Goals

If you're at all interested in music or Tim Roth, find The Legend of 1900. It's a glorious film - a little slow around the 5/8ths point, but maybe I was just tired and needed a nap. It's about a man who was born on an ocean liner and becomes a beyond-brilliant pianist. Never thought of Tim Roth as sexy, but seeing him on the piano - sometimes sweaty, sometimes so poignant it made me feel like a voyeur - well, let's just say it aroused me in all kinds of interesting ways.

Just as charming is his attitude to things he doesn't like; simple and direct, which of course reminds me of our beloved Kiki. When he's a child playing the liner's ballroom piano in the middle of the night, the captain and not a few of the passengers come in to listen. The captain stares for a moment or two in shock, then approaches the boy and says, "My boy. You must know that this is against all the regulations!" The boy stops for a second and says, "Fuck the regulations." Then he keeps playing. This is a recurring phrase, which is endearing.

On to the primary message of this post. We have in the past discussed goals - their importance, or lack thereof, etc. I am having problems with goals, and it seems to come down to the relatively simple error that I think I am capable of more than I am. You can probably imagine how much that pisses me off.

It's not just in Sanctuary. It's at work, too. I can usually meet the critical, high-visibility deadlines, but when I walk into work saying, "ok, I'm gonna finish two internal audits, follow up two corrective actions, and submit five revisions" it sounds perfectly reasonable to me. And it Never. Fucking. Happens.

Fuck the goals.

In the same vein, it seems reasonable that I should manage to write or revise 1000 words a night. That's only three pages. Is it because I start so late that I can't keep my eyes open? Friday night I worked up to around 700 and then sleep sucker-punched me and I was asleep before I even knew what happened.

At any rate, setting these apparently unreasonable goals - even though they sound entirely achievable to me - is creating no small amount of resentment on my part. I mean, if I can't meet these paltry goals, why set them at all?

Fuck the goals.

Obviously one less dramatic solution is to just adjust the goals so that they remain challenging but more achievable so that I establish a pattern of success instead of failure. Feeling like a loser every day is starting to wear on my self-esteem.

Fuck the goals.

PMS figures into this, I'm sure. And next weekend I'll be leaving for a week at the beach, which sounds glorious on the one hand and terrifying on the other. One of the critical methods I use to maintain some mental stability, on top of the meds, is to stick to the routine. Have a home base, to have something familiar waiting for me when I explore. In other words, "Don't ever get off the boat, man." If you've ever seen Apocalypse Now, you might remember the disastrous consequences of getting off the boat in the middle of a jungle.

I'm doing what I can in terms of planning to make sure I have familiar things around me when we get there - things I can control, because we'll be vacationing with my sister-in-law, her husband, her two daughters (ages 5 and 4), and my father-in-law. A lot of fucking variables.

That's not even considering the shit waiting on the other side once we get home. The day after we get back, my mother-in-law is coming for a three-day-visit, and she will be, no doubt, entirely grossed out by the state of my house, no matter how much we clean before we leave.

The day after she arrives, my dog Sheba goes in for major surgery to have a tumor removed from her leg.

Two days after that, Brian starts school.

The week after that, Aeryn goes back to school.

Yeah, things are going to be a little nuts. But that doesn't mean I have to be. And a first step is, I think, to make 800 words a night instead of a thousand. Once I get used to that I can push it farther. At any rate, I'm still working and still moving forward, even if it feels, as they say 'round these parts, like molasses in January.

Surfer Girl

I went surfing again today, with my sister and two friends. We got lessons from Liquid Dreams on Long Sands, York Beach, Maine.

York is a funny place for me. I moved around a lot as a child (five years divided between Maine and New Hampshire; four years in Maryland; one year back in Maine; two years in New Mexico; six more in New Hampshire -- and all this before my wanderlust college saga). It's hard for me to pick a home state, let alone a home town, on some levels. If I picked one, though, it would be York. My beloved maternal grandparents lived there for years, and I remain more familiar with it, and nostalgic for it, than any other place I've been. Last year, for example, my sister and I were driving along the labyrinth of back roads behind Long Sands and she asked which road to take. I answered without thinking, choosing a road that I might not have been on in several decades -- and it was the right road. Yet I can't remember one single thing from high school chemistry class. Funny how the mind works.

Anyway, it just feels right that I'm surfing Long Sands. The instructor gives us few pointers, reasoning (probably correctly) that we can't think of too many things at once anyway. He occasionally positions a surfer and shoves her forward in a wave at just the right moment. I refuse this service; I've got to learn how to do this on my own. As gregarious and social as I am, I like to figure things out myself.

The water is freezing, maybe 65 degrees if we're lucky. The wetsuit is fine, but it doesn't do shit for my feet, and I lose all feeling in my toes within thirty minutes, though I stay out almost ninety. Wet, salty curls hang in my face. The waves surge and disappear unpredictably, maybe two and a half feet high on average, and I wish they were bigger, though I have no idea whether I could handle bigger.

I catch a wave perfectly sometimes, cruising in, focused on nothing but the board and the water. It may be the purest thing I've ever done or felt. Sometimes I wipe out, sometimes spectacularly, but that's the price, and it's totally worth it.

Surf words explode in my brain like an awesome saltwater fountain: gnarly; radical; dude; hang ten; point break. I am K-Dog, bobbing on the water, waiting for the perfect wave, and sometimes I find it.

I am alive; alight; incendiary.

And I can't fucking wait to do this again.

Downtown Portsmouth

Okay, the title is a lie. I'm not going to talk about downtown Portsmouth (NH), even though I just had a fabulous evening there with my sister and our friend L, including Japanese food, minor shopping, good wine, and better company. I'm just rambling because (so I've heard) that's how I roll.

It is fucking hot here. Keep in mind I live in southern New Mexico and we know hot, and not just the chiles. It seems insanely ironic that while my (adopted) hometown enjoys 90 degree weather and monsoon rain storms, we're sweltering in the region of my (original) hometown. It's hitting 90 here too, unusual in terms of how many days it's done so, and it's humid as fuck. It's nice for those fine lines, and for a curly girl, but it's wicked awful at night when you can't face sweltering in your sheets. Hence I'm up late, doing laundry, dishes, anything to avoid the oven that is my bedroom.

I am dreaming of surfing. The Maine ocean is unforgivingly cold, but that seems like a small price to pay tonight -- possibly a blessing, in fact. Let me just catch some waves tomorrow, please do, Karma -- or Magic 8 Ball -- or whatever passes for spiritual in my brain, which is actually nothing. I'll go with the Magic 8 Ball. Anyway, I'm keeping busy, especially tonight, when a bed seems like torture rather than release.

I try to be a really good helper to my sister during these summer visits. I stay a long time, often around six or more weeks, and I know I am lucky to have a brother-in-law (or anyone, really) who doesn't mind such a houseguest. We all love each other. I try very hard to improve the running of the house. I look after the kids (and adore them). I load and unload the dishwasher. I take over the laundry, completely, and I mean completely. It satisfies the OCD in me (what's your number? and if you didn't get that, you don't get that. Mine is 5, incidentally). I cook as often as possible, which usually means most dinners.

And I don't do any of this because I should, or must, or am asked to do so. I do it because I want to. I do more here than I do in my own house. I laugh at my boyfriend when he comments on my long "vacations," because while it is, it also isn't. And I love every fucking moment, or at least most of them, and what else can you ask? How much better can it get?

My sister is wicked cool. She's smart, and funny, and savvy, and I have never and will never know anyone with whom I laugh more...belly laughs, the kind that hurt your abs in the best possible way.

So this couldn't be a better place to be. I am so fucking lucky. I need to remind myself of that on a regular basis. Who doesn't?

Liquid Dreams

I surfed yesterday. It was fucking radical.

That. Is. All.

For the love of water

Ah the smells of camping: bug spray, sunscreen, camp fires, outhouses, musty old tents you should have aired out before packing but didn't take the time...these smells bring back memories of my youth. And now I get to share these things with my boys. Of course, as an adult I now realize how much work is involved as well.

So we camped out last weekend but it wasn't really your typical camping experience. We were visiting a friend who is in the process of building a house and we stayed out there on his property, in a little travel camper. He has an outhouse and a spigot for water. He even has a refridgerator and a television. But the place is a total bachelor pad. This is the friend from whom I first heard the sayings "Comfort kills the soul," and "pain is weakness leaving the body." So, you can imagine...

The place is way out of town on a (very dusty) gravel road with few trees around, and summer decided to finally strike this weekend. It was blastingly hot, with very little shade. However, it was near a river (hence the massive mosquito onslaught) so we were able to go swim a couple of times. While there, I cleaned out our friend's camper and refridgerator. I felt like it was the least I could do. My husband says I do things like this because I like gross things. (In response I always say, yes, I do like YOU.) On the contrary, I like CLEAN things, THAT is why I clean up gross things.

I am no clean/neat freak, no, not at all. I just love running water and a relatively comfortable place to be. I mean, I have two boys (three if you count my husband), I am used to a bit of mess and chaos. I'm also used to cleaning it up. So, at times like these (camping out in a hot dusty place) it is the running water, the indoor plumbing, that I miss the most.

I didn't even realize (or maybe I chose to ignore) just how dusty and dry we all were until we got home. The first thing I did when we got home was a neti pot. Then a shower, and tons of moisturizer. Made the boys bathe too, fed them and put them to bed. Washed dishes, started on the laundry, watered the yard and garden. I looked around at our lush green yard and all the tall, lovely, shade-creating trees, and I was thankful for what I have. A bit of deprivation once in a while really helps me to appreciate the comfortable life I have created for myself.

So here is what I've been thinking: a comfortable life is all about water. Not only do we need to drink tons of water to be really healthy, but we also need it to grow food or livestock, we need it to stay clean and comfortable...water is life. Water is wealth. The majority of the surface of our planet is covered with water. Water is fun to play in. All weekend I found myself thinking about Aquatic Ape Hypothesis, a theory of human evolution that says we evolved into what we are today not from running across the hot dry savanna after wicked fast prey (competing with huge cats as predators), but through our proximity to water. Living near and often in water, eating fish, helped our brains grow. Looking out at the hot dusty dry land did not make me feel like running. In fact, I had planned to go for a long run in training for a fall marathon, but it was way too hot. If I had ever gotten hungry enough out there to go running after an antelope, I would have passed out from heat exhaustion long before I got close to one.

So imagine two proto-humans, one who runs off into the sun after meat, another who follows the water, eating occasional fish and plant life growing along the shore. Who would survive? Who would be richer and more comfortable? Who is the smarter one? I know what direction I would go in.

Girl Got Rhythm

I always knew that being an aunt would be cool, but I had no idea just how cool it would be.

Today I had some one-on-one time with my niece V, who turned three last November. We had the following conversation.

Me: I love wild girls. I'm a wild girl, and you're a wild girl.

V: Kiki burps and I burp!

Me: V dances and I dance!

V loves music, and she's got a really tight sense of rhythm, both in song and dance. So I brought up YouTube on the computer and we rocked out.

First up: "Hit the Road, Jack," vintage Ray Charles. V loves that song, although she's been known to sing "Hit the road, diaper!" instead of the original lyrics.

Then I tried a couple new (to her) songs on for size. She listened politely to Little Milton's "We're Gonna Make It," but only because I told her it was a song that she and I had enjoyed together when she was a tiny six-month-old baby.

"Piece of My Heart" by Janis Joplin seemed marginally acceptable; at least V moved to it. I thought she'd like it because, much like her aunt, both V and Janis have deep, husky smoker's voices. Or maybe whiskey drinker's voices. (Obviously only two of us actually do/did those things, but give V time.)

V seemed bored by both Def Leppard's "Pour Some Sugar on Me" and the Public Enemy/Anthrax version of "Bring the Noise," but didn't object. She then requested "Ice Ice Baby" by Vanilla Ice -- I cringed but complied. She's got to have her own taste, after all, much as I might like to influence her.

I like to joke with my sister that she had my baby for me, because V and I are so much alike.

I can't wait to watch her as she continues to grow into her own fabulous self.

Amtrak Correction

I was seriously remiss to not mention this in my earlier Amtrak post: one wicked cool thing did happen during my interminable trip. I met a really awesome couple, Nancy & Harry from Toronto. We bonded over cigarette breaks and spent a number of truly fantastic hours hanging out, chatting, shooting the shit, potty-mouthing, bitching, celebrating, and just generally enjoying each other's company.

My Amtrak travels are usually boring, and as I said earlier, that's not necessarily a bad thing (excitement on Amtrak not generally being the positive type -- don't even ask about "Naked Guy"). But sometimes I meet really cool people, and this was the best.

So here is my shout-out to Nancy and Harry. Thank you so much for making my trip memorable, and let's stay in touch. Amtrak, represent!

Short Sands

Today, my first full day back east, my sister and brother-in-law were generous enough to cart us all to the beach. My joy probably exceeded even that of my five-year-old nephew and three-year-old niece.

We went to Short Sands, the northernmost of York's three beaches and the favorite of all of us. The wind blew briskly but the sun emerged from behind the clouds and the temperature hovered in the 80s. I wish I could say the same for the water, which I would guess was a touch below 70. I ran up and down the sand, finding some gorgeous pieces of sea glass, including a striking piece that was almost teal, a color I have never seen before.

Eventually I ended up in the water, wading out with my niece on my hip and my nephew holding my hand. We wave-jumped for twenty minutes, getting soaked in the process, shouting repeatedly in exhilaration.

I exalt in the water; I always have, and I always will. The BF calls it my natural element, and he's right -- even when it's that cold.

Afterward, we had dinner at the Goldenrod and bought tacky souvenirs. I now sport a shark's tooth necklace and an aqua York Beach sweatshirt. Oh, the sun and the sand and the salt, the cheap grilled cheese sandwiches, the overpriced trinkets that you treasure nonetheless.

I am briny and happy and exhausted.

I could not imagine a better day.

Amtrak

So I Amtrak-ed from Albuquerque to Chicago, then Chicago to Worcester, Mass, where my sister picked me up and we meandered to Durham, NH. All I can say about the trip is that it was relatively uneventful, and on Amtrak, that's a good thing.

That. Is. All.

Speaking of Self-Consciousness...

I spent waaaaaaayyyyy too long at THE MALL yesterday, of all places. Let me say first that I NEVER go to the mall, and I remembered why yesterday. It sucks. But I had to buy a bra, because my favorite one, that I bought over ten years ago, finally broke last weekend. It was a black cotton underwire from Victoria's Secret (TMI?) and it was wicked comfortable. So I thought I'd go back to Victoria's Secret for another one.

Along the way, I got distracted by all the pretty lights and advertisements for buy one get one at 1/2 price, etc., etc. (although I was able to resist the temptation of mall pizza...) I was also secretly hoping to find the perfect comfy summer t-shirt dress (that doesn't seem to exist). And so I went into all these completely ridiculous stores made, apparently, for little girls hoping to be porn stars when they grow up. It was either that or the stores geared towards their GRANDMOTHERS, who I suppose are my cohort, although I couldn't relate to that extreme either. To be fair, there was ONE store in the mall where I felt somewhat comfortable (the outdoor gear store) and actually found a nice t-shirt sort of dress on the sale rack, but it was the wrong size (of course!!).

I was very disappointed when I finally arrived at Victoria's Secret only to find that they don't carry my favorite bra anymore, and only had one style of cotton bra, and most don't actually cover your entire breast (they are these stupid 1/2 cup sort of things. Even worse, every single fucking bra in the place was "lined" (ie. padded), and/or a "push-up" bra. When I was a kid, girls did this with tp or socks. I think it is completely ridiculous and false advertising. If you care that much about having bigger boobs, go out and get a boob job fcol. What about those of us who actually DO have breasts and just want something supportive and comfortable? I guess we go to SEARS.

Well, I did manage to get one bra there from their "Nakeds" series that is pretty comfortable. Then I went to Sears and JC Penny and didn't find anything there either. Disappointed, I wandered back through the mall. Where were all the cute clothes? I stepped into the Maternity Shop. They had some nice stuff. But I couldn't bear to buy maternity clothes when I am so totally done with that part of my life.

Where do I fit in? And who wears these freaking clothes? Looking at the (mostly overweight) young women who worked and shopped in the stores I thought, I would probably look better in these outfits than many of them. But who wants to wear this ridiculous shit? 

And back to the original point which is self-consciousness. I found myself feeling like an imposter - what am I, this over-40 year old woman (I really don't look it) doing shopping in these teeny-bopper stores? A voice in my mind kept asking, wondering if others were looking at me, thinking, what's that OLD LADY doing in here? Kids these days. Don't know how to dress. Their sense of fashion is terrible. Then I think of the 80s. Talk about terrible fashion! But WE didn't choose, just like now I can't choose what I really want, I just have to choose what is available, and there is a huge gap between the two.

So I left the mall, went to the liquor store, bought a bottle of tequilla and went home. So what if my sense of style is different...so what if I have to do all my shopping at Goodwill or online...so what if the only store where I feel comfortable is the outdoor gear or running store (or, um, the liquor store)? I am more confident than I ever have been in my life. I know who I am and what I want and that is a good feeling.

Ninja Consciousness

Recently my sister told me about an experience she had with her son, who turned five last December. She had to go grocery shopping, and she took J with her. J chose to wear his all-black ninja costume (without the do-rag, sadly). They got to the store parking lot, and J spotted a young schoolmate. "I don't want to wear this outfit in the store," he blurted suddenly, nervously.

"Lots of people go shopping in their ninja outfits," my sister said, not wanting to go home. And so they shopped.

Of course I laughed my ass off, but then I felt sad. Were these J's first stirrings of self-consciousness? That's horrible. How few years we enjoy free of that ridiculousness. Yeah, yeah, I'm sure it serves a fabulous social function, but...FUCK IT. It just pisses me off.

I suddenly imagined myself, the Barefoot Strumpet [check out the Barefoot Bandit], shoeless in the Durham Market, my hair its usual overblown-brunette-dandelion mess, possibly wearing an outfit picked out by my three-year-old niece (here my imagination fails, unaccountably).

Why should I give a fuck? In fact, I am generally a don't-give-a-fuck kind of chick. I want to weep for all the times we have to give a fuck when it really shouldn't matter. Is that what grown-up means?

I'm going to start giving less of a fuck. Count me out of that game!

Back from the crash

Well, I am finally back. From where? I'm not sure. I just haven't been HERE and I wanted to explain why, if I can. About a month ago (?) my hard drive crashed on my computer and I lost everything. I had to get it fixed - replace the hard drive - and while waiting, I stepped away from the computer and into my life. The truth is that I wasn't really writing for a while before "the crash," letting life seep in and distract me, taking me far away from my writing.

At first, not having my computer was difficult for me. I had begun to rely on it for so much. I'd find myself in the morning with my coffee reading a book or looking at a magazine or just talking to my family instead of playing "Wordscraper" online. I missed my online chat buddies and the blogs I like to read and shopping online. But I found that things felt somehow calmer, slower. Sometimes I would just sit and look out the window.

I was surprised to find that I was not terribly upset about all the writing I lost in the crash. I wasn't all that in love with it. I thought it probably sucked anyway, and this was a great way to start over. Also, I knew that Kelly had saved most of what I'd sent her. It will be interesting to go back through all that old shit and see what I truly want to keep.

But this brings me back to writing. I really want to write. I miss writing. I want to have a project that I'm working on and enjoying and I want to write something really good for once and do something with it. I had hoped that our little writing group and this blog would help, but found, as always, that it is really up to me to get it done, and no one can make that happen for me.

This makes me think of Andi's previous post about the critiques she's been getting and how they vary. When I took that novel writing workshop last year it really crushed my ambition to write that novel, and I think part of the reason was that the particular group I was in was not the audience that I would have been writing the novel for. Their critiques steered my novel in an altogether different and wrong direction than I wanted to take it. I would like to go back to the original idea and follow through on it the way that I want to write it for me, not for them. But it did help me to realize that there is a huge difference in perspective and not every book/story/writing style is or can be for everyone. And my NH novel, frankly, will probably not be enjoyable for certain people. And that is ok.

And so, I am back. Let's get together sometime and talk shit about writing.

- Lori

a procrastinatory post

So I've managed to submit three scenes to the online critical writing board I joined a couple of months ago. I'm getting decent responses, and it's nice that people are still reading even if they're not completely and totally carried away by it.

However.

I need the input. I do. But what's frustrating me now is that I can get completely opposite responses on the same damned scene, the same passage, the same character, depending on who's reading it. This is a given. I knew it going in on some level, but seriously, what I've been reading borders on the absurd.

Example #1: In a scene between my main character and her mother, who is dying of a terminal disease, I have had wildly varying responses – from “I think this scene is very very good and here is why...” to “This does nothing to continue the story and it feels more like a lesson.”

Example #2: One critter thinks I'm neglecting the paranormal/fantasy aspect of the story. Another critter thinks I've overdone it to begin with and is relieved to see it lighten up a bit in the third scene.

Example #3: No one seems to agree on the correct format of a character's inner thoughts. Having researched this, I have come to the conclusion that it depends on the agent reading the story; in other words, it depends on their first readers, the ones who go through the slush pile to begin with. And how the fuck, I ask you, am I supposed to know what that reader prefers? Yes, I'm going to start with the obvious and just ask the agent. Because the author that the agency represents does her work in first person. Which does me no good at all in terms of learning the ropes of formatting inner thoughts – you hardly have to do it at all in first person. Fucking cheaters. I've tried to work through rewriting in first, but I'd lose a lot. Not worth it.

Example #4: In the first scene, I make a reference to a particular pagan holiday; in the second, I refer to a fairly common practice in meditation and spellwork called “grounding.” The pagan in the group noticed that the description of the holiday was too obvious and lost authenticity, while a non-pagan went so far as to say, “I don't even know what time of year that is” although to be honest I don't think she was reading very closely. As for the “grounding” reference, the pagan knew exactly what I was talking about and didn't need it explained. Several other critters were clueless to the point of thinking I was talking about some sort of electrical work.

It's insane. It depends on the reader's expectations, on the genres they enjoy, on the stuff they think is shit.

So how do I decide what to keep and what to throw away?

It comes down to the same thing, in the end. It's my decision. It reminds me of parenting in so many ways, but this, most of all: If your kid's got a cold or a rash or a fever or is biting or not potty-training fast enough or what the fuck ever, you can call all your friends who know anything at all about kids – the moms and dads, the aunts and uncles, the kid who babysits next door; you can get as much information as you like from the pediatrician and the internet and parenting forums (eek!), but in the end, it's up to you whether you take him to the doctor, wait out the fever, fill the scrip for antibiotics, spank your kid, bribe your kid with M & Ms to get her to use the toilet (I don't know anyone who's done that, I'm just making shit up, really) and so on.

Totally. Up. To. You.

And in this case, I can get Brian's opinion, but he will stay as far away from my final decision as possible. He shrugs and says “I don't know, honey. I got no dog in this fight. And opinions are like assholes anyway.”

My husband can be a perfect idiot in some ways – there are times when he demonstrates extraordinarily bad decision-making. But more often than not, he's pretty fucking smart. I listen – mostly – and just, you know, keep the wheels straight, and write the story I need to write.

I still think I need some more sex or violence in the first thirty pages, though. Plot monkeys, do your worst!

~Andi

Jocko Flocko Haiku

Oh Jocko Flocko,
a monkey after my heart;
Race on in the sky.

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

If you don't know who Jocko Flocko was, your life is seriously lacking. Do something about it.