Jane Mellor is Words Worthy

One of Those nights

2012-02-27T09:35:00.003-08:00

3 AM

my bed is tormented

by the leggy tangle of sheets, my head,

upon and under my pillow,

ripe with memories too aged to matter,

(oh, ceaseless chatter)

dissecting what can never change,

yet night after night, like a demonic

droid who’s scripted lines play

scrabble in my mind, I

play hide-and-seek.

And the Oscar goes to...

2012-02-26T13:41:00.001-08:00

...I have no idea. I don’t know about the rest of you, but there doesn’t seem to be that overwhelming yah to one particular film this year. Not that one film has to do a sweep, but I’m hard pressed to pick my fave.

Okay, I haven’t seen all the films, I’ll grant you that, but these days, with the number of trailers to choose from, well...

The Descendants and Moneyball were entertaining, but not Oscar worthy, in my opinion. I loved Midnight in Paris and The Help, disliked The Tree of Life, and didn’t see War Horse or Hugo. Sadly I haven’t seen The Artist or Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close, which I’ve heard are quite good.

I adore Michelle Williams, and from what I’ve read, My Week With Marilyn sounds interesting and worth watching. Beginners was excellent, and Bridesmaids was a hoot, as were Christopher Plummer and Melissa McCarthy respectively.

As always, it will be fun to watch the red carpet extravaganza, see ‘who’ everyone is wearing, and be mildly entertained for far too long. Let’s see if Billy Crystal MC’s with his usual finesse, and hope that nobody embarrasses themselves with an over-gushy five minute speech. Ha!

Then, I await Netflix new releases, starting tomorrow.

Happy Hollywood event everyone!

IT'S SATURDAY

2012-02-18T12:53:00.000-08:00

And I'm back, with a vengeance I hope.

I never intended to take such a long hiatus from blogland, and I apologize. I know there are followers out there who anticipate new posts, then I let days, sometimes weeks slip by with nothing. Shame on me. Clearly I need to be a better blogger.

It's not that I am not disciplined, nor do I lack commitment. Quite the opposite. My problem is that I have my fingers in too many pots, my iron in too many fires, my pen on more papers than you can imagine. Oh, poor you, you say, and you're right (if your tone was full of sarcasm). There is no need to complain. I bring it on all by myself. Don't get me wrong. I fully enjoy all the many layered, textured things I do. They make life more interesting. I use my brain, I get to research, write, explore, create. I just need more time in a day, that's all. A couple extra pairs of hands would help too. And feet.

Perhaps it's a genetic link, because my sister, Christie, does the same thing. We both get so darned excited about ideas, interesting projects, or a new, bold plan, that creative sparks just start to fly. There's no stopping us once we get going, but it sure is fun.

So, enough about my self inflicted problem. Below is a new poem for you to read. I only hope on this glorious Saturday that you are outdoors drinking coffee on a sun-soaked patio, taking in the view of the ocean, soaring down a powdery slope on skis, arms open to the wind, or just sitting on the front porch reading the paper.

My sister, Christie, is renovating her house.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

THRUMB

My heart -

it speaks a foreign language

sometimes,

while rambling

down the avenue

beside you,

wondering if you hear it too

feet fleeting

along pavement

a pounding

for you; the way

your laughter cleaves the rain,

listen

its pulse against the pane.

FALLING IN LOVE

2012-01-11T11:38:00.000-08:00

I recently moved.

I love my new place. It’s small, bright and cozy, and has a very welcoming feel about it, which was one of the deciding factors for me. However, I still find myself lying awake at night listening for the familiar noises of my past; passing cars, a dog’s incessant bark, neighbors arriving home late after the theatre, sirens. Instead, what I hear is nothing.

That’s right nothing. I know, I should be euphoric, overjoyed, grateful to have peace and quiet, and I am, it’s just not familiar. It’s just not home - yet.

I keep trying to do things to make it home, like buying heaps of fresh flowers to fill my empty vases. (Wow, what a metaphor that is). I hang paintings, family photo’s, lay a carpet, cook. My writing space was the first area to be set up and organized. Shouldn't that have been enough to make it feel like home? But even that hasn’t quite found its groove yet.

Another thing about my new home is that it’s sunny every single day. It’s January, and every day I waken to the quiet and the sun streaming in through the windows. When I lived in Vancouver, a sunny day felt like a well deserved day off. Now what? It’s very confusing.

Just last weekend I unpacked the last box. Finally everything has a place and home is beginning to creep in - beginning. Perhaps if I leave some laundry lying around, or dishes piled by the sink, it will help speed things up. But then I remember I’m a tidy person. Maybe I should have a party. I loved hosting parties, in my previous life. That would surely do the trick. But then I remember I don’t really know enough people (well enough) to throw a party. Maybe I need a dog. Nope.

Perhaps these things just take time. Perhaps if, as my mother used to say, I just leave well enough alone, home will just happen, like losing a sock in the dryer, or rain, or falling in love. Still waiting for that one too.

SEASIDE INSPIRATION

2012-01-07T23:35:00.000-08:00

click on picture

ARTWORK BY STEPHANIE TAYLOR

A NEW YEAR

2012-01-03T10:28:00.000-08:00

A good read from my talented pal, Stephanie Taylor.

Looking Forward: Can we realign our dark cloud? - Sacramento Opinion - Sacramento Editorial | Sacramento Bee

WHY SELF PUBLISH?

2011-12-13T23:22:00.000-08:00

Getting published is a tough gig. After hearing several success stories by fellow authors who had self published, I began to look more seriously at that as an option.

Smashwords is well known in the self publishing world. It’s cheap (free) and user friendly. I signed up and started to browse their site. Around that time, fellow scribe, David Antrobus’ book, Dissolute Kinship: A 9/11 Road Trip, hit the stands via Smashwords. I was intrigued and excited (for him and for me!). Unfortunately my hope was quickly dashed. As much as I tried, with David’s generous assistance, to work through the stages of self publishing via Smashwords, it was too difficult and time consuming for my techie inexperience, so I continued my quest.

Online research and reading on the subject is invaluable, and there is plenty of it to be found. Consider what you want to get out of self publishing, and weigh the options each press offers. Some people want to publish simply to hold their own book in their hands, some want to make money, while others want to become a well known author. You may choose spending time over money, or vice versa. It’s all good, just become clear about what you want.

Often there is more than one package offered when you hire a self publishing press, from basic to the full meal deal, which includes a marketing kit. Prices can range from $300 to $3000. It is a very personal (and financial) choice which package you go with. In my case, time was of greater value, but so was getting a deal.

If it’s a good press, they will have you fill out questionnaires, get to know you, your work and your motives. They will also be available to talk to you in person. (Yah, human contact!) Even if you pay to have your work published, you will be involved every step of the way, from layout, cover design, editing and final proof. You will also be responsible for writing your author profile, providing a headshot, and obtaining professional reviews to be printed on the back jacket. There is a lot of work involved, but they walk you through it and do the technical work for you. In the end, you as author receive far more in royalties (55% or more), and retain 100% creative control and copyright.

Remember, when it’s all finished, and your fabulous book is out in the world, you will need to market it. Marketing is key to success, so if you have little or no experience, particularly in social media, I recommend paying for that service, or getting help from a savvy friend. The more you get the word out, the more sales, which equals money and publicity for you and your work.

Whether you have the time and experience to muddle around with production, or you choose to purchase a self publishing package, the end result is extremely rewarding.

Check back in two weeks when my newly self published book Delicate Availability will be for sale through Friesen Press and other known sources, via this blog site.

Some links to get you started...

WSJ.com - How I Became a Best-Selling Author

http://www.smashwords.com/

http://friesenpress.com/

THE TOOLSHED

2011-11-30T16:24:00.000-08:00

The big flat broom

to brush the sidewalk,

the tall wooden ladder

splattered in age-old paint,

the dolly.

Dust and dirt,

sweet & musty,

has me remembering

Mom in her gardening garb,

Dad in his jeans,

weeding, raking

(a carpet of gingko leaves

vibrant yellow),

the heady scent

of November.

* * * * *

I mourn;

the dizzy days

perched on the craggy branch

after a climb,

fort building,

pippins tart off the tree,

rope skipping,

skinned knees,

runny noses,

fingers numb from play,

shedding sweaters,

rosy cheeks,

the whir of electric heat

blowing finger drawings

off humid window panes

before the bath.

MORE ON BLOGGING or just MORE BLOGGING

2011-11-25T10:17:00.000-08:00

Okay, so I lied. I thought to be fair, I would set a reasonable blogging schedule - one that wouldn't be too arduous for me to keep up with, but one that would satisfy loyal readers. I chose the first Thursday of every month.

Now, here I sit, twiddling my thumbs, waiting. While I contemplate my next blog, or write in advance for my next posting, still weeks away, I feel anxious. It's not that I have nothing to do. I have plenty. I'm in the throes of moving, surrounded by empty boxes. I'm in the final stages of publishing two books. Serious paperwork is stacked on my one table, bills cry out for payment. I have places to go, people to meet. (okay, that's a stretch...)

I guess what I've realized is, once a person starts blogging it sort of gets in your blood. It becomes your diary, your way of jotting down yawning thoughts, whimsical poems, idle musings that may not be worthy of a piece you want to submit to a publisher or put in a book, but certainly worthy of sharing. As a writer, it's become another venue providing blank space to brainstorm or network.

It's become apparent, I need my blogging fix much more than one day per month. What was I thinking?

BLOG MAINTENANCE

2011-11-03T10:02:00.000-07:00

I’ve let my blog go. How could I do such a thing - let my blog fall to the wayside, sit stagnant, grow moss? Well, I’ll tell you...

You know the saying “Life gets in the way”? Well, how about “Blogging gets in the way”. Since blogging took hold, I’ve discovered I really love to blog. To design, create, build, write, and add to a blog is, well, fulfilling, gratifying, and so much fun. Time consuming, yes, a distraction, sometimes. But whether your blog is related to work or is done for sheer pleasure, time and distractions can be okay, until of course life steps in. Or is it the other way round?

Number one rule of blogging, learned from blog master, John Mavin, is to maintain a regular blogging schedule. Apparently it doesn’t matter whether you blog once a day or once a month, if you want returning visitors you must choose a schedule that fits with your life, and stick with it. That way your followers will know when to expect something new to appear on your blog, and revisit. I agree wholeheartedly, which is exactly why I feel terribly ridden with guilt that I’ve let you, my blog friends, down. But life...well, you know... Or is it the other way round?

Today is as good a day as any to turn over a new leaf. It’s not the new year, but it is that time of year where many a bright, autumn leaf is there to be turned. So with that in mind, here is my latest plan:

I will post a fresh, entertaining, Word’s Worthy blog on the first Thursday of each month, unless of course...

Life won’t wait. And why should it?

That way, maybe curious visitors will stop by more often, just to see if something delicious is brewing.

SHIFT

2011-10-10T23:30:00.001-07:00

How divine, the

cool autumnal

blink from rose to scarlet

from flaxen to russet,

a benevolent climatic

foreboding.

Prepare, is the call

through fallen leaves,

brittle branches

left barren in

frosty twilight. Prepare,

the imminent change.

Caps down, collars up,

we crunch

along sidewalks,

country paths, the smell

of raked & burning leaves,

tug of winter.

FALLING AWAY

2011-09-21T21:03:00.000-07:00

Here it is, the end of September.

The year, 2011.

How did this happen?

Does anybody else feel this way?

The smells, the colours, the sense of fall from my childhood is still very present in my memory. As a child, fall meant back to school, dry, crunchy leaves, apples, sunshine, and early mornings. It meant back to routine, shopping for school supplies, new shoes. It meant the conclusion of endless days. But most of all, it felt like it came too quickly, and still does.

Although the September sun beats down its last hurrah with fervor, it crosses low on the horizon with more urgency. Days are shorter, nights cooler. And even though I no longer have to waken early to go to school, or to take children to school, fall nags that I should be. The scent in the air wakens in me the desire, the need to hunker down, get organized, to put away childish things.

It’s fall.

Does anybody else feel this way?

IT'S LIKE THIS

2011-09-10T23:33:00.000-07:00

One of two poems of mine published in the July/August print issue of Contemporary Literary Horizons, a wonderful multicultural journal that not only publishes the work of poets and writers from around the globe, but translates each piece into several languages. I am honoured to be part of it. Thanks, Daniel Dragomirescu, Editor of CHM!

* * * * * * * * *

IT’S LIKE THIS

It’s between cornrows, those early green shoots risen to

just brushing shoulders that we first touch, first kiss. It’s where

I taste each morsel, a burst of starched honey, earthy like morel,

sweet like you. And it’s you, the magician, the poet who,

when your shadow casts across acres, leaves a meadow of cowslips

as light and bright as Orion and his companions, adrift in onyx.

In sunshine I hold a bloom under my chin, am told I like butter

but say I like you better, melt in my mouth. It’s in those fields,

clover, sage, lavender, whose scent love gets wind of,

that we’re sent clear to the moon. Or maybe it’s just the crop of your hair

when grabbed from behind, as I pull you close, for only the want,

for only this moment, this layer upon layer of ta-dah.

STOPS & STARTS

2011-09-01T18:56:00.000-07:00

As of the end of September, my childhood home will be sold – gone - kaput. The home where I grew up, the place I chose to move on from at a naïve, youthful age, the life I returned to in what I’ll term my prime, because I sure as hell am not going to even suggest old age. This time marks the end of an era, another chapter coming to a close. But read on.

We all know, when one door closes, another opens, when one chapter ends…Frankly, I can’t remember what chapter I’m on anymore. What I do know is I am surrounded by half-full boxes, un-hung paintings, the smell of fresh paint that makes my eyes burn, and an unnerving echo. I don’t know whether I’m coming or going. Actually, that’s a lie. I’m going, I just have no idea where. Too many choices make me cranky. So do too many half-full boxes. So does not enough sleep. As my sister Wendy put it, “Packing is my middle name”. As a family, we are feeling that way right now. But read on.

Fortunately, the house still feels happy. It’s as confused as I am, but it’s happy. I know this because the stair on the second landing still creaks, the faucet in the back bathroom still drips, the ancient TV antenna (also known as rabbit ears, to date myself just a little) still needs adjusting to watch the news, and Dad’s bar, though lacking in Gin and Vermouth, still calls out to me at six o’clock. Despite the new paint, this old house still looks and feels the same. What’s absent are the boisterous family conversations around the dining room table, while opening the third or fourth bottle of Heitz Cabernet Sauvignon brought up from the cellar. What’s absent is a house full of activity and love of family. However, the memory of love is strong here, and I feel confident it will remain. So, read on.

STUMBLED UPON

2011-08-27T08:42:00.000-07:00

“A Woman Should Have”

A WOMAN SHOULD HAVE ..

enough money within her control to move out
and rent a place of her own,
even if she never wants to or needs to…

A WOMAN SHOULD HAVE ..
something perfect to wear if the employer, or date of her dreams wants to see her in an hour…

A WOMAN SHOULD HAVE ..
a youth she’s content to leave behind….
a past juicy enough that she’s looking forward to
retelling it in her old age….

A WOMAN SHOULD HAVE …..
a set of screwdrivers, a cordless drill, and a black lace bra…

A WOMAN SHOULD HAVE .
one friend who always makes her laugh… and one who lets her cry…

A WOMAN SHOULD HAVE ….
a good piece of furniture not previously owned by anyone else in her family…

A WOMAN SHOULD HAVE …
eight matching plates, wine glasses with stems, and a recipe for a meal, that will make her guests feel honored…

A WOMAN SHOULD HAVE …
a feeling of control over her destiny...

EVERY WOMAN SHOULD KNOW…
how to fall in love without losing herself...

EVERY WOMAN SHOULD KNOW…
how to quit a job, break up with a lover, and confront a friend without ruining the friendship…

EVERY WOMAN SHOULD KNOW…
when to try harder… and WHEN TO WALK AWAY…

EVERY WOMAN SHOULD KNOW…
that she can’t change the length of her calves,
the width of her hips, or the nature of her parents...

EVERY WOMAN SHOULD KNOW…
that her childhood may not have been perfect…but its over…

EVERY WOMAN SHOULD KNOW…
what she would and wouldn’t do for love or more…

EVERY WOMAN SHOULD KNOW…
how to live alone… even if she doesn’t like it…

EVERY WOMAN SHOULD KNOW..
whom she can trust,
whom she can’t,
and why she shouldn’t take it personally…

EVERY WOMAN SHOULD KNOW…
where to go…
be it to her best friend’s kitchen table…
or a charming inn in the woods…
when her soul needs soothing…

EVERY WOMAN SHOULD KNOW…
what she can and can’t accomplish in a day…
a month…and a year…

UPDATE: Maya Angelou is NOT the author of “A Woman Should Have” after all! The real author of this beautiful poem about women is actually Pamela Redmond Satran!

*borrowed from stumbled upon

CHANGES

2011-08-10T18:54:00.000-07:00

The sun has set.

Another day comes to a close.

Closure.

On a lifetime, it seems.

Closed – open.

Wide, welcome to next. Open to new.

Released.

Into the open.

Ahhh. Feel fresh air. Fog; rolls in, rolls out.

Soothing,
foghorns, outside in the open.

Another chapter closed. Today.

Tomorrow the new – the next.

We shall see…

Open.

PC or MAC

2011-07-31T13:39:00.000-07:00

I went to the Apple store the other day. I wanted to do some research. In truth, I wanted to investigate switching over from a PC to MAC, basically to see what all the fuss is about.

I’d been in the Apple store before, when I purchased an iPad for my Dad in hopes it would help with his memory loss by playing memory enhancement games and doing online crossword puzzles. Unfortunately, the iPad wasn’t the right choice for him at that age and stage in his life, so it was returned, but it was then that my interest in Apple products was piqued. Love the iPad.

I looked at the new MacBook Air, very lightweight and perfect for travel, which is what a laptop is for, in my opinion. Unfortunately, the MacBook Air doesn’t have plug-ins for optical devices, like the MacBook Pro. Because I was also considering the purchase of a monitor to plug my (possible) new laptop into so I could have a larger screen for home use, my Apple Advisor showed me the stunning 27” Cinema Display for a mere $999. Apparently it was the only monitor that the MacBook Air could plug into. It was bigger than my TV.

After my introduction to the Mac world, I wandered through the mall. Every store was sporting a sale of one kind or another. When I entered Nordstrom’s, there were so many people flocking to the shoe department I thought there had been an accident, like a heart attack perhaps. It was a sale, but as I watched shoes flying from foot to foot, and Nordstrom employees scrambling recklessly about, I would not have been surprised at my original notion. Admittedly, friends and family have, at times, referred to me as a ‘shoe whore’, but even I ran the other direction. The cosmetic and accessory departments were just as chaotic. Even menswear, which usually has more staff than shoppers browsing around, was overrun by men. I should have stayed, but even I know when to call it. By the time I was back outside, inhaling fresh San Francisco fog into my lungs, I felt like I had barely escaped with my life.

So, what I want to know is, are you a PC or a MAC?

Whet Dreams

2011-07-26T14:54:00.000-07:00

Lately I’ve been dreaming a lot. I suppose I often dream, but just don’t remember them. However, these past few days I’ve awakened from sleep with dreams so fresh in my mind it’s as if I’ve just visited another country or been in another time zone. It’s kind of fun, actually.

Not that I have to, but I’m trying to determine whether this vivid dream phenom is from sleeping away from home, as I’ve been spending a couple of nights with friends in a cozy cottage in Stinson Beach, California. It’s dreamy, no pun intended. Sometimes being away from home can trigger vibrant dreams. I’ve also wondered if the increase in dreaming is due to having a lot on my mind, but then I dismissed that idea because I usually have a lot on my mind. Who doesn’t?

This morning’s real-to-life vision had the 'dreamy' cottage we’re staying in physically hoisted up and moved to a new location with us inside. I proceeded to topple over as the house tipped, before it was set back down. Somehow I landed safely on my feet, or butt, not my head, which was where I was headed (also no pun intended). Then, to my surprise, I found myself seated beside none other than Patrick Dempsey of Grey’s Anatomy fame, or was he seated beside me? Yes, that’s it, he was seated beside me and…he was hitting on me! As you can imagine, I was in no hurry for that heady movie to end, but lo and behold, the coffee grinder sounded and the smell of fresh coffee wafted over to the couch upon which I was sprawled. That was when I opened my eyes to ensure the house was still situated where it had been the night before, that there were no ruby slippers lodged underneath it, and that (damn) Patrick Dempsey was not lying beside me.

Onward. Another glorious day awaits.

If I fall asleep with a pen in my hand, don't remove it - I might be writing in my dreams.
Danzae Pace

TEN THINGS (that turned into twelve) ON SUMMER’S MUST DO LIST

2011-07-17T09:22:00.000-07:00

Take a road trip – done, but always room for more.
Find a place to live – working on it.
Spend time with family – always want more.
Drink a mojito on a patio in the sunshine – okay, it was not exactly on a patio, but in a motel room on a road trip with my good friend, Roma, my sister, Wendy, and her husband Mark. It was warm and sunny. Basically, this ticks a lot of boxes.
Hike northern California or my beautiful BC – not yet, but soon.
Write poetry – yes!
Progress other writing projects – yes, yes!
Purge fifty years of living from childhood home – sad but true…the process has begun.
Meet new people, make new friends in SF – admittedly, room for improvement.
Keep in better touch with close friends from afar – what with Skype, Facebook, Twitter, email, Travelocity, road trips (another ticked box) – simply no excuse for neglect!
Take a walk and smell the roses – not often enough these days. Must improve upon.
Sleep – definitely, high on list to ultimately reach Nirvana.

ON THIS ROCKY KNOLL

2011-07-11T11:08:00.000-07:00

Crater’s cliffs, white,

wide to sea-letting beaches.

Me, breathing in desert

dust, smoking sunstroke

through flared nostrils.

Where will I be

in ten years time?

On this rocky knoll,

wrapped in a rattler’s hide,

singing to my fireside flame,

while a crisp crescent

moon dances across

white, wide craters.

Poetry Friday: An Unheard Voice | Women's Voices For Change

2011-07-08T06:37:00.000-07:00

Poetry Friday: An Unheard Voice | Women's Voices For Change

Cure writer's block with writing prompts - writing tips character name generator

2011-07-05T09:51:00.000-07:00

Cure writer's block with writing prompts - writing tips character name generator

Thursday, July 1, 2011 – CANADA DAY

2011-07-01T15:45:00.000-07:00

This morning I was awakened by a warm July sun streaming through my open window. Sparrows’ chatter filled the yawning neighbourhood. Delivery trucks rambled up and down the street. Contented dogs barked in conversation as they passed the house.

I love the carefree sounds of summer, when children stay in bed past seven in the morning and are later heard bouncing basketballs or screaming through whirling sprinklers. Afternoons become sleepy from the heat, but by evening the smell of barbecue drifts up and down the cooling sidewalks, and at nightfall, all is a lullaby.

I’ve taken my manuscript outside to edit. Before noon, the deck is mostly shaded, creating a mosaic of shadow and light that flickers when the Ginkgo branches catch the breeze. My coffee, gone cold, goes down smoothly.

I begin to leaf through from page one, reading and rereading. I mark any glaring errors, or lines that make me falter. My good friend, Roma, has already been through this once, so it’s my final peruse. But after two hours of editing I find myself distracted. Although to work outdoors in the sunlight is a writer’s dream, all the natural auditory and visual goings-on (that one’s for you, Roma) make my mind wander. So I write poetry until my butt gets sore then decide to call it quits. After all, today is CANADA DAY. Being Canadian (as well as American), I really should have taken the entire day off!

HAPPY CANADA DAY

TO MY CANADIAN FRIENDS

AND FAMILY, MY SECOND

COUNTRY, MY SECOND

HOME SWEET HOME. XO

WORDS WORTHY DOES SHAKESPEARE

2011-06-23T17:30:00.000-07:00

A fool thinks himself to be wise, but a wise man knows himself to be a fool.

William Shakespeare

I am here at the Ashland, Oregon, Shakespeare Festival (OSF), a long-time family tradition. For the end of June the temperature is just right - a balmy eighty degrees Fahrenheit during the day, dropping to a comfortable sixty at night. A slight breeze blows through the valley.

OSF performs in repertoire and does not just produce Shakespeare plays. This year we are seeing seven plays in one week: The Pirates of Penzance, Measure for Measure, The Imaginary Invalid, Henry IV, Part II, Love's Labor's Lost, August: Osage County, and To Kill a Mockingbird.

However, on arrival in Ashland, we were told that four of our seven plays were canceled due to an unexpected catastrophe. A crack in a support beam at the Angus Bowmer Theatre was discovered, closing it down indefinitely.

With few options, but thinking on their feet, this unique theatre company has asked the audience to 're-imagine' the plays, while they are performed in the nearby Ashland Armory without sets, full costuming, a proper sound system, lighting or special effects, without stage cues or adequate space. For them, it is a challenge beyond belief. For us, it is a treat to be invited in, to share such an intimate show of awesome talent and ingenuity. After each performance we are left with a feeling that we have been given a gift.

This is the first year at the festival without our father, a long-time patron and attendee. It is a bittersweet visit where each day ignites an onslaught of memories. What would Dad have done, hearing this news arriving in Ashland after a six hour drive? How would he have handled it? He would have been as surprised as we were but would have embraced the challenge as wholly as the theatre company and community at large.

OSF is doing with their present situation just as we are learning to do with our lives without our father...
...the show must go on.

Quote of the Day

2011-06-21T18:26:00.000-07:00

I know I am but summer to your heart,
And not the full four seasons of the year.

Edna St. Vincent Millay

Edna St. Vincent Millay (1892–1950), U.S. poet. I Know I Am But Summer to Your Heart, The Harp-weaver and Other Poems (1923).

WALKING, CAMPING & SHOPPING, OH MY

2011-06-12T21:49:00.000-07:00

I went for a long, pleasant walk along the bicycle trails in Marin County this afternoon, with my longtime friend, Wendy. We took Ponzi, her dog, and walked for an hour or more. The sun was warm against our cheeks, even with a strong breeze blowing off the water.

Great conversation and activity always calls for food, so after our walk we drove into downtown Mill Valley for salad and lemonade, after which Wendy showed me her favourite women’s clothing store. I walked out with a pair of shoes on sale, and Wendy bought a very cool black jacket. Our day was complete.

Today reminded me of a weekend several years ago when my good friends and I decided to go on a weekend camping and canoe trip – just us girls. We packed up the car with provisions, loaded the canoe on the roof, tied it down, and headed off on our adventure. Our plan was to go to a private beach campsite on Alouette Lake in Golden Ears National Park that we had discovered years earlier, camp for the night, then head to Pitt River the following morning for a day of canoeing.

After paddling our gear across the east corner of the lake, we arrived at our destination. It was windy and cold so we built a fire and began preparing dinner. Darkness was rapidly falling and we were tired. We just wanted to eat and sleep. But before we had a chance to enjoy our first plastic wine glass of Cabernet, a bright pair of headlights shone in our eyes. It was the Park Ranger. Apparently, and unbeknownst to us, our once private camping spot had become Native Land for potlatches and meetings. Private Property.

The Ranger watched as we packed up our gear, carried it to our car (that we had to hike to get from the parking lot), and load the canoe onto the top. He then he led us to the public campground where we set up camp (again) on a barren, dry piece of earth. Disappointed and exhausted, we ate what easy snack food we had brought, and went to bed. We didn’t bother to light a fire.

We awoke to sunshine and twittering birds – a new day. Refreshed and ready to leave our dismal surroundings behind, we hopped in the car and drove to the nearest town for breakfast. We did eventually canoe Pitt River but somehow our dream weekend had changed. We cut our paddling short and reloaded the car. However, on the way home we passed a brand-new Winners department store that had just opened. So like true campers, we filed out of the car and into the store, each of us making at least one purchase before heading home.

Although I have enjoyed many true, backcountry hiking, camping and paddling trips in my day, this definitely stands out as a favourite.

WORD OF THE DAY FOR THURSDAY, JUNE 9, 2011

2011-06-09T08:03:00.000-07:00

From my good friend, Roma...

lucubrate \LOO-kyoo-breyt\, verb:
1. To work, write, or study laboriously, especially at night.
2. To write learnedly.
He gives me to understand that you chew various cuds of reflection; that you lucubrate ominously day and night.
-- Edgar Lee Masters, Skeeters Kir: a novel
Nature designed that I should lucubrate for the high-heeled sock; managers have resolved that I shall scribble for the low-heeled buskin.
-- Charles Dickens, Tragic Case of a Common Writer
Lucubrate derives from the Latin lucubratus, "to work by artificial light."

I love this word. Although I believe the true meaning of it is in regards to laborious study, it's such a brilliant description of poets. I definitely chew various cuds of reflection, especially at night. Ha!

Whether creative or technical, when is your best time for producing work? How do you pull your gems out of the hat? Share your inspirations - your lucubration habits with the rest of us by responding to this blog post.

Meanwhile, all you prolific pursuers of passion, don't mull over your word of the day for too long. Get lucubrating... and thanks Roma. xo

SERENDIPITY

2011-06-07T22:41:00.000-07:00

Nothing that happens is by accident.

I sit in the simmering pool, naked. Steamy whirls of water swim around my body that is open and exposed. The late afternoon sun is low and a hint of rain expresses itself through mists of light moisture. I settle in, rest my head against the poolside and breathe. The next thing I know a woman in a full piece bathing suit joins me, followed by her daughter.

“Hi,” I say. “Are you visiting from out of town, or do you live around here?”

It turns out Betty is from Virginia. She’s in San Francisco visiting her bikini-clad daughter, Meredith, who moved here two years ago to work in PR and Advertising. We talk, and as is often the case with women, conversation moves smoothly and easily.

I get out of the hot tub and go to a cold shower inside the spa, needing to cool off. When I return, another woman, Brenda, has joined in. Brenda is from San Francisco and has already shared information with Betty and Meredith about her work in television, Oprah, and positive healing. As it turns out, Brenda was at Cavallo Point for a business luncheon but was enticed to visit the grounds, which included the spa area. She decided to stay and soak in the soothing pool and steam room, hence all of us coming together – randomly? I think not.

Evening descended and we had to go our separate ways, but not before exchanging email and phone numbers. It was a must to keep in touch. Betty, and her daughter, Meredith, left first. The second non-surprise was that Brenda realized Meredith had left her hat and sunglasses behind. Brenda was not dressed but I was, so I ran out and caught them just before they left the place. Done. We waved our farewells, again. Next, I suggested that Brenda join me for a glass of wine before heading home and without hesitation, she agreed. I said I’d meet her at the bar, and left. When I arrived at the bar, who was sitting there but Betty and Meredith! The battery of their Zip Car had died. Imagine that? They were waiting for someone to come from the city to jump-start it, and that would take at least two hours. We were together again. We ordered four glasses of wine and toasted our not-by-accident union and reunion.

Eventually Betty and Meredith had to go on their way, but we experienced a bond that no one could have expected. Within a few hours, from hot tub to bar, we had shared stories of relationships, personal growth, hardship, and friendship. Afterward, Brenda and I stayed on, drank more wine, ate delicious food, and shared intimate accounts of childhood, motherhood, life and love.

The moral of the story is obvious. Nothing happens by accident. We four know why we met and we’ll never forget it. We’ve forged new friendships and even if we don’t see each other for years, or ever again, there was a good reason we met, and that’s all that matters. We had a magical experience at Cavallo Point that we will remember always.

ANOTHER ARTIST FOR THE ARCHIVES

2011-05-29T16:22:00.000-07:00

Whether they be painters, poets, musicians, dancers...there are many Masters wandering around the planet. Few, however, make it into the libraries, music halls, theatres, or living rooms, in our cities, towns and neighbourhoods, before they die. Gil Scott-Heron is one who did. Sadly, and like so many before him, he moved on too soon.

Scott-Heron's revolutionary lyrics and poetry carried messages during a time when voices like his were crucial. He was a spoken word poet before spoken word existed. His songs were the precursor to rap.

I was a teenager in San Francisco when some of his first important pieces came out. The one he is most known for, and the one familiar to me is, The Revolution Will Not Be Televised. If you've never heard it, click, and have a listen.

Other influential contemporary poets, Maya Angelou, Bob Dylan, Eminem, Billy Collins, to name only a few, are still alive. Gil Scott-Heron's words will live on.

MUSIC TO MY EARS

2011-05-22T13:47:00.000-07:00

I've been listening to some great tunes lately. Discovering fine music, then building a repertoire, is something I love to do but often don't take the time for.

It takes time. Research for my writing projects takes time. Waiting for the pizza order to arrive takes time. Sitting at the DMV to renew a driver's license takes time. So, I've decided to just start taking the time again for music.

Monashee got me started with Adele, whose sexy, powerful voice is charged with emotion. Love her.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lazyDlfaptM

Then there's Pomplamoose, who I discovered on YouTube but is one of my nephew, Edison's, faves. Love their original sound and awesome video clips.

http://www.youtube.com/user/PomplamooseMusic

Elliot Smith, is a long-time winner.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gVbok6hGHY8&feature=related

Regina Spektor - fricking amazing. Again, thanks Edison.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tHAhnJbGy9M&feature=artistob&playnext=1&list=TLKcvxYzOlAyE

Hey, have you heard this guy? My good friend, Dennis. Check him out.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0xh4U3hkXTI

This one I stole from Amanda Hocking's blog site. She dared readers to listen to it and not get it stuck in their head. Good one. Thank you, Amanda.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LloIp0HMJjc&feature=player_embedded

Enjoy.

UTTER RANDOMNESS

2011-05-20T10:35:00.000-07:00

Sometimes poetry is like this - arbitrarily, and often quite unexpectedly, words drop from the sky and land in my head, then onto the page, and so it begins...

I like these poems. A story grows from a random seed and although it may not seem to come from any particular idea or source, it develops into something wildly wacky and fun, and I can't stop. As for meaning...does it matter? Like most poems, there are usually messages or revealing wordplays that have been carefully crafted, but I wouldn't work too hard. Hidden gems can be uncovered in surprising and accidental ways.

THE MENUET

You used to rock my

nuts I was over

you peppered me with

habaneras, smothered me

in sugar and spice,

(omit the nice) because

yesterday I learned to Cha-Cha with another

partner, the men all used up,

rented me a Queen-For-A-Day to trail

gown down to his/her

fish-netted nails peeking polished

from behind patent-pumps.

Oooh, truly one hot ream of scarlet

dripping with droplets of pearl but

I digress…or do I? As I

crossed my own path, slipped

into the shadows

disappeared in a sea

of twinkling phosphorescence

that swallowed me up

and up without a chute. (Now what?),

is what I thought, but

soon I surfaced – the middle

of a chandeliered ballroom,

how absolutely mahvalous

and just in time as arms wasted no time,

I was Wurlitzered (as it were) ‘round

and ‘round, the music changed now;

Händel’s menuet waltz.

TO WRITE or NOT TO WRITE

2011-05-14T01:16:00.000-07:00

What does one do when writer’s block hits?

It hasn’t exactly hit wham! But it has smacked my poetic prowess, at least for the moment. I managed to eke out one poem after my father passed away, which was good and nice – two words I must remove from my vocabulary – but good in that I was able to write something when I was pretty upset and didn’t feel like writing at all, and nice because it turned out to be a decent enough piece and worked as a catalyst to release some grief.

However, since then, my poet pen has runneth dry. Instead I’m deep in the trenches of writing short creative fiction and dipping into new and intriguing genres. This is fine, me thinks, although some writers may differ. A few believe that when one is spread too thin, one isn’t focused, therefore can’t be as accomplished in their specific craft. It’s a good (gawd, there I go again) debate, and one I often discuss with myself in my head.

Take my present situation. If I stay focused on writing poetry, I should be able to produce, right? But if the verse juices aren’t flowing, I still like to keep my fingers moving along my laptop keyboard or scrawling on scraps of paper, and I’ll take whatever comes out, which lately has been readable but not particularly literary, short fiction.

I like to think this is not considered a diversion, but an enhancement. I know I will get back into the poetry groove when I’m ready, like while listening to a movement from one of Schumann’s piano concertos, or when walking past a dark, narrow alley. Perhaps it might waken me from sleep, which these days wouldn’t be too difficult, and I'll have to quickly get up to jot the lines down before they slip from memory. The mood could hit while driving in traffic, which would really be a pain in the ass. But until then, how gratifying it is to experiment, grow, and explore other areas of written expression. Most importantly, I am still writing.

Now then, back to my ingeniously crafted fictional tales...

HER

2011-05-07T18:10:00.000-07:00

Giggling girl-stuff between moms and daughters,

speech-less devotion between mothers and sons.

The adoration.

The way we mend arguments, but have them,

embrace sorrow, when feeling sad,

laugh for no reason, and for many.

The way we exchange

information, possess traits, share inflections.

The how-to moments, the whys. The way we dream possibilities.

A woman grows deeper, broader, wiser, lovelier,

after suckled nipples, stretched belly, weathered hands.

A Mother’s soft face holds firm,
the measure of emotion she endures, yet
an experienced heart she exposes.

Being a Mother is not a job, it’s a Joy!

Having a Mother, a blessing.

WORDS WORTHY OF SPRING

2011-05-04T13:02:00.000-07:00

Spring! It is surely a time ripe with growth, blossoming, and, it seems, for all things to flourish. Poetically, and otherwise, it is also a time for love.

These few selections, written by some of the great classic poets of our time, are merely a sample of what’s available as words worthy of spring. Enjoy.

Loveliest of trees, the cherry now

Is hung with bloom along the bough. A.E. Housman

A little Madness in the Spring

Is wholesome even for the King. Emily Dickinson

in Just –

spring when the world is mud –

luscious the little

lame balloonman

whistles far and wee E.E. Cummings

O! how this spring of love resembleth

The uncertain glory of an April day! William Shakespeare

What is now the foliage moving?

Air is still, and hush’d the breeze,

Sultriness, this fullness loving,

Through the thicket, from the trees.

Now the eye at once gleams brightly,

See! The infant band with mirth

Moves and dances nimbly, lightly,

As the morning gave it birth,

Flutt’ring two and two o’er earth. Wolfgang Goethe

The young May moon is beaming, love.

The glow-worm’s lamp is gleaming, love.

How sweet to rove,

Through Morna’s grove,

When the drowsy world is dreaming, love!

Then awake! – the heavens look bright, my dear,

‘Tis never too late for delight, my dear,

And the best of all ways

To lengthen our days

Is to steal a few hours from the night, my dear! Thomas Moore

The month of May was come, when every lusty heart

beginneth to blossom, and to bring forth fruit;

for like as herbs and trees bring forth fruit and flourish

in May, in likewise every lusty heart that is in any manner of lover,

springeth and flourisheth in lust deeds.

For it giveth unto all lovers courage,

that lusty month of May. Sir Thomas Malory

AFTER LIFE

2011-04-27T10:24:00.000-07:00

After the dust settles, yes, after

the echo that rings off canyon walls, after

a high-C, sung in an aria, hangs suspended, after

the chorus of geese passes as they flock south.

After a love affair with living, when

motion turns languid, thoughts tenuous, after

the rain and the heat spell-off, after we

acquiesce to this emptiness.

After all, you have come ‘round full, after

embracing experience, having inhaled splendor.

After all, you slipped beyond farewells,

have followed the fog horns home.

MICHAEL L MELLOR - July 20, 1922 to April 21, 2011

2011-04-23T08:59:00.000-07:00

Dear Friends and Family,

Just to let you know that 'Dad' 'Gramps' 'Mike Mellor', passed away peacefully at 2:30 am, April 21, 2011. He was in his home, surrounded by loved ones, which is what he wanted. All members of the family, except Ian Mellor from Costa Rica, were here with him - and Ian was definitely here in spirit, and represented. His fabulous caregivers, who are now family, Una and Dan, were with us 24/7, and SF Hospice was amazing through his final days.

We shared stories, talked, laughed and cried around his bed as he slowly and comfortably slipped away. Classical music played around the clock. People came and went, giving him the love and support he deserved. That evening our neighbors, Ann and Martha French, came over and we all had a toast with Gibson Martinis. We know he enjoyed it because he hung on for another several hours afterward. As usual, he didn't want to miss a thing.

We toasted a great man who lived his life to the fullest and who raised a fine brood who adored him, and were with him to the end. He will be missed.

Cheers Dad!

STILL LIFE WITH OCEAN

2011-04-22T09:48:00.000-07:00

Wake up.

Wake up to find her.

Find her lying face

down at the bottom

of the sea, drenched

and disoriented; rogue wave.

Her song the dolphins sang. Its

melody hung on the dorsal fin,

navigated through deep-water

currents. Treble clefs bounced

off hulls of great cargo ships

headed for warmer waters.

Did no one hear her wail?

But see her.

See her now,

mermaid risen from the abyss

lying soft and naked in

the kelp garden among anemone,

prickly Crown-of-Thorns,

green eyes filled with

warm, salty tears.

I swallowed the sea once,

in my dream, where you held me

too close. I couldn’t breathe.

And I woke to the smell of

seaweed weathered too long

along the shore in the hot sun.

Woke to sweet cheeks

tasting of salt licks

still not sure who

was crying.

THIS IS HOW IT IS

2011-04-17T10:02:00.000-07:00

Today the clouds hang low and heavy, but the birds still chirp a warm wake-up. Greenery fills gaps in the yard as spring has let loose. Leaves flutter in a light breeze.

To counter, freshly brewed coffee wafts in from the kitchen, along with the smells of scrambled eggs and toast that Wendy is cooking up for us.

Dad won’t eat. Instead we encourage him to sip some more apple juice or take in more water. “It’ll whet your whistle,” we say, and laugh. He cracks a weak smile, appeases us by sucking on the straw placed in his mouth.

He’s in his downstairs bed, surrounded by us, his three daughters. Vivaldi plays softly in the background from Christie’s iPod. The days are like this now – moments snatched-up when we can grab them, the simplicity of just being. Together.

He tries to express thoughts and feelings between labored breaths, a furrowed brow or, more importantly, a brightening of his eyes when he recognizes we are sitting beside him. That’s the best.

“Well, this isn’t exactly what I had planned for the weekend,” he quipped yesterday, when he still had it in him. It’s different today, already.

We decide that’s our new favourite saying, and will keep it close to our hearts, use it as a reminder of his stoic nature and sense of humour, forever.

DESERT SONATA

2011-04-13T10:47:00.000-07:00

Some of us are lucky. I certainly am.

I’ve just spent ten glorious days in the Baja with my good friends at their newly built piece of heaven. It is peaceful and calm here, yet a mighty wind blows through the architectural spaces of the home, keeping us cool and alive. Out one direction lies the dry desert, the other is the Sea-of-Cortez, crashing constant reminders that warm waters await just beyond the dunes.

I needed this get-away, but then who wouldn’t? But after spending so many days and nights – months, with my elderly father now failing in health, this has given me a much needed reprieve from the day-to-day living with death and dying. Being here is certainly the complete opposite of the life I’ve been living with him, and of the life he is living still. It’s a balance in the extreme.

This poem is my Thanks – to Chico and Sherry for having me as their guest in this glorious, magical place, and a gift to my Dad. He can’t be here, but through his love of poetry and travel, he might be able to experience a little bit of the music and magic of the Baja. XO

DESERT SONATA

Earth’s prickly carpet,

barrel cactus, sagebrush,

speckle a dry landscape.

When the wind howls,

arid soil whispers its raspy reply,

tides crest their counter.

Sea-of-Cortez crashes on

to scorched shores, offers relief

from blistering rays.

Evening falls lightly,

day’s offerings fading

into a warm after-glow.

As imposing Goddess,

your volcanic nipples stand erect

against a deepening desert sky.

MORE INSOMNIAC MEANDERINGS

2011-04-10T02:59:00.000-07:00

PAST MIDNIGHT

‘“Oh terribly bad!” said the princess. “I have hardly closed my eyes the whole night.”’

The Princess and the Pea, by Hans Christian Andersen

When sheep don’t count anymore

I pace, across 400 thread count bed sheets – cotton,

or silk is smooth too, sometimes

becoming twisted from tossing,

then I try

smothering mind behind

pillow

cases

open - ended,

flipped over and over for

must have cool.

But still

is not and this restless darkness

has turned light.

Already?

* An excerpt from my poem Pieces of Day, and posted during another sleep-disrupted night. Ah me...

My female friends and I often - still - discuss whether this condition is exclusive to women, or whether men also suffer from time to time (or more often?) from insomnia. We'd love to hear from you men too, if sleep affects your life or, life affects your sleep.

Is sleeplessness caused by the moon's cycle, disturbed hormones, over-stimulation from too much on your mind, over-stimulation from coffee, chocolate, tea, alcohol (heaven forbid), sometimes some of the above, or always all of the above? What is it when it occurs regularly - besides a problem?

I'm sure there have been many dissertations written on the subject. If I Google insomnia or sleep disorders I'll bet I could be up all night discovering more than I'd like to know on the topic. But, as is usually the case, rather than spending precious hours contemplating or researching the whys and hows of being awake at 3 AM, I should simply sleep.

THE PASSING OF TIME WITH LOVED ONES

2011-04-06T22:08:00.000-07:00

It's been over eighteen months since I returned to my childhood home to live with and care for my aging father. During that time we have both experienced changes. We have both had to accept a new life. We have both had to surrender a part of our independence. We have both had to learn a new kind of patience and understanding.

Just as children grow-up, the process of parents aging and taking on the role of being cared for is a gradual one. It kind of creeps up. Suddenly one day you realize that you are speaking to your father gently, saying things like "That's okay Dad, we all forget things sometimes." or "No problem, we can clean that mess up in two seconds." Careful words that he will understand. Words that have the patience to be repeated again and again.

One day you wake up and realize the love is as strong, it's just the roles are reversed.

This poem was written eighteen months ago.

MEMORY

Remember? I’d sit on your lap, we’d read, practice rhymes, shoe/Pooh, walk to the park, two clasped hands.

Years later, played-out we’d sit down around the table, how was school? Achievements shared. We’d laugh, mom’d pour more wine. For you, for her. Remember?

Dishes scrubbed, towel-dried, homework & lessons completed, some nights Ella might jazz up the front room, a little dancing, mom Ginger, you Fred.

We girls’d huddle on the sofa, knees tucked, envisioning ourselves enchanting as you, feet dusting hardwood. It was love, wasn’t it?

After she died we’d visit, just us girls, reminisce, your childhood, the war years, distant relatives, the day you and mom met. Remember?

So many years have passed. Old friends, like you, aging, some gauging their time now in hours, days, not years or decades like your great-grandchildren do.

The grandfather clock in the hall ticks on, has borne witness as we children have grown, bore children who bore their own, history played-out through its swinging pendulum.

Remember this evening? We touched on all this then, again, recounted tomorrow, ticked off appointments, a litany, one day at a time, repeat, one day at a time, remember to take your pills.

Remember?

Of course you don’t.

Ways to Celebrate/Participate National Poetry Month

2011-04-03T21:48:00.000-07:00

Poem In Your Pocket Day: Join thousands of individuals across the U.S. by carrying a poem in your pocket on April 14, 2011.

30 Poets, 30 Days: Throughout each day during National Poetry Month, a selected poet will have 24 hours to tweet his or her daily insights before passing the baton.

Poem-A-Day: Great poems from new books emailed each day of National Poetry Month. Sign up for your daily dose of new poems from new spring poetry titles.

Spring Book List: Check out the new books of poetry available each spring.

Poem Flow for iPhones: Available through the iTunes store, this innovative mobile app features daily poems presented as both fixed and animated text.

A Poem to begin National Poetry Month

2011-04-01T08:06:00.000-07:00

ABSINTH

Awaken to a myriad; colour that spills,

fills the room.

Ochre drips into burnt umber,

turns shadows to mauve.

A crimson dawn creeps in,

leaving the Moorish night.

Open the shutters! Primary red, yellow, blue,

starved for oxygen,

inhale winter and explode into spring,

splatter a palate that gives way

to Van Gogh’s ghost –

to what the ear hears;

silence at daybreak.

SLEEP IS FOR THE NEEDY

2011-03-27T11:11:00.000-07:00

After a night of tossing about inside a tangle of sheets, and a merciless onslaught of thoughts, I sit, drinking my coffee, an unwelcome stinging in my eyes. The sun is shining. Thank goodness for that. However, it occurs to me that I must take a walk early today because I can already feel the crash-and-burn from lack of sleep coming on, and it’s only 9 o’clock.

It’s these damn writing projects, I grumble to myself, having to blame something. The M-word is as exhausted as I am. Thinking back on my morning ramblings (all this began at 12:30 AM and didn’t come to a close until at least 5), most of what was spinning around in my head was reasonable enough; how to re-write this bit or re-vamp that. But then a bright, new idea would pop up, which only opened another door for my fanatical imagination to wander through.

Dream-like meanderings turned to bouncing from one idea to the next, as one not-so-reasonable thought paved the way for another. I felt the dizzy allure of sleep but wouldn’t allow myself to be swept away. How could I? I was too busy thinking. Soon the music started. Mark Knopfler’s Punish The Monkey, that I’d listened to earlier that day on my iPhone, played on auto-rewind in my head. That’s just great, my mind complained, as it mechanically hummed along.

It was too late (or early) for drugs. Counting from one hundred backwards was a waste of precious thinking time. And my yoga guru, Nancy’s words of wisdom were treading water in an ever deepening pool. Finally I rose, turned on the light and jotted down a few words on paper. Then I succumbed. I committed the big can’t sleep no-no. I turned on my laptop.

However, before the soothing whir completed it's booting-up cycle, I gently closed the lid. Enough already. I need sleep.

Laptop as Pet

2011-03-24T12:34:00.000-07:00

After the recent succession across the globe, all the talk of earthquakes has me thinking again about earthquake preparedness, and then, of all things, about what might happen to my beloved laptop in the event of one. Should I sleep with it within arm’s reach, or store it underneath the table, which is where I would, or should end up?

I know, I know, we are not supposed to worry about our valuables in emergency situations. We are only to think about the safety and ultimate well-being of ourselves and our loved ones. But what about all those hours of hard work uploading information? What about typing page after page of notes, outlines, stories, or poems? What about all my music, my photos?

Of course I have backed things up, but probably not as regularly as I should, and lately, only the things I’m currently working on. (Note to self: get better back-up system like external hard-drive)

What about the long list of bookmarks I refer to on a regular basis or the programs installed? Can those be backed-up? And then there are the real, hand-held notepads and notebooks that I scribble in, the ones scattered around my room in drawers, beside my computer, in different handbags, or on the bedside table? They hold random words that will later blossom into a poem, or a long pondered idea for a new story or project, or some crazy notion that has come to me in the wee hours. I can’t back those up. Sure, I can replace my Hi-Tecpoint Pilot 0.5 pens, my Bic Matic grip #2 pencils, but not the words written in the body of my many notebooks. Those, like the files stored on my laptop, are my treasures.

So, while I build my new emergency kit, equipped with a case of bottled spring water, cans of beans, tomatoes, chili, and soups; flashlight, batteries, blanket, first aid with basic medications, and a whistle, I keep my cell phone charged and continue to work on ways to include my laptop (and now notebooks) in the emergency evacuation plan.

Perhaps since I don’t have one, I can refer to my laptop as a pet, technically embracing her as family. Tabitha, or more aptly Tab, for short. I always knew she was a girl.

The Conversation

2011-03-20T12:43:00.000-07:00

Rain slams

sheets of winter, wipers

flip-flop fits of blindness

across the windshield,

wind sings its chilly aria.

Winter is like this,

I remind

the cabbie who grumbles to himself

so I can hear.

Be grateful we’re not

in London, still

arctic, damp & dreary.

Be grateful we’re not in Port-au-Prince,

still straddling

rat-infested sidewalks,
hunger hanging like a noose,

replacing brick-by-historic brick in

Christchurch,

razed - retrievable?

Japan. Oh, Japan.

All (of us) united

in inability

to control earth’s moodiness.

Together we dodge

puddles along slickened side-streets,

- Carry On

aware now

of drowning raindrops,

the race of wipers eased,

the gentle flap-flap against an open

car window

my hair,

let loose to the hope of spring.

How to Disrupt a Potentially Productive Writing Day

2011-03-17T11:52:00.000-07:00

Or…The Internet.

I awakened to sun, with a moderate cloud covering, a slight ache in my lower back, and a plan. After a breakfast that consisted of scrambled egg whites with sautéed zucchini, onion, red pepper, and a dash of parmesan, and coffee – make that two – I retreated to my attic room to work on my new poetry manuscript, having a couple new poems in framework stage, and a couple ideas for new ones.

I set my accessories on the desk; steaming mug of coffee, glass of water, organic fruit and nut bar, beside my tools; laptop, mouse, pen, paper, glasses. I was ready.

First, I started in on my newest piece and remembered why I had left it hanging. I needed – wanted – another word for crown. Tiara wasn’t quite right. Neither was hat (Jane, don’t go down the hat road again). I opened another tab and pulled up the online Thesaurus, thinking it a quicker fix than looking through the deluxe Synonym Finder my friend and fellow writer, Wendy Coblentz, had given me. Before I knew it I was in yet another tab looking through Wikipedia at the history of the Monarchy. Did you know that the Ceremony of the Keys is a traditional ceremony that has happened every single night for the last 750 years?

“At exactly 9.53pm, the Chief Yeoman Warder, dressed in Tudor Watchcoat, meets the Military Escort, made up of members of the Tower of London Guard. Together, the CYW and the Yeoman Warder ‘Watchman’ secure the main gates of the Tower. Upon their return down Water Lane, the party is halted by the sentry and challenged to identify themselves:

Sentry: Who comes there?
Chief Warder: The keys.
S: Whose keys?
CW: Queen Elizabeth’s keys. (identifying the keys as being those of the current British monarch)
S: Pass Queen Elizabeth’s Keys. All’s well.

Following this, the party makes its way through the Bloody Tower Archway into the fortress, where they halt at the bottom of the Broadwalk Steps. On the top of the Stairs, under the command of their Officer, the Tower guard present arms and the Chief Warder raises his hat, proclaiming:

CW: God preserve Queen Elizabeth.
S: Amen!

He then takes the keys to the Queen’s House for safekeeping, while the Last Post is sounded.”

Oh for pity sake Jane, you detest the Monarchy. Get back to work.

But unfortunately things got worse. I couldn’t help myself. I digressed to the lowest possible denominator. I followed the thread, FYI, already started on Google, and looked up dirt on Prince William and his bride to be, Kate Middleton. After trifling details on engagement announcements, wedding arrangements, etc., I headed toward (oh, no!) particulars on the dreaded see through lace dress, designed and hand knitted by Charlotte Todd as part of the Art of Seduction project, the very dress young, naïve Kate wore for the University of St. Andrews annual charity fashion show in 2002. Or maybe she wasn’t so naïve after all. Maybe she knew exactly the diversion required to snare the Royal Willie in the first place.

Hang on a minute. Diversion. That’s what’s going on here. I’m being diverted away from my poem, that has absolutely nothing to do with the Royals and everything to do with the landmark peace rally that took place in San Francisco in November, 1969, and the image of a girl wearing that thing atop her head like a…like a…coronet, tiara, mitre, wreath, garland, laurel…oh gawd…

But really, that dress!

Different Hats

2011-03-15T20:29:00.000-07:00

You know how, as normal, busy human beings, we juggle loads of things in a day or a week or a year? We wear different hats; one for being a handyman, or one for being a musician, or a Mum or Dad, or an environmental activist, or a stamp collector, or an astronaut. We all carry and wear a lot of different hats in our day to day, and it can be fun. It can even be exciting and rewarding, but it can also be stressful and complicated trying to keep things organized, to not get those hats mixed up, or let yourself get spread too thin.

I mention this because it's easy to do and of course that's exactly what I've done - again. In some ways life asks this of us, I argue. It's something we must do to a certain extent, in order to be productive, balanced, interesting and interested folks. But I thought I had learned my lessons about taking on too much. I thought I had reached that point of maturity to simplify. Instead, I not only have the hats I juggle in my daily life, I've picked up new hats that I now juggle in my writing life. Uh-oh.

I asked myself today, how did this happen? Of course the answer smacked me in the head before I could get away. You made it happen Jane. You chose to do it.

So here I am, being a full-fledged circus juggler once again. I write at least some new poetry every week, keep up with literary contests and journal submissions, read what's going on in the writing world both in Canada and the US, keep at manuscript edits and polishes, and now I have this lovely new blog of mine to maintain, which also involves FB updates, research, writing new blogs, pitching to all my poor, unsuspecting friends, colleagues or whoever will listen, and so on, and so on. And that's not all. I have yet another new project, a new writing persona that also requires regular blog updates, FB linkage, and new work to be added on a regular basis, that only I can write. And so it goes.

But, I will call these new hats 'caps' and I'm going to enjoy my nightcap right now.

The Darkest Hour

2011-03-13T22:43:00.000-07:00

As a poet/writer, but mostly as the poet, I feel more inclined to write when moved by something tragic, emotional, poignant - basically in the darkest hour. As we know, some of a poets greatest work is created from those bleak, lonely, visceral places because that is how one climbs out. When emotion is raw, so writing is raw and real.

Expression through the language of poetry is a healer and holds great strength - at least for me. I didn't always know this, but I must have felt it from the time I first started writing, around the age of twelve. I used to find a dark, quiet place to hide (the top shelf in the hall linen closet was a fave), compose my thoughts and then write them down in the shape of a poem. Looking back on some of my childhood or adolescent work, it's easy to laugh at the immaturity of the writing; the trite phases, corny metaphors, the predictability. But it meant something then. It was a beginning and it was real.

Fortunately, I am now able to write poems from happy places too, and what a relief! A poet doesn't have to be morose and angst-ridden to make words work on the page.

I realize I started this blog because, like you, I've been deeply troubled and upset by the recent earthquake and tsunami in Japan. How helpless we are, living here in our cozy homes, unable to truly grasp the extent of this unimaginable disaster. Saturday I wrote about it as tragedy. Soon I'd like to write about it with optimism, as a country climbs out of the dark to find its way in the world again. Good work also comes from the light.

IMAGINE - I CANNOT

2011-03-12T08:58:00.000-08:00

It’s after the quaking that it begins;

the shaking, of limbs unable to move

out from underneath

the rubble, terror

far-flung, choking on fear

amidst mayhem, the scramble

to higher ground, free of

glass, falling concrete, shattered lives.

Then, I imagine,

a stony silence - dead calm,

the aftermath of a most unexpected,

unexplained wrath, the

why and how of it, the absolute

painful surrender to it, because

one can only yield, then wonder

where is my city, my family, my home?

Conceive to carry-on.

Writer's Success

2011-03-10T09:09:00.000-08:00

Fellow Simon Fraser University The Writer's Studio alum and friend, Gurjinder Basran, is shortlisted for the Ethel Wilson Prize for her new book Everything was Goodbye

Way to go Gurjinder! We're all so proud of you.

Sustaining the Sisterhood

2011-03-08T10:14:00.000-08:00

Happy International Women's Day to all my bold, brave, interesting, fabulous, smart, sexy, incredible women out there!

It's hard to believe that we are still fighting for our right to live with equal footing on this planet. Shocking!

Yet as much as we, in the developed world, still strive to find balance and fairness in the workplace and in our home lives, to knock down discrimination or abuse that so easily floors us, we must always remember the plight of our sisters in underdeveloped countries, the ones out of sight.

We must remember that they need us to never forget their profound struggle and situation in life.
We must remember to do what ever we can to keep them safe.

We must remember to do what ever we can to stop the barbaric practices that continue to exist.
We must remember each and every one of our sisters, around the world, as well as the ones close to home that we are able to say how much we believe in them by the power of our embrace.

A Fine Vancouver Evening

2011-03-06T09:12:00.000-08:00

Thanks to Poet, Miranda Pearson and Writer, Joan Flood, I had a most relaxing Saturday night in the 'Couve.

With wine, yummy slow-cooked chicken, delish eggplant casserole, green and garbanzo bean salads, we three savoured a good dose of health talk, love stories (good and not so), literary journeys, and a smattering of gossip thrown in for good measure. Lucky me walked away with a signed copy of M's newest book of poetry, Harbour.

Ahhh, feeling replenished.

STREET ART STRIKES AGAIN

2011-03-03T11:28:00.000-08:00

Beautiful, touching, inspired: http://vimeo.com/20543283

Thanks Carmen Joy King for this Facebook post today. I just had to share it!

B O R I N G

2011-02-28T11:22:00.000-08:00

Oscarmania, or as read on FB yesterday Gown-o-rama. So what did you think?

I think it was another sell-out but what else is new? The Academy of Arts and Sciences is so conservative and predictable that it really isn't all that much fun to watch the Oscars anymore, except of course for the glam and the gowns and hopes for blunders. Even an anticipated appearance from the infamous Banksy was all hype.

I must admit, the fashion was generally tasteful this year except perhaps for Cate's lavender and yellow Givenchy number. Sorry Cate but Mila Kunis of Black Swan, upstaged your lavender with her Elie Saab pleated chiffon lavender.

Ann Hathaway, Jennifer Hudson and Sandra Bullock knocked 'em dead in red. Marisa Tomei in lovely vintage blue, Gwyneth Paltrow in sleek liquid metallic, and Reese Witherspoon in simply classic, wowed the crowd. Personally I love Michelle Williams new platinum pixie and her pearl embellished gown was the perfect compliment to the new do.

Ann Hathaway should have stuck with the fab flaming Valentino she wore on the red carpet at the beginning of the show. The costume changes throughout were okay but unfortunately added to the list of things that detracted from the hosting of this years Oscars being a 'class act'. If Ann had gone it alone she may have had a chance, but what was up with James Franco? His sense of humour was either too dry to be clever or he was bored.

To infuse the 83rd Oscars by giving it a kick from Hollywood's young, hip generation, might have been a good idea if they weren't dealing with an Academy that is stuck in an 'old boys club' mentality. Even in a one minute spot, Billy Crystal proved he is still able to work that tough crowd like putty in his hands, and watching reels of Bob Hope brought back the memory of what a good host host ought to be. Kirk Douglas! Despite his recent stroke, he was quick-witted and funny and had the timing of his one-twos down-pat. It was so refreshing to watch it done right.

Although pitted against a formidable group of fine actors, Natalie Portman looked radiant in her purple Rodarte, and deserved to win best actress from her intense and grueling roll in Black Swan. A heartfelt acceptance speech albeit a bit long-winded.

As much as I adore Colin Firth, I think there were others that should have beat him to the punch this time around, but we all know he was the safest bet and an Academy fave. He also gave a lovely acceptance speech, all in good form. I do love you Colin, as do all of the female persuasion - and otherwise.

A good moment was Randy Newman on accepting his award for best original song, but besides being shaken and nervous, that was a pretty big fop-ah by best supporting actress winner Melissa Leo when she dropped the F-bomb on prime time TV. How did they bleep that out so fast?

I liked when they showed the two moms in the audience who got to say their scripted piece. Cute. I loved the opening sequence of the hosts visiting and entering each film as in Inception. That was funny and clever and Alec Baldwin's cameo made it great. Another entertaining bit was when they spoofed scenes from films set to music, the best one: "He Doesn't Own A Shirt" from the Twilight Saga. Hilarious.

Tom Hooper, best director of The Kings Speech, acknowledging his mother's discovery of the script during a play reading was a nice touch, and Luke Matheny of Short Feature fame, thanked his mom for doing the Craft Services for the show! Well done you two.

Most embarrassing moment, Gweneth Paltrow on vocals and, sorry to say, Ann Hathaway singing some ridiculous song to Huge Jackman. I mean, what was that all about?

Other than that, it was pretty run-of-the-mill but as always, I watched, you watched, millions watched. Who I really wanted to see was Banksy, but then, that really would have spoiled everything...

Fiction or Nonfiction (that is the question)

2011-02-24T15:04:00.000-08:00

I love finding a good bit of fiction where I follow the cleverness of the writing, take notes, mark pages, and get completely absorbed in the story.

In reading the book Little Bee, I am struck by two things. The way the author, Chris Cleave, brilliantly handles narrative positioning, and the way he descriptively draws out the story while the reader (me) is raptly pulled more and more into it. I am also struck by my own dilemma of whether to stick to writing my story as memoir or as fiction. I've had both on the go for some time now, clearly waiting for it to make up its mind.

Mark Twain said: Fiction is obliged to stick to possibilities. Truth isn't.

Since I've been working in short story form my piece has finally found direction in creative nonfiction. It seems the perfect alternative.

Listen Up

2011-02-22T12:29:00.000-08:00

Thank you Wendy Coblentz for sending me this link the first time and then to Cindy Hall Koure with her FB follow-up. This really is a great piece. Enjoy.

http://www.studio360.org/2011/feb/11/my-poetmy-novelist/

First Things First

2011-02-22T10:06:00.000-08:00

Coffee, check. Notebook, check. V5 Pilot pen, check. Laptop, check. Synonym Finder, check. Current material, check. More coffee, check, check, check.

Today's lesson: how to toggle between the romance novella that is oh so dramatically crying out for more words, and two poems I am polishing for a poetry project submission. However, I find it is the perfect pairing as they both call for an abundance of adjectives with a touch of cynicism.

The sun has also stopped by to play so once I complete my intended word quota for the day I'll join her for a jaunty walk. Till then...

...how buoyant you are, how feather-light in-flight heels hee-haw out-loud and somehow that pulls me in...

A Fine Balance

2011-02-21T20:38:00.000-08:00

Which is one of my favourite books and is also something I strive for in my daily life. Right now it is something I'm trying to manage with this new blog site. Ha!

I'm sure it's because I've just broken ground as they say, but I find I'm consumed with the construction and subsequent daily - hourly - improvement of this site. A substantial amount of time goes into first the framework, next the layout, then tools, building, design, and artwork. Then, just when I think I've finished, there's the realization of maintenance, that it will always be a work in progress.

So far this project is proving to be an enjoyable learning curve and one I hope will be fruitful on many levels. However, for now I must put mouse and keyboard aside and get some sleep before tomorrow bounds into my room with a cheerful good-day and the hopes of a good strong cup of coffee.

Sunday night after the wine

2011-02-20T21:45:00.000-08:00

...and after dinner too, so all's good.

I had a wonderful day wandering through SF de Young Museum's special exhibit Olmec, then lunch at the gallery cafe out in the cool afternoon sun, then on to The Legion of Honor's special exhibit pulp Fashion, a tremendous work of paper clothing fashioned after classical styles throughout history. Amazing. All this fun was with my long time friend Lori from Canada, who I hadn't seen in ten years. So good to have reconnected.

Thursday and Friday I also spent with a great family friend, also who I hadn't seen or spent time with in a very long time. It's funny how when it rains it pours, but I'm not complaining. I also notice that these social activities or opportunities often present themselves when I'm ready and need a break. I had been writing steadily for days and days, slipping in the odd necessary walk or Pilates class but otherwise being pretty well glued to my laptop. Now, after a few days off, I'm ready to hunker down again. My mind has been reeling as it doesn't take long before fresh ideas surface and must be put into words, so I may as well get going.

Needless to say, I spent all of Saturday building this blog site. There is still so much to learn and so much to do - so much I want to do on here. However, as Roma said, launch it. You can always change things as you go along. I guess that's really what a blog is all about, right?

I'd be very grateful for your feedback, input, suggestions, complaints, whatever you feel is necessary to help me on this new adventure. So here we go.

Wheeeeee!

Saturday deluge

2011-02-19T10:04:00.000-08:00

This is my first blog on my new blog site. Yah!

It's Saturday. It's grey and rainy, a perfect writing day, which is what I have planned. I'm working on poems for my second poetry manuscript as well as (are you sitting down?) a romance/erotica novel. So much fun!

My hope for blogging is to share my words through daily/weekly memos, post the odd poem, excerpt or published work, and to hear from you - who ever you may be. Who knows how this will develop over time but I'm excited to find out.

Welcome to my blog.