Please Nominate Tribe of Tiger!


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If you like me, my writing, or even the abstract cause of Good Writing in general, please consider this!

Because I won NaNoWriMo last year, I got the chance to have an actual human being at Kindle look at my book and give me editorial feedback. To get this, I had to enter Tribe of Tiger (the most recent kitty book) in their Kindle Scout reader nomination program, and that’s why I’m pestering you today: PLEASE, go to this link and nominate my book. It’s just a few clicks. All told, it took my sister less than three minutes, and that was with me on the phone as she did it, which slowed things down.

Here’s the link. It includes the first two and a half chapters of the story–enjoy! (Story reading optional; you can download it onto your Kindle.)

There is a chance that this may actually get me professionally e-published, with an advance ($$$!) and everything. I’m crossing my crossable digits.



Looking for a Word


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(Just skim the two paragraphs of techie art neep if you’re not interested in paint. The essay proper begins below them.)

I just participated in a month-long journal challenge with a group of women artists, and Got Religion–I discovered a new medium! It’s Japanese watercolor, often called “gansai tambi” as that’s the ad blurb used by the manufacturer to describe them.  (It literally means something like “vibrant aesthetic.”) I majored in what I suppose I must now call Western watercolor in college, making full sheet (22×30″) color field paintings (think Rothko, only busier) and thinking I was having the time of my life. Then fast forward thirty years and here’s this stuff that made me squee when I unpacked it. (Disclosure: I had a $50 gift card from doing a survey, and went on Amazon. The 36 pan set, three water brushes, and another six-pan set of metallics left a buck and change on the card; YMMV.)

Part of my honeymoon joy is being forced once again to learn what stuff does–the great thing about the big abstracts I did as a kid is that it showed me pretty much every trick Western watercolor and its French cousin, gouache have up their sleeves. It’s a little like gouache, a little like either sort of tempera in consistency, and behaves on paper like nothing else I’ve found. The pigment is crazy thick and you need a lot of water to make it behave like . . . watercolor. Sigh . . .

Anyway, I whacked out a basic image to use as the Tribe of Tiger cover and came back to the computer because the sun was in my eyes. I noticed, almost as a by-the-way, that I was ecstatic. It was very much a body feeling–a combination of terrific sex, a filling breakfast, and a satisfactory trip to the loo. Oh, and the best coffee. I feel this way every time I make art I’m pleased with, and even when I’m depressed, it makes me feel at least some better, at the very least while I’m making something.

I thought to myself, “Weird. I guess sex is the closest many people get to ecstasy.” Maybe joy too. I don’t know how that makes me feel. Am I right? If so, am I being kind of snobby to feel a bit sorry for them? Or is this more about me being abnormally unimpressed with sex?

Don’t get me wrong–I’ve had some great sex. It just doesn’t hit the same spots as, say, the smell of oil paint, which makes me tremble and moan. I have similar reactions to music I like, which is to say, much of it, but maybe particularly early music (think Byrd and Tallis).

As for writing, the feeling is more subdued, possibly because I’m not getting as much sensory input, and it’s more draining. But I still come away from good sessions feeling like this is why I’ve been put on earth.

So what do y’all think? Especially other creatives–is it better than sex? Is it ecstasy? Or do we need a new word?

Journalish Entry


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inky hand

Who’s procrastinating? I am! I am!

My still foggy brain figured out how to add the photo and still have text next to it; faithful readers with sharp memories will notice this as a new skill. Yay me!

I’ve been depressed for most of the past two months–Christmas cheered me up, which makes me feel shallow and trite, but there it is. (Can a person be trite? Sure they can. We’ve all been trapped at that business dinner.) It’s not that I spend hours gloomily musing on Being and Nothingness, it’s more that I don’t know what to do. (As in, read a book or play a game. As far as Being and Nothingness goes . . . ) Worse, once I figure it out (if I do), I spend seemingly hours getting it done because I am far more easily distracted than usual. This is a common symptom of depression, but I have ADHD, so who can tell?

I am open to suggestions. I can’t take meds, because I either have a weird reaction to them, or they might make me manic. (Trust me–or trust those who’ve been close to me–you don’t want to see me manic. I don’t do anything amusing like start new religious movements, but I do end up in the hospital. Pity. Being manic feels great! Which is why it’s so hard to treat.) I am working my WRAP plan. But here’s the hell of it: If I am trying my best, if I am doing something borderline productive (like blogging), it means I’m having a good day. If I’m having a bad day, I can’t even focus on a video game. Arrghh.

In other news: Although I have been faithful to my protein shake breakfast, to the point where it now feels normal, I’ve only lost about five pounds. I had it pushed a little lower, but the holidays snuck two pounds back on. Sigh. (This matters because I am due for bariatric surgery this spring, and I must lose 16 pounds so they can maneuver around my massive fatty liver, cuddled around my stomach like a protective bloat of tick.) However, I have dropped my application off at the Y, and the guy who Does That will come back from vacation any day now. Sigh. Seeing as I don’t get a surgery date until I see their shrink (March) I have some time. It’s only 11 pounds, right?

Tribe of Tiger (this year’s NaNo and the third in the kitty series–Eureka, published here, is in the same world but is not strictly canon) is SO close to being finished it’s a bit scary. I’m at the point where the next two or three paragraphs will wrap up the main action. There must be a name for this feeling that I should kill somebody off for it to be good art!

I’ve been doing more visual art lately–got involved with an art journal challenge. Seeing as I wimped out on Inktober, I would have been more reluctant, but, golly mo, my daughter makes those blank books! So I begged one that had some invisible flaw, and have been having a great time. Sure, I’m behind, but it’s an improvement over Inktober’s 12-day performance. (To be fair, what slowed me down then was lack of scanner access; I learned from this mistake and have been doing just fine snapping pix from my phone.)

OKCupid (deliberately not linked because drive-bys) used to do this thing where they made you pick three words to describe yourself. So I guess right now they’re fat, depressed, and creative. I could do worse.

St. John’s Eve


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Being a short short story, a couple of weeks late:

The ruen spread his feathered wings as taut as they would go and began his long glide down from the steeple of the fractured church. He landed with a soft thud in the deepest snow and ran a few steps to stabilize himself. He lifted first one claw, then another in distaste, and decided to manifest his talons as booted humanoid feet. He furled his wings into a tidy sleekness and covered himself with a handy piece of shadow, which he gnawed off with his beak.

The resulting hooded, booted figure would not have blended into any crowd save Halloween or a costume con, but the ruen would be avoiding crowds that evening. He strode off, shifting his heavy leather-bound book to one shoulder, where his wing would shelter it from the snow.

Max was also avoiding crowds as such that evening, because he knew the ruen would be too. He had put more thought into his costume, and as a result could have mixed in with any temporary tribe of street person. Max had spent a week getting to know this little grouping, and they made him sad: John and Riva, covered with tattoos and begging from rich tourists before going back to Riva’s parents’ basement and getting high with their take, Mollah the toothless old woman, who could have come from any country but America, and who surrounded herself with bags as if by a shield, Tony “Help a vet” from Idaho, who sat on his lower legs in a very deep and dirty pillow on his wheelchair, and Gunny Ricky, who really was a vet, worn thin and scared and violent by the shadows which pursued him.

Of a variety of ethnicities, ages, and backgrounds, they all had smells which would differ only to a perceptive connoisseur, but would drive most people away from close quarters. (Max had given a fastidious shudder and put together a simple spell that would brand him as another outcast while protecting him from the animal whiff of the others. He had his limits.)

But the grubber who had crept into Max’s heart might have been Max himself thirty years ago. Like Max, Roach wasn’t quite what most people would define as human (although they were all one and the same to the ruen); their people called themselves Th’nashi, which just meant “The People” in their tongue. They had a few differences here and there: most of them had fangs, a few of them had tentacles which they kept well-hidden, and fewer still had sorcery, which was the true secret the Th’nashi sheltered close in pride and fear.

Roach had begun to be a sorcerer, until his masters had burrowed into his brain and left an inhibition there. “Sober as a sorcerer,” was the saying, and Roach was far from sober anymore. The world of nine street-corners was all he knew.

Roach knew Max was Th’nashi too, could just barely sense that with what was left to him to hunt with, but he did not realize the wiry man with the Asianish face was a sorcerer himself, in fact the District Sorcerer of Nova Terra, the most talented sorcerer on the Eastern Seaboard. All Max would admit to was “having had something once upon a time” and then he would pass back the bottle he had pretended to drink from, so that Roach could drink deep and drown himself in that doubtful security.

Max had once been a drunk himself; it was how he had known how to play the part. And back when Max was on the beach, twenty-two and half sunblind, he had once seen a smaller ne’er-do-well get taken away by a ruen. Once sober, he had kept it to himself, but read and studied and talked to taciturn folk who worked with herbs and blood; he had left some of his own in payment for what he had learned.

Tonight was December 26, the Eve of the Feast of St. John the Evangelist. Until the sun rose upon the shattered old church, lit the torturous friezes of the cathedrals, and touched the household shrines of the elderly and devout, the ruen might step down from their pedestals, uncurl themselves from their interweavings, slip loose their plastic moorings, and spread their eagle wings.

If a ruen failed to consume a human soul before the dawn of the Feast of St. John, it would be frozen in the form of a statue forever and would never fly again. They focused on those whose souls were deep buried beneath the snow and ice of life—drugs, alcohol, and the sort of madness which stems from the guilt of unforgiveable sin. Unless, like Max, one actually saw a ruen’s dark-feathered swoop, its claws close around a heart, and its plunge back into the sky trailing a something, one would never believe it or miss the victim.

Not all depictions of the Evangelist were ruens, although many famous ones had been before they had been stilled at last. Nobody knew exactly what they were: Matthew, Mark, and Luke stayed stoic on their perches.

Max once again said to Roach, “You can give it a shot. Works for some.” Worked for me. But his attention wasn’t on the boy’s whining tonight. He was listening for softness and the rustle of feathers.

The sun was long gone, and the urban sky a mass of holiday lights through the heavy snow. John and Riva, realizing that the sort of naïve generosity on which they depended had gone home, went down into the subway; Mollah and her bags had long since shuffled and rustled onto a small van heading for a women’s night shelter. Now Tony rolled onto a surreptitious side street, and hustled into the warmth of his wife’s BMW while she folded his wheelchair, and Gunny Ricky shouldered his duffle bag and headed off to Kensington Street, where there were benches on which to spread his tarp.

“Tomorrow, men. Sleep warm.” He reached with pleading eyes for the bottle.

Roach gave him a thumbs up and watched him drink. “Semper fi, Ricky.” He offered the bottle to Max, who played his charade, and then zipped it back into the top layer of hoodies he was wearing.

Max didn’t want to leave either man alone that night. He had made the human mistake of getting attached to these two, but he decided that a combat-crazed former Marine might, just might, give the ruen a wrassle for its money, giving him time to sprint over from the spot he shared with Roach, which was a broad doorway facing the churchyard. The two of them headed there now. Max had a battered Army/Navy surplus duffle, but all Roach had was a couple of retail bags from Save-Mart with a blanket spilling out of the hole in the bottom.

Max’s sleeping bag was a minor work of art, in that he had worked hard to get it to look like a piece of trash. Instead, it was rated to -40 degrees and made this patch of sleeping rough more like a camping vacation. Not that he would sleep tonight, but he set down his peripheral spells anyway. Ordinary human monsters looking for a bum to set on fire wouldn’t notice them tonight; nor would the cops.

A ruen had superhuman strength, hampered only by its disorientation at being in a motile body, which slowed it down. Max was an eighth-dan black belt in karate and was himself superhumanly strong, although nowhere near as much so as a being whose mortal form still mostly consisted of stone. Points, ruen, but not many, seeing as they didn’t know how to fight—they swooped upon their prey with the expectation of pigeon, not wildcat. More annoying to Max, they were immune to sorcery, and that was his home base, as it were.

That was why he had gone seeking those who knew the more esoteric magicks of the world. Sorcery followed the rules of physics, by and large—but magick had rules of its own. He hoped they worked. He wished he had shared this task, told somebody where he was, what he was doing. Too late for that now.

Much too late. He heard the whistle of huge feathers and for one frozen second, thought the ruen had come for him, still somehow able to smell a year and a half in the sun and the booze. Within that second, it all flashed before him: This was his nightmare, unrecalled in the daytime, but which had sent him on his quest. Not knowledge, nor a noble desire to do the world good by ridding it of a true monster—just fear of feeling the icy claws in his own chest.

But it was Roach, as Max had calculated, Roach who had already tossed ten years into the bottle and was well willing to waste ten more. The ruen had landed on his chest with its boots, and clacked some ancient and alien words of self-abuse. It manifested its talons, and gained the air again for a second strike.

I hope this works. It’s probably such a young language for it, Max thought. Let’s get the show on the road, and if this doesn’t work, there are always fireballs.

“In principio erat Verbum, et Verbum erat apud Deum, et Deus erat Verbum!” he cried, and reached into his vest for his grandfather’s flask, heavy and ornate Victorian silver. He had the Latin Vulgate at heart in places, and few were as dear to him as this: In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. . . He uncorked it with one hand and began tossing out a grainy red and white powder. “Hoc erat in principio apud Deum. Omnia per ipsum facta sunt; et sine ipso factum est nihil quod factum est!”

The powder had broken Max’s heart, in a way; it had been a non-conformist Bible with rubrications, even older than Grandfather Narmer’s flask. He had cut out all the words of Jesus, still red after all those decades, and snipped them as fine as scissors could snip, before running the whole thing through a mortar and pestle. Now, however, it was taking the promised effect.

“In ipso vita erat, et vita erat lux hominum,” Max chanted. As the old conjuh woman had promised, at the first words the ruen had ceased its attack and fumbled for its book in a frenzy, opening it to the beginning, which Max was quoting at it. But then the powder began hitting it in spits, mixed with the driving snow, and it screamed in agony as the pulverized scripture began hitting its body, dissolving it away like acid.

Roach had crawled away wide-eyed. Left alone, he would pass it off in the morning as a DT-fed hallucination. Young Max would have done the same, but he had been a finer sorcerer before his fall, and fascinated with old tales and whispers.

Max had chosen a church Bible to use—some would say desecrate—but he needed as much of the powder as one Bible would hold. Even so, he was running out. “Et lux in tenebris lucet et tenebrae eam non conprehenderunt!” he screamed. He blinked away tears. After his sobering, Max had joined the Lions of Mercy, and those words were engraved on all their chapels: And the light shineth in the darkness, and the darkness comprehendeth it not.

Max had sworn himself to the light.

The ruen crumbled. Whatever unfathomable magicks had caused it to embody itself as poor St. John, they had decreed that the ruen play by the rules binding its impersonation.

Max drew a long, shaky breath, then flashed his fangs at Roach. “Pretty fly for a vampire,” he joked. The Th’nashi were only the sources of the stories; they needed blood on a regular basis but did no lasting harm to the human “donors,” nothing more than that and the sorcery.

“What was that thing, man?” Roach gasped. “What are you?”

Max sighed. “That was a monster. They’re called ruen, and they come for your life after you’ve made a decision to throw it away. I’m a recovering drunk, and you might say I’ve come for your life to give it one more chance.”

Roach blinked, looking at the flask in Max’s hand, which was still dribbling grayish powder flecked with red. He had no words.

Max seized the advantage. “Come with me. Just for a little bit. We’ll talk about sorcery and what not, and if it doesn’t take, all of your misery will be refunded.” He gestured to the subway, then caught himself. “Unless gating makes you sick?”

Roach shook his head. The two men shimmered and were gone.

Down the street, Gunny Ricky tightened his grip on his St. John medal, and smiled in his sleep.




Colossal Lack of Insight! Film at 11!


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For the past couple of months, I’ve been getting the looming feeling that Something Big was about to happen. I was going to (moan) Grow. I’m not given to premonitions–historically, I’ve made most of the decisions in my life in the split second before they came out of my mouth, surprising myself well over half the time. (Work in progress, folks. Medication helps.) So I started to worry that something weird and horrible was going to happen.  Didn’t think it was the upcoming surgery. Then the thing just did, and I didn’t even realize it until a few minutes ago.

Yesterday I went to my shrink of the past seven years, and she told me she’d gotten a well-deserved promotion and was stepping away from clinical practice. Translation: I’m getting the boot. I have a couple more sessions; she suggested enthusiastically that she be the one to talk to the bariatric people; and then I take a two-month hiatus. I’m going to need all the support I get post-surgery, and I know that, even if I’m not anticipating the psychotic break some previously-blogged-about hospitals did. So I will be starting off with somebody new.

I said something about my premonition, and said in all seriousness that I would want to continue talk therapy when it hit. I said this with absolutely no self-awareness that THIS was it; that it already had hit. I mean, duh? This thought just wandered into my brain 22 hours later.

I owe a lot to this woman. Speaking broadly and with political incorrectness, I was still crazy when I got to her, and now I’m not crazy anymore. When you’re starting off with more than one major psychiatric disorder, that is huge. The process wasn’t as emotional as my previous therapy had been–you know the sort, where I ended up a small child coloring while sitting on the floor, therapist down there with me–but little by bit, she helped me tease out about a million little things, and my life became less chaotic. We did a lot of good work, and I am a happier and much more productive person for it.

In the novel of my life, a chapter (or a story arc) is ending. Something Big, indeed.

(But what was up with the premonition? Are they going to keep happening now? Noooo!)

The Adventure Continues


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Sorry to have been AWOL for so long, but between Inktober (which I didn’t do very well on) and NaNoWriMo (squeaked by), my creative energies have been sucked dry. In fact, in the interest of full disclosure, I’m making this post because all I need to do is tell what happened, not pull it Athena-like out of my forehead.

Last post: I finally decided to go for bariatric surgery, and joined the program at Beth Israel, where I had my knees replaced last year. I ended with being about to join the new patient group.

Well, no, bunkies. That didn’t happen.

Instead, I got a call a couple of days beforehand from a social worker who wanted me to come in to talk about my *chord of ominous music* Mental Health. So I get there, and am told that my diagnosis of Dissociative Identity Disorder scared the bejeebers out of their staff. My favorite line from this interview was the lady saying, “As it is, we have patients say they feel like an entirely different person afterwards.” (This sort of thing has nothing whatsoever to do with the alters experienced in DID.) In vain did I try to educate her, both about DID in general (spectrum disorder; not often as dramatic as Sybil) and my case in particular (well-controlled thanks to excellent therapy; don’t dissociate anymore). She managed somehow to combine “Sympathetic and on your side” with “Boy howdy, ain’t you the freak!” She claimed they’d never had a DID patient. (Well, if you don’t let them into your program . . .)

They kicked me out of the program. She told me (with the tiniest sneer) that there were over 30 programs in the city. I said, “Yeah, but my insurance sent me here.” She gave a cryptic little smile and suggested I call them back. Sheep you, honey.

Happily, said insurance covered the programs at the other huge local hospitals, so I steeled myself for a round of phone calls. I started out with Boston Medical Center, because I happen to work for them. I am a Certified Peer Specialist, which means I’m professionally qualified to deal with my fellow mentally ill and to be a Shining Example of Recovery. In other words, they hired me because I’m crazy, so I figured they’d have their nerve turning me down for the same reason, right?

I call and get the coordinator. I gave her the two sentence version of the BI story and said, “So BI thinks I’m too crazy to cut. What about you guys?” In an impassive voice, she replied, “We take everybody. Come on in and talk to the surgeon.”

Well now! I watch what by now is the third informational video, and pick the surgeon who seems most sympatico. I went in and talked to this very nice man, who has operated on people who were unrecovered schizophrenics. (Even really crazy people deserve medical care, folks.) The worst news I got from him is that my GERD means he sorta leans toward the RNY gastric bypass instead of the gastric sleeve, which is the procedure I want.

He had heard my story about Beth Israel and their weirdly creepy head surgeon before.

So why did this happen? Because what BI’s bariatric program is doing is called cherry-picking their data. This means that by refusing to treat people they fear may have less than picture-perfect outcomes, their end data looks amazing. They claim they’re the best program in the area, when all they are is a pack of hyenas who share the same level of accreditation with hospitals which actually (be still my overweight heart) heal the sick.



A New Adventure Begins


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Discerning readers will vaguely recall that I had my first heart attack the day before last New Year’s Eve. This surprised absolutely nobody, as my BMI is pushing 50 the way those guys on the Tokyo subways cram in the commuters. It wasn’t a BIG heart attack, feeling more like recalcitrant indigestion, but when they got inside with the widdy-bitty camera, my right coronary artery was 95% blocked. A little bit of titanium fixed that mo-fo, but in the recovery room, a nurse shared that they called situations like mine “One cheeseburger away.” (Hear that, Elizabeth? I’m comin’ to join ya, honey!)

Since then I have been on three new meds and had the dosage cranked on the Lipitor. And I’ve felt fine, except for a rather Victorian over-attention to my heart. I went in to see the cardiologist for the six-ish month check-in this Monday expecting only to possibly be released from a pill or two.

Instead, he scolded me for letting the baby aspirin lapse, and told me I was taking it for the rest of my life. And while he was on the topic of “the rest of my life,” he in so many words intimated that it would be a short story unless . . .

“Have you ever thought of bariatric surgery?”

Now, every fat person in the Western world has at least thought about it, so I parried by sharing my PCP’s aversion to the practice. (Malabsorption issues.) The cardiologist pooh-poohed this; said they had that under control, and went down the list: Diabetes, high blood pressure, high cholesterol, and the ever-looming sin of having a heart-attack at only 54.

Now, I am something of a fat activist. People were saying stupid stuff to me about my weight back when I was only 170, which is a hundred pounds or so ago. *I* was saying stupid stuff to myself back when I was in high school, at 129. I got tired of it after I had the kids and found that the baby weight had come to stay. So I left myself alone about it–started buying jeans that actually fit instead of jamming myself into a number that I thought was more reasonable than reality. I started being nicer to myself, which was groovy, seeing as sporadic attempts to Do Something about it kept putting another several pounds on, topped with the five I picked up from being sidelined by the double knee replacement last year.

I now weigh 274; been told I carry it well, but apparently my coronary artery wasn’t listening to the compliments.

The cardiologist, a former Marine, doesn’t do bullshit, but he doesn’t do fat-bashing, either. He was just laying out the facts, and this week I heard him. (It didn’t hurt that the podiatrist told me last week that my clumsy attempt to continue cutting my own toenails wasn’t gonna fly and I had to leave it to the professionals, ’cause I can’t really reach them anymore.)

I got referred to Local Hospital, which my insurance told me was out of network, and then went to (sigh) Beth Israel, where I had my knees done, so at least I know them there.

I discovered that the road to bariatric weight loss is long and dotted with hurdles: Mandatory info sessions. Psychologists. Social workers. And of course nutritionists and exercise physiologists and about a billion nurses. I need to have tried (failed) at least two formal attempts to lose weight. This is a bit of a sticking point for me, as I’ve never done Weight Watchers or fen-phen or any other fad, because I already knew what the surgery people posted in their PowerPoint: Only 5% of the people who do them succeed. At least I had a little time with a personal trainer. Sigh.

I don’t know how this story ends, but that’s the sitch whenever I begin a new book, so I guess we’ll have to wait and see. A big part of me wants to hide under the covers and pretend it’s not happening, but I know I need to be really social about this and have support. (Besides, it’s a Rule of the Blogosphere.)

Next stop for Beth Israel: I join a “new patient group.” Next stop for me: I tell my PCP on Monday. Yeep.

Woo-Woo Scale for New Age Books


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1—My Journey

2—Crystals  are Our Friends

3—My Trek Through Holistic Healing: Drugs You Have to Google

4—Karma: Love It or Hate It?

5—All You Need to Do is Breathe. Or Cleanse. Whatever.

6—Whaddya Mean, You Don’t Have the Money to go to X and Experience Y?

7—Our Upcoming Evolution

8—Jesus Helped Me Write This

9—My Dog Helped Me Write This

10—(must bring in saucer people in a meaningful way)

When I Last Saw Skoll


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I was twenty-one and five days married. I had to work that day, and I came outside to a wonderland of twinkling sidewalk crescent reflections from the leaves of the elm trees, each fragment of light tossed through a natural pinhole camera. I was overwhelmed by their evanescent beauty and at the same time, I felt like the kid at the carnival: “When’s it coming back, Daddy?”

My space physicist husband gave me an answer that I don’t remember, but I wailed, because I would be an oooolllldddd old lady. Well, if you pick that answer as equal to “the next eclipse you’re aware of,” today is that day.

I’m not quite 55. In other words, what the twenty-somethings call an old lady.

I have this dim memory of my younger self envisioning somebody who was unable to enjoy life in any way; diapers-support hose-mobility device dependent. I will cop to the cane, and admit that heart disease, diabetes, and hypertension have reared their ugly heads. But I don’t feel old.  (Just fat.) My quality of life is quite high as of now. What was that kid thinking? No wonder she couldn’t picture getting from here to there, because we’re not there yet!

I think the uncomfortable feeling of this long-buried memory, triggered by today’s sun-swallow, hit me as it did because I have been haunted by that helpless old woman for quite some time.  I throw a tantrum every time I get AARP mail because she’s their customer, not me! I am in love with Grace and Frankie because they are helping me re-imagine the possibility of what seventy might look like.

Not being a genetically skinny person, I have few illusions about this, but it’s fun to realize that I will likely still get a kick out of it when Skoll the wolf next hunts his prey.


Turning the Pages


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I think it was my “year off” getting my knees replaced that did it. The tiny Kindle was a sanity-saver (and a hats-off to Project Gutenberg, while we’re on the topic) and I got disconnected from paper books. But then, I haven’t been a big consumer of even paper books since the dissertation. My recovery from that segued into a depressive episode, and when I emerged, I was in a life where I’d read/reread most of my books. (I view libraries as evil guilt-producing crackmasters, and have been known to brag about my current immaculate relationship with Cambridge Public the way people in recovery show off their five-year chips.)

By then, I’d started writing, and I had this idea from some quote somewhere that the more I’d read, then the less I’d write–and I’d risk sounding derivative of the writer. So for quite a while, the most complex prose I had was my daughter’s subscription to Cosmopolitan. (Don’t knock it. It ‘splained how to keep my eye shadow out of the creases. I’m a little sad that my daughter traded up to National Geographic.)

I gradually began to read Victorians and mysteries (and have now discovered Victorian mysteries). But then I got a gig of reading and commenting on other people’s novels, so all of a sudden I was reading for a living. Very weird. Sometimes I get a manuscript that is slick clean classy content–and then I don’t, and have to force myself to sit my ass in the chair for five, ten, fifteen minutes as a whack. Mercifully, I read fast. And eventually, I got used to being a writer too. The whole thing made me pickier about what I’d read for fun.

However, my daughter and I always stop by our favorite bookstore when we’re out, and I pick something out with the best of intentions. It is added to the stack, but every so often one jumps into my purse if the Kindle is charging, or if it’s Neil Gaiman, apparently.

So, there I am with  Neverwhere in the waiting room. My shrink emerges and gushes over *book* reading, claiming that studies have shown there to be superior cognitive benefit from the physicality of the book. I must admit I recall little of the Kindle-corn I’ve been consuming all year, but had put that down to the quality of writing.

My books (Long Leggedy Beasties, Things that Go Bump in the Night, their forthcoming cousins) are non-physical. I’ve been trying not to feel bad about that. This doesn’t help. Sigh.

You’re reading from a screen right now–what do you think?