. Most studio and 1-bedroom places are out of my price-range. Low income housing has waiting lists of 6 months to 1-year or more. I am limited to 1-bedroom and handicap-access units because of my disability. The waiting list on these is 1-3 years. 99% of low-income housing does not have washer/dryer connections and I cannot afford the added expense of a laundromat.

I have pared down my belongings since the divorce since I went from a 1700sf base house to a 900sf, very poorly laid out condo. I've sold everything I possibly could last year to help raise money to pay my ever-increasing copay for my Medicaid home care (it is currently $150 per month). My belongings are still wall-to-wall in this tiny condo. My bedroom furniture being the largest dent in this collection of belongings. I cannot do without a bed or drawers in which to put my clothes. I do not have money to buy other furniture to replace it.

All these rotten sugar plums are what dance in my brain every waking hour and haunt my Alpha-wave-sleep-disorder/chronic-nightmare-filled sleep.

I honestly want to run screaming, but for the fact that walking even with my cane is a chore.

Same other-people's-BS, different day.

The ex blew our lives apart with his sexual addiction. My employer stripped me of my insurance and fired me while I was out on medical leave, then I couldn't find a lawyer nor get assistance from the State to defend myself against this illegal act.

And now my landlord has ruined his own life and destroyed mine in the process.

What the hell? Seriously! What the hell!

I'm hanging on by a thread here and trying to keep my sanity. A Herculean task, rest assured.

I pray. Ceaselessly. I try to believe the cavalry will come to the rescue. It just doesn't seem possible at this point.

Homelessness, Brain Tumors, and Earthquakes. Oh, my!

2009-07-02T12:47:00.000-07:00

The past few weeks have certainly raised the bar on WTF!? moments.

I discovered that my landlord is selling my home of 6.5 years out from under me. In the process, I also found out he's been stalking me online. Nothing like a bit of stalking to set your teeth on edge, right? At least it went a long way in helping me feel great about moving.

Of course, thereby hangs the tale. I have nowhere--thus far--which to move. This is the reality of being extremely low income in a very high income location. Even the most microscopic, despicable dives are hundreds out of my price range. Not to mention this being the least pet-friendly renter location I've ever lived in. And since when was $1000 deposit fair to anyone? Don't even get me started on the entire concept of $35 per month, per pet added to the already ludicrously high rent.

Washington state is drastically cutting its programs for the low income disabled. Of course, I have the misfortune of falling into that category at present (always ready for a miracle to change that). What does this mean for me personally, Faithful Reader? Well, it means that the number of hours I have in-home caregivers here to help me is being cut. It also means that medication I need/cannot live without is no longer covered by Medicaid. And since one particular medication is over $300 per month, this poses a thorny problem. Much like my spinal injury, this falls under the category of "sucks to be me" since the state will not be moved, despite rather vociferous arguments from both my primary care provider and the surgeon treating me for malady in question.

I'm reminded of previous posts I've written about the Dickensian nature of social welfare programs in the United States, and Washington state in particular.

"If [the poor and disabled] would rather die, then they should do it and help reduce the surplus population. . ."

Then, as if this were not enough to keep me in a perpetual state of dazed and confused, last Monday, I found out that my biological mother had a stroke and was paralyzed on the left side. When the hospital did tests, they discovered the cause was a brain tumor.

My, what a misadventure getting back into contact with my family has been! The age-old question my nurse practitioner, Erin, has posed--how in the hell is it even remotely possible genetically for these people to have produced me--has once more been brought into the spotlight. Like most people though, I do love my mother, even after it all.

At least, despite being off her medication and going into a rather profound manic phase, my bipolar mother was taken into surgery. It was touch-and-go for a few days with much cussing, screaming and the like going on, but they did operate.

According to my step-father, the tumor was removed and was not cancerous. At last report, she had regained the use of her left side. She will remain in ICU for a few more days, I'm told.

Thank you, Lord, for that miracle.

As I try to process all this and remain sane and productive in my writing, a strange sleep/wake cycle has developed. Thirty-six hours of wakefulness, punctuated by 4-5 hours of sleep. While this is great for getting things done, it's not all that nice health wise. The stress is taking its toll and at times I feel a bit kicked, scratched and dented in--which makes me, yet again, the Queen of the Island of Misfit Toys.

Yesterday around 5am, we had a 3.8 earthquake here on the island. (No, not that Island, else I wouldn't be wasting time writing this, but instead worshiping at the altar of all that is Benjamin Linus.)

I haven't experienced an earthquake since Guam. While this was a relatively mild one, it was certainly disturbing. This is especially true since I do live in a cave without television and purposely avoid the news. Little did I know we have a rather nasty fault line running through the south end of the island.

Wow. Can you say, "Dharma Initiative take me away?"

I knew you could.

The good news is that I'm once more thinking like a journalist and writer. Everything falls into the category of, "how will I use this in my work." Regardless of it all, I take a great deal of comfort from that.

Now, if I can just get past the psychic trauma of discovering that Michael Emerson may not wear cologne after all.

Forget Chivalry, Where the Hell Did Respect Go?

2009-06-15T20:44:00.000-07:00

Honestly, guys how often do you get lucky from sending women photos of your penis attached to an email that poses the question,"Wanna f#ck?"

Since my divorce from Toad of Darkness six years ago, I've had occasion to wax long-winded on my various blogs about the nature of online dating. Suffice to say, most of my diatribes have been of the scathing variety, colored by my misadventures in dating in a Navy town.

I actually kept a blog on one of the dating sites to which I belonged. I had a running column called, "Yin-Yang Lifestyle" that offered tips to both men and women for making meaningful connections that led to good relationships with a fantastic level of intimacy. It was well received by both sexes, but women often used it to vent their disgust at the growing lack of respect in men.

Guys, what happened to acting like a human being? Did that go the way of the dinosaur along with respect and conversations you could actually have in front of your grandmother? Also, if you could explain to me why the webcam has turned seemingly all men into exhibitionists I'd be sorely grateful. Especially those individuals who bring nothing to the table beyond reminders of that colorful song, "Short, Short Man."

"You need to put your pants back on honey!"

I'm no prude.

Those who know me, know this of a certainty. I am a devout sensualist and hedonist. I'm more concerned with passion than romance, but I do appreciate the fine structure of social graces that should be involved in the man-woman dynamic. I also feel sex is God-created, healthy and nothing to be ashamed of between two consenting adults.

But, DAMN! I'm just sayin'. . .

After a conversation with a much younger female friend about her experiences with blatantly stupid men, I've come to one steadfast conclusion: the Internet has surgically removed the concepts of courting, wooing and actual dating from the very psyche of every human male who comes into contact with it.

I am now convinced that men have come to see women as not worth taking the time to get to know. Understandable since they now seem pressured by the biological imperative to broadcast their seed far and wide. I mean, seriously, why waste conversation, dancing, dinner and a movie on a potentially bad lay, right gents?

Are we in another ice age? There must be some logical explanation for the universal dumbing down of men.

"Hey b#tch, get me a beer," is not conversation!

Invariably this all boils down to conversation.

I'm relatively certain I speak for the vast majority of women here. If you are neither interested nor intelligent enough to engage me in a mutually satisfying dialog, the odds of you seeing me naked are astronomically low. Spock would have a hard time calculating just how low with a mainframe and an fission-powered slide rule.

When did conversation go out of vogue? More importantly, why did it go out of vogue? I never got the memo and I'm curious.

I've always thought of dating and wooing a potential mate as a chess match. Not in the gaming sense, but of one move building upon another over time to create something complex and beautiful. Like the tango. Watch an Argentinian couple doing the tango sometime. Note the way their bodies move together, even their feet teasing toward the obvious end result. Replace all those complex chess and dance moves with words and you'll get the picture. Everything is a process, especially relationships, so talking your way through it is an absolute necessity.

My bottom line has always been this: seduce my mind and the rest will follow. It's not that difficult to do--well, for some men I suppose it would be, but generally speaking. Converse! Why would you want to have sex and possibly form a relationship with someone with whom you can't share common interests, much less the day-to-day banal things?

Respect is not a four letter word.

If it helps, think of it as foreplay.

I uninstalled Yahoo IM from my computer years ago. Why? Because messages from strangers with propositions like "Wanna f#ck," or "Wanna come over and [-put egregiously inappropriate description of a sex act here-]" grew tiresome. Worse still are the "Wanna see my webcam" comments which invariably end with the guy naked and doing something that's likely illegal outside of a whorehouse. (The one with the rubber chicken where the sun don't shine scarred my not-so-tender sensibilities for life.) Worst of all would be receiving similar comments and requests from previously platonic male friends. When did such technologies evolve into mere tools for amateur pornographers?

Here's a clue, gents and I'm giving it to you for free: that is the fastest way to end up on a woman's blocklist. Even if you met her on an "adult dating site." It's an unanimous pet peeve of women everywhere.

The Internet has added immediacy and a false sense of intimacy to meeting others. It has destroyed the healthy boundaries that only boors and Mr. Goodbar violated in the age of face-to-face meetings. As a result, women the world over have become disillusioned with dating and men in general.

Gents, this means that if you're treating women like this, you are shooting yourself in the foot, or more aptly, the private parts.

So, here's the wrap-up to help you guys remember how to approach women:

1. Keep your pants on. Not only does it get you blocked, but God kills a puppy every time you show your tackle on a webcam. Try to remember that!

2. Learn how to have a real conversation with people. It's okay to talk about boring things. It's not okay to proposition a stranger to come over and ride you like a scooter.

3. Use instant message programs and the Internet only for good. It's a privilege, not a right. Please refer back to #1 if you aren't clear on this one.

4. If you'd be ashamed for your mother, grandmother, doctor and Pastor to see or hear it, you probably shouldn't say it or do it to the person you're trying to get to know, especially someone you've only met 10 seconds ago online. Again, refer back to #1 and #2 if this is unclear in any way.

The Rebirth of the Private Life

2009-06-05T18:35:00.000-07:00

Back in the 80's one of my favorite songs, and certainly my favorite music video, was this version of "Don't Give Up," by Peter Gabriel and Kate Bush. Even then, the deep level of intimacy in the body language in this video spoke to me. But now, more than 20 years later, it holds a special and painful poignancy.

As I watched this video while posting the Blip of the song to my Twitter account, a very sad thing struck me. I cannot remember the last time a man held me like he's holding her. An embrace not only of love, but of comfort and protection. Even in his supposed despair, he's holding onto her to protect her from the world because he adores her. Every subtle movement screams it.

I cannot remember being held like that.

In my life, with every man to whom I've wisely or stupidly given myself, it's been just that: what they expected me to give. It was never a matter of what they gave in return.

As my time alone has been teaching me to see, I am a giver who has without exception been drawn to takers.

A couple of months ago it hit me--like a punch to the gut--that I can't shut myself off from a world filled with love, desire, passion and the rest because I've attracted the wrong men to me.

I've come to realize that there are men out there who are giving, gentle, caring and who will go out of their way to let me know that I am appreciated, loved, cherished and protected. Men who would, even though I would never ask it of them, carry my coat, fetch my drink and be my personal assistant.

When a giver becomes involved with a taker, two things happen:

1) the taker's needs are met because givers can't help but cater to the every whim of those they love,

and

2) the taker realizes that they get what they want without even a bare minimum of effort, so they quickly stop giving anything in return.

This will go on as long as the giver is willing to tolerate it. Since givers are naturally non-confrontational and generous, it could be a lifetime. In my marriage, it was 15 years. It would have been longer if I hadn't had the courage to go to the Navy ER after my then-husband's brutal assault upon me. That gave him the excuse to divorce me, thus setting me free from the toil of giving in to his every demand; demands from a man with the emotional maturity of a two year old child.

I was in a number of relationships after the divorce and without exception, all the men were takers. The difference being, after 15 years married to the King of the Takers, I wouldn't put up with it anymore. So, a little over two and a half years ago, I gave up and decided to live without men, without love, without affection and without sex.

It's been difficult, and never more so than now as my sense of the private life is beginning to reawaken and blossom into hopefulness. It isn't all about trying to survive, writing, struggling to get through day to day. There is more to be had outside the triviality of daily life.

The Law of Attraction states that we attract what we think about. I'm thinking about a tender, gentle, caring and giving man, visualizing him with serious intent and dogged determination.

As the poem I wrote a short while ago says, he's been waiting for me all his life. Now, I'm waiting for him.

The Extinction of Journalism?

2009-06-01T19:17:00.000-07:00

"The centuries-old profession of journalism is undergoing change so cataclysmic that it may soon be unrecognizable. The journalist as hero -- Edward R. Murrow, Walter Cronkite, Bob Woodward -- has become displaced by the pundit. Advertising moved to the Internet, and the ground began crumbling as a disaster waiting to happen began." -- Kurt Cagle, TechNewsWorld

I had a discussion with a Twitter friend last night about my disgust with the perversion of journalism, most notably the dogmatic opinion-spewing punditry of Fox News, which should be banned from using the word "news" in their name because of the laws against false advertising.

The Internet has furthered this corruption of the journalism trade by allowing every person with a computer to add their editorial to the information stream, regardless of facts and truth.

Journalism is founded on the dispassionate and completely objective reporting of events. Every journalist is charged with the responsibility of NOT inserting themselves into a story, no matter which side of the facts their personal feelings fall. Thanks to organizations like Fox News, such strictures have been obliterated. The sacred duty of reporting newsworthy events has been prostituted to the point of nonrecognition.

The Internet is putting the final nails in the coffin of print media. Centuries-old newspapers have buckled and stopped their printing presses forever as money and readership shifts to online venues.

As a former print journalist, this is a troubling and emotional turn of events. The purity and essential spirit of reporting the facts is being lost forever in this upheaval. We will all be the poorer for it.

OPINION IS NOT NEWS.

PUNDITS ARE NOT JOURNALISTS.

The Rise and Fall of Traditional Journalism

By Kurt Cagle
TechNewsWorld
Part of the ECT News Network

Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3

I am a forgone conclusion, but please don't box me!

2009-05-31T16:10:00.000-07:00

The Jung and Enneagram Tests prove it.

Whether it be nurture or nature, the jury is still out. However, I've been like this all my life, as childhood photos prove.

This is obviously the face of a reporter in the making. Sort of Junior Journalist with major 'tude, even at the age of four.

There are also a number of photos of me hamming for the camera. Failed actress trapped in the skin of a writer?

The world may never know. . .

Your type is: ENFP

Extroverted (E) 71.05% Introverted (I) 28.95%
Intuitive (N) 63.89% Sensing (S) 36.11%
Feeling (F) 62.5% Thinking (T) 37.5%
Perceiving (P) 61.76% Judging (J) 38.24%

ENFP - Extroverted Intuitive Feeling Perceiving

That makes me the "Journalist," with an uncanny sense of the motivations of others. Life is an exciting drama. (Or dramedy as the case may be) Only 8.1% of total population fall into this "I'm ready for my close-up Mr. DeMille" category. Which is probably for the best. . .

The Enneagram is a personality system that divides the entire human personality into nine behavioral tendancies. Here are my scores on each:

Type 1	Perfectionism	\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|	33%
Type 2	Helpfulness	\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|	86%
Type 3	Image Awareness	\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|	90%
Type 4	Sensitivity	\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|	33%
Type 5	Detachment	\|\|\|\|\|\|	26%
Type 6	Anxiety	\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|	40%
Type 7	Adventurousness	\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|	43%
Type 8	Aggressiveness	\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|	36%
Type 9	Calmness	\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|	90%

type	score	type behavior motivation
3	27	I must be impressive and attractive to be happy.
9	27	I must be peaceful and easy to get along with to be happy.
2	26	I must be helpful and caring to be happy

Broken down, all this means I'm a Type 3:

and, no surprise at all, my variant is Sexual:

And if I were a Cylon I'd be:

THE SAGE - D'Anna Biers #3

The Sage archetype seeks the truths that will set us free. Especially if the Sage overcomes the temptation of dogma, it can help us become wise, to see the world and ourselves objectively, and to course-correct based on objective analyses of the results of our actions and choices. (From a post about Cylons and the 12 Archetypal Characters)

If you'd like to take the test yourself, you can find it at http://similarminds.com/embj.html

Add this to my Vision Board

2009-05-30T19:02:00.000-07:00

Indeed, I want to add this particular skill set to my list of things I'd like to be able to do. I mean: DAMN! Even in my 20s and a size 5, I wasn't this nimble...and I was scarily nimble and double-jointed.

TYPICAL MALE Quote of the Day

2009-05-29T15:36:00.000-07:00

He felt as if he were Batman sitting across from Commissioner Gordon because some smartass accidentally let the Riddler out of prison. His entire world, including this office, was suddenly tilted at a forty-five degree angle. Thank God I'm not wearing tights or I'd have to kill myself.

Finding my personal timetable

2009-05-26T19:03:00.000-07:00

"By most people's standards, my decision to pursue acting has not been a good choice," Emerson says mildly. "I was at an advanced age before I could pay my rent comfortably, and I've had a checkered career of odd jobs along the way. But at some point, I realized that not everybody has to be on the same timetable. I don't think I had that much to offer the world of the theater when I was 21; my career required some patience for several decades, but then it worked out. By now, I'm so set in my ways that there's no chance of success spoiling me. I'm a fully formed personality."

-- Michael Emerson, on his part in "Only the End of the World," a play by Jean-Luc Lagarce

Just a typical day here at the Grotto. . .which translates into me wasting a lot of time better spent writing.

I sabotage myself on a sporadic basis, filled with equal measures of self-doubt and utter boredom with my work. Sometimes, just sometimes though, I'll stumble across something that sets me on fire for my craft all over again.

While reading reviews of the play "Only the End of the World" I came across an article in which actor Michael Emerson waxes philosophical upon his rocky and circuitous road to success. The above quote is from that article and is the certain catalyst for my return to my pressing work on the final edit of my manuscript. Of course missing my April 30th deadline wasn't impetus enough. My muse scoffs at deadlines like imaginary lines in equally mythical sands.

Emerson's reflections on being older than most people when he reached the expected levels of success in his field struck a deep chord with me. Ever since my 40th birthday, I've felt "too old" to finally make it as a novelist. I try to remember my mantra of "Robert Ludlum was 40 when his first novel was published." Unfortunately, that was seven years ago for me, thanks to another birthday, Monday of this week. With each year I feel less likely to "make it big" in a genre dominated by the likes of Nelson DeMille, Tom Clancy and Stephen Coonts.

Yet, even in the darkest pits of my creative despair, I know that the ability and magic are within me. I often overlook it as I spend so much time alone here at the keyboard without benefit of feedback. I will allow myself to lose track of the truth: I have many stories to tell, and have a peculiar and magical gift for telling them.

It's time to throw out preconceived notions about being "too old" for my career. It's time to create my own personal timetable of success and take it as it comes.

Easy words to type. More difficult to put into practice. As with my battle with Fibromyalgia and Chronic Fatigue Syndrome: One day at a time, sweet Jesus. Just one day at a time.

Some people simply can't be reached

2009-05-23T11:05:00.000-07:00

My Stephen Leader came over yesterday for her weekly visit, bearing birthday gifts and news of the friend from my previous post.

According to my Stephen Leader, the friend literally cornered her at church on Sunday to complain (and knowing this friend, vociferously) that my letter was "vicious" and ordered that my handful of things in her garage be removed immediately--but not by me. I'm persona non gratis, apparently, and not allowed to come to her home ever again.

Why I'm the least bit surprised by this knee-jerk reaction bordering on the psychotic, I'll never know. I've dealt with bullies my entire life. To a one, they do not like being told--no matter how lovingly--of their unacceptable behaviors. Hence my abhorrence of confrontation. Every time I attempt to stand up for myself, I'm punished for my trouble. As I told my Stephen Leader yesterday, the last time I told a bully I would not put up with it--my then husband--I was raped and beaten for my trouble.

What is it about the bullying personality that makes them incapable of accepting their own behavior as anything but perfect? It seems any relationship with them is an erratic and agonizing ballet of projection, transference and blame-shifting.

I've tried for more than a year to tell this friend that she is an extremely negative and judgmental person. Each time we've spoken, I've put it as nicely as I could that I dislike gossip, hold no grudges--not even against the above-mentioned ex-husband--pray for everyone and feel nothing but love for people. I've tried in every way I know how to redirect her to more positive and loving topics of conversation, but fail miserably each time as she belittles me, my attempts and returns to her perpetual dialog of hate.

I've known for a while that she talks trash about me to a mutual friend and fellow Stephen Minister, just as she talks trash about that mutual friend to me. That is bad form on every level imaginable. Friendship is a bond of trust and understanding. Anyone who backstabs and gossips about friends is, well, no friend and does not deserve friendship.

I've also known for the past six months or so that I was not serving as a friend to this friend, but as a Stephen Minister, listening politely to her rants while trying to divert her. I had grown to dread every single phone call and did not know how to break the cycle without ending our friendship.

After all, this is the same woman who refused to speak to her own son for more than a year because he'd told her the very same thing: she's negative and judgemental. Why did I expect anything more loving from her?

Some people simply cannot be reached and seem to delight in hurting others and burning every bridge. I pity this woman. There is something very sad about people who are so filled with hate and rage that all they seem capable of is bullying.

The incident has forced me to examine why I became such close friends with this person--jokingly referring to her as "Mom." Others at church have questioned this relationship before since she and I are polar opposites when it comes to our world view. As she has become more and more hateful over the past year, I realized I had become an enabler to her, easily slipping back into my role of the dutiful but abused child.

My Stephen Leader says that I have a true gift for recognizing my own behaviors and thought patterns. That may be the case, but it doesn't make losing this friendship any easier.

However, even Jesus said that if you cannot possibly reach someone, you should shake the dust from your sandals and walk on.

He never said that part would be easy.

When a friend crosses the line

2009-05-18T11:39:00.000-07:00

Last week I received a call from a dear friend that upset and unsettled me. More than that, it triggered my PTSD. I've spent the last several days trying to figure out how to deal with this friend and the situation she's created. After discussing it with my Stephen Leader, and closest friend, as well as praying repeatedly on the matter, I confronted the task. This is the result:

Hello ________,

I'm having Ashley hand-write this for me since the carpal tunnel and fibromyalgia make writing nearly impossible for me.

First allow me to thank you for your friendship. It has meant a great deal to me. Which makes writing this letter so difficult.

During our friendship, I've been troubled by your negativity, judgemental attitude, and inability to simply let things go. I've watched with growing concern over the past year as you've gone from outspoken sarcasm to open hostility.

Despite my attempts during our conversations to redirect you to more positive and loving topics, you persist in listing and re-listing the people and things you dislike and all the reasons they fail to meet your approval. It has become the same conversation, repeated each time we speak.

This type of repetitive, negative thinking is unhealthy on every level, both for yourself and those who experience it from you.

Which brings me to your phone call the other night.

I was disconcerted not only by your obvious intoxication, but your insults and bullying. These things hurt my feelings and crossed the line of friendship.

I couldn't get a word in as you berated, belittled and scolded me as if I were a naughty child. You told me in so many words that I was not allowed to talk about my caregivers, my health concerns, my medications or anything other than offering apologies for my supposed slights to you.

You then told me--not asked--that you were taking me to lunch on my birthday, and to have my caregiver come in later. While I appreciate the sentiment, your manner was so hurtful, I couldn't muster an adequate answer. I've since found out that Ashley has made reservations for a spa day for me in Coupeville as a surprise. So, I will be spending my birthday with her.

To address the rest of our conversation:

Why I don't call: As I tried to explain, I avoid calling people without having a good reason because I don't wish to bother them. I admit that I've stopped calling you because I know any conversation will consist of your list of things and people you hate, while I listen, trying not to say to you that such negative emotions are unacceptable to me.

A friend should never have to dread a phone call from a beloved friend.

Why I didn't send a Mother's Day card: As you know, I only leave my home one day a month in order to shop for groceries. This month, that day fell on the day before Mother's Day. With so many things pressing on me, constant severe pain and unpleasant side effects from my medications, I tend not to keep up with days of the month or minor holidays. Secondly, for as much as we've joked about it over the years, I am not your daughter. I am a friend.

As a friend, I'm writing this instead of speaking to you directly because I know the pain these truths will cause, as well as the angry backlash. I wanted to be able to speak my piece in a loving way, uninterrupted.

I pray for you daily. I implore you to find some way to heal that part of yourself that causes you to constantly lash out, condemn and complain. Life is short and God commands that we live lives of love, gratitude, generosity and forgiveness.

Love, your friend,

Jacqui

What is Fibromyalgia?

2009-05-12T01:30:00.000-07:00

What Are the Symptoms of Fibromyalgia?

Symptoms of fibromyalgia include:

Chronic muscle pain, muscle spasms or tightness, and leg cramp, and muscle weakness
Rib cage pain, plantar or heel pain
Tenderness in the neck, shoulder, knee, elbow, or upper buttocks or thigh areas.
Numbness or tingling in the face, arms, hands, legs, or feet
Moderate or severe fatigue and decreased energy
Insomnia or waking up feeling just as tired as when you went to sleep
Night sweats and sleep disturbance
Stiffness upon waking or after staying in one position for too long
Fluctuations in weight
Ear-nose-throat complaints, multiple chemical sensitivities and a wide array of allergic symptom
Hearing, vision, and vestibular (balance) abnormalities, Tinnitus, syncope (fainting)
Difficulty remembering, concentrating, and performing simple mental tasks
Abdominal pain, bloating, nausea, Heartburn/Chronic GERD, and constipation alternating with diarrhea (irritable bowel syndrome)
Tension or migraine headaches
Jaw and facial tendernesss
Sensitivity to one or more of the following: odors, noise, bright lights, medications, certain foods, heat and cold
Feeling anxious or depressed
Increase in urinary urgency or frequency (irritable bladder)
Reduced tolerance for exercise and muscle pain after exercise
A feeling of swelling (without actual swelling) in the hands and feet
Painful menstrual periods
Dizziness

Fibromyalgia symptoms may lessen or intensify depending on the time of day. They are also effected by changes in weather (cold, rain, snow, high winds, barometric pressure fluctuations, heat), fatigue, tension, overexertion, inactivity, hormonal fluctuations (such as just before your period or during menopause), stress, depression, and other emotional factors.

If fibromyalgia is not diagnosed early and treated aggressively, it can lead to long-term chronic health issues and even crippling disability. Scientist are unsure of the cause. There is no cure. Most treatments either fail to work or make the condition worse. Drug allergies and hypersensitivities make finding a viable treatment extremely difficult, particularly when addressing such a wide variety of cluster symptoms.

To quote one fibromyalgic on YouTube:

"I don't have difficulty moving around because I'm fat. I'm fat because I have difficulty moving around."

Before my work-related injury that spawned the fibromyalgia, I was an extremely physically fit person of average weight. I went to the gym 4 days a week for aerobics and weight lifting cross-training. I did a regular advanced yoga and fit ball routine 7 days a week. I hiked, biked, played racquetball, danced, was a martial artist, dated and had a sex life, wore high heels and trendy clothes, was active in my church and community, and was able to travel.

What a difference 4 years of fibromyalgia has made.

un-Mother's Day

2009-05-09T11:00:00.000-07:00

This has been a long time coming, but must be done. Going through life loving and hating ones mother is a recipe for depression and self-loathing. She is the last piece of the healing puzzle. Without releasing her and all the emotions associated with her--hate, love, desperation, embarrassment, humiliation, resentment, rage, disappointment, loss, longing, broken heartedness--I will never be whole.

There are no words for some emotions, just a physical sickness and ache.

I knew this day would come eventually. It was inevitable once I began to forgive and release all the abusers from my past. My healing cannot be complete until I also forgive and release my biological mother.

Perhaps since it all began with her, she is the most difficult to forgive. Whatever the case, to move forward, I must no longer look back; not in anger, longing, or with "what ifs" haunting my every thought and memory.

I've lived my entire life knowing I was a pawn conceived solely to trap a man she was obsessed with into marrying her. Failing that, I was worthless and left to the sick, sex-addicted devices of her father, my grandfather and first abuser. From birth, a lifetime of neglect and abuse--sexual, physical, emotional and psychological--was set into motion. It shaped who I became as well as my actions and reactions to everything I experienced.

At thirteen, as my mother came out of the Alice Keith Park public pool, she met a twenty-one year old Sicilian-American man. She claims to have instantly fallen in love. Knowing all too well her severe bipolar disorder that makes her obsess to a psychotic degree over men, I can speculate love had little to do with it.

She chased after this man for four years, until she wore him down enough to trap him into having sex with her. She figured if she got pregnant, he'd have to marry her and she'd have him at last. To this day she still spins "what if" fantasies about him, casting him as the made-man Mafioso and she as the happy little housewife, a la The Godfather, making spaghetti and having a kid every year.

Showing his true colors, he ended up marrying another, younger girl whom he had also gotten pregnant, abandoning my mother to her fate. I have never met this man and have no interest whatsoever in doing so. To me, he is merely a sperm donor worth not one moment of my time.

Soon after my birth, my mother was deemed unfit and I was adopted by my maternal grandparents. My mother, cast out by my whoring, wife-beating, child molesting grandfather for being a whore, did just that. She moved in with a man who became her pimp and was quickly turned out as a hooker.

When I was two, she kidnapped me from my backyard swing. I was missing for more than six months. When the police found me, I was malnourished, diseased, covered in sores and parasites in a home with similar children being kept by a stranger who had no idea where my mother was. To this day, my mother denies this, but she is the definition of mental instability, so I'll believe the police report instead.

I was mute for a year following my rescue by the police. I was petrified of men and would often get into trouble for hiding in terror beneath the clothes racks in stores. It was during this year of my life that my grandfather began molesting me. That wasn't enough for him, however. It escalated into having his cronies over, getting me drunk and passing me around like a party favor, taping it all on a reel-to-reel player. He would later sit my grandmother and I on the sofa under pain of beatings if we moved, and force us to listen to the tapes. He would laugh, boast, yell, scream and threaten. Sometimes he would tape this part, too, playing it back to us as he laughed until he cried.

Obviously, I did not grow up with my mother. Being banished from my grandfather's home, she was a shadowy figure of scorn and fear. Especially fear after the kidnapping. I can remember as far back as having my diapers changed, the mobile over my crib, but nothing of that six-month ordeal. I agree with therapists who've said such blocked memories are too much for the mind to handle and thus must be left alone.

I met my mother again as an adult, at age 18. I'd forgotten all the hatred and fear programmed into me by my family. I opened myself up to the miracle of actually having a mother. She was young, beautiful, funny, hip, took me shopping and clubbing and was more like a sister than a mom. That's where the problems began. She didn't want to be my mother. She wanted to use me as bait to attract men. She was--and still is--married, so I was horrified by the idea that she was using me to act a whore.

The sham came to a head when I refused to whore myself to a married man she'd scouted for me. I was organizing the shoes in my closet when she came into the room, raining punches and kicks upon me, screaming what an ungrateful slut I was. How she'd never had the opportunity to catch a rich man like this one. How I was lucky to have gotten his attention. How he'd buy me a car, furs, jewelry. Over and over again, she kicked and hit me, screaming the words with every blow. My defense--as it remains today--is that I will NOT be with a married man. Period. She threatened to throw me out into the street. She did throw my things out into the courtyard.

I had to agree to meet and have drinks with him just to stop her attack and insanity. This married man owned a store in a mall and took me to his office where he attempted to rape me. When I explained this to my mother, she slapped me in the middle of a seating area in that mall and threatened to leave me there and burn all my things. I was so terrified, but back then I still loved her desperately. She was also at the peak of a manic phase so I knew to ride that out until her depressive phase came and she'd love and need me again.

So much of my history with my mother is colored by scenes exactly like these. Over time my skin thickened to her abuse and four years ago I cut off her access to me. Even 1,900 miles from home, she was able to make my life hell.

She is what I call a phone terrorist, i.e. someone who calls and hangs up 200-300 times a day, or screams and shrieks threats and profanity with each of those calls. And if you let the answering machine get it, she leaves messages of the same type until the machine is full. This time she had my half-sister in on the terrorism. They filled both my home answering machine and cell voice mail to capacity with the most unspeakable profanity and threats. Completely insane things.

I should never have to unplug my phone in order to avoid my own family.

I had my numbers changed and did not look back. Until the past couple of months, I also threw all of her letters and cards into the garbage unopened.

This year has marked an enormous change in my life. Through my faith, The Secret and Law of Attraction, I've been able to release all the fear, hatred and memories of abuse. Last night, I knew I needed to reconcile myself to her and let go of the overwhelming hate and resentment I've felt my entire life. Like my ex-husband, my grandfather, my other rapists and abusers, she's broken, mentally ill and cannot be held fully accountable for every action.

It's my job to forgive and let it all go. I cannot change her. I cannot change what happened. She will never be a mother in the true definition of the word. She will never be a mother I can go into a Hallmark store and buy a card that fits her perfectly. She did not raise me, protect or comfort me. She was not there as a nurturing force for good. My memories of her are neither comforting or loving.

While I do open her cards and letters now, and send her cards upon occasion, I won't let her have access to me by phone or in person again. Therapists are right when they instruct you to deny access to your abusers. It can be heart breaking when that person is your own mother, but very necessary.

Last night I attended a mother-daughter event at my church. I did so as a favor to a friend whose daughter would not go with her. I was surprised at the amount of hurt and anger I still held as everyone was urged to sing along with that old standard "Mother" song. My mind was filled with alternative lyrics. Fitting or not, I'll close this recollection with those, then let her go.

M - is for the million ways you've hurt me.

O - is for obsessing over men, choosing them over me.

T - is for the thousand ways you degraded and endangered me.

H - is for the hatred you've spewed at me when all I wanted was your love.

E - is for your eyes so filled with insanity and loathing when you look at me.

R - is for the reality that you can never be a good mother.

Put them all together and they spell uncontrolled manic depressive, obsessive/compulsive who will not comply with medication, therapy, or common decency, even when it means losing your own child forever.

I love you Mom. I forgive you, and release you to the Holy Spirit.

The Darkness in Me

2009-05-04T11:17:00.000-07:00

“Your willingness to look at your darkness is what empowers you to change.”

-- Iyanla Vanzant

Cool Water Woman

2009-05-02T19:46:00.000-07:00

A storm is coming across the island.

It brings a dark rainbow made entirely of gray.

The wind is wet, but doesn't chill me.

It makes the blinds rattle, chatter like frightened teeth.

The windchime protests in discordant notes.

I brush Cool Water Woman on my skin;

Watch the white caps upon the harbor.

Night is coming fast.

You've been looking for me all your life.

Now, I'm looking for you, too.

Hello darkness, my old nemisis

2009-04-29T13:19:00.000-07:00

I felt it coming back on me three weeks ago. I admitted it to myself and others: the depression is coming back. I even know what triggered it; being forced to report one of my caregivers to the company for numerous things she shouldn't have been doing.

I've had moments of light over the past few days. Even inspiration and insight into one of my characters that has been elusive in the extreme to define and expound upon. But. . .the depression is here again.

I don't even know why I'm surprised by it anymore. Like the fibromyalgia, it's going to be around for the rest of my life. Yet, it always hits me like a wall of wet cement and I lay frozen by the sensations of it, waiting for the concrete to harden around me.

Perhaps there's still that core part of me that is the enternal optomist, that believes the medication will control it forever and leave me to live a "normal" life without the wrapped-in-cotton sensation of depression putting the breaks on everything. It must be like being the fly wrapped tightly in the silk of a spiderweb that is abandoned to a slow death of waiting by an absent spider. It always seems as if it would be less painful to be eaten alive and have done with it.

My life is so limited that the depression is more than the elephant in the room. It IS the room. And when it interferes with the one thing that still matters--the writing--I feel a frustration that is beyond words.

Then, as if that were not enough of a load to carry, my heart woke up last weekend.

I realized that I'm lonely and need male companionship. I realized I wouldn't mind being "in love"--if that sort of thing still exists--and that being in a relationship would be more amazing and comforting than painful and bothersome. I also realized it's been two and a half years since I've even had a date, had sex or had someone that made me part of a couple.

Looking at the big picture, I realize that I've reached a level of healing from the horror and betrayal of my separation and divorce 6 years ago. I just question the timing. One personal/emotional crisis at a time, please.

But since when do these thing ever come singly instead of in a torrent?

The Cat House on the Kings – No Kill Sanctuary

2009-04-22T11:48:00.000-07:00

Which Tarot Card am I?

2009-04-20T10:51:00.000-07:00

I had to LOL when I took this quiz. The wasband gave me this deck (Tarot of the Cat People) years ago. I don't have it anymore, nor do I use the tarot. But since I was a teenager, this has been my card. So funny. Everything changes, well. . .not everything! LOL ;-)

You are The High Priestess

Science, Wisdom, Knowledge, Education.

The High Priestess is the card of knowledge, instinctual, supernatural, secret knowledge. She holds scrolls of arcane information that she might, or might not reveal to you. The moon crown on her head as well as the crescent by her foot indicates her willingness to illuminate what you otherwise might not see, reveal the secrets you need to know. The High Priestess is also associated with the moon however and can also indicate change or fluxuation, particularily when it comes to your moods.

What Tarot Card are You?

Take the Test to Find Out.

Living With Chronic Pain - Looking Back

2009-04-17T12:47:00.000-07:00

This post was written, saved as a draft, and then forgotten in November of 2007. Looking back, I was truly blessed that I could still walk, albiet with a limp, without a cane, could drive my own car and still attend to my church duties. I wanted to share this piece, dated though it is, because it describes in detail the reality of chronic, severe pain that impacts every level of "normal" living.

My chronic back pain is the 500-pound gorilla in every room. It runs the show and there's no getting around it.

Last Thursday night is a perfect example.

Thursday nights I go to my lay minister class (Stephen Ministries) at the local Lutheran church. Simple enough. But by the time I get ready, go down the stairs, climb into the van, drive over, climb out of the van, sling purse and book bag over my shoulder, and walk the distance to their library classroom. . .I'm hurting.

Well, honestly, I hurt ALL the time. It's a fact of life for me now that 99.9% of the people I know and who know me can't relate to or grasp. But, it's my reality.

"How's your back?" friends ask.

Hurting.

Certainly there are varying degrees of pain. Screaming to merely annoying with the predictable shocking, stabbing pain on certain movements. There are the stupid moments where I sneeze and it somehow pulls something with such unexpected and agonizing force that it illicits a yelp, or even scream of pain. Then there are the days after I've sat in class and my hip joint and pelvis are so tender that stepping down on my right foot shoots a painful lance of fire and electricity from my toes to my brain with every stride. Those are the days my limp is much more pronounced. Those are the days when I have to take the Tramadol just to stay sane.

Today is a day like that. Even my upper back is screaming today. There is a bright, hideous blossom of pain at the lower tip of my right scapula--the original point of injury October 29, 2004. It sends painful, tingling "falling asleep" sensations down my right arm, into my fingertips along the ulnar nerve. My littlest finger is numb. I'm guessing it is because I sat at an odd angle in class last night was we watched our lesson on dvd.

That's all it takes, really. Stupid isn't it? As I said. . .500-pound gorilla strikes again.

There are times I can actually shunt it all to the back of my mind. Perhaps that's what's inspired my voracious appetite for learning to arc to the surface again. The "big brain" is trying to compensate for the weak body.

At any rate, this is my life.

I was in a lot of pain and feeling very lousy--thanks to the prednisone they've given me to help reduce the swelling along my spine and in my right hip joint--and was in no mood to be sitting in class in the first place. When I finally got settled in my seat, with the obligatory moments of "settling" as my lower back painfully realigns itself to the sitting position, one of our Stephen Leaders cheerfully announced that we needed to separate into small groups and move our chairs across the room.

I broke down in tears.

I can't even pick up my chair and move it across the room.

The 500-pound gorilla strikes again.

At a loss for words?

2009-04-05T16:14:00.000-07:00

If you're a writer, then you know all about the "at a loss for words" feeling. It doesn't even have to be a blank page or glaring white Word document staring you in the face. It can sneak up at you in the middle of a revision. It's always lurking just around the corner waiting to ruin your writerly day. When that happens, don't panic. Go to the Madlib Poetry Generator! Great art it might now be, but at least it's laugh-worthy. And who knows, coming up with that many adjectives and nouns may just scare away the "loss for words" gremlin for awhile.

all in beautiful went my cat running

All in beautiful went my cat running
on a terrific parade of loud
into the stealthy kitchen.

obsessive hungry dream ed sluggish and ing
the daring car before.

depressed be they than sleepy ocean
the wonderful outrageous car
the outrageous daring car.

obsessive outrageous clouds at a slovenly rain
the generous road before.

hat at dog went my cat running
runing the farm down
into the stealthy kitchen.

obsessive hungry dreamed sluggish and ing
the tedious cow before.

brilliant be they than sugary outrageous horse
the hungry slovenly car
the facetious sluggish n car.

obsessive facetious pickle at a loud tractor
the terrifying jet before.

lunch at bed went my cat running
runing the firehose down
into the stealthy kitchen.

obsessive hungry dreamed sluggish and ing
the terrifying flag before.

gratingly be they than silently newspaper
the sadly divinely car
the hideous gorey car.

obsessive hideous computer at the beautiful firehose
the gorey carpet before.

All in beautiful went my cat running
on a terrific parade of loud
into the stealthy kitchen.

obsessive hungry dreamed sluggish and ing
my sofa slam lunch before.

-- Jacqui L. Landry and e.e. cummings

Create Your Own Madlib on LanguageIsAVirus.com

Bad bloggist, no chocolate!

2009-03-28T12:03:00.000-07:00

When I neglect this blog for more than a week, it tells you one of two things.

I'm either down with depression and Fibromyalgia pain-fog, or I'm writing my butt off.

Luckily it's the latter and not the former. Though, admittedly, the fibro has been beastly the past two weeks. Nothing like living in the Pacific Northwest to inflict daily chronic pain. But hey, at least it doesn't aggravate the vicious heat-intolerance, right?

The final edit of TYPICAL MALE is going, not swimmingly, but it is going. It's given me the opportunity to see weaknesses that I didn't catch the first time around (or the fifth time, for that matter). I'm surprised the fans on the original website and Yahoo Group didn't see and/or comment on them.

It's always frustrating to a writer to experience those, 'DUH, I'm a dumbass!!!' moments. However, to our credit or at least by way of an alibi, when you're deeply entrenched in something it's hard to see the story for all the words.

TYPICAL MALE is an incredibly complex piece. Not the longest novel I've ever written, but certainly filled with twists, turns and subplots aplenty. It's a bit like bead weaving. Drop one stitch and nothing makes sense anymore. The whole design could be ruined.

I hit one of those snags three days ago. Had one of those "I'm a frakking dumbass" moments. I missed a key element of the main character's motivation. Without it, nothing would've made sense. At least I caught it before it went to the publishers. That would've been humiliating otherwise. Damn. Sometimes I scare myself.

Today's writing--which is waiting to be done--is going to be harsh. I'm cutting chapters out. I knew this was going to happen a year ago, but still it's hard to delete pages of work. The good side of all this is sharpening the focus of the main character and his experiences. The stank side of it is that now all new material needs to be written.

Didn't I just leave this party, to paraphrase Han Solo.

Ugh.

But given the choice of digging a ditch, working in title and escrow again, or writing, the choice is obvious.

Hand me the shovel.

Just kidding. I think.

Peanut Coconut Thai noodles with Pork

2009-03-13T22:12:00.000-07:00

This is a recipe I made up off the top of my head while craving Pad Thai. Since I didn't have tamarind paste or fish sauce, this is what I came up with. If you like the spicy, sweet traditional Thai Satay dipping sauce, you'll love this recipe.

Peanut oil is used because it tolerates the high temperatures necessary for authentic wok cooking.

This recipe can also easily be made with beef, chicken, shrimp or tofu as you prefer.

Prep time approximately 20 minutes

Cooking time: 15-20 minutes

Serves 6

Peanut Coconut Thai noodles with Pork

1/2 pound very lean pork, thinly sliced

1/2 cup fresh lime juice

1/4 cup canned coconut milk

1/2 medium onion, sliced lengthwise

3 cloves garlic, minced

1 small carrot, diced

2 ribs of celery, sliced

1 cup bean spouts

2 green onions, sliced

2 Tablespoons fresh cilantro, minced

3 eggs

1/2 cup chopped peanuts (for garnish)

1/4 peanut oil (for cooking)

SAUCE:

1/2 cup all natural or organic peanut butter, warmed to room temperature (I recommend Adams brand)

1/2 cup canned coconut milk

2 Tablespoons fresh lime juice

1 Tablespoon fresh minced ginger

1/4 cup sweet hot chili sauce

1 Teaspoon Sriracha Garlic Hot Sauce (preferably Huy Fong brand)

1 Teaspoon dried red pepper seed (add more if you like it hot)

1 package Pad Thai noodles, OR mung bean threads OR similar Oriental noodle

Place pork in bowl with 1/2 cup lime juice and 1/4 cup coconut milk, marinating at least 1 hour prior to cooking (preferably overnight).

Blend all ingredients for sauce in a medium bowl, also allowing to marinate (again, preferably overnight).

Beat eggs until fluffy. Heat 2 TBS of the peanut oil in wok over high heat until very hot. Pour eggs into hot oil, stirring gently with cooking chopsticks until they begin to solidify. Turn over with a spatula to finish cooking; approximately 1 minute. Remove from wok to a paper towel-lined plate. Slice into small, bite-sized pieces.

Pour remaining peanut oil into wok and heat on high as before. Drain pork, then place into hot oil, stir frying until throroughly cooked. Remove pork from wok, stirring into the sauce bowl. Allow to marinate while boiling noodles and stir frying vegetables.

Bring water to a bowl in 3 quart saucepan, add noodles, cooking for 3 minutes. Drain immediately, rinsing in cold water. Return noodles to saucepan and cover them in cold water to prevent sticking.

Return wok to high heat to saute onions and garlic. Be certain not to overcook them. Toss in remaining vegetables, stir frying for 1 minute. Add sauce and meat, stirring continuously. Lastly, drain noodles thoroughly, then stir them into the wok. Turn heat to low while stirring mixture, making certain noodles are completely coated.

Garnish with the sliced scrambled egg, chopped peanuts, minced cilantro and a wedge of lime.

Chronic Pain and the Empty Sack

2009-03-12T08:23:00.000-07:00

I woke up early this morning, sore, hurting from yesterday's errands. More so for being hit hard by a shopping cart.

If your child isn't tall enough to see over the cart, he or she should not be pushing it through the store. That's just common sense.

Of course, the child's father nearly knocked me over when he rushed by me--forcing me up against the butter and margarine case, since there was nowhere else I could go to avoid being knocked down by him. He then walked off without even looking back at me as I tried not to fall over thanks to his own rude behavior.

The poor kid probably couldn't even see me. In racing to follow his dad, he slammed into my left side, midway between my spine and hip. The shock of the pain was immediate and severe. I had to hold onto the shelves to keep from falling over and couldn't help but cry out. Then the father starts yelling at the kid when, clearly, he himself was the jackass in this situation.

People can't help seeing me. I'm large. I have a cane. I walk with a painfully slow shamble, oftentimes the right foot dragging slightly as the leg moves forward. There is no way I can be invisible, other than by the other person's complete ignorance or obliviousness to their surroundings. I frequently get bum rushed as that father did. It's as if they don't see me, the cane or anything but their own destination. This always forces me to awkwardly step aside in a way that is painful and threatens to send me sprawling on the ground. And, without fail, no one ever says, "excuse me," or "I'm sorry," or "Are you okay?" Not even when I gasp or wince in pain. They merely go on their way as if I'm invisible, or perhaps some uninteresting store display. Most of them don't even have the excuse of a cell phone or other distraction. Just their own ignorance.

So, today I pay the price for the incident. There is an apple-sized bruise on my backside and a near-agonizing pain radiating outward from the lower spine. More than normal, I should say.

This is life with chronic pain. I wouldn't wish it on anyone--well, other than rapists and pedophiles. This is life with an unstable spinal injury. This is the life you lead when you are poor and healthcare professionals do not have to accept Medicaid.

Most days I don't think about the fact that I need spinal surgery, perhaps several surgeries to stabilize my injuries, but exist in a perpetual state of stasis. No neurosurgeon in the state of Washington excepts Medicaid.

I try to avoid thinking about perhaps waking up one day to find I can no longer feel or move my legs. When did our country get to this place?

It's the pain like this--and the resulting dose of Tramadol--that leaves me feeling like an empty sack.

I woke this morning with enormous anxiety about TYPICAL MALE. What if it is just crap and I--and the fan following it enjoyed in its first draft--have fooled me into believing it's worth publishing. Then, naturally, my entire body of work and very talent as a writer came into question.

Of course, I began to thank God for my abundance as the Law of Attraction has taught me. Still, that lingering, nagging worry that I'm not good enough is there.

Thirty-eight days and counting until my deadline.

This must be what men refer to as performance anxiety. Will I get this novel together in time? Will it be good enough?

I know, considering the amount of crap lining the shelves of bookstores and libraries, I should not be beating myself up. I try to remind myself that when I worked at the newspaper and did features for magazines, my stories went in unchanged by my editors.

I know my craft. I know it's a rare gift. I know the impact it has on my readers. Still, performance anxiety lingers, along with the overwhelming mental image of being one of those empty plastic bags that groceries come home in.

Saving your juice

2009-03-10T22:53:00.000-07:00

"When one is trying to do something beyond his known powers it is useless to seek the approval of friends. Friends are at their best in moments of defeat." -- Henry Miller

I admit it. I've read several hundred books on writing during my 33-year career as a successful journalist and freelance (and, thus far, not so successful fiction writer). Hundreds. One wall of my office is lined with book shelves. More than two-thirds of them are about the craft of writing.

My latest find is a rather strange book by author Ariel Gore, How to Become a Famous Writer Before You're Dead. It's packed with valuable tidbits on succeeding in a modern publishing industry that regularly makes a meal of writers.

One point that she makes hit me like a Japanese bullet train. One simple concept: save your writing juice.

What does that mean?

Simple: don't talk about your work. Write it.

In the chapter, "Keep Your Mouth Shut," Gore implores writers not to talk about the project they're writing. She doesn't mean that we treat our work like a top-secret document. Instead, she tells us that the power and life of our work bleeds out a little each time we go into detail about it.

I'm terribly guilty of this. I have explained the high and low points of TYPICAL MALE to so many of my friends, I feel I've acted it out as a one-woman Broadway show.

I've also done this with several of the caregivers I've had over the past year and a half. They hear from the agency that I am a writer and--BANG--the questions start. It is never enough to say that I write military thrillers. Especially in a town dominated by a Naval Air Station and the accompanying squadrons of jets that populate our skies.

Trust me, when you're alone in your home five hours a day, six days a week with these very caring ladies, it seems impossible to simply say, “I write fiction.” That alone serves to open a flood gate of demands for more information. You're their captive entertainer. Some rare creature escaped from the proverbial zoo of an industry they view with the same awe kids have for Disneyland.

Writer TMI

Of all this storyline chatter and its impact on your writing Gore says, “You'll dilute it, scatter the good bits, get tired of hearing the same scene. Hell, you've told it enough times, why bother writing it at all?”

She brings up a good point. You just don't hear professionals going around discussing their manuscript-in-progress. I used to think this was about protecting their ideas from plagiarism. While that may play a role, I think it's because sharing the story in so much detail is like deflating a balloon. Eventually, there's no more helium in it and it's no good to anyone.

Gore reminds us, “. . .professional writers know that stories can get scared off very easily.”

So-Called Constructive Criticism

In the same chapter, Gore brings up another prickly topic: the well-meaning—or not—opinions and advice of family and friends.

When I wrote my second—unsuccessful—novel, “Where Telepaths Fear to Tread,” I used my then-husband as a sounding board for the developing story and the proposal packet. Mistake. On so many levels. A devout hater of science fiction, he took every opportunity to snipe, snark and otherwise brutalize my manuscript—and, sadly, my talent as a writer. After twenty-six straight red rubber-stamped “No thanks. Not for us.” #queryfails, he renamed my novel, “What Editors Fear to Read.” It didn't take very long for me to call it that, too, even in my own mind.

While it's all fun and games now, it nearly put my Muse's eye out. It took me another two years to get back up on the literary horse and try my luck again.

Gore brings up the point that sharing too much of your writing with others—particularly those closest to you—is going to open you up to their negativity and Muse-blinding “constructive” criticism.

Why did I take to heart the vindictive comments of a man incapable of writing his own Masters thesis? (Being married to a writer means never having to write your own thesis, or hadn't you heard?) It's human nature to buy into the judgments of those we love and respect, even if their opinions are completely pants.

“Do not subject yourself to this nonsense.” Says Gore. “Either you'll internalize what these stormy-weather friends say and let it feed your natural fear, or you'll grow to hate them.”

"Give thy thoughts no tongue." -- William Shakespeare, Hamlet, 1.3

If you can't avoid the prying questions about your work, Gore suggests telling family and friends that you're “writing about colonics.”

If the idea of you and your Muse laboring at length on the topic of enemas doesn't shut them up, I'm not sure what will.

From now on, TYPICAL MALE is a military thriller about Navy lawyers having enemas. Period.

Quote of the Day: Proof-Readers

2009-03-08T16:42:00.000-07:00

PROOF-READER, n. A malefactor who atones for making your writing nonsense by permitting the compositor to make it unintelligible.
— Ambrose Bierce, The Devil’s Dictionary

Limbo vs. Limbaugh - This time it's war

2009-03-05T04:08:00.000-08:00

For better or worse (the latter being the most obvious), Rush Limbaugh, Oxycontin-chugging Playgirl centerfold of the GOP, has been in the press a great deal of late.

Add to this terrifying reality, a few of the folks with whom I spend a good deal of time chatting with on Twitter--writers, journalists, history nerds, new media. . .er. . .geeks--and something was bound to happen.

A couple of nights ago the idea came up of gathering together all those sick and tired of the GOP pimping their "new face," to march en masse to Limbaugh's home. We would all wear John Adams masks (a la "V for Vendetta"), and demand his immediate deportation to France. (Since there is not yet a colony on Uranus and Hell is terrified he'll take over.)

Jack Whitsitt (follow @sintixerr) took it one level further by suggesting we all dress up as the various characters played by Paul Giamatti (who did such a spectacular job in the title role of the HBO mini-series, "John Adams") during his film career. I volunteered to go as Limbo, the orangutan from "Planet of the Apes."

Leave it to Jack to come up with this:

Limbo vs. Limbaugh, the cage match. . .

If we all worked this hard on our writing, we'd be gazillionaires by now.

Ms. Potatohead faces the revision deadline head-on

2009-03-04T13:18:00.000-08:00

After a nearly year-long break due to depression and the most intense writer's block I've had to date, the final revision work is under way. It's going better than I ever expected. Some scenes write themselves so quickly, my fingers can barely keep up. Other scenes drip upon the page with the difficultly of doing a root canal on a hippo.

The bottom line however is that the work that was due last May 31st, is getting done. Hallelujah!

Best article of the day

2009-03-04T10:03:00.000-08:00

Thanks to Twitter friend, Joe Finder, for posting a link this morning to this fantastic article on author, Ian McEwan, known for such classics as "Atonement," and "Saturday."

The Background Hum

Ian McEwan’s art of unease.

I think at the core of every writer is the drive to “incite a naked hunger in readers.”

Enjoy!

Returning after a year in hibernation

2009-03-03T12:11:00.000-08:00

Obviously, I've been absent from my own blog for a year. Well, eleven months and a day, but who's counting.

I'm currently working on fixing that long hiatus.

Depression is a cruel disease, but once controlled, things begin to happen once again. Good things!

My very first LOLCats

2008-03-31T11:22:00.000-07:00

Still feeling lost. . .

2008-03-30T12:37:00.000-07:00

I've been high I've been low

I've been fast I've been slow

I've had nowhere to go

Missed the bus missed the show

I've been down on my luck

I've felt like giving up

My life locked in a trunk

When it hurt way too much

I needed a reason to live

Some love inside me to give

I couldn't rest I had to keep on searching

I've been too sad to speak and too tired to eat

Been too lonely to sing the devil cut off my wings

I've been hurt by my past but I feel the future

In my dreams and it lasts I wake up I'm not sure

I wanted to find the light something just didn't feel right

I needed an answer to end all my searching

I look in the mirror the picture's getting clearer

I wanna be myself but does the world really need her

I ache for this earth

I stopped going to church

See God in the trees makes me fall to my knees

My depression keeps building like a cup overfilling

My heart so rigid I keep it in the fridge

It hurts so bad that I can't dry my eyes

'cause they keep on refillin' with the tears that I cry. . . .

Te Busqué by Nelly Furtado

Panic?

2008-03-27T10:22:00.000-07:00

"Never wear anything that panics the cat."
-- PJ O'Rourke

On Ambitions

2008-03-21T10:28:00.000-07:00

Quote of the Day

"Keep away from people who try to belittle your ambitions. Small people always do that, but the really great make you feel that you, too, can become great."

– Mark Twain

About Mark Twain
Samuel Clemens, the iconic American humorist and writer, is better known by his pen name Mark Twain. He was born in 1835 in Missouri. He worked at several jobs, including steamboat pilot and miner. He wrote The Adventures of Tom Sawyer, The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, The Prince and the Pauper, and other successful novels. His writing captured a very American vernacular and flavor, and helped create a distinctive American literature. He died in 1910.

ARGH. . .Writer's Block

2008-03-19T06:14:00.000-07:00

"Writing is spooky. There is no routine of an office to keep you going, only the blank page each morning, and you never know where your words are coming from, those divine words." --Norman Mailer, "The Spooky Art : Some Thoughts on Writing"

On Dignity

2008-03-18T09:35:00.000-07:00

Quote of the Day

"If you treat an individual as if he were what he ought to be and could be, he will become what he ought to be and could be."

– Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

About Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, the multitalented and prolific German author and scientist, is best known for the play Faust, which has been adapted into operas, films, and novels. He was born in 1749 in Frankfurt. An unhappy love affair inspired his first play; his similarly themed novel, The Sorrows of Young Werther, created the prototype of the romantic hero. He also invented the color wheel concept of light and made important discoveries in plant and human biology. He died in 1832.

On the Truth

2008-03-09T14:27:00.000-07:00

Quote of the Day

"What is laid down, ordered, factual is never enough to embrace the whole truth: life always spills over the rim of every cup."

– Boris Pasternak

About Boris Pasternak
Russian writer Boris Pasternak's only novel, the renowned epic Doctor Zhivago, was banned in Russia for three decades. He was born in 1890 in Moscow. Inspired by composer Alexander Scriabin, Pasternak studied music before switching to philosophy and then to literature. He gained fame with volumes of poetry including My Sister — Life and Over the Barriers. After his work was condemned as unpatriotic in Stalin's Soviet Union, he curtailed his writing rather than leave the country. He died in 1960.

On Forgetting

2008-03-04T13:08:00.000-08:00

Quote of the Day

"Forget past mistakes. Forget failures. Forget everything except what you're going to do now and do it."

– William C. Durant

About William C. Durant
William C. Durant, founder of General Motors, consolidated much of the fledgling American auto industry under one roof. He was born in 1861 in Boston and grew up in Flint, Michigan. His innovative business model was to buy out vendors and acquire competitors. Forced to resign from GM due to this management style, he founded a new company with his race-car driver, Louis Chevrolet. He later regained control of GM but lost everything in the Great Depression. He died in 1947.

On Life

2008-03-03T12:20:00.000-08:00

Quote of the Day
"Life is not the way it's supposed to be. It's the way it is. The way you cope with it is what makes the difference."

– Virginia Satir

About Virginia Satir
American psychotherapist Virginia Satir played a central role in shaping family therapy. She was born in Wisconsin in 1916. While working as a teacher, she became deeply involved in the lives of her students and their parents. This led to graduate school and a career change. She took on the mission of inspiring therapists to work with families. She cofounded the Mental Health Research Institute in California, where she held the first-ever family-therapy training program. She died in 1988.

Research, Homesickness and Pretentious Pig Ear Salads

2008-03-02T18:09:00.001-08:00

. . .or,

why I simply can't read Joe's blog posts anymore. . .

Well, it's certainly been an interesting day. I've discovered that "back home" hasn't changed much. (No surprise, really.) There's still a galaxy-sized chasm between the have-everythings and the have-nothings. This infuriates me, just as it always has, but today it truly hits hard.

Faithful Readers, you know I love to write comprehensive biographies for my characters. That will never change. If they don't live and breathe for me, how can I expect them to do so for you? I look into everything from where they grew up to where they live "now."

I started out with my family's birthplace here in the US, St. Martin Parish, which was all sorts of interesting. Then, I worked my way to the Warehouse District (now dubbed the "New Orleans Arts District". . .since when? More pretension, but I digress), the location where Shocking Angel's main character, Mina McKenna, owns a condo. Actually, she got it from her last--third--divorce. This has been something I wanted in the story since its inception over 5 years ago. But I couldn't have foreseen back then that the forced renaissance of New Orleans courtesy of Katrina-that-bitch would include the bourgeoisie-ification of the Warehouse District.

Then again, give NOLA the chance to do something for the people and it will invariably include casinos and a myriad other half-assed notions bent upon taking what little money the poor and ill-educated of my home state possess.

>>taking a breath<<

Since when does a condo in Louisiana cost nearly half a million or more???

WTF!?

And said condo within spitting distance of the Convention Center where so many of the poor of NOLA and surrounding areas flocked thinking they would be bussed to safety prior to Katrina's landfall and subsequent levee breaks. Instead they found only their worst nightmares fulfilled and no sign of buses or hope. Many also found their death there.

I know what the popular thought process is; bring high-wage earners into the city to pay the taxes. Sorry, that's not the answer because, as we all know, it doesn't work out that way. The rich keep their money and the poor continue to struggle between food stamp card charge days.

>>taking another breath<<

I can't continue else my blood pressure will pop my skull. Same sh*t, different day as ever in NOLA.

Suffice to say, this isn't limited to NOLA--I get that--but it stings nonetheless. Even when I was not poor, I was never bourgeoisie. Perhaps that's why displays of pretentiousness drive me completely cat sh*t (and I don't mean kopi luwak!).

I'll stop grumbling now and see if I can find something to eat in my barren fridge.

My food stamp card charge day is the 8th. . .

On the Work

2008-02-28T10:39:00.000-08:00

Quote of the Day

"When you have a great and difficult task, something perhaps almost impossible, if you only work a little at a time, every day a little, suddenly the work will finish itself."

– Isak Dinesen

About Isak Dinesen
Isak Dinesen was the pen name of Karen Blixen, the Danish author famously portrayed by Meryl Streep in the film of her best-selling memoir, Out of Africa. She was born near Copenhagen in 1885. In 1914, she and her new husband moved to Kenya to run a coffee plantation. She stayed on after divorcing her husband ten years later, living an unusually independent life. Her book of stories, Seven Gothic Tales, sold well, but Out of Africa made her a worldwide success. She died in 1962.

Prayer in the time of Despair?

2008-02-23T13:45:00.000-08:00

I am back down at the bottom of the well again. I know how and why I got here. . .and perhaps that's the most painful part of being a "genius." There's always that analytical little voice screaming, "this should not be happening; you're smarter than this thing!" Unfortunately, depression isn't something that can be analyzed or 'thought' around. It just is, like heart disease or cancer. You can't wish it away.

I realized with frightening clarity this morning that I am like some Dickensian cart horse who, after years of beatings, has decided to lie down in the road and hope for the blow that brings the blessed relief of death.

I've given up. Just when there was light ahead, inspiration and a month of productive writing, the PTSD got triggered yet again and downward I go, headlong.

The past 3.5 years has been one sharp, swift kick to the head, immediately followed by a punch to the solar plexas, over and over and over, ad nauseam. Everything, from trying to get medical care for the spinal injury, to applying for food stamps, to getting in-home caregivers, to just trying to function on a day to day basis has be a FIGHT.

I'm exhausted. I have nothing left in me to fight with. I don't even have enough faith left to pray with.

My friend and fellow Stephen's Minister, Linda, came by for a visit today and brought along a wonderful trio of prayers for times just like this. Maybe if I read them enough times, something, some spark of hope in this neverending maelstrom of hellish toil and darkness will come through.

Help of the tired ones,

I am in need tonight--

so weary I can hardly think

or pray aright;

but You have know the toil,

the grief, the strain

of human suffering,

and felt the pain

of utter weariness--

the sting of tears, fatigue--

and so You know my need.

I have no words to say,

but in my heart

I pray.

--Mary Esther Buygoyne

May the God who listens to our hearts and enters into our pain bless us aand all who are in need with the comfort and quiet of [His] gentle presence, now and always. Amen.

--Marchiene Vroon Rienstra

Dear Lord,

in the midst of much inner turmoil and restlessness, there is a consoling thought: maybe You are working in me in a way I cannot yet feel, experience or understand. My mind is not able to concentrate on you, my heart is not able to remain centered, and it seems as if You are absent and have left me alone. But in faith I cling to You. I believe that Your Spirit reaches deeper and further than my mind or heart, and that profound movements are not the first to be noticed.

Therefore, Lord, I promise I will not run away, not give up, not stop praying, even when it all seems useless, pointless, and a waste of time and effort. I want to let You know that I love You even though I do not feel loved by You, and that I hope in You even though I often experience despair. Let this be a little dying I can do with You and for You as a way of experiencing some solidarity with the millions in this world who suffer far more than I do.

Amen.

--Henri Nouwen

On Depression. . .Crawling

2008-02-17T12:57:00.000-08:00

Song of the Day. . .

Crawling in my skin

These wounds they will not heal

Fear is how I fall

Confusing what is real

There's something inside me

that pulls beneath the surface

Consuming/confusing

This lack of self-control

I fear is never ending

Controlling/I can't seem

To find myself again

My walls are closing in

(without a sense of confidence

and I'm convinced that

there's just too much pressure to take)

I've felt this way before

So insecure

Crawling in my skin

These wounds they will not heal

Fear is how I fall

Confusing what is real

Discomfort, endlessly

has pulled itself upon me

Distracting/reacting

Against my will I stand

beside my own reflection

It's haunting how I can't seem

To find myself again

My walls are closing in

(without a sense of confidence

and I'm convinced that

there's just too much pressure to take)

I've felt this way before

So insecure. . .

song: Crawling

artist: Linkin Park

album: Hybrid Theory

On Instinct

2008-02-17T12:00:00.000-08:00

Quote of the Day

"It is only by following your deepest instinct that you can lead a rich life."

– Katherine Butler Hathaway

About Katherine Butler Hathaway
Katherine Butler Hathaway's memoir, The Little Locksmith, earned glowing reviews and was a best seller when it was published in 1943, just after the author's death. She was born in Massachusetts in 1890. After coming down with spinal tuberculosis at age five, she was strapped to a board for ten years to prevent hunchback, but the arduous treatment didn't work. She soared despite her body's limitations, attending Radcliffe, making friends, and buying a house in Maine as a refuge for friends and lovers. She died in 1942.

William Butler Yeats

2008-02-16T12:34:00.000-08:00

A Poet to His Beloved

William Butler Yeats

I bring you with reverent hands

The books of my numberless dreams,

White woman that passion has worn

As the tide wears the dove-grey sands,

And with heart more old than the horn

That is brimmed from the pale fire of time:

White woman with numberless dreams,

I bring you my passionate rhyme.

On Truth

2008-02-15T21:10:00.000-08:00

Quote of the Day

"We taste and feel and see the truth. We do not reason ourselves into it."

– William Butler Yeats

About William Butler Yeats

Irish author William Butler Yeats, known for his mysticism and Celtic imagery, won a Nobel Prize for his plays but ultimately achieved more renown as a poet. He was born in Dublin in 1865. Co-founder of the Abbey Theater, he served as its resident playwright and worked with actress Maude Gonne, who inspired the romantic longing expressed in many poems. He married at age 52 and co-wrote A Vision with his wife, a book with occult roots that explores the mythology in his poetry. He died in 1939.

Oh, yeah. . .Valentine's Day

2008-02-14T19:58:00.001-08:00

Si vous saviez seulement combien je veux pour faire l'amour avec vous. . .

Not that I spent a lot of time thinking about this today, but Happy Zelenka-Flavored Valentine's day!

ROFLMAO

You can make similar faux romance novel covers for yourself here:
http://www.glassgiant.com/romance/

Without God and Coffee...

2008-02-14T19:31:00.001-08:00

This would be me right about now. We are now into day TWO with no power on one half of my condo. Other than the inevitable fear of an electrical fire, there is that whole bit of NOTHING IN THE KITCHEN working. Well, other than the fridge and the oven. At least there's that. But, as I told Ann today, I feel like I'm camping. No coffee maker. No microwave. No answering machine (or phone, for that matter). Grrrrr
I suspect my landlord is deployed or TAD again and has not yet received my rather plantive, URGENT email. Or maybe it went in his spam folder since the word URGENT was in the subject.
Either way. . .2 days sans power in that part of the condo has worn me thin. Linda dropped in with a lovely Valentine's gift and took pity on my coffeeless state and snagged a chocolate-covered strawberry latte for me from 'round the block. Delicious!!!
Now the egg timer just went off, meaning my oven-cooked fish (for Rubio's style fish soft tacos) is ready. Hooray at least for that small miracle. Tomorrow that coffee maker gets moved into the bathroom where there is both water and a working outlet!!!

On Creation

2008-02-10T17:11:00.000-08:00

Quote of the Day

"Imagination is the beginning of creation. You imagine what you desire, you will what you imagine and at last you create what you will."

– George Bernard Shaw

About George Bernard Shaw
George Bernard Shaw, the witty British playwright best known for Arms and the Man and Pygmalion, is the only person to win both a Nobel Prize and an Academy Award. He was born in Dublin in 1856 but moved to London in the 1870s to begin his literary career. He wrote five novels, all rejected, before becoming a music critic; he began writing plays after a stint as drama critic. He was an outspoken Democratic Socialist; his plays include highly political prefaces. He died in 1950.

Meeting my Daemon

2008-02-10T15:32:00.000-08:00

LJ Writer's Block Challenge: Who taught you to cook?

2008-02-07T14:48:00.000-08:00

Sometimes I feel as though my lessons in cooking began in the womb. By the time I was nine, one of my many chores was cooking for the family and in the South. . .that means a lot of cooking. First came my grandmother, then a collection of great-aunts. I have photos from my childhood of the Gumbo Ritual; i.e. all the women in the family gathered in that enormous kitchen in the house where I grew up, each taking a phase of the prep work to make a gigantic pot of seafood gumbo. Peeling and cleaning the shrimp, chopping the Holy Trinity--onions, scallions and green peppers--boiling the crabs and fish carcasses for broth, rinsing the rice and getting it ready to cook. Only Adolphus rice would do, God knows, because it was Cajun-grown and sold. Then there was the magic ingredient: roux. Not too light--the way Yankees might want it, a great-aunt might say--and not too dark because nobody wants burnt-tasting gumbo. No, it had to be the perfectly smooth color of a Hershey's chocolate bar. One woman would be ready with a wet dish towel on the counter so that the iron skillet containing that mystical concoction could be placed upon it, cooled instantly, stopping the browning process before it went too far. Then came that explosive moment when roux went into boiling broth and everyone feared the volatile mixture would splatter upon them, causing some of the most painful grease burns one might imagine. Afterward, it was a matter of taking turns stirring with a long-handled wooden spoon, keeping the mixture in constant motion. Whoever was not at the pot, leaned against counters, smoking, gossiping, complaining, speculating on the outcome of the combined effort. Where the men were during all this I have no recollection. Watching football, hunting, working in the yard? Who knows. The Gumbo Ritual, like so many secret kitchen things in the South, was a solely female endeavor.

The reality of a migraine

2008-02-06T14:21:00.000-08:00

Yes, it's been more than a year. . .and silly me. . .I'd forgotten what it felt like.

MIGRAINE

It's now been 48-hours since the onset and I'm still walking on eggshells, afraid the horrific pain will return.

There's nothing like lying in bed at 3am, considering calling 911 before the nuclear bomb ticking in your brain actually does blow the top off of your head, and knowing if you move it'll only be worse. Besides, ambulance sirens are LOUD. Loud is bad. Very bad.

Migraines. This is another bone I have to pick with God. What the heck is the purpose of migraines? It goes beyond the old jokes of why did He make the pit in an avocado so large. This is serious. Migraines bring me as close to begging for death as I've ever been. So. . .what gives, Lord?

I feel as though I challenged a street roller to a duel and got the worse end of it by far.

Naturally, this means no more writing for a few days. Every sound is still far too loud, the light--what there is of it during our perpetually overcast winters in the Pacific NW--is painful and my stomach is still traitor. UGH. That is as poetic as it gets today. . .UGH!!!

What and how. . .

2008-02-03T18:14:00.000-08:00

Quote of the Day

"Once the 'what' is decided, the 'how' always follows. We must not make the 'how' an excuse for not facing and accepting the 'what.'"

– Pearl S. Buck

About Pearl S. Buck
Prolific American author Pearl S. Buck is best known for her 1931 novel, The Good Earth, which depicted peasant life in China; the book, published by the John Day Company, won the Pulitzer Prize. She was born in West Virginia in 1892, but her missionary parents raised her in China. She and her first husband lived in China until 1934, when they had to flee the political strife. She later divorced and married John Day's publisher, Richard Walsh, in 1935. In 1938, she became the first woman to win the Nobel Prize in literature. By the time of her death in 1973, she had published over 70 books, including collections of stories, poetry, and children's literature.

Writing and rewriting a novel into the ground

2008-02-02T23:16:00.000-08:00

Dear God,

Should I go into exile--moreso than I already am--in order to finally finish Typical Male? I mean, you know me. I'll find an excuse to scrub the toilet to keep from sitting down and gaping in horror at that blank--and not so blank--Word Doc. I've never understood that, but hey. . .You made me that way. You made most writers that way. It's part of that mental illness that goes hand in hand with our creative genius.

Not to be an ungrateful child or anything but. . .couldn't we as a group of individuals have gotten along better without that whole procrastinate-myself-into-an-early-grave tendancy that sends us off to wash dishes, vaccum our cars, pick lint out of the carpet, and any number of other equally odious tasks just to escape our keyboards???

No? Okay. Just had to ask.

I am so sick and tired of Typical Male. I've never been so sick and tired of a novel in my life. I know that's why I'm fighting this final rewrite like a cat fights a bath. I want nothing more than to have my "big break" at long last. . .and yet. . .argh, it's like trying to pull my own teeth with tweezers!

You probably get tired of me saying this, but. . .HELP!!!

I'll never get past all my Jack Keruoacesque fancies that pull me in a million directions. . .all of which are away from this keyboard and that manuscript document. . .without a GREAT DEAL OF HELP from You.

Thanks for everything You've done so far. Even if I forget to say it out loud, or even in my head at night before I sleep, You keep me going in this messed up, broken world. And I am wise enough to know that with a gift like mine, nothing would ever come easy. It's got to be a struggle all the way in order to make it even better in the end.

But. . .I'm tired, Lord. And I'm lonely. It's taking its toll on me. It's adding to the distractability. It's wearing me down. Just thought I'd mention that. Not that You don't know already. . .but. . .well, I just wanted to put it out there again.

Thanks, Lord. Again. . .and always.

Get your head straight. . .

2008-02-02T06:29:00.000-08:00

Quote of the Day

"He who cannot change the very fabric of his thought will never be able to change reality."

– Anwar al-Sadat

About Anwar al-Sadat
Egyptian president Anwar al-Sadat won the 1978 Nobel Peace Prize in conjunction with Israeli prime minister Menachim Begin for the Camp David Accords. He was born in Egypt in 1918. He participated in the 1952 coup to oust the corrupt King Farouk and became president in 1970. He led Egypt into the Yom Kippur War to reclaim part of the Sinai Peninsula. When that failed, he took the risky diplomatic path, opening the door to détente. He was assassinated in 1981 by Muslim extremists.

Happy early Birthday, David Nykl

2008-02-01T13:09:00.000-08:00

It's no secret--at least among my friends--that since first catching SGA on dvd last year, my favorite character has been Dr. Radek Zelenka. All the brilliance. NONE of the arrogance. He's sweet, easy going, gentle and the sexiest chess geek I've seen in a very, very long time! What started out as a few lines in a single script has become one of the show's most beloved recurring characters, thanks to the subtlty, depth and humor of actor, David Nykl. So. . .happy birthday, David. I hope it's the most delicious and joyous yet!

SAMPLE CHAPTER - Typical Male by Jacqueline L. Landry

2008-01-31T13:12:00.000-08:00

Here is a portion of a chapter from my current novel. Just a tiny taste for those who've written asking about Typical Male. Thanks for that, by the way!
Obviously, copyright applies here. . .

CHAPTER TWO
Summer 1970

Sebastian and his mother, Etta Jean, came back home to Texas to spend a sweltering July with the latest Boyfriend de jour. Of course, even at age ten, home was a relative term to Sebastian.

They'd followed this particular one on a ragtag route of motels and spare rooms along the Mississippi coast and then up to Baton Rouge. Now, as Boyfriend de jour was supposed to be off somewhere scaring up a job for himself on the Texas Gulf Coast, Sebastian and his mother were staying with friends in Beaumont.

There was a smell of sulfur coming in through the open windows along with the whirring song of katydids. Kids with sparklers chased each other down the sidewalks outside as Sebastian watched silently. He tucked his chin into the curve of his elbow as he leaned over the back of the sofa, his forehead pressed against the screen. The chenille couch cover was hot, smelled of lilac water and cigarettes and tickled his nose as he breathed, but he didn't move from the spot.

A cracking pop-fizz-pop-fizz across the street caught his attention. Someone's father or uncle held the striped cardboard tube of a Roman candle in each hand, launching fiery red and green balls into the twilight sky. The shrieking whistle from one of those little silver disks everyone called a nigger-chaser shot low across the front lawn. It was met with screams and squeals of delight from all the onlookers. All but Sebastian.

He sat in silence, watching the goings-on with practiced appreciation and patience. The kids outside were like the television, just some foreign form of entertainment he devoured like Twinkies or grape Freezy-pops. His mother didn't like it if he got too thick with others kids. He didn't understand that, but he didn't question it either. Like packing up their few belongings and getting into somebody else's car to travel to another town somewhere else, it just was. Like breathing and talking and eating. Folks just didn't question that kind of stuff. None that he knew of, at least.

There was a shriek from deeper in the house. His mother's voice. She uttered a curse word he'd rarely heard her say. This broke the spell of the fireworks outside and he ran to investigate. The big console television in Miss Ruth's den was turned up loud now, and a newscaster read the words from the papers in front of him with a noticeable sorrow. He stopped every few words, apologized, then cleared his throat and went on. Sebastian wondered what could make a grown man on television, that wasn't some western or science fiction show, a real man in a real place react like this.

A little black girl had gone missing in Port Arthur.

"Oh, dear sweet Jesus," Miss Ruth said. "No more than a baby."

The TV man said she was five or perhaps six. They'd just found her body shortly before the newscast began. The television now showed a small patch of woods.

"Less than a block from her grandmother's house," his mother mumbled.

Sebastian became mesmerized by the images of the neighborhood and crime scene, the yellow tape with bold black words on it stretched across a few tree trunks. Something inside him said that patch of weeds and oak trees was like some Texas Sleepy Hollow, radiating an evil as palpable as anything he'd ever remembered.

He'd just turned ten that summer himself, but had always had an understanding of some adult things. An unnatural understanding, his mother told him all too often. Too smart for his own good. Lucky he was such a quiet child, she'd chide, else he'd be getting into trouble left and right and she'd have to find a place for him to stay. A place, it was made very clear, away from her. He knew what that meant. Their life was neither good, nor bad. It just was. The fear of not living it outweighed everything else in the world to him. Mama was all there was. The Boyfriends de jour were just like the motel rooms and other people's cars. They came and they went, but Mama was the constant in it all.

Miss Ruth snapped the television off with the flat of her hand, scattering the long column of ashes from the cigarette between her fingers.

"Damnation, that's gonna give that baby nightmares," she said to his mother, and speaking of him, he knew. She took a long drag from her cigarette, resting her free hand gently on Sebastian's head. Like the couch cover, it smelled of lilac water and tobacco.

"You run back on into that front room and find you something to do. Those people 'cross the street still shootin' off fireworks?" she asked him with a sweet smile.

"Yes, ma'am, Miss Ruth," he told her.

"Well, just you go back in there and enjoy it, baby," his mother told him.

He did as he was told, stopping along the way to fetch his Webster's Dictionary. It wasn't much to look at with its cover long lost and the pages yellow with age, but it was his. He loved it in a way other kids probably loved their baseball mitts or Lincoln Logs. Things like those had a way of getting lost when folks traveled. But not his dictionary. He could stuff it into the front pocket of his dungarees and it was no trouble to keep up with.

He had to look up some of the words he heard on the news. He thumbed to the S's, the pages sending up a cool, stale rustle of air. There it was. Sodomy.

He read the words, but only half got their meaning. It sounded very scary and he closed the dictionary for a long while. When he retrieved it, he went to the D's. Disemboweled. A chill coursed through him with those words and he closed the book, hugging it to himself hard. Texas Sleepy Hollow with a real demon inside that did things like tear out little children's guts.

Miss Ruth's husband, who was a fireman who worked nightshift, began to grumble more and more loudly before July was finished. Sebastian knew that meant it was time to move on. The Boyfriend de jour came and got them the first week of August.

The three of them migrated to some by-the-week, dive apartment in Baytown, or maybe it was Texas City. It was somewhere else near the water. The shrimping trade and oil refineries meant work even for Boyfriend de jour.

They traded the comfortable niceties of Miss Ruth's house for two rooms that smelled of mold and old beer, had cockroaches the size of rats, and a tub with a rust ring as wide as a man's hand. The toilet bowl matched. At least there was symmetry, he'd thought at the time, applying one of his new favorite words he'd found in his dictionary.

There was one bedroom, that rusty bathroom, and what might have been a living room once upon a time. There on tattered indoor-outdoor carpet crouched a table with three rickety, mismatched chairs and a hotplate. Of course, his mother and Boyfriend de jour took the bedroom.

They didn't have much in the way of belongings at the present. The last Boyfriend de jour—or maybe it was the one before him—pawned what little they had, or took it when he left. His mother was pretty, though. Working as a waitress, and with her sly way of smiling, she soon landed another man. They seemed like anchors she latched onto, or maybe more like the pendulum in Miss Ruth's grandfather clock, swinging to and fro, back and forth across the Gulf Coast states year after year. Sebastian and his mother spent their time keeping up with each new Boyfriend de jour. Like the Huntsville Prison rodeo cowboys. Convicts tied up to a bull, holding on for as long as they possibly could without dying.

His mother came across a musty quilt someone had left on the top shelf of the only closet. She laid it out of the way, on the floor of the narrow living room, doubled upon itself as a sleeping pallet for him. A rolled towel, frayed at its edges and smelling of old bleach, would have to serve as a pillow.

This particular Friday night late in August, it was hotter than usual and the air had a sort of doom in it. Tornado weather, his mother called it. The front door was wide open, but the screen was latched, more against mosquitoes than anyone like the monster caught in Port Arthur.

His mother's older brother had come into town to look for work at one of the oil refineries. Or maybe to crew on a shrimp boat. Whoever was hiring. Boyfriend de jour had given a half-assed promise to help him, his mother told Sebastian earlier.

The adults started drinking just after noon and went on until after midnight. Boyfriend de jour had conveniently found a record player somewhere, along with a stack of shiny, black forty-fives. The men took turns dancing with his mother, balking when she made the effort to include Sebastian. The little tin ashtrays overflowed with wads of gum and butts. The room reeked of fried seafood, potatoes, beer and bourbon. His eyes burned from all the smoke and he fought to stay awake.

When it finally came to an end, he was forced to share his pallet with his drunken uncle, who stank of weeks of unwashed sweat and Sebastian couldn't guess what else. He pulled as far away from his uncle as he could. He pushing his small body against the wall, his back turned to his snoring uncle.

And the beat goes, writers' rights still NOT respected

2008-01-31T11:03:00.000-08:00

1/22/08

On Wednesday, January 23, the Writers Guild of America and the Alliance of Motion Picture and Television Producers will begin informal discussions to determine if there is a basis for both parties to return to formal negotiations. Both the AMPTP and the WGA have agreed to make no public comments about the informal discussions until those discussions have concluded.

Writer's Guild of America, West

-----------------------------

And the ONLY reason this is happening is because TPTB with the AMPTP don't want the Oscars to go the way of the Golden Globes! Not cool.

Still worried?

2008-01-30T11:56:00.000-08:00

Quote of the Day

"Worry never robs tomorrow of its sorrow, but only saps today of its strength."

– A. J. Cronin

About A. J. Cronin
Archibald Joseph Cronin, the Scottish novelist who wrote as A. J. Cronin, had a full career as a doctor before turning to fiction. He was born in 1896, worked as a Royal Navy surgeon during World War I, and later was appointed Medical Inspector of Mines in Wales. Some of his most famous books are The Citadel, The Keys of the Kingdom, and Pocketful of Rye. His works were known to reflect both his religious beliefs as a Roman Catholic and his medical training. He died in 1981.

Where am I and who is that strange man starring in my novel???

2008-01-29T15:09:00.000-08:00

Well, the final work on Typical Male grows curiouser and curiouser. . .to coin a cliche.

I've come to the final bridging scene I needed to craft to finish the rework of the first section of TM. It was a scene I was dreading and had put off for the last 8 months. This book could have gone to the publisher last spring if I'd kicked myself in the backside hard enough. But then again. . .

Faithful Readers, you know me and my opinion about Fate and things going exactly to plan, no matter how crappy it feels while living it.

I don't think I would've had the steel in me last spring. . .and steel, rusty and jagged is what I needed. Gloves off, no holds barred: two characters who once loved enough to marry and share their lives, now face each other as enemies. . .enemies who have to work together on opposing sides of a legal case. She now outranks him, and is literally his commanding officer. He has too many ghosts--like everyone, God knows--and both have done things they can't take back.

The scene, in draft, is so cruel, like an ice-covered razor blade. But, again. . .it needed to be. There will be a big payoff in the end of this story, but the cast of denizens will first be dragged naked through broken glass all the way there.

And now you know why my editor coined for me the nickname, "You Skanky Bitch."

If it isn't about man's inhumanity to man. . .I'm just not there.

Don't blame me. I'm not just drawn that way. . .I really am bad. Just ask my editor! ;-)

Worried?

2008-01-29T14:10:00.000-08:00

Quote of the Day

"We have to fight them daily, like fleas, those many small worries about the morrow, for they sap our energies."

– Etty Hillesum

About Etty Hillesum
Etty Hillesum, less famous than her contemporary, Anne Frank, lived a short life of great courage. She was born in 1914 in the Netherlands to a Dutch father and a Russian mother. She studied law, Slavic languages, and psychology. Hungry for knowledge, she cut down on food in order to buy books. She went voluntarily to the Westerbork camp to help fellow Jews interned by the Nazis. Her letters detail her experiences; her more meditative diary focuses on issues of faith. She died at Auschwitz in 1943.

Becoming. . .

2008-01-28T13:45:00.000-08:00

Quote of the Day

"Have the courage to follow your heart and intuition. They somehow already know what you truly want to become. Everything else is secondary."

– Steve Jobs

About Steve Jobs
Steve Jobs, the American computer pioneer who cofounded Apple, is known for his intensity, his brashness, and his focus on elegant design. He was born in 1955 in Los Altos. At age 21, he and Steve Wozniac built the first Apple computer in his garage. Its successor, the Macintosh, introduced the mouse. After Jobs was ousted from Apple, he bought Pixar Animation, creator of Toy Story and Finding Nemo. On his return to Apple, he introduced the iMac and iPod, restoring the company's luster.

The future. . .

2008-01-27T12:21:00.000-08:00

Quote of the Day

"It is never safe to look into the future with eyes of fear."

– Edward Henry Harriman

About Edward Henry Harriman
American railroad owner and financier Edward Henry Harriman modernized much of the nation's railways. He was born in 1848 in New York. He dropped out of school at 14 to work on Wall Street. By age 22, he had a seat on the NY Stock Exchange. After he bought the Union Pacific, he inspected every mile of the aging rail system. In 1899, he organized a scientific exploration of the Alaska coastline. His estate outside New York City is now Harriman State Park. He died in 1909.

Song of the Day. . .

2008-01-26T11:31:00.000-08:00

I'm dying to catch my breath

Oh why don't I ever learn?

I've lost all my trust,

though I've surely tried to turn it around.

Can you still see the heart of me?

All my agony fades away

when you hold me in your embrace

Don't tear me down

for all I need.

Make my heart a better place.

Give me something I can believe.

Don't tear me down.

You've opened the door now, don't let it close.

I'm here on the edge again.

I wish I could let it go.

I know that I'm only one step away

from turning it around.

Can you still see the heart of me?

All my agony fades away

when you hold me in your embrace.

Don't tear me down

for all I need.

Make my heart a better place.

Give me something I can believe.

Don't tear it down,

what's left of me.

Make my heart a better place.

I tried many times but nothing was real.

Make it fade away,

don't break me down.

I want to believe that this is for real.

Save me from my fear.

Don't tear me down.

Don't tear me down

for all I need.

Make my heart a better place.

Don't tear me down

for all I need.

Make my heart a better place.

Give me something I can believe.

Don't tear it down,

what's left of me.

Make my heart a better place.

Make my heart a better place. . .

Artist: Within Temptation

Album: The Heart of Everything

Song: All I Need

Ah, more writing done. . .

2008-01-25T18:28:00.000-08:00

I can't believe I managed to pull yet another 1.5 new chapters out of my proverbial writing hat today. I REALLY didn't think that was going to happen. I felt like an amnesiac trying to remember something. It wasn't painful like pulling teeth--sorta the opposite actually, but we won't delve too deeply into how writing turns me on. . . LOL

I may manage to rewrite the entirety of Typical Male instead of simply doing the final edit.

I have no idea where all this new stuff is coming from. My own life experience I suppose. So, what else is new? The analogy of Novotny's marriage being "like a block of cold, black granite beneath the tools of an inept sculptor," hit home the minute my fingers typed it. Not that either of my marriages even started out as anything so perfect as granite. . .

As I type, part of me is remembering this is for keeps. This is me saving my own life. Me escaping from my poverty and sadness.

I realized last night just before I fell asleep that I'm lonely. I guess I haven't let that part of me out for a while. . .too busy dealing with the intractable pain of my back injury. I went to sleep thinking about the simple and nice experience of going to sleep in the arms of a man I care for and trust. I can't remember the last time that happened. I stopped trusting Toad of Darkness years before our marriage ended and he never, ever made me feel safe or loved.

I'd been over on David Nykl's blog just before I went to bed, reading, looking over his photos of his trips to Germany and Holland, and it made me think what a wonderful thing it would be to have a man in my life to share things like that with. Walking tours, museums, art galleries, biking through Amsterdam and Prague. Dear God, that would be beyond bliss.

So. . .more writing. More and more until it's finally done.

Character. . .

2008-01-24T15:10:00.000-08:00

Quote of the Day

"To keep your character intact you cannot stoop to filthy acts. It makes it easier to stoop the next time."

– Katherine Hepburn

About Katherine Hepburn
Gutsy American actress Katharine Hepburn was ranked the greatest actress of all time by the American Film Institute for her roles in films such as The African Queen and The Philadelphia Story. She was born in 1907 in Connecticut. Early in her film career, RKO took away her overalls, demanding she dress like a screen icon, prompting her to walk through the studio in her underwear. Her romance with Spencer Tracy led to their delightful verbal sparring in films like Adam's Rib and Woman of the Year. She died in 2003.

20 years ago today. . .

2008-01-22T21:46:00.000-08:00

You know, we all make mistakes. Some of us make larger mistakes than others. In the end, a mistake is actually just that unpleasant road you were destined to take anyway.

I try never to think about "what if?" It will drive you crazy.

Twenty years ago today, I married someone I should have NEVER married. But, expediency is nearly as big of a bitch as destitution. He was there and he asked. It was better than being homeless. I made the best of it and honored the vows I took. That made one of us.

So much of what I write now is impacted by the time I spent with this person--who is now called Toad of Darkness because of the horrendous things he did during the last year of our acquaintance.

However, Typical Male would not have been born if not for those things. Looking back, there were so many things I'd wish happened differently, but if this novel is successful, then obviously everything. . .all of it was meant to be.

So many of my friends ask, "Jacqui, don't you want to get married again?"

Like Beatrice in "Much Ado About Nothing," I think I'll hold off until God makes men--at least the ones I meet--of sterner stuff than dirt.

===========================

Current Mood: Amused

Listening to: Within Temptation - The Heart of Everything

Thinking of: Actor, David Nykl

===========================

Enfer oui, je suis Cadien!

2003-05-25T07:37:00.000-07:00

La Nouvelle-Orléans:

Ne nous abandonnez pas, ne nous oublier pas!

“Take whatever idiot they have at the top of whatever agency and give me a better idiot. Give me a caring idiot. Give me a sensitive idiot.
Just don’t give me the same idiot.”
– Aaron Broussard

Jefferson Parish President

9/6/2005

Mercy Corps Katrina Rebuilding Charity
UMCOR Sager Brown Depot

Websites de Cadien:

Leçons Français Cadjin

Acadian-Cajun Geneology and History

On the Road to St. Martinville

St. Martin Parish, Louisiana

Atchafalaya National Heritage Area

Action Cadienne

Do you speak American - Cajun English

Cajuns.com

Cajun Woman Enterprises

LACajunStuff.com

Conseil pour le développement du français en Louisiane

Encyclopedia of Cajun Culture

Les Amis du français de Lafourche

Typical Male - Sample Chapter

2002-05-25T06:42:00.000-07:00

CHAPTER THREE:

Novotny’s eyes moved, but his head was stationary, poker face still firmly in place. His gaze was on the public defender as she made a hasty retreat from her odious client after the jury filed out to be sequestered. She sashayed herself out of the courtroom as fast as her tight, pencil skirt could allow. Funny how she no longer wanted to be within ten yards of Spinelli now that the audience was gone. That’s right, you go girl, he thought acidly, and take those tacky Manolo Blanik Mary Jane knockoffs with you.

He slipped his notes into his briefcase, nodding to the bailiff with a knowing look. His cell was vibrating against his hip, but he didn’t reach for it. He just wanted to sit for a moment and let go of the rage, let it slip off him like a sheet on a hot night. Whoever wanted him right now would have to wait.

We are evil animals, he thought. Spinelli, his attorney going for the Academy Award for Best Supporting Actress, himself for wishing he could simply pull out a gun and put the pedophile down like a rabid dog.

“Anyone who ever doubts we live in a broken world,” he muttered under his breath, but couldn’t bring himself to finish the sentence.

He pushed himself up and away from the prosecution table, retrieving his Armani jacket from the back of the wooden chair and slipping into it. He straightened his already impeccably aligned tie, smoothed his hair, touching the silver clasp around his immaculately groomed ponytail. Time to meet the hyenas and vultures. Even if he wasn’t going to put a face on the San Diego County D.A.’s office for the press, he would leave the courtroom looking cool, stylish, perfect. He knew he overcompensated, but did not care. To thine own self be true.

His cell vibrated again. He checked the caller id briefly before heading out into the frenzy of reporters, microphones and cameras. Otilio, the D.A., his boss. Same as the earlier message flashing on the small color screen. Well, first things first.

CNN was asking the same question they’d asked since the capture of Spinelli. Are you going for the death penalty, Mr. Novotny?

“It is the position of the San Diego County District Attorney’s Office that to do otherwise would be sending an exceedingly negative message out to victims everywhere, Sharon,” he replied, using her first name and skewering her with an icy glare. “We will not tolerate the harming of a child in this state. We will punish such offenses with the strongest measures allowed by law. Yes. Yes, we are seeking the death penalty for the defendant.”

He didn’t say the pervert’s name, objectifying Spinelli with a psychological ploy used by lawyers everywhere. It helped a jury feel detached from the defendant. . .or even the victim in some cases. If you put a name and a face to someone, you have to acknowledge them as real living, breathing flesh like yourself.

His cell jittered against his belt again like an enraged bumblebee. Whatever Otilio wanted must not be able to wait. He eschewed further questions with a sharp wave of his had before turning toward the bank of elevators that would take him upstairs to the main D.A. offices. The doors were barely open as he shimmied through and jogged to his office. He tossed the briefcase onto the credenza, grabbed the handset from his desk phone and stabbed the speed dial to Otilio’s office.

“Yeah,”

“I got your messages, Jaime,” he said into the receiver. “What’s up.”

“Oh, hey Bass,” Otilio greeted him, then sniffed audibly before a brief chuckle. “I need to, ahem. . .talk to you about something.”

“Shoot,”

Another chuckle. There was something about this that was disturbing, Novotny thought. Damn he hoped that hyper-feminine little public defender hadn’t tried an end run plea bargain.

“This about the Spinelli case?”

“Ah. . .no,” Otilio replied.

Novotny wasn’t sure if there was anger or some weird humor in the edge of his boss’ voice.

“You know what, Bass, come across the hall, will you please?”

There was a click before he could reply.

Novotny was across the hall in three strides, through the receptionist’s area, then opening the door to face his boss. “What’s up, Jaime?”

Further words died on his lips as he saw a United States Navy Master-at-Arms, in black—or rather, the black the Navy referred to as blue—crackerjack uniform complete with 9mm pistol at his hip, standing respectfully in front of Otilio’s desk.

“Would you step outside, Petty Officer Kennedy,” the D.A. told the young man.

Had the temperature in Otilio’s office just dropped twenty degrees, Novotny pondered. His boss had an indescribable look on his face as he turned a large white envelope over and over in his hands.

“Um, Jaime?” Novotny prompted.

“I think you need to sit down for this one, man.”

Otilio held the envelope out to him face down, seeming eager to be rid of it. Novotny took it and flipped the addressed side into view. His fingers tingled with a certain dread. A doomed feeling shot straight through him like suddenly finding his tongue stuck to something icy. Nothing good ever came in an envelope like this one. He didn’t even want to consider the samba his bowels were doing right now thanks to one look at the blue seal and bold, all-caps words beneath it:

DEPARTMENT OF THE NAVY

He moved in slow motion, sliding the tip of his left index finger beneath the flap. Gingerly, he peeled upward garnering a nice paper cut on the tender cuticle near the manicured nail. These were the sorts of letters that usually started out with, ‘Dear sir or madam: the Department of the Navy regrets to inform you. . .’ He unfolded the crisp, white document within.

“Son of a bitch!” Novotny shouted. “You’ve got to be shitting me!”

Otilio looked up in astonishment.

“The refined Mr. Novotny let curse words slip through his pristine lips,” the D.A. gaped.

Shock of all shocks, but this called for it, Novotny thought.

The world had just fallen away from beneath his feet. Novotny rocked forward, elbows on knees, eyes no longer able to focus on the officious all-caps sentences that made up numbered paragraphs. His tongue was cotton wadding, in his ears a clanging like the bells of Notre Dame clamored louder than the racing pulse in his temples.

Otilio’s caterpillar eyebrows were creeping toward his receding hairline when Novotny looked up.

“What’s up? Did they finally figure out a practical way of taking your birthday away from you?” The D.A. asked, grinning as he attempted a common Navy jest.

“Holy, crap,” Novotny hissed between clenched teeth before he could help it.

“Is that a no?”

“Worse than my birthday, Jaime,” he shot back, dropping the letter onto the desk between them. “My whole damned life!”

He got a grim satisfaction when the smirk on Otilio’s face melted like a sliver of ice tossed onto a hot skillet.

“This can’t be good.”

“Ladies and gentlemen, District Attorney Jaime Quique Otilio, master of the obvious,” Novotny retorted.

He watched as his boss picked up the letter and skimmed it before letting it fall back onto the desk. Otilio gaped at him, with bifocals low on his nose, and sighed, “Shit.”

“That’s what I said,” Novotny retorted, sagging into the cool leather chair and covering his eyes with his hands.

“I thought you’d done your time with these guys,” Otilio said.

Novotny pulled his hands from his face, said, “Yeah, well I did.”

Otilio rubbed one chubby finger against a graying temple, then replied, “Then how on earth can they just drop you a letter that says, ‘Congratulations, Mr. Novotny, you’re in the Navy now. . .again?”

Novotny fingered his own meticulously groomed mustache and goatee thinking odd thoughts; pictured shoving his hands up over his face, applying a Halloween mask of his clean-shaven former self. Despite five years of sobriety and all it took to get there, a Stoli, straight up in a tall glass sounded irresistible right now. He took a deep breath, slowly letting it out through his mouth.

“Part of my early-out package back in ’94 was an agreement to eight years of Reserve time,” Novotny explained, the words feeling alien in his mouth. “You know those little jaunts I take up to Camp Pendleton or over to Naval Station once a month?”

“And that nice little all-expenses paid two-week summer vacation last year to Great Lakes, Illinois?” Otilio added, as though he thought it helped.

“Don’t remind me,” he groaned remembering that there was nothing quite like spending part of July in Waukegan to make you long for sudden death. He shuddered. If I wanted to fry an egg on my head, I’d just sit in a microwave. It would be less painful that way, he mused.

“And so?” Otilio prompted.

“And so. . .in about one month, eighteen days and a sundry number of hours, my Reserve obligation would have been served.”

“Would’ve been,” Otilio replied. “Not that you were counting down the time.”

“Not quite to the nanosecond, no.” Novotny shot back. “But of course being just a lawyer—a veritable day weenie—I never honestly expected to be called back into active duty service. It’s not like I fly jets or carry the launch codes for our nation’s nukes. I prosecuted and defended drunken sailors and brawling jarheads by virtue of my oath to uphold the UCMJ. So unless we’re getting ready to sue Saddam, I can’t fathom why the Judge Advocate General Corps needs my services again.”

Otilio’s phone buzzed, jarring Novotny’s already frayed nerves. His boss nodded empathetically at him, but held up one finger to call for silence.

“Uh-huh,” Otilio answered. “Okay, Helene, send the young men in.”

Otilio rose and Novotny shot a glance up at him. “What?”

“I think you’re about to get an answer to that question, Bass,” his boss replied gravely. “Another one of those crackerjack boys just turned up.”

Novotny was on his feet and turning when the double doors of the D.A.’s office opened. Beside the Master-at-Arms now stood the newcomer, a Navy Legalman, Petty Officer First Class, also in standard dress blues and carrying a conspicuously large envelope beneath his left arm.

“Sirs,” the Legalman said, and it seemed like an apology. “Mr. Novotny?”

“That would be me,” Novotny replied, leaving off the word ‘unfortunately’ that was set to bungee jump off the tip of his tongue.

Novotny eyed him the way a horse does a burning barn it’s hapless enough to be inside. Young Legalman was likely no more than twenty-six or so, with that fresh from the barber’s chair look about him. His SDBs were poster-boy perfect; steam-pressed to within an inch of its life, giving off an almost acrid, halfway sweet smell of dry cleaning best described as eude de Uniform Store. I bet I could carve a Thanksgiving turkey with the creases in those pants, Novotny thought. And I could shave in the reflection on the toes of his shoes, that is if I wanted to shave.

All this military wool was activating Novotny’s fight or flight response.

Oh. My. God.

“You probably light the top layer of your can of shoe polish just to get that Clean-Marine shine, huh?” Novotny said, apropos of nothing, then swallowed hard in a dry throat, knowing he must sound more than slightly insane.

“Sir?”

“Never mind,” Novotny said, voice hollow.

“Sir, I have been directed by the Commanding Officer of Naval Station San Diego, per the Office of the Judge Advocate General of the Navy to hand-deliver this packet to you, sir.”

Two sirs were definitely too many in one sentence, especially that one. Novotny thought he might break out into hives with the very next ’sir.’ Could someone have an anaphylactic reaction to militaristic dialog? Suddenly an alphabet soup of acronyms niggled unpleasant memories to the surface.

PCS. SECNAV. OJAG. BOHICA.

Bend Over. Here It Comes Again.

NAVY

Never. Again. Volunteer. Yourself.

Novotny accepted the packet with numb fingers. It takes a brain to make nerves work and mine has obviously just hopped a rocket to Mars, he thought. He looked at the Legalman, the Master-at-Arm’s 9mm, then down at the packet with an expression he knew mimicked that of Ray Bolger in the Wizard of Oz.

Inside the pristine white US Navy packet was another envelope; a golden brown paper guard mail pouch secured with a red string. A Holey Joe. God, I’m already thinking in military-ese. Like riding a bike. I fell off my bike the first time I tried to ride it as a kid, Novotny remembered, and knocked out a tooth.

Novotny eased the multiple copies of official orders from the packet, along with a sheaf of paperwork that looked all too familiar. A little voice in the back of his head seemed to be suggesting he throw himself down on the floor in a tantrum.

Damn.

Before anything else had the chance to sink in, he noticed the two signatures at the bottom of the cover letter. The first identified himself as the Judge Advocate General of the Navy. Novotny did not recognize the name, but this meant nothing. The JAG Corps was a large division. However, the second name very nearly had him writhing on the floor. One hand reached behind him to find the arm of the chair and he carefully lowered himself.

Captain Emma Alden, Assistant Judge Advocate General of the Navy.

“Jesus wept,” Novotny groaned, closing his eyes to the horror.

“Hey, man, you ought to watch it with that blasphemy stuff. ” Otilio teased, obviously not understanding Novotny’s predicament yet. “From the look on your face, you probably need God right about now.”

“Sir,” the Legalman said from somewhere behind Novotny. “Whenever you’re ready.”

“What?” Otilio asked.

“What!” Novotny practically shouted.

He suddenly felt as though he were being arrested and taken to the brig. He expected the NCIS folks to stroll in at any moment, in their oh-so-trendy, trying-too-hard-to-look-cool civilian attire, but with those trademark enlisted haircuts that gave them up a mile away.

“What are you talking about, LN1?” Novotny demanded, using the traditional form of address before he even realized it had come to mind. Legalman First Class.

“The CO sent the command car to transport you to PSD so that your reactivation paperwork could get done ASAP, sir.” The Legalman explained.

Oh, so fleeing to Canada or even Bolivia wasn’t going to be an option, Novotny thought churlishly. Not that he would, of course, but that little devil on his shoulder that previously argued for the tantrum was whispering sweet nothings. Bali is beautiful this time of year, it said.

Novotny stood, drawing on that monster rage that lurked beneath the surface, his tone now icy and condescending.

“Young man, I’m the Assistant District Attorney for this county. I’m in the middle of an extremely important case and I’m not going anywhere until it’s finished. A capital murder case. A serial killer with more than a dozen child murders under his belt. Do you understand what that means, son? Do you get that?”

The Legalman seemed properly chastened, but then said, “Yes, sir, I do understand. However, my orders state that you have a twenty-four hour window for your report date to Washington Naval Yard OJAG. This is a hot-fill billet situation, sir. The Master-at-Arms here and I have been sent to make certain you make that window.”

This kid thinks he’s going to go Jack Nicholson in Last Detail on me, Novotny thought with a grimace.

“Well, your CO is going to have to reconsider those orders, kid. I’m not leaving until my case is finished.” Novotny angrily shot back.

The Master-at-Arms moved his hand discreetly to his side arm making Novotny take a step back, the edge of Otilio’s desk pressing into the backs of his thighs.

“Petty Officer Lamar,” Otilio said. “Would you and the other fellow step out for a moment?”

“Yes, sir,” they replied in unison.

Novotny wasn’t sure which was worse, the dread of returning to the Navy or the notion that he would be forced at gunpoint to quit his case against Spinelli. The secondary issue of Emma Alden in a position of authority over him was too ridiculous to intrude on his thoughts, at least for the moment.

“Jaime, they can’t do this!” Novotny shouted once he was sure he could turn to face his boss without falling over.

“Just keep your shirt on, Bass,” Otilio advised, pushing his bifocals up his nose with one hand and reaching for the Navy phone directory with the other. “I’m going to get to the bottom of this.”

Novotny didn’t trust himself to look at the cover letter or orders again. He dropped the packet onto the D.A.’s desk and it fanned out into disarray. He was waiting for the reaction he knew was coming. Her signature flashed behind his closed eyelids like a nuclear blast. The last time he’d seen it was on the divorce papers back in 1997. The ex Mrs. Novotny. Beautiful, blonde, brilliant and brittle-as-thin-ice Emma Alden.

He tried to block it all out by thinking of Spinelli’s ignorant, gap-tooth sneer. He tried to imagine what was being said on the other end of the phone as Otilio talked to one Navy official after another. He tried to think of all the things he needed to do to get ready for a trip to the east coast in the tragic even Otilio couldn’t get him out of this mess. The condo, his SUV, his dog, all his clothes, his bank accounts and the million and one other little details that made up his life here in San Diego. His civilian life, that little voice reminded him.

Novotny watched, holding his breath as his boss gingerly placed the phone handset back into the cradle. Otilio’s round face was pinched as the glasses came off. The bifocals were neatly folded and placed in their case. He massaged the bridge of his nose between his thumb and index finger before looking up to meet Novotny’s gaze.

“I don’t quite know how to tell you this, man,” Otilio sighed. “That was the JAG headquarters I finished with just now. The main JAG headquarters in DC. You’re screwed, Bass. You’re going to have to leave with these guys. There’s nothing I can do to get you out of it.”

“I see,” Novotny breathed, not so much in resignation as from shock. Some tiny part of him had believed it was a stupid mistake Otilio could sweep up and make neatly disappear.

Otilio picked up the cover letter once more, holding it out at the full length of his arm in order to read it without his bifocals.

“Um, and according to this Lieutenant Commander Novotny, Captain Alden.” He paused, looking gravely at Novotny over the top of the letter. “Hmm, funny. She didn’t keep your name?”

I am dead and this is hell, Novotny thought.

“She never used it,” he told Otilio. “Not in the eight years we were married.”

All manner of emotions washed over him with that statement. Disappointment, humiliation, anger, and a core of regret in the pit of his stomach that just wouldn’t go away.

After a long pause Otilio asked, “So, did you two ever. . .you know, mend your fences? Kiss and make up or whatever nauseating cliché is appropriate?”

Novotny let out an uncontrolled bark of laughter before straightening his tie, jacket and ponytail. He slowly retrieved the orders, tidying them before slipping them back into the guard mail envelope.

“Reagan and Qaddafi were on more congenial terms,” he replied.

Otilio scowled as if he’d tasted something sour. “Uh-oh. And now she’s your boss. Technically speaking.”

Novotny’s brain instantly shifted gears. Spinelli. The sentencing phase. Oh, God.

“The press is going to have a field day with this,” he began absently, then the words poured out too fast. “You need to step in with something right away. Don’t give the case to Cassandra. Not to sound sexist, but it’ll look petty if you put those two women going head-to-head over a sex offender. Who’s that new guy from Connecticut? Zelazny, Zelenka? He’s a bit young, but he knows what he’s doing. He’s got the right instincts to go for the jugular with Spinelli. We’ve got to secure that death penalty.”

Otilio let him ramble on and for this Novotny felt grateful.

“We’re going to take care of it, Bass,” Otilio said, rising from behind his desk and coming around it as if to physically close ranks. “We all know where it needs to go. Good call on Zelenka. Nick’s definitely got the chops for it.”

“I’ve got everything printed out and on my desk and my notes from today are on the legal pad I gave to my secretary to transcribe this afternoon,” Novotny rambled again, not able to help himself.

Otilio took his right hand, gripped it hard, his left on Novotny’s shoulder.

“You’re a good man, Bass,” the D.A. told him. “This is a hard hit, but you know you’ve got a job here as soon as the Navy lets you go again.”

Novotny nodded wordlessly.

“Maybe the president is getting ready to sue Saddam,” Otilio joked, patting Novotny’s back as he turned away.

He looked back over his shoulder at the D.A., “You’re probably right. I can’t think of any other reason Emma would condescend to put her name on the same piece of paper as mine.”

They nodded knowingly at one another before Novotny reached for the door knob. A wretched sound came from behind him, a breathy cross between a dying rabbit and air being slowly released from a balloon. Tone-deaf Otilio was attempting to whistle Anchors Aweigh.

“Not funny,” Novotny snapped without turning around.

“Not even a little?” Otilio asked, feigning hurt feelings.

“No, not even remotely.”

Novotny jerked the door open harder than he’d intended and left without another word.

TYPICAL MALE - a novel by Jacqueline L. Landry

2001-05-25T06:31:00.000-07:00

Some things are more important than justice.

Some crimes are above the law.

TEN YEARS AGO in Washington DC, the US Navy Judge Advocate General Corps’ star litigator, Lieutenant Commander Sebastian “Sea Bass” Novotny, failed to advance to full Commander. Feeling his life was at a dead end, he left the Navy. He climbed into a bottle, losing himself and his wife, fellow JAG lawyer, Emma Alden.

Five years ago, Novotny got sober and recovered his legal career.

Now he’s the assistant DA for San Diego County, prosecuting a pedophile serial killer for 14 child murders. It’s the case every prosecutor--and survivor--dreams about. It will catapult him to the highest echolons of legal celebrity.

In the middle of the trial, Novotny is recalled into the Navy, under orders to return to DC. He must turn in his Gucci shoes, Armani suits, beard and ponytail for standard dress blues and a crew cut.

Returning to JAG headquarters under protest, Novotny finds that Alden now out-ranks him and is the Assistant Judge Advocate General. She’s also the defense counsel for the case he’s been assigned to prosecute.

Old wounds are swiftly reopened between Novotny and Alden as they go head to head on a volatile domestic violence case with treacherous undertones.

While mounting the government’s case, Novotny is also saddled with the collateral duty of serving as technical advisor for Kathryn Teller, a famous novelist with a notorious reputation. In the midst of the turmoil, he finds himself losing his war face and falling into an unexpected and dangerous liaison.

Things go from bad to worse as witnesses and evidence disappear. Secrets and lies abound as higher authorities pull the strings and tip the scales of justice. Someone wants an acquittal and will do anything to see it happen . . . even murder.

A Life Called Bootsie

2000-05-25T05:39:00.000-07:00

bootsie: 1. adj./adv. Something undesirable. An inopportune or unfair situation, event, or thing.

“I know God promises not to give me more than I can handle. I just wish he didn’t trust me so much.” –Mother Teresa

“The real voyage of discovery consists not in seeking new landscapes, but in having new eyes.” — Marcel Proust

“A journey is like marriage. The certain way to be wrong is to think you control it.” — John Steinbeck

“I see my path, but I don’t know where it leads. Not knowing where I’m going is what inspires me to travel it.” — Rosalia de Castro

“Courage doesn’t always roar. Sometimes courage is the quiet voice at the end of the day saying, ‘I will try again tomorrow’.” — Mary Anne Radmacher

I’m like a kaleidoscope. I’ve been many places, done many things. My life is not predictable and one of my worst fears professionally is to be anyone’s foregone conclusion. Writer. Artist. Web developer. Trained death investigator. Companion. Librarian. Student. Navy. Lay visitor/minister. A mish-mash of so many different careers.

Writer is dearest to my heart, of course. Like God, it’s been with me my entire life. I wrote my first poem when I was 4. I wrote my first novel and had my first professional article published when I was 14. It is my blood. It is my breath.

Cats. They’re a part of me, too. All rescues who, like me, have seen worst times and better times. Lucullus “Lucas” Maximus, a 7-year old, 30+ pound red-headed gentleman, Kira Nerys, my petite flamepoint Siamese and Alpha female, and Curzon Dax, my darling dilute red tabby baby. They are my children and add unconditional love and boundless humor to my days. Like God, they’re always here and love me even when I’m wretched and no good to anyone, even myself.

And now, as I prepare to finish the final edit of my novel, TYPICAL MALE, and struggle to survive as a low-income, disabled person. . .I continue this journal of the journey. Won't you join me along the road?

Welcome to my strange Bootsie life!

The Pedantic Bohemian

New Blog

HOMELESS in Washington

God is out of the striking-people-dead business, obviously

Idiot's Guide to Organizing Your Life - Oops, I'm doing it wrong!

Bullet Train Time

NOH8 Campaign Public Service Announcement

Hoisted by someone else's petard

Homelessness, Brain Tumors, and Earthquakes. Oh, my!

Forget Chivalry, Where the Hell Did Respect Go?

The Rebirth of the Private Life

The Extinction of Journalism?

OPINION IS NOT NEWS.

PUNDITS ARE NOT JOURNALISTS.

The Rise and Fall of Traditional Journalism

Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3

I am a forgone conclusion, but please don't box me!

Whether it be nurture or nature, the jury is still out. However, I've been like this all my life, as childhood photos prove.

This is obviously the face of a reporter in the making. Sort of Junior Journalist with major 'tude, even at the age of four.

There are also a number of photos of me hamming for the camera. Failed actress trapped in the skin of a writer?

The world may never know. . .

Your type is: ENFP

Extroverted (E) 71.05% Introverted (I) 28.95%Intuitive (N) 63.89% Sensing (S) 36.11%Feeling (F) 62.5% Thinking (T) 37.5%Perceiving (P) 61.76% Judging (J) 38.24%

ENFP - Extroverted Intuitive Feeling Perceiving

That makes me the "Journalist," with an uncanny sense of the motivations of others. Life is an exciting drama. (Or dramedy as the case may be) Only 8.1% of total population fall into this "I'm ready for my close-up Mr. DeMille" category. Which is probably for the best. . .

The Enneagram is a personality system that divides the entire human personality into nine behavioral tendancies. Here are my scores on each:

Broken down, all this means I'm a Type 3:

and, no surprise at all, my variant is Sexual:

And if I were a Cylon I'd be:

THE SAGE - D'Anna Biers #3

Add this to my Vision Board

TYPICAL MALE Quote of the Day

Finding my personal timetable

Some people simply can't be reached

When a friend crosses the line

What is Fibromyalgia?

un-Mother's Day

The Darkness in Me

Cool Water Woman

Hello darkness, my old nemisis

The Cat House on the Kings – No Kill Sanctuary

Which Tarot Card am I?

Living With Chronic Pain - Looking Back

At a loss for words?

Bad bloggist, no chocolate!

Peanut Coconut Thai noodles with Pork

Peanut Coconut Thai noodles with Pork

Chronic Pain and the Empty Sack

Saving your juice

Quote of the Day: Proof-Readers

Limbo vs. Limbaugh - This time it's war

Ms. Potatohead faces the revision deadline head-on

Best article of the day

Returning after a year in hibernation

My very first LOLCats

Still feeling lost. . .

Panic?

On Ambitions

ARGH. . .Writer's Block

On Dignity

On the Truth

On Forgetting

On Life

Research, Homesickness and Pretentious Pig Ear Salads

On the Work

Prayer in the time of Despair?

On Depression. . .Crawling

On Instinct

William Butler Yeats

On Truth

Oh, yeah. . .Valentine's Day

Without God and Coffee...

On Creation

Meeting my Daemon

LJ Writer's Block Challenge: Who taught you to cook?

The reality of a migraine

What and how. . .

Writing and rewriting a novel into the ground

Get your head straight. . .

Happy early Birthday, David Nykl

Extroverted (E) 71.05% Introverted (I) 28.95%
Intuitive (N) 63.89% Sensing (S) 36.11%
Feeling (F) 62.5% Thinking (T) 37.5%
Perceiving (P) 61.76% Judging (J) 38.24%

Some things are more important than justice.

Some crimes are above the law.