father's day

Here's to the men in our lives who made the difference in who we all came to be.

Caesura

~back next week~

celebrating a life

Today would have been my Goodman's 59th birthday. He loved a party, but never for himself.  It's your turn now, baby.


 In the spirit of Having A Good Time I have to get busy with the preparations. Jimmy was a superb host on the rare occasions that we entertained. I usually just stood by and took orders. It's on me now so I better get back to work.  Updates next week.

derangement

"...one wants a room with no view so memory can dance with imagination in the dark."  
Annie Dillard


And if writing from inside the trunk of a car will get you a line like that, lock me in. I may write that on the inside of my left arm with a black Sharpie and pretend it's a tattoo.

After spending the entire day cleaning things that may have never been cleaned, I was sitting in my office wondering what to do with the piles of papers and books on the floor left behind when Colin took the spare chair downstairs to make the living room a little more livable.

I remembered this bookcase languishing at the back of a walk-in closet. It was heaped with stacks of clothes that are now headed back to Goodwill.  Not a whole lot easier to move empty, I could club the numbskull who decided to slap a coat of white paint over the beautiful maple. Someday I will fix that. Someday.

As you can see by the morning light, this is no windowless cell. If you can say anything about people based on what's on their bookshelves, well good luck to you. I'll bet you picked the real winner at Belmont yesterday too.

truce

Heather at True Stitches wrote a post yesterday that got my attention. Greedy me, my take-away from a courageous and self revelatory post was

"...But the pleasure and solace of stitching endured, and nurtured my soul, and grew to become something where I could lose myself and find myself again."

 .... losing oneself to the cloth. It's not exactly what I'm looking for but I have to find a balance for my creative energy.

Writing fiction, the way I do it anyway, will turn you into a full blown zombie.
 I have to go there and be with these people, and live in their world in order to bring the words back alive.  It becomes all consuming and probably not healthy.

 The pleasure of tramping the park trails is not about the benefits of the physical activity. It's nice, but it's getting awful damn hot in Georgia for this Yankee. My real payoff is the fistful of notes that I come back with each time I go out, deliberately with a blank slate for a brain.

I was only half mile out on the Spur today,  leaning on a railing and scribbling on a piece of paper when this Lycra clad hussy blew by me in a cloud of something eye-wateringly sweet and said over her shoulder "That's not burning any calories, hon."

All I can say is that it's a good fucking thing she wasn't on a loop to pass me coming back the other way. I'm not usually lost for words, unless I'm lost in them, otherwise I'd be writing you from the back of a patrol car.

 As soon as I can, I'm going to make some order into the studio and turn my attention to the larger unfinished pieces, Blue Horse here pinned up over Fierce. For now,  I'll let them watch me.