Bent Spoons & Writing

I laughed out loud when I was putting the washed dishes away. I came to one of our spoons that we bought at the .99 cents store. These are spoons that are all right to take to work, and if we happen to lose them, no problem. The spoon looked more bent than usual. It made me recall fragments of a dream where I had taken a fork in my hand and I was bending it will all my might. I’m not sure why I was doing it, who would bend a fork in their dream?

And then when I was doing something the other day, I had recalled another dream. As I thought more about it, I realized it very much had the elements of a Ray Bradbury story. Spaceship. Time Travel. Relatives. Visiting. How strange. I couldn’t help myself and started re-reading his essays on creativity because when he talks about his work, I become excited. Is that how I made the connection with my dream, a dream I had forgotten about and then remembered when something made me remember—not reading Bradbury, something else—a conversation. A commercial? I’m not sure. Even though I can’t imagine myself completely writing straight fiction, I think I might be able to write stories of other worlds—fantasy or spiritual worlds.

A few years back when I went for a Tarot reading the reader saw travel in my cards, but not travel by way of air, boat, or train. She saw me creating worlds, traveling through my writing. Interesting. I also had a similar reading later on when I sat with a Tarot reader in the French Quarter of New Orleans. He had a wizardly look about him. He had been around. He saw things. I felt as though I had crossed into another time sitting there at his small table. I was in the French Quarter and I was also in a world larger than I could imagine. Writing was there in those cards. There were other things that I cannot remember specifically, but I remember being misty eyed when I got up to walk away. I wanted to howl and shed tears to allow the droplets to come rushing out. I continued walking in a way lost and also quite found within myself and being there with a purpose of self-affirmation—not affirmation of writing—plain and true affirmation of self.

Bits of Books and Life

The sky and this cloud formation washed over me. I almost didn’t take the photo. I went to unzip my bag to get my iPod Touch out to snap a photo, then I stopped. I continued admiring the sunset and the electric clouds framed by the pines and the sky. And then, there I was, I couldn’t resist and I took several photos and this one is “the one.” When I looked at it on the screen I thought of the art of William Blake, the intensity and light that is found in his pieces.

I see a woman and she is dancing and she is rising up through his trunk—through and around this Cloud King. She is in rapture as she spreads into his being, exchanging light for light. This moment she will keep and she will revisit in her dreams and she will dream and dream and dream.

**

A short story collection that I picked up a few weeks back while searching the science fiction/fantasy shelves of Barnes & Noble is Stories: All-New Tales Edited by Neil Gaiman and Al Sarrantonio. I haven’t read a whole lot of science fiction or fantasy and I thought this would be a mellow collection. I’m trying to read the stories in order but I did skip to the shortest story to see what that was like. I didn’t care much for it. It didn’t seem like there was enough there at three pages. I’m going to read it again. Not too soon though. I did skip over one story because I wasn’t in the mood for characters to be going back and forth saying, “shit” and “fuck” in the dialogue. Maybe I’m exaggerating. Just wasn’t in the mood for profanity in short story that day. I’m fine with some cursing. I’ll come back to that one much later, though, when I’m in that kind of a mood.

I have about a handful or maybe two handfuls of various short story anthologies. One is from an English class and the other is from a creative writing course. It’s interesting how many stories don’t get read and discussed in a class. The instructors have to pick and choose and though I did read other stories beyond the instructor’s choices, I hardly read them all. One of my favorites is Junichiro Tanizaki’s “The Tattooer.” That made me go out and buy his other books. I read The Key and a few others sit on my shelves to be read another time. The psychological depth pulled me in and kept me there. One other short story that comes to mind that made me laugh is Woody Allen’s short story The Kugelmass Episode. I’m a fan of his movies and humor and I enjoyed this one very much.

I’ve had a mixed relationship with short stories. Even though they are short, if it doesn’t grab me, I get impatient—more impatient than with a novel. With a novel, I’ll keep going until page 60 or 100 before I give up. But with a short story, as short as they are, I want something to happen fast; I want to like the characters and I want to love the words and I want to feel satisfied when I reach the end. It seems that, as in a game of chess, the ending is often the most challenging part. Opening, playing the middle game, these tasks offer their own challenges but to be able to bring your reader satisfaction and to not feel that you’ve reached a stalemate in an otherwise good game—story—but to create an ending that makes you feel that it was worth reading—that is art. This is something for me to think about if I decide to write short stories of my own. Something needs to happen and we need to come of changed in some way or relived or...

Of the short story collections I have, I’ve dipped in and out of them over the year’s barley making a dent. There are some stories I loved and many that I didn’t connect with. It’s not realistic, but a part of me would like to connect with all the short stories I read. That’s not how it works, though. I know better than that. 

Reading is such a personal experience and no two readers are alike, but I still wonder about this one. It’s also interesting to note all the different ways to tell a story, even though there are certain rules, I never know what it is about a story that will take me in and hold me there. This changes too. I’m looking forward to my upcoming class. We have a large anthology of short stories we will be reading and I think we are expected to read it all. This is good because at times I need motivation for certain things. That must be why I put myself in situations where I will be maintain motivation. Part of writing about these books and short stories brings me back and it always pushes me forward. So I think the anticipation for the class and other events is causing me to think of and pull out these anthologies and collections that I have.

I realize that my reading habits are scattered and I will read five pages from this book, then however many pages from that book, and another and…Do the stories start blending together? Does the fiction and non-fiction become entwined? It does allow me to see what’s calling to me strongest. There’s a book that I want to get back to and it’s going to be due back to the library soon, but something is stopping me. My main book right now is Rebecca (there’s a story and a blog behind this one when I’m done with it), and I’m reading a short novel by Alexis M. Smith called Glaciers. I haven’t gotten back to Aging with Grace, but I keep adding it to the daily rotation shuffle. I just picked up Fire Season: Field Notes from a Wilderness Lookout by Philip Connors. I saw this one when I went into a small bookstore over the weekend. It saw it there on one of the tables. Current nature writing and reflection combined into one. I had to have it. And then a few weeks back I started reading Muriel Spark’s Reality and Dreams. I’m half way through and as I look at the book and see where I am, I wonder, do I need to start this one over or has enough of the plot stuck with me. The first sentence of the first chapter got me: “He often wondered if we were all characters in one of God’s dreams.” I can repeat this to myself over and over and I feel that any one of us could take that sentence and weave our own tale. I was enjoying this short novel and then I stopped because other books pushed their way through and lately I’ve had a harder time finding longer pockets of time to devote to reading. And I want to read Another Country: Navigating the Emotional Terrain of Our Elders by Mary Pipher, Ph.d.  I came to this one reading another book. I keep finding I have to re-check out The Reading Promise: My Father and the Books We Shared by Alice Ozma. Each time I recheck it out, I get further. Progress. And I may never get back to So Many Books, So Little Time: A Year of Passionate Reading because I’m trying to get through my own reading. And I started Animal Farm. Attention span is all over the place. The book I mentioned earlier that I seem to not be coming back to but want to is called The Anthologist by Nicholson Baker. I must say this one is interesting, different, and witty. And do any of you have a bathroom book? I know that may seem odd, too personal—I don’t know. I have certain books that I take to keep me company and the one that has been that book on and off for years is Inevitable Grace: Breakthroughs in the Lives of Great Men and Women: Guides to Your Self-Realization by Piero Ferrucci. This is a special book and even if I only read a paragraph or a few pages, I come out feeling or learning something and nodding my head yes or thinking and reflecting further. Once I spent a longer period of time in the bathroom than was necessary and my significant other asked, “What were you doing in there all that time?” And I said to him, “I was reading.”

I had to take myself to the library yesterday to study and do homework for my accounting class. It was difficult to not look at books. I quickly looked in the new section and found a newer Thich Nhat Hanh book and a new astrology book that discusses signs born on the cusp of another sign. I took those books and set them aside and got down to accounting. Then after about an hour of work, I cracked the books. I decided to leave the astrology book behind. I got what I needed from it. Back to accounting. When it was time to go I took one last look—a sort of reward for sticking to my work—at the fiction on the new shelf. I did find one book that caught my attention. It’s a debut novel called South of Superior by Ellen Airgood. Under her photo, her bio says: “Ellen Airgood runs a diner in Grand Marais, Michigan. This is her first novel.” Well all be darn. Simple. It was nice to not see all the publications and educational accolades for a change. I read the short prologue and like the writing. I think this is going to be a good story. I’m will have to make the time and be assertive with myself and weave it into the reading mix. There are probably books that I forgot about or got buried in piles, but these are the ones that I would really like to finish in the next few months and if I don’t at least I can remember then and come back to them later.

I almost forgot. A few days ago I did finish Don DeLillo’s short novel, The Body Artist. The receipt is still in the book so I know that the first time I tried to read this book was in January of 2002. I bought this one at Orinda Books and thank goodness that small bookstore is still around. I had trouble with this one the first time I began reading it. I put it away, tried from the beginning again years later and then because when I went to see Jonathan Franzen speak and he mentioned DeLillo, it brought me back to this book, which I kept. The opening is beautiful and calls me right in:

“Time seems to pass. The world happens, unrolling into moments, and you stop to glance at a spider pressed to its web. There is a quickness of light and a sense of things outlined precisely and streaks of running luster on the bay. You know more surely who you are on a strong bright day after a storm when the smallest falling leaf is stabbed with self-awareness. The wind makes a sound in the pines and the world comes into being, irreversibly, and the spider rides the wind-swayed web” (page 9).

I’m ready to read this book again. If you haven’t read it, I would say make sure you’re in the mood to suspend whatever you think will follow that captivating opening. The dialogue can feel like walking through thick mud at times, but if you keep going—slowly and taking it in with all your senses, you may just want to start over again too.

Listening to conversations, going to watch authors speak, taking classes, reading blogs—interacting with life in some way—listening, observing—all of these experiences lead to more books, to more worlds—to new found connections.

Pulled into the web of life, if I see the silk lowered to me, I take it gladly—I hang on and enjoy the ride.

Here is Where I am…

Here is Where I am…

Here is where I’m at: I attended my first ever writer’s group meeting—Me, the quiet one who doesn’t speak up in class. Me, the quiet one that is outgoing on the page, but not so much in person, except the rare occasion. The quiet one, who usually avoids these types of things—has decided that I can’t be too quiet for much longer anymore. It’s time to peel myself from the wall of quiet wild flowers.

As most of you know, since I’ve blogged about it, I have been part of writing classes and we did do a few workshops, but mostly the critiquing occurred online only. This is the first time I’ve gone through the process with a live group.

Out of respect for the group, I will not go into detail about the group itself, except to say it’s a fine bunch of writers of varying writing interests, all with the shared goal of publication. Some have already published and some are still working on it.

What I can say is I learned a lot in my first session and that the critiquing process and feedback is helpful. The group is constructive and encouraging and I’m thankful that they allowed me membership in the group.

**

Here is where I’m at: For the first time in my life, as a writer, I am in a sort of limbo as to how exactly to label what I write. I don’t like labels, but I know they have their place; there is a necessity to their existence.

What do I write? I am a journal writer, but I realize that in addition to being a journal writer, because I like to process my surroundings and interactions with people, places, and things—I tend to write reflective pieces. I like the freedom of free writing, and when I allow myself, I like the stream of consciousness aspects that sneak into my writing. I write a lot about my grandmother and my own life and observations, so in that regard I write memoir. I also enjoy writing personal essays, but I don’t know how many of my blogs can be called essays.

What I’m running into—the new crossroads that I’ve encountered is what to share in the writing group for critique—with the intent to submit for publication or to build a collection that I self-publish, etc. The first piece of writing that I submitted for sharing was taken from my blog. But when I step back, if I am to take this approach, I need a direction. I need to decide or visualize a finished product because my blogs are a mix of different types of writing. I’ve written vignettes, but what do I do with them if I envision including them as part of a collection? What if I want to create a book that is part memoir, part reflection, part essay, part poetry? How do I include all of these pieces of me into one whole? Or, and it could be an “And” instead of “Or”—do I begin working on small pieces that I’ve scribbled in my notebooks that I haven’t posted to my blog yet—do I submit new pieces and figure out how it all fits together?

Another interesting dynamic that I run into is that since I am new to the group and this is my first meeting, you, my dear readers have a sense of where I’ve been. This is a small note, but it’s an interesting feeling to have written so much and to have in a way “published” it and now trying to make sense of it because when I write, it’s like I’m sitting down to a “job” that I love—one that involves words and sharing. So is this enough? I think it is enough to a certain extent and it feels good to put myself on the page and there’s always more to learn and there are always improvements to be made.

So from now on, from month to month, as I decide what piece of my writing I will submit for the group to critique—and the beauty is that I can select any type of writing, as long as it’s with the intent of publication, since that is the aim of the group—I face the challenge of having a different audience, not just me—not just my blog readers, but other readers. I always write for myself and at the same time I write for others. I write to explore, to examine, to feel, to find out, and many other reasons—and I write as best I can at any given moment in time. Sometimes, the words come right out and other times, they get stuck, but I tell myself, time and time again—to keep going, just keep writing and this part is becoming easier (knock-on-wood). The part that is now new to me and a challenge since I decided to become a part of a writer’s group is that I have to figure out how I take what I already have and some of what I haven’t yet written and figure out if it has any value packaged as a book—a book of reflections and memories by Rebbecca Hill (Rebb).

The journey will be interesting for sure. The group has members with clear goals. I, on the other hand, am still in limbo trying to figure out exactly what my goal is besides a Children’s book, but I’m not ready to present that yet because I still have work to do on it and I want to work on the other parts first and from month to month I can change it up.

That’s where I am today—or right now. We’ll see how the plot develops. I know fiction is not my container. Even though I will be taking the short story writing class in the fall, I am taking it knowing that my goals are enjoyment, but also learning more in depth about what makes a successful short story. I know the class will be a challenge and I look forward to learning more about the art of the short story. I would like to continue learning how to incorporate creative elements to my own writing. But, I know in my heart of hearts that I can possibly be imaginative with children’s stories, but when it comes to my other writing, I do best when I write about the truth—about what I see and maybe sometimes I can tell it slant—I’m not sure yet. I’m not good at making things up for my characters. What I gravitate towards is holding life up with the tips of my fingers and examining it—life’s beauties and the nooks and crannies in between—and also how I process life. Is this enough? If any of it touches just one person in some way, that’s enough.

I don’t think I could imagine myself not blogging. I’d like to imagine myself blogging into eternity.

Computer Glitches & An Evening with Jonathan Franzen

Breathe… In and out. Computer problems are a good way to practice breathing to keep from becoming too frustrated and that is what I am finding myself doing this morning. As I began reading and commenting on blogs, the internet connection was lost. First a yellow shading across the bars and now a big red X. I turned off the wireless router, turned it back on, and was patient, did my morning pages, stopped when I saw a sign of life and then it died again. It’s been at least 20 minutes now. I’m almost done with my decaf coffee and don’t feel quite satisfied because usually my coffee goes hand in hand with my blog reading. I could shout at the computer, yell profanities into the air, but that wouldn’t do any good. So I calmly breathe, take a big deep breathe and move on to other things, this being one of them. I’ve been running into this internet problem intermittently now for it seems days, even weeks. I’m not sure if it’s the hardware or the service provider.

Breathe. Computers and technology have a way of presenting opportunities to slow down, to step back, be patient, cool off. I don’t feel too annoyed, but I’m aware of wanting to do one thing and then I can’t and I feel like a child whose candy has been taken away. And in my morning page, nothing much was happening and I was thinking about that in general about how writing and to want something to always happen and to be able to convey it without allowing the editor or critic any space. It’s a constant up and down battle in a way, a battle with the self or wanting, to let loose and to know and be familiar with that feeling, of the wild feeling, but of not fully allowing the self to express. And it’s something that Jonathan Franzen said last night in his talk—about loyalty to the writer—that each writer comes to a point where they question who will be affected by what they write and of course when it concerns published work in the form of fiction and non-fiction by a best-selling author your talking about a much wider audience and of course your family or friends will see it and they may be hurt or angry or upset by it, but the writer has to be loyal to self. I needed to hear this advice as a way of breaking open the tight bud that sometimes wont allow its own self to flourish because it hasn’t learned yet to trust itself entirely and it knows there are thorns but the thorns are part of the process—the necessary element; and the bud—tightly wrapped—knows this intuitively and she watches herself and she opens and closes; opens and closes. It’s a long beautiful, ever growing process—a constant death and rebirth of self.

And when he consulted with an old friend on how to handle what he was writing about one day, his friend told him to write around it. Jonathan Franzen tells us we can write through it or write around it.

Franzen is a funny man. He came onto the stage, carrying a black backpack slung over his shoulder and he looked out to us, as with a nod to say hello. It seemed to me that he had this backpack as a way of holding on to something and I like that it was so causal. A backpack. He put the backpack on the table and commented on how he liked the table and everyone laughed. He took a folder from his backpack and opened on the podium, gather his pages. He unscrewed the cap from his water, took a swig. His movements were tentative and deliberate at the same time.

I’ve never read anything by Franzen and I only knew he would be here because I saw the mini-flyers in the library. Of course I wanted to see what this famous author had to say to us about memoir and fiction. In the interim I had checked out a few of his essay collections to get a sense of the man I would see speak. I read the introduction of one and was not immediately pulled into the essays of the first book, but I recognized most of the introduction in the notes that he was reading to us. I was certain of it, though I don’t think he directly mentioned that he would be reading from his book, but I recognized those words and no wonder he would choose to open his talk with the four questions that are usually asked of any published author and so he read through them as though he had prepared the speech for this talk. But then when I did a Wikipedia search, you can find the questions there, I thought, did I imagine reading the words he was speaking? Did I google him and forget? Why did I feel like I’ve heard these words? I don’t know the real answer, but the audience laughed at his delivery. It was informatively funny.

I laughed a lot because he’s funny and his voice reminded me of Steve Martin and also the narrator that also sounds like Steve Martin, narrating Steve Martin’s book An Object of Beauty. He has a punctuated way of speaking, and the way he read his work was how I believe I read it. The way I would read his work, matched his own voice reading his work. I was drawn into his thick black rimmed glasses, that reminded me of Buddy Holly. Physically, his face reminded me of the actor, Tim Robbins. Odd that Franzen made me think of these three people.

By the way, I loved An Object of Beauty. I like Martin’s writing style. His writing is confident and flows. He is in command. I read his novella, Shopgirl, a long time ago and he seems to have a fascination with exploring the relationships of younger woman falling for older men. I can relate to that in my past relationships. He has an acute sense of observation and the way he delves beneath the surface is interesting and seemingly accurate. As An Object of Beauty progressed I found that it was predictable, but for me, that didn’t take away from Martin’s commentary on the art world. I fell for the characters and I learned about what goes on behind the scenes of the art world. If you love art, I think you’ll enjoy this one.

But back to Franzen. I thought it also funny that he said he doesn’t ever google himself, nor does he read reviews of his work. I can imagine that would be a very difficult part of being in the public eye. You put yourself out there and then as will always happen, there is someone that your work doesn’t quite sit with and they let you know and maybe sometimes they aren’t nice about it. That must be a horrible feeling, but as an old friend once said to me about her acceptance of the writer’s life, “You have to learn to eat rejection for breakfast.” Or something along those lines.

Overall, I’m glad to have heard Franzen speak about his work, especially the personal details beneath the writing of Corrections and also of how his first two book ideas were taken from movie plots. Go figure.

I think the event would have been more special for me if I were seeing a fellow Red Room member or author for whose work I’ve followed all these years and new member’s whose work I follow or any Red Room member that I’ve had contact with. And of course any author whose books I’ve read and admired. To me, even though this was a wonderful presentation by a famous author, it didn’t mean as much to me simply because I had no connection to the author. It could have meant more. He was a perfect stranger. He had wise words, yes. He shared, yes. But, and maybe this had something to do with it. I’m not sure. In the very beginning—we started a bit late—he seemed to suggest that he could take as long as he wanted to get those first words out and that he would do his job because, “I’m getting paid to be here.” And someone from the audience quietly said, “Yeah, we paid too.” But, I thought to myself, why would he even mention money at all. Why begin that way. Even though, much later he talked about where part of the proceeds go, it didn’t matter. The way he first presented it left a funny feeling in my being. This was one small moment, possibly overblown by my mind. It’s how I felt, but it didn’t take away from the whole.

Jonathan Franzen seems a funny, intelligent, quirky man. I enjoyed listening to him speak, when he spoke away from his own written words, when he stepped away from the podium, even if mere inches, and I liked when he would take a long pause before answering audience questions.

One person from the audience asked if he saw value in writing groups and he said they could be good, but that it depended on the relationship of the people in the group because that would determine reinforced responsibility or lack of. This made sense. Naturally if there is some connection, some caring, the group tries to adhere to creating a useful and encouraging environment. He also said, “after enough practice, you can see your own work.” I appreciated this advice.

I still have my library copy of Jonathan Franzen’s essays, How to be Alone and I’m looking forward to reading some of his essays. I would like to think I will finish the book, but I don’t think it will be possible with my reading already being pulled in several other directions, as I peck away at the books I’m currently reading.

I appreciate most of all how Franzen holds the physical book up high—that he holds the physical book with such high respect. He mentioned that he does not write his books with the idea that they could be made into a movie. He wants to write a book that does not translate into cinema. He wants the book to be such that it stands on its own and is enjoyed for the contents within its covers and that this experience can only be found in his book, not outside in a movie, but right there, just you and his story.

There is much to admire in Franzen. I’m glad to have been pulled in his direction by way of good marketing on the part of the library that had planned this event for two years I think they said. I am eager to read his essays and eventually his fiction and his new collection of essays, Farther Away.

I’ve tried to ignore the status internet connectivity symbol in the bottom corner of the screen and I seem to have written through it. I’ve been breathing and typing, letting it come out. Finally, after what seems an hour or more and I felt done, I went and turned off the power for the router and waited. I turned on the main computer, as I call it—the one directly connected—and the internet turned on. I went and looked at the wireless router, on hands and knees and noticed the little antenna was pointing toward down. I lifted it up and went to the laptop and iPad, the X at the bottom of my screen disappeared and was replaced by four strong bars of connectivity. Who knew the solution was so simple. It must have gradually been limping downward.

I wasn’t going to write about this experience, but apparently it wanted to come out and mingle with the page, to see what I thought about it and to take the time to  appreciate meeting Jonathan Franzen, if only from in my seat, because I didn’t stay longer than when the audience applauded as he sort of skipped off the stage waving to us like a school boy that was going to miss his bus. There he goes…Thank you, Mr. Franzen.

Visit with Uncle and Ponchito

When I visited my uncle two days ago, before I left I asked him if it was alright if I went to the back room—to my grandmother’s old room— to say hello to her cockatiel, Ponchito. The room now belongs to her beloved bird. My uncle has the large cage propped up high, so that I have to walk up to the top of the stepladder to peer into the cage. The whole house is different. It’s my uncle’s house now.

My grandmother used to speak with Ponchito, whistle to him and blow kisses. Ponchito was shy with me at first, since it had been a while since I went back to visit him. I said, “Hello Ponchito bonito, mi Ponchito bonito.”—Hello pretty Ponchito, my pretty Ponchito.—And I would say it over and over and whistle and kiss. My uncle said if I put my face right up to his cage so that I was practically touching my nose to it, Ponchito would come down; and he did. We were talking back and forth and he was dancing on his stick, side to side. I would turn my head and he would turn his, as though he was looking in a mirror.

Ponchito has outlived his two canary friends and his cockatiel friend. He is now a solo man. All of his body feathers are in tact. His head feathers are missing, so you can see his baldhead and his cheeks. I told my uncle he reminds me of my grandfather because of his bare head, his tough spirit.

Ponchito came into my grandmother’s life by accident. She was merely taking care of him for her niece while she was on vacation. It turned out that when the niece got back from vacation, she didn’t want the bird back because of her busy schedule so my grandmother adopted him.

My uncle and I were trying to figure out how old Ponchito is. We had to base it on how long my grandmother has not been with us, and also how long the niece has no longer been a part of the family. We had to do some family math of what has transpired in between and when we stopped becoming a family. I think that makes Ponchito at least 25 years old, maybe a few years younger. I turned my head from speaking and whistling with Ponchito and said to my uncle, “Ponchito is going to outlive all of us.” We laughed. “Probably so,” he said. There aren’t many of us left and we are split up anyway. It’s difficult when the foundational pieces of a family die—when the only hope of glue to hold them together is gone. I’m all right with it. It has been a reality for many years—too many years. I’ve seen the pillars fall down one by one.

And then I remember when my grandfather was alone and I’d catch him teasing the bird, poking a butter knife through the cage, riling the bird up, making him run back and forth, flapping his wings—running for his life. My grandfather had some peculiar ways about him and looking back, I love him all the more for it. I miss his whiskers scraping against my cheek when I would kiss him hello or goodbye and the smell of Aqua Velva after-shave when he’d shave those whiskers.

Ponchito is quite a bird—quite a cockatiel. He is very much an extension of my grandmother, as he says her words and whistles her whistles, blowing us her kisses. He also has a bit of my grandfather in him too. For all that Ponchito has been through, he is still very much alive and it’s a somewhat surreal feeling to stare into his cage, into his eyes—in my grandmother’s room—hearing her words.

Tarot Card

4 Cups ~Luxury

Moon in Cancer.  Emotional Luxury and Fulfillment.

**

Lotus blossom rains a steady stream of light into two golden cups, a continuous flow upward from the cups back to the lotus blossom. A total of four golden cups, two on one half and two on the other half, held above the top cups hovering above the light, just above the bottom cups, but not touching.

The background is split in half horizontally, while the golden cups form a vertical divide. The top half of the background is charcoal black with gray white space smudged in. The bottom half is water, small blue waves flowing out to a loving white light of infinity. The golden cup arrangement is like a candelabra, a Celtic knot holding the entire piece together as one, a solid foundation below, shooting upward to the moon above, the symbol of cancer below. The light spilling from the lotus to the cups—inward and outward—a curtain to be parted, entered into—divine energy.

**

“True emotional luxury is the experience of feeling internally satisfied and fulfilled as well as feeling emotionally fulfilled externally also.”

—From The Tarot Handbook: Practical Applications of Ancient Visual Symbols by Angeles Arrien.

The card represents the love we’ve received from others creating an inner fullness to be shared—with acceptance and humility—and with moderation to maintain our internal/external balance.

—Summarized from Tarot: Mirror of the Soul: Handbook for the Aleister Crowley Tarot by Gerd Zieger.

**

When I chose this card today, I closed my eyes and focused on the quality of the day and an overall reading of the feeling in the air. I also thought about who might happen upon this page today, tonight, or whichever day—whom this card might also speak to. I had you in mind, so if you land here, this card is for you.

An Intuitive Exercise in Decision Making

I wrote a good deal in my personal morning pages. I didn't realize I had so much to get out. My penciled words started out small and controlled, and when I was two pages through, my handwriting had grown considerably larger and sloppier and I was having trouble keeping up with the words and I was fully aware of the state of flow; at the same time, I followed the words without tripping over thought. This was a good morning page in that I cleared my slate of what may have been cluttering up my thoughts.

Recently, at the change of certain events, I had a decision to make and I felt certain that I knew the answer, yet I needed to send it through another decision making process and called back an exercise I first did in a class called "Creativity and Intuition." I reached for my sketch pad, drew a line down the middle, and wrote the two decisions that were competing for my attention on the top of the page. One would have to be given up for now and I also had to see how I felt about it, in general, from my intuitive, subconscious self. Under each decision, I began doodling without thinking, I jotted a few random words, more doodles, squiggles. I started with one decision, then moved to the other; the answer was forming and it was clear which had to be let go. I also had the choice of maintaining both, but I needed to examine if this would be the best decision or would it be best to carry on with only the one without first knowing the outcome of the other. It was interesting to see the difference between each doodle--hatch marks and X's for one, while the other had fluid, calming shapes and designs. I realized that even if decision A did not work out, by the symbols I saw before me, my intuition was communicating to me what was below the surface and I knew why there had previously been hesitation for decision B. I hadn't done this exercise in quite some time and it felt good to see my decision confirmed in a different language.

**

Temperatures are supposed to reach the hundreds today. It already feels hot. I haven't gone outside, yet I can feel the heat trickling in through the open window.

I took this photo over the weekend. When I sat looking up at the tree with the sun beaming through the leaves, it felt like a slice of heaven; calling me to slip through the opening, to glide on the leaves burning with the fire of the sun--lighting them, as they lighted my soul.