I am a delinquent. I admit it. I should be writing in my novel, and instead I am drafting a new post for this blog. This isn't getting me any closer to finishing. It certainly isn't bringing me closer to a book deal, yet here I sit, writing something else.
I’ve been avoiding my novel for weeks. I visit it reluctantly. I stay a brief time and then I leave via a back door, looking cautiously up and down the street, pulling my hood down so my face can’t be seen. What am I ashamed of? Why can’t I sit comfortably at the keyboard and play in the world I’ve created without feeling uneasy and irritated? Why am I avoiding the characters that I love and know so well? What the hell happened? Am I blocked? Have I written myself into a corner? Am I bored? Is the story lame? Will anyone else enjoy it? Have I wasted my time?
As it stands, my novel fills 1 and ¾ of two 5 inch three-ring binders. I have lost track of how many pages that works out to be, and not every page I’ve written has been printed. It's safe to say that I have played a role in the death of at least one tree during my lifetime as a writer; one entire branch was devoted to printing my novel. Am I proud of this? I’m not sure.
Even this post is hard to write. I type and then I stop, sit leaning on the arm of my desk chair and twist my lower lip. The words are not coming easy, the fear or shame or denial or apathy or inertia, whatever it is that is gnawing at me, is fighting hard against the movement of my fingers across the keys, the flashes of creative electricity along neurons, the snap of an idea across the synapse.
This feels like war. Like I’m the general staring at a battlefield map and pondering troop movements, calculating casualties, anticipating counter attacks, attempting to orchestrate a reversal of fortune. I’m not pleased with the current outlook. At the moment it feels like there will be more troops lost, more energy wasted, less gained for the effort. I feel like I’m dug in at the base of the hill and the enemy is situated behind strong fortifications at the top, with a clear field of view and a mile of barbed wire between “them” and me; whoever “they” are.
Lives are going to be lost. In this war that translates to pages, scenes, narrative, and characters. I’m not feeling very good about being the general and choosing the battalion that will lead the charge up the hill and pay the price for the capture of a strategic target. I don’t want to be the one to choose who might perish and who might survive. What if I choose wrong? What if I make a colossal mistake and we all die? It would be so much better if someone else made the choice. If nothing else, I wouldn’t bear the responsibility if it all goes to hell. But can I accept another person’s decision, another person’s belief or idea about what stays and what goes? No. At the core of it all I know I have to do this - me and me alone.
Sacrifices must be made. Pages must be cut. And I must do it.
~ Peace, perseverance, and resilience
Thursday, October 29, 2009
Friday, October 23, 2009
Ah, My Beloved...
To say that I like anime is a bit like saying I like chocolate – it is a wicked understatement. While I am not completely obsessed with it, I do have a slowly, selectively growing collection of DVDs of the series and movies that I have become strongly attached to over time, as well as a few novelty items that I treasure.
I blame this little need of mine on my grandmother. While in her care as a three and four year old child I would watch two hours of cartoons each day. She would sit with me and watch Casper the Friendly Ghost in the afternoon. In the mornings I would sit at the foot of her bed, right on the very edge of the corner, as close as I could get to the T.V. that sat on her dresser, and fill up on Aqua Boy, Speed Racer, and Kimba the White Lion (known more formally as Jungle Emperor). It was during those wonderful, imaginative hours that I became a devoted student of animation.
I have always enjoyed animation and have nurtured my little addiction through constant care and feeding over the years. A steady diet of the standard American fare – Hanna-Barbera, Disney, Looney Tunes, Popeye, Marvel and DC Comics – served as a reasonable substitute for the real thing – Japanese Anime.
Kimba and Speed Racer were only the beginning of my love of Japanese Anime. To me, being limited to only those two was akin to giving a child a taste of coffee and then refusing the request for an actual cupful until s/he is an adult. I filled up on Speed Racer and Kimba whenever I could, investing myself thoroughly in the storylines and the characters. I wanted Speed Racer’s Mach 5 racecar so badly that it hurt to watch the show. When a die-cast car that looked like the Mach 5 hit toy stores in the late 70s, I did everything I could to get it. And I still have it, secreted away where my son can’t find it. After watching Kimba, I would prowl around the house on all fours saving all the jungle animals from hunters and terrible dangers. I was wise, fearless, and loyal. To this day I have a thing for a hero or heroine with long, white hair.
When these two shows suddenly ended I starved. It was years until Voltron: Defender of the Universe emerged from across the sea to satisfy my anime sweet tooth once again. Just as before I could be found waiting for the show to start, sitting cross-legged and entirely too close to the T.V. each afternoon. I longed to operate one of those amazing robotic lions. I wanted Keith, Commander of the Voltron Force, to care about me and not Princess Allura. I could not stand the fact that she would wear a pink uniform while piloting the blue lion. It was a travesty.
And then came Robotech and I was lost. After vicariously following Rick Hunter into the cockpit of a Veritech Fighter, and getting caught in the hyperspace jump of the SDF-1 Battle Fortress in an effort to escape the Zentraedi forces, I knew I needed my own Veritech Fighter. And I have one – in a box of priceless trinkets and treasures – safe from the hands of my children. The Robotech series ran for 85 glorious episodes and it became clear during the first year it ran that I was hooked on anime. I haven’t looked back since.
The following storyline came to me as the original Fullmetal Alchemist series that I had been watching came to an end. I feel a tremendous letdown upon the completion of an anime series that I have become fully invested in. This response - of which I have suffered countless times over the years - along with my limited knowledge of anime fandom and all of its nuances, got me thinking. How deeply engrained in a fan’s life does anime become? How much devotion is too much devotion? Where does reality end and the anime begin in the mind of the serious fan? When does the line between the two cease to exist? My imagination started to spin…
Paradigm Shift
"You’re crazy,” Melanie said as she twirled the wooden coffee stirrer in her fingers.
“I’m what?”
“I said, you’re crazy.”
Jess looked at her friend and drew her brows together in irritation. “I’m crazy. Why am I crazy?”
“Kane.” Melanie took a sip of her latte and glanced at Jess over the rim of the paper cup.
“Kane.”
“Mmmhmm.”
Jess cocked her head and sat open-mouthed for a moment. “How, exactly, does Kane make me crazy?”
Melanie set the cup down and leaned forward. “You like him.”
A blush inched its way over Jess’ cheeks. “Yeah, so?”
“A lot.”
“So?”
“So,” Melanie continued, “you’re acting like a school girl.”
Jess leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms. “I am not acting like a school girl.”
Melanie snorted. “Yes, you are.”
“I am not,” Jess said again and looked out the front window of the coffee shop. A young mother walked by pushing a stroller down the strip mall’s sidewalk.
“You are,” Melanie replied and held up her hand as Jess prepared to argue with her again. “Listen. Whose image is on the desktop of your computer?”
Jess refused to answer and simply stared at Melanie.
“When you logon to any site that has them, who’s your avatar?”
Jess drew her brows closer together until they seemed to form one continuous, undulating line of irritation on her forehead.
“How many different pictures of him are there in you’re My Pics folder?" Melanie pressed her. "How many times a day do you look at them?”
“What, exactly, are you trying to say?”
“I'm saying that I think you’re a little fixated.”
“Yeah, well he makes me happy. Tell me how that’s bad.”
“He’s not real, Jess. That’s how it’s bad.”
Jess tightened her grip on her arms, her finger tips pressing hard into her biceps. “Listen,” she snapped, “not all of us are blessed with your life. Not all of us can walk into a room and feel at home with whoever happens to be there. Some of us…”
“Are scared of real people,” Melanie said quietly. The frown on Jess’ face deepened.
“I’m not scared," she snapped. "It’s just that most people I meet lead boring, mundane lives and couldn’t care less what happens around them. They don’t do anything to make things better.”
“But Kane makes things better? He’s a cartoon, Jess. An anime hottie. He’s two dimensional in the truest sense of the word. He does the things the writers create for him to do and looks the way the animators draw him to look. He’s not real. He’s not flesh and blood.”
Jess blinked back the tears that were starting to fill her eyes. She reached down and picked her purse up off the floor and shoved her chair back. “Well I’m flesh and blood and my feelings are real. I’ve had enough of this conversation.”
“Jess, please wait…” Melanie reached out to grab her friend’s arm, but Jess avoided her.
“Leave me alone,” Jess snapped and pushed the chair hard against the table. “You don’t understand. You don’t know what it’s like.”
“I know that it scares me for you.”
“Well don’t let it," Jess barked. "I’m fine. Just leave me alone.” She turned and headed for the door, shoved her way between two people coming in and stepped out into the chill fall air. Down the block she could hear the approaching rumble of a MetroBus and she glanced over her shoulder. It was the Westside 210. That would get her home. She picked up her pace and reached the bus stop just as the last waiting passenger stepped on board. The red laser of the card reader ticked off the fare from her rider card and she moved down the aisle. The third seat behind the driver was empty and she slid in and stared out the window at the traffic passing by. She blinked several times and sniffed, then settled in for the fifteen minute ride to her apartment complex.
When she reached her apartment Jess slid the key into the lock and turned it until she felt the tumblers shift and the bolt give to the pressure. The knob twisted easily beneath her hand and she felt a certain amount of relief as she stepped over the threshold.
Melanie hadn’t been entirely wrong. The apartment was covered in “Dragon Sorcerer” paraphernalia. Figurines of all the characters lined the mantle over the fireplace, Kane’s figurine in the center. Posters of different scenes from the series hung on the walls, nearly everyone featuring a heroic, sensual Kane as the main focus. He watched her from all sides of her home with chestnut brown eyes, his long brown hair caught back in a braid, dragon sorcerer tattoo on his right forearm. DVDs of the movie and every volume of the series were scattered on the floor, the jackets covered with scenes from the show.
Jess tossed her purse on the couch and kicked her shoes off. She casually ran her hands over the blanket that lay draped across the back of a chair as she walked into the kitchen, her fingers following the curve of Kane’s face where he stared up from the soft nap. In the kitchen she opened a cupboard and took out a glass, a scene from the movie stenciled around its circumference. She filled the glass with cold water from the fridge and then carried it into her bedroom.
The largest poster hung there, beside her bed. Beneath it was a small bedside table with a drawer. There were manga stacked on top and on the floor all around the bottom of it, all of them “Dragon Sorcerer” volumes.
She sat down cross-legged on the floor and looked up at the poster. The series’ characters, Benish, Johnto, Whistia, Flaegen, Merrin, Beck, and Kane, all stared back at her, their eyes filled with warmth and hope. Her own eyes filled with tears once more and she let them fall, didn’t even bother to blink as they rose and slid from her lower lashes and fell onto the backs of her hands.
Melanie doesn’t understand, she thought to herself. She doesn’t know what it’s like. She belongs here. I don’t. I never did. I want to go home.
The poster blurred in her vision, the lines of the drawings becoming disjointed, the colors shifting and twisting around one another. After a minute she felt ill with vertigo and started to close her eyes to rid herself of the feeling. In the instant before her lids sealed out the spinning image she saw it, a dragon symbol beside each character, in the spaces between one character and another, all the same. She held her breath, kept her eyes locked in position, willed them to retain the odd focus that allowed her to finally see what had been missing all along. When she felt confident that she knew it, could recreate it, she blinked and looked at the poster straight on. The repeating dragon symbol was gone. She scrambled to her feet and rushed to the poster. With frantic hands she marked each place where the symbol had been, the tip of the pen she had grabbed off the side table shaking as she drew.
Eight points stood out on the poster when she stepped back and looked it over. Seven characters from the series with a symbol between each one, except where two symbols sat beside one another. The pattern was incomplete. A soft cry rose in her throat and she stepped back. The glass of water she had left on the floor tipped over as her foot brushed against it, the glass breaking as it hit the wooden floorboards. She let the cry escape her lips and reached down to pick up the pieces.
I’m so stupid, she thought as she gathered the shards into her hands. Nothing will change this. This is forever. She looked down at the broken pieces of glass and closed her hands around them. I can’t do this forever. The fine edges sliced into her skin. I can’t. Blood rose from the wounds, pooled in her palms, dripped onto the floor at her feet. She shuddered at the pain, closed her eyes and imagined all of it gone, all of it dark and silent and still.
She looked one last time at the poster and could not stop the wail that poured out of her throat. She let the shards fall to the floor and covered her face with her bloody hands, sobbed uncontrollably until the room began to spin again. She reached out on instinct to steady herself, stumbled and fell against the side table, checked her forward momentum as she caught herself against the wall, the bloodied palm of her right hand flat against the surface of the poster on top of the two dragon symbols drawn side by side.
There was a flash of light, a moment of firm resistance, and then a slow yielding beneath her hand.
Jeshria?
Her head snapped up.
Jeshria!
She saw her fingers lost somewhere inside the poster and jerked her hand violently back. Something brushed her fingertips before they came free of the paper.
JESHRIA!
A man’s hand shot out from the paper where her hand had been, directly between the two symbols. It was grasping, searching, the fingers spread wide and shaking with effort, a dragon symbol tattooed on its forearm.
Take my hand, Jesh! Please!
Without thinking she reached out, put her hand in the other. Blood from her palm spilled onto his.
Jesh! His hand tightened. For the love of all that’s holy, she’s bleeding! Help me! Jesh! Hold on! I’ve got you!
There was solidity in his touch, and warmth and life and familiarity. "Kane," she whispered. She plunged her left hand through the poster and felt a second hand grasp it. More hands gripped hers, then there was a brief resistance and pressure.
The corners of the "Dragon Sorcerer" poster curled inward, broke the tape’s adhesion to the wall, and floated free. It landed on the floor beside the shards of broken glass and slowly soaked up the water and blood pooled on the wooden floorboards.
~ Peace and possibility
I blame this little need of mine on my grandmother. While in her care as a three and four year old child I would watch two hours of cartoons each day. She would sit with me and watch Casper the Friendly Ghost in the afternoon. In the mornings I would sit at the foot of her bed, right on the very edge of the corner, as close as I could get to the T.V. that sat on her dresser, and fill up on Aqua Boy, Speed Racer, and Kimba the White Lion (known more formally as Jungle Emperor). It was during those wonderful, imaginative hours that I became a devoted student of animation.
I have always enjoyed animation and have nurtured my little addiction through constant care and feeding over the years. A steady diet of the standard American fare – Hanna-Barbera, Disney, Looney Tunes, Popeye, Marvel and DC Comics – served as a reasonable substitute for the real thing – Japanese Anime.
Kimba and Speed Racer were only the beginning of my love of Japanese Anime. To me, being limited to only those two was akin to giving a child a taste of coffee and then refusing the request for an actual cupful until s/he is an adult. I filled up on Speed Racer and Kimba whenever I could, investing myself thoroughly in the storylines and the characters. I wanted Speed Racer’s Mach 5 racecar so badly that it hurt to watch the show. When a die-cast car that looked like the Mach 5 hit toy stores in the late 70s, I did everything I could to get it. And I still have it, secreted away where my son can’t find it. After watching Kimba, I would prowl around the house on all fours saving all the jungle animals from hunters and terrible dangers. I was wise, fearless, and loyal. To this day I have a thing for a hero or heroine with long, white hair.
When these two shows suddenly ended I starved. It was years until Voltron: Defender of the Universe emerged from across the sea to satisfy my anime sweet tooth once again. Just as before I could be found waiting for the show to start, sitting cross-legged and entirely too close to the T.V. each afternoon. I longed to operate one of those amazing robotic lions. I wanted Keith, Commander of the Voltron Force, to care about me and not Princess Allura. I could not stand the fact that she would wear a pink uniform while piloting the blue lion. It was a travesty.
And then came Robotech and I was lost. After vicariously following Rick Hunter into the cockpit of a Veritech Fighter, and getting caught in the hyperspace jump of the SDF-1 Battle Fortress in an effort to escape the Zentraedi forces, I knew I needed my own Veritech Fighter. And I have one – in a box of priceless trinkets and treasures – safe from the hands of my children. The Robotech series ran for 85 glorious episodes and it became clear during the first year it ran that I was hooked on anime. I haven’t looked back since.
The following storyline came to me as the original Fullmetal Alchemist series that I had been watching came to an end. I feel a tremendous letdown upon the completion of an anime series that I have become fully invested in. This response - of which I have suffered countless times over the years - along with my limited knowledge of anime fandom and all of its nuances, got me thinking. How deeply engrained in a fan’s life does anime become? How much devotion is too much devotion? Where does reality end and the anime begin in the mind of the serious fan? When does the line between the two cease to exist? My imagination started to spin…
Paradigm Shift
"You’re crazy,” Melanie said as she twirled the wooden coffee stirrer in her fingers.
“I’m what?”
“I said, you’re crazy.”
Jess looked at her friend and drew her brows together in irritation. “I’m crazy. Why am I crazy?”
“Kane.” Melanie took a sip of her latte and glanced at Jess over the rim of the paper cup.
“Kane.”
“Mmmhmm.”
Jess cocked her head and sat open-mouthed for a moment. “How, exactly, does Kane make me crazy?”
Melanie set the cup down and leaned forward. “You like him.”
A blush inched its way over Jess’ cheeks. “Yeah, so?”
“A lot.”
“So?”
“So,” Melanie continued, “you’re acting like a school girl.”
Jess leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms. “I am not acting like a school girl.”
Melanie snorted. “Yes, you are.”
“I am not,” Jess said again and looked out the front window of the coffee shop. A young mother walked by pushing a stroller down the strip mall’s sidewalk.
“You are,” Melanie replied and held up her hand as Jess prepared to argue with her again. “Listen. Whose image is on the desktop of your computer?”
Jess refused to answer and simply stared at Melanie.
“When you logon to any site that has them, who’s your avatar?”
Jess drew her brows closer together until they seemed to form one continuous, undulating line of irritation on her forehead.
“How many different pictures of him are there in you’re My Pics folder?" Melanie pressed her. "How many times a day do you look at them?”
“What, exactly, are you trying to say?”
“I'm saying that I think you’re a little fixated.”
“Yeah, well he makes me happy. Tell me how that’s bad.”
“He’s not real, Jess. That’s how it’s bad.”
Jess tightened her grip on her arms, her finger tips pressing hard into her biceps. “Listen,” she snapped, “not all of us are blessed with your life. Not all of us can walk into a room and feel at home with whoever happens to be there. Some of us…”
“Are scared of real people,” Melanie said quietly. The frown on Jess’ face deepened.
“I’m not scared," she snapped. "It’s just that most people I meet lead boring, mundane lives and couldn’t care less what happens around them. They don’t do anything to make things better.”
“But Kane makes things better? He’s a cartoon, Jess. An anime hottie. He’s two dimensional in the truest sense of the word. He does the things the writers create for him to do and looks the way the animators draw him to look. He’s not real. He’s not flesh and blood.”
Jess blinked back the tears that were starting to fill her eyes. She reached down and picked her purse up off the floor and shoved her chair back. “Well I’m flesh and blood and my feelings are real. I’ve had enough of this conversation.”
“Jess, please wait…” Melanie reached out to grab her friend’s arm, but Jess avoided her.
“Leave me alone,” Jess snapped and pushed the chair hard against the table. “You don’t understand. You don’t know what it’s like.”
“I know that it scares me for you.”
“Well don’t let it," Jess barked. "I’m fine. Just leave me alone.” She turned and headed for the door, shoved her way between two people coming in and stepped out into the chill fall air. Down the block she could hear the approaching rumble of a MetroBus and she glanced over her shoulder. It was the Westside 210. That would get her home. She picked up her pace and reached the bus stop just as the last waiting passenger stepped on board. The red laser of the card reader ticked off the fare from her rider card and she moved down the aisle. The third seat behind the driver was empty and she slid in and stared out the window at the traffic passing by. She blinked several times and sniffed, then settled in for the fifteen minute ride to her apartment complex.
When she reached her apartment Jess slid the key into the lock and turned it until she felt the tumblers shift and the bolt give to the pressure. The knob twisted easily beneath her hand and she felt a certain amount of relief as she stepped over the threshold.
Melanie hadn’t been entirely wrong. The apartment was covered in “Dragon Sorcerer” paraphernalia. Figurines of all the characters lined the mantle over the fireplace, Kane’s figurine in the center. Posters of different scenes from the series hung on the walls, nearly everyone featuring a heroic, sensual Kane as the main focus. He watched her from all sides of her home with chestnut brown eyes, his long brown hair caught back in a braid, dragon sorcerer tattoo on his right forearm. DVDs of the movie and every volume of the series were scattered on the floor, the jackets covered with scenes from the show.
Jess tossed her purse on the couch and kicked her shoes off. She casually ran her hands over the blanket that lay draped across the back of a chair as she walked into the kitchen, her fingers following the curve of Kane’s face where he stared up from the soft nap. In the kitchen she opened a cupboard and took out a glass, a scene from the movie stenciled around its circumference. She filled the glass with cold water from the fridge and then carried it into her bedroom.
The largest poster hung there, beside her bed. Beneath it was a small bedside table with a drawer. There were manga stacked on top and on the floor all around the bottom of it, all of them “Dragon Sorcerer” volumes.
She sat down cross-legged on the floor and looked up at the poster. The series’ characters, Benish, Johnto, Whistia, Flaegen, Merrin, Beck, and Kane, all stared back at her, their eyes filled with warmth and hope. Her own eyes filled with tears once more and she let them fall, didn’t even bother to blink as they rose and slid from her lower lashes and fell onto the backs of her hands.
Melanie doesn’t understand, she thought to herself. She doesn’t know what it’s like. She belongs here. I don’t. I never did. I want to go home.
The poster blurred in her vision, the lines of the drawings becoming disjointed, the colors shifting and twisting around one another. After a minute she felt ill with vertigo and started to close her eyes to rid herself of the feeling. In the instant before her lids sealed out the spinning image she saw it, a dragon symbol beside each character, in the spaces between one character and another, all the same. She held her breath, kept her eyes locked in position, willed them to retain the odd focus that allowed her to finally see what had been missing all along. When she felt confident that she knew it, could recreate it, she blinked and looked at the poster straight on. The repeating dragon symbol was gone. She scrambled to her feet and rushed to the poster. With frantic hands she marked each place where the symbol had been, the tip of the pen she had grabbed off the side table shaking as she drew.
Eight points stood out on the poster when she stepped back and looked it over. Seven characters from the series with a symbol between each one, except where two symbols sat beside one another. The pattern was incomplete. A soft cry rose in her throat and she stepped back. The glass of water she had left on the floor tipped over as her foot brushed against it, the glass breaking as it hit the wooden floorboards. She let the cry escape her lips and reached down to pick up the pieces.
I’m so stupid, she thought as she gathered the shards into her hands. Nothing will change this. This is forever. She looked down at the broken pieces of glass and closed her hands around them. I can’t do this forever. The fine edges sliced into her skin. I can’t. Blood rose from the wounds, pooled in her palms, dripped onto the floor at her feet. She shuddered at the pain, closed her eyes and imagined all of it gone, all of it dark and silent and still.
She looked one last time at the poster and could not stop the wail that poured out of her throat. She let the shards fall to the floor and covered her face with her bloody hands, sobbed uncontrollably until the room began to spin again. She reached out on instinct to steady herself, stumbled and fell against the side table, checked her forward momentum as she caught herself against the wall, the bloodied palm of her right hand flat against the surface of the poster on top of the two dragon symbols drawn side by side.
There was a flash of light, a moment of firm resistance, and then a slow yielding beneath her hand.
Jeshria?
Her head snapped up.
Jeshria!
She saw her fingers lost somewhere inside the poster and jerked her hand violently back. Something brushed her fingertips before they came free of the paper.
JESHRIA!
A man’s hand shot out from the paper where her hand had been, directly between the two symbols. It was grasping, searching, the fingers spread wide and shaking with effort, a dragon symbol tattooed on its forearm.
Take my hand, Jesh! Please!
Without thinking she reached out, put her hand in the other. Blood from her palm spilled onto his.
Jesh! His hand tightened. For the love of all that’s holy, she’s bleeding! Help me! Jesh! Hold on! I’ve got you!
There was solidity in his touch, and warmth and life and familiarity. "Kane," she whispered. She plunged her left hand through the poster and felt a second hand grasp it. More hands gripped hers, then there was a brief resistance and pressure.
The corners of the "Dragon Sorcerer" poster curled inward, broke the tape’s adhesion to the wall, and floated free. It landed on the floor beside the shards of broken glass and slowly soaked up the water and blood pooled on the wooden floorboards.
~ Peace and possibility
Thursday, October 22, 2009
Of truth and memory - a response
I received the following comment from Michael after posting “A Taste of Memory”. I decided to respond via a standard post when my reply to him began to grow the more I thought about the comment. Pardon my long-winded response and feel free to add a comment of your own.
Michael M. wrote:
I think that one difference we have is in the use of “truth” – lower case t - and “Truth” - upper case T. Truth with the upper case T is a metaphysical ideal – the essence of what is actual and factual and absolute. In contrast, truth, with a lower case t, is that which one believes to be accurate, but is still subjective to some degree, especially, I would argue, when referring to memory and to memoir.
Take the sweater color example again – If I am red-green color blind then my memory of the sweater being black may, in fact, be accurate, since it may look black to me. If I am never told differently by someone who sees it as red, I have no way of knowing any different and, therefore, would retain my belief as true. Let’s complicate it a bit more. If I am unable to see red, yet I am told my perception of it as black is wrong and the sweater is red according to another set of eyes, I have to decide if I will accept the new information as true or maintain that my original thought is. Whose truth is right? To what degree does the sweater’s color affect the purpose of the piece written?
A psychologist friend of mine and I had a discussion about childhood memories of an incident between a child’s parents that was witnessed by that child and the parents' memory of that same situation. The memory retained by the child of the incident, which is observed from a child’s point of view, processed by a child’s brain, and stored in that fashion, does not necessarily reflect the same memory (or truth, if you will) of the situation as recalled by the parents. Yet both child and parents will believe his/her memory of the situation to be true. Who is right?
As a teenager I remember having an extremely heated discussion with my mother about an incident that I was adamant happened to me during my 2nd grade year at school. She had no memory of the situation, though I clearly remembered coming home with a black eye and bloody lip. She told me that she would remember such an incident since it would have startled her badly to see me in such a state. Since she didn’t remember it it couldn’t have happened. I refused to accept her answer at the time, convinced I was absolutely right.
Writing “A Taste of Memory” got me thinking about that 2nd grade situation and I realized that I could no longer clearly recall the circumstances. Does that mean that it didn’t occur? Does it mean that it did, but I am losing access to the memory? Does it mean that my mother’s adamancy about not remembering something so significant colored my own ability to remember it? And how do the answers to these questions affect whether I write about it later and how?
At this point in my life, knowing myself as well as I do, I am fairly certain that what I did as a child was create a wonderful story, probably acting it out to some degree on the playground that day, and then incorporating it into my memory as real. Having done that, I would then defend it with vehemence to anyone who would challenge my recollection of it. As a child I firmly believed what I remembered as true. Today I would suggest otherwise. Yet which is right? And, how much does it matter?
At some point the writer must decide why s/he is writing – what is the purpose of the piece – so s/he can also decide how to write it. Questions arise regarding the accuracy of the memories written down, which memories have significance and which do not, what voice should be used in the retelling, how much should be told, and how much withheld.
I could attempt to verify my own story by searching for Allen and asking him to recall the day I wrote about, but I no longer remember his last name and have no idea what became of him since he moved away from that neighborhood a little over a year later. Does this complication and lack of corroboration detract from the story I shared? I say the story is true. You only have me to believe. Do you trust me well enough to accept my version?
We know that memoirs have been written that contain nothing but fact. They exist, in part, because that level of attention to detail was deemed important. Others have been written with great literary license and the apparent lack of accuracy made way for a more poignant story that connected deeply with readers. Still others find some way to successfully blend those two extremes. The point where “the truth” of a memoir becomes a problem is when the trust between writer and reader is some how broken.
The responsibility for this bond does not end with the writer. As readers we need to ask ourselves why we are reading the memoir we have chosen. That answer informs us of just how much trust we will put in the writer, what we expect from him/her in terms of accuracy and proof, what type of connection we need between the writer, his/her story, and ourselves. Our reason for choosing the piece in the first place is as important as why it was written. When these two things don’t mesh the issues of truth and trust and merit arise.
~ Peace and musings
Michael M. wrote:
Your preface [to "A Taste of Memory"] raises the interesting issue which contrasts the concepts of truth versus fact. One's truth is not necessarily their perceptions. The truth of the sweater color, for example, would be what it was, not what he or she remembered it to be. Saying that "It is in the telling of the memory that the truth ultimately lies", suggests that everyone has their own truth, which suggests relativity, which in turn denies the definition of Truth.
I think that one difference we have is in the use of “truth” – lower case t - and “Truth” - upper case T. Truth with the upper case T is a metaphysical ideal – the essence of what is actual and factual and absolute. In contrast, truth, with a lower case t, is that which one believes to be accurate, but is still subjective to some degree, especially, I would argue, when referring to memory and to memoir.
Take the sweater color example again – If I am red-green color blind then my memory of the sweater being black may, in fact, be accurate, since it may look black to me. If I am never told differently by someone who sees it as red, I have no way of knowing any different and, therefore, would retain my belief as true. Let’s complicate it a bit more. If I am unable to see red, yet I am told my perception of it as black is wrong and the sweater is red according to another set of eyes, I have to decide if I will accept the new information as true or maintain that my original thought is. Whose truth is right? To what degree does the sweater’s color affect the purpose of the piece written?
A psychologist friend of mine and I had a discussion about childhood memories of an incident between a child’s parents that was witnessed by that child and the parents' memory of that same situation. The memory retained by the child of the incident, which is observed from a child’s point of view, processed by a child’s brain, and stored in that fashion, does not necessarily reflect the same memory (or truth, if you will) of the situation as recalled by the parents. Yet both child and parents will believe his/her memory of the situation to be true. Who is right?
As a teenager I remember having an extremely heated discussion with my mother about an incident that I was adamant happened to me during my 2nd grade year at school. She had no memory of the situation, though I clearly remembered coming home with a black eye and bloody lip. She told me that she would remember such an incident since it would have startled her badly to see me in such a state. Since she didn’t remember it it couldn’t have happened. I refused to accept her answer at the time, convinced I was absolutely right.
Writing “A Taste of Memory” got me thinking about that 2nd grade situation and I realized that I could no longer clearly recall the circumstances. Does that mean that it didn’t occur? Does it mean that it did, but I am losing access to the memory? Does it mean that my mother’s adamancy about not remembering something so significant colored my own ability to remember it? And how do the answers to these questions affect whether I write about it later and how?
At this point in my life, knowing myself as well as I do, I am fairly certain that what I did as a child was create a wonderful story, probably acting it out to some degree on the playground that day, and then incorporating it into my memory as real. Having done that, I would then defend it with vehemence to anyone who would challenge my recollection of it. As a child I firmly believed what I remembered as true. Today I would suggest otherwise. Yet which is right? And, how much does it matter?
At some point the writer must decide why s/he is writing – what is the purpose of the piece – so s/he can also decide how to write it. Questions arise regarding the accuracy of the memories written down, which memories have significance and which do not, what voice should be used in the retelling, how much should be told, and how much withheld.
I could attempt to verify my own story by searching for Allen and asking him to recall the day I wrote about, but I no longer remember his last name and have no idea what became of him since he moved away from that neighborhood a little over a year later. Does this complication and lack of corroboration detract from the story I shared? I say the story is true. You only have me to believe. Do you trust me well enough to accept my version?
We know that memoirs have been written that contain nothing but fact. They exist, in part, because that level of attention to detail was deemed important. Others have been written with great literary license and the apparent lack of accuracy made way for a more poignant story that connected deeply with readers. Still others find some way to successfully blend those two extremes. The point where “the truth” of a memoir becomes a problem is when the trust between writer and reader is some how broken.
The responsibility for this bond does not end with the writer. As readers we need to ask ourselves why we are reading the memoir we have chosen. That answer informs us of just how much trust we will put in the writer, what we expect from him/her in terms of accuracy and proof, what type of connection we need between the writer, his/her story, and ourselves. Our reason for choosing the piece in the first place is as important as why it was written. When these two things don’t mesh the issues of truth and trust and merit arise.
~ Peace and musings
Sunday, October 18, 2009
A Taste of Memory
Memoir is the retelling of moments in the life of the writer. Accuracy is often a concern for both the writer in the telling and the reader in the receiving of the moment given. Because memoir is, by its very nature, of the mind and memory, it is reasonable to say that only so much accuracy can be expected. Writers are human, humans are far from perfect, and, as such, their memories can be anything from quite accurate to down right wrong. This said it can make one wonder if a memoir is worth reading if the accuracy of the recounted moment(s) is questionable.
I would suggest that memories are subjective and fallible. They really can only be known truthfully from the point of view of the one relating the memory. Even when memories are shared by more than one individual it is hard to say whose is correct and whose is not. A varying degree of both accuracy and inaccuracy on behalf of all involved is really the only "correct" answer. I remember the first time I met my husband one way, he remembers it another. We will share similar details, but we will differ on others. Does this make his recount wrong and mine right? What if I remember wearing a black turtleneck sweater and he remembers a red one? How important is it that he was shy or that I was?
It is in the telling of the memory that the truth ultimately lies. The writer wishes to share some aspect of his or her life with the reader and in the honest retelling of those moments that truth is given. The key is the honest retelling. Adherence to the truth to the best of the writer's ability as the writer understands it is what the reader is seeking and what the reader expects.
Two versions of the following memoir piece exist. To me both are accurate, though I know they have different details. Perhaps it is not in the details (which most likely have been conglomerated over time into a few strong memories), but rather in the theme, emotions, and general feel of the memory that the truth of it lies. What I am giving you is a glimpse of what I remember as a seven year old child during the summer between first and second grade. It is the truth as I remember it some thirty-odd years later. Does the fact that I may not be relating 100% accurate memories affect how you read it? Do you worry that I am handing you something of less value because I am admitting my fallibility? Or, do you read what I offer with human eyes that know your own fallibility and, instead, find the truth of the piece within your own experience?
Juicy Fruit® Summer
Allen and I walked along Grand River Avenue, buckets in hand, carefully stepping over the cracks in the sidewalk like all seven and eight year olds do in order to keep their mothers safe from injury. It was early June. School was out and the summer was ours to do with as we wanted. At the top of our list was crayfish hunting.
The Grand River wound around the backside of our neighborhood and called to us like a siren. There were thousands of fossils to be found all along the waterline, the imprints of seashells and small, many-legged things that had died in the prehistoric mud that eventually became the shale in the river’s bed. Spotted salamanders lurked under the rotting forest debris, snails and any number of strange bugs, those more exotic than the common ones on our backyards, hid under the bark of fallen logs and beneath the low leaves of plants we didn’t know the names of. And there were crayfish. Miniature freshwater lobsters hiding under the flat river rocks and shooting out backward to escape capture, their claws extended and ready to snip fingers.
Our buckets were plastic. Mine the half-gallon ice cream variety, Allen’s the institutional-sized peanut butter kind, although the smallest version of something so large. His bucket had a white plastic cylinder at the apex of the handle to make carrying it more comfortable. Mine didn’t. Allen’s could hold a dozen crayfish easily. Mine, about eight. His bucket was white and the peanut butter label had long ago peeled away leaving behind the tenacious adhesive residue that collected and retained dirt no matter how many times you scrubbed it. The body of my bucket was orange and still had its lid, the imprinted label telling everyone to “put a tiger in your tummy”.
We kept the buckets at Allen’s since his house was closer to the path to the river. Keeping them there also made it easier to go to the river even when I wasn’t supposed to. We went several times in a month with my mother, but we also went many times without her, covertly, like spies.
I had permission to play at Allen’s that day, but not to go to the river. So we played and fooled around for as long as we could stand before the idea of the river and the thrill of catching crayfish finally won out. We gathered our tools – the buckets, some cookies, a canteen of water – and decided how to sneak away.
Sneaking away from Allen’s house wasn’t hard. His mother was never there to stop us and his older sister was so tired from working that she would actually give us gum as a bribe so we would go away. We trooped into his house, collected our payment, and trooped back out again, Juicy Fruit® gum filling our mouths with saliva and sweet fake fruit flavor. On our way out of the yard we grabbed our buckets, two good long sticks, and set off down the path that would lead us to Grand River and all its treasures.
The forest between our neighborhood and the river was not really that deep, nor was it dark or scary or truly dangerous. But to us it wase all those things and more, especially when we were making the trip alone. For some 500 feet we were surrounded on all sides by trees and low brush, chattering squirrels and screaming blue jays. Starlings and sparrows flew across the path, and once in a great while one of us might see a raccoon or a red fox. More often then not we would see a few cats from the nearby houses out hunting for mice, voles, or shrews. They would give us irritated looks, like we were intruding on their territory, and then hurry off into the woods.
Allen and I would carry our buckets in one hand, our long sticks in the other. One of us would carry the cookies and the other the canteen of water. We were prepared for anything. And you needed to be prepared. We had been told many times to be careful of snakes and loose dogs. The sticks would protect us from these. We watched the ground, careful not to step on any leaves in clusters of three. If we had to we could swing our buckets at anyone who tried to kidnap us or take our provisions away. Allen led because he was older. I brought up the rear since I had really good hearing and could tell if we were being followed.
As we walked we imagined our buckets into birch bark containers, sewn together with rawhide lacing and waterproofed with pine tar. The sticks we carried were tipped with strong spear points like the ones made by the Erie Nation that lived here so long ago. We were on a quest for food to feed our families and to gather anything else we could find that might be useful. We were savvy, skilled, and fearless. Until something behind us broke a few too many sticks as it walked through the woods. That’s when we started running.
I remember stopping for a second, swallowing and tapping Allen on his shoulder with my stick, now suddenly too small and lacking a sharp spear point. He turned and looked at me, his eyes wide. I remember the entire forest growing silent so that all we could hear was our own breathing and being startled at how loud it was. I watched Allen’s eyes grow wider and wider as he looked past my head to the path behind me. My skin crawled at the strange high-pitched fore-whine that came before he shouted and then turned and ran.
I was a year younger than Allen and about eight inches shorter, but I had no trouble following him at high speed down the trail to the river. I ran so hard and so fast that when Allen stumbled over a root I careened into him and we both fell down. We scrambled back to our feet and ran, clutching the handles of our buckets, our sticks left behind on the path. We came bursting through the last line of trees and into the sunlight bathing the river’s edge. The sand spit slowed us down abruptly and we both fell to our knees, our legs and feet unable to keep up with our terrified forward momentum.
I turned and looked at Allen. His face was red and covered in sweat and sand. He was breathing hard and staring at the ground where he had fallen. He glanced at me and blinked.
“What did you see?” I asked him between huffing breaths.
He shook his head. “I don’t know.”
“What do you mean you don’t know? I saw you’re eyes! You screamed.”
The strangest sound came snorting out of his nose. “Yea. It was a pretty good scream, wasn’t it,” he laughed and then grinned at me. “But yours was better.”
“I didn’t cream,” I snapped.
“You did, too. All the way here. Eeee! Eeee! Eeee!” he mimicked and then snorted into a fit of the giggles. “And your face! I bet you thought a bear was after us!”
I sat down on the sand and gave him a dirty look. “No I didn’t,” I said and then pushed myself up from the ground and picked up my bucket. “I knew you were joking.”
“You did not,” he replied and got up, brushing sand off his legs.
I crossed my arms over my chest. “I did, too,” I growled and chewed my gum hard.
He looked at me funny for a second, then I could see his tongue moving around inside his mouth, pushing out his cheeks and lips. “Hey, my gum's gone,” he muttered.
“Ha! You swallowed it. See, you too were scared.”
“No, I wasn’t,” he said shaking his head. “How come you still have yours?”
I thought about it for a moment and could feel my cheeks get hot as I remembered. “Eeee. Eeee. Eeee,” I said softly, my back teeth clamped tightly down on my gum so I wouldn’t swallow it.
Allen started laughing all over again.
“Shut up,” I muttered. “At least I still have mine.”
He wiped his eyes and grinned at me. “It was worth a piece of gum to see the look on your face. Double to hear that scream.”
“Good, then you owe me a piece of gum,” I snarled and stomped off to search the shallows for crayfish.
For the remainder of that summer I heard “Eeee, eeee, eeee” a lot, but I also walked to the river behind Allen on many occasions with two sticks of gum in my mouth instead of just one, the extra sweet fake fruit flavor nearly dripping down my chin.
~ Peace and nostalgia
I would suggest that memories are subjective and fallible. They really can only be known truthfully from the point of view of the one relating the memory. Even when memories are shared by more than one individual it is hard to say whose is correct and whose is not. A varying degree of both accuracy and inaccuracy on behalf of all involved is really the only "correct" answer. I remember the first time I met my husband one way, he remembers it another. We will share similar details, but we will differ on others. Does this make his recount wrong and mine right? What if I remember wearing a black turtleneck sweater and he remembers a red one? How important is it that he was shy or that I was?
It is in the telling of the memory that the truth ultimately lies. The writer wishes to share some aspect of his or her life with the reader and in the honest retelling of those moments that truth is given. The key is the honest retelling. Adherence to the truth to the best of the writer's ability as the writer understands it is what the reader is seeking and what the reader expects.
Two versions of the following memoir piece exist. To me both are accurate, though I know they have different details. Perhaps it is not in the details (which most likely have been conglomerated over time into a few strong memories), but rather in the theme, emotions, and general feel of the memory that the truth of it lies. What I am giving you is a glimpse of what I remember as a seven year old child during the summer between first and second grade. It is the truth as I remember it some thirty-odd years later. Does the fact that I may not be relating 100% accurate memories affect how you read it? Do you worry that I am handing you something of less value because I am admitting my fallibility? Or, do you read what I offer with human eyes that know your own fallibility and, instead, find the truth of the piece within your own experience?
Juicy Fruit® Summer
Allen and I walked along Grand River Avenue, buckets in hand, carefully stepping over the cracks in the sidewalk like all seven and eight year olds do in order to keep their mothers safe from injury. It was early June. School was out and the summer was ours to do with as we wanted. At the top of our list was crayfish hunting.
The Grand River wound around the backside of our neighborhood and called to us like a siren. There were thousands of fossils to be found all along the waterline, the imprints of seashells and small, many-legged things that had died in the prehistoric mud that eventually became the shale in the river’s bed. Spotted salamanders lurked under the rotting forest debris, snails and any number of strange bugs, those more exotic than the common ones on our backyards, hid under the bark of fallen logs and beneath the low leaves of plants we didn’t know the names of. And there were crayfish. Miniature freshwater lobsters hiding under the flat river rocks and shooting out backward to escape capture, their claws extended and ready to snip fingers.
Our buckets were plastic. Mine the half-gallon ice cream variety, Allen’s the institutional-sized peanut butter kind, although the smallest version of something so large. His bucket had a white plastic cylinder at the apex of the handle to make carrying it more comfortable. Mine didn’t. Allen’s could hold a dozen crayfish easily. Mine, about eight. His bucket was white and the peanut butter label had long ago peeled away leaving behind the tenacious adhesive residue that collected and retained dirt no matter how many times you scrubbed it. The body of my bucket was orange and still had its lid, the imprinted label telling everyone to “put a tiger in your tummy”.
We kept the buckets at Allen’s since his house was closer to the path to the river. Keeping them there also made it easier to go to the river even when I wasn’t supposed to. We went several times in a month with my mother, but we also went many times without her, covertly, like spies.
I had permission to play at Allen’s that day, but not to go to the river. So we played and fooled around for as long as we could stand before the idea of the river and the thrill of catching crayfish finally won out. We gathered our tools – the buckets, some cookies, a canteen of water – and decided how to sneak away.
Sneaking away from Allen’s house wasn’t hard. His mother was never there to stop us and his older sister was so tired from working that she would actually give us gum as a bribe so we would go away. We trooped into his house, collected our payment, and trooped back out again, Juicy Fruit® gum filling our mouths with saliva and sweet fake fruit flavor. On our way out of the yard we grabbed our buckets, two good long sticks, and set off down the path that would lead us to Grand River and all its treasures.
The forest between our neighborhood and the river was not really that deep, nor was it dark or scary or truly dangerous. But to us it wase all those things and more, especially when we were making the trip alone. For some 500 feet we were surrounded on all sides by trees and low brush, chattering squirrels and screaming blue jays. Starlings and sparrows flew across the path, and once in a great while one of us might see a raccoon or a red fox. More often then not we would see a few cats from the nearby houses out hunting for mice, voles, or shrews. They would give us irritated looks, like we were intruding on their territory, and then hurry off into the woods.
Allen and I would carry our buckets in one hand, our long sticks in the other. One of us would carry the cookies and the other the canteen of water. We were prepared for anything. And you needed to be prepared. We had been told many times to be careful of snakes and loose dogs. The sticks would protect us from these. We watched the ground, careful not to step on any leaves in clusters of three. If we had to we could swing our buckets at anyone who tried to kidnap us or take our provisions away. Allen led because he was older. I brought up the rear since I had really good hearing and could tell if we were being followed.
As we walked we imagined our buckets into birch bark containers, sewn together with rawhide lacing and waterproofed with pine tar. The sticks we carried were tipped with strong spear points like the ones made by the Erie Nation that lived here so long ago. We were on a quest for food to feed our families and to gather anything else we could find that might be useful. We were savvy, skilled, and fearless. Until something behind us broke a few too many sticks as it walked through the woods. That’s when we started running.
I remember stopping for a second, swallowing and tapping Allen on his shoulder with my stick, now suddenly too small and lacking a sharp spear point. He turned and looked at me, his eyes wide. I remember the entire forest growing silent so that all we could hear was our own breathing and being startled at how loud it was. I watched Allen’s eyes grow wider and wider as he looked past my head to the path behind me. My skin crawled at the strange high-pitched fore-whine that came before he shouted and then turned and ran.
I was a year younger than Allen and about eight inches shorter, but I had no trouble following him at high speed down the trail to the river. I ran so hard and so fast that when Allen stumbled over a root I careened into him and we both fell down. We scrambled back to our feet and ran, clutching the handles of our buckets, our sticks left behind on the path. We came bursting through the last line of trees and into the sunlight bathing the river’s edge. The sand spit slowed us down abruptly and we both fell to our knees, our legs and feet unable to keep up with our terrified forward momentum.
I turned and looked at Allen. His face was red and covered in sweat and sand. He was breathing hard and staring at the ground where he had fallen. He glanced at me and blinked.
“What did you see?” I asked him between huffing breaths.
He shook his head. “I don’t know.”
“What do you mean you don’t know? I saw you’re eyes! You screamed.”
The strangest sound came snorting out of his nose. “Yea. It was a pretty good scream, wasn’t it,” he laughed and then grinned at me. “But yours was better.”
“I didn’t cream,” I snapped.
“You did, too. All the way here. Eeee! Eeee! Eeee!” he mimicked and then snorted into a fit of the giggles. “And your face! I bet you thought a bear was after us!”
I sat down on the sand and gave him a dirty look. “No I didn’t,” I said and then pushed myself up from the ground and picked up my bucket. “I knew you were joking.”
“You did not,” he replied and got up, brushing sand off his legs.
I crossed my arms over my chest. “I did, too,” I growled and chewed my gum hard.
He looked at me funny for a second, then I could see his tongue moving around inside his mouth, pushing out his cheeks and lips. “Hey, my gum's gone,” he muttered.
“Ha! You swallowed it. See, you too were scared.”
“No, I wasn’t,” he said shaking his head. “How come you still have yours?”
I thought about it for a moment and could feel my cheeks get hot as I remembered. “Eeee. Eeee. Eeee,” I said softly, my back teeth clamped tightly down on my gum so I wouldn’t swallow it.
Allen started laughing all over again.
“Shut up,” I muttered. “At least I still have mine.”
He wiped his eyes and grinned at me. “It was worth a piece of gum to see the look on your face. Double to hear that scream.”
“Good, then you owe me a piece of gum,” I snarled and stomped off to search the shallows for crayfish.
For the remainder of that summer I heard “Eeee, eeee, eeee” a lot, but I also walked to the river behind Allen on many occasions with two sticks of gum in my mouth instead of just one, the extra sweet fake fruit flavor nearly dripping down my chin.
~ Peace and nostalgia
Saturday, October 10, 2009
Nature's Morbid Sense of Humor
At the beginning of September, after waiting all summer for them to appear, my red morning glories finally bloomed. I enjoyed their beauty for two weeks and could not refrain from taking a tremendous number of pictures. While I am still a fan of film, I am deeply grateful for my digital SLR and my macro lens. Of the 50 shots I took I chose and titled about a dozen. I could not have afforded to do this by conventional methods as I lack the training necessary to keep unnecessary waste to a minimum. Here is one of my favorites:
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I am drawn by the intensity of the color and texture of these flowers. Their vibrant explosion of color and the delicate nature of their form amazes me. Morning glories are among my favorites because of this. They make my mouth water with desire for their luscious beauty and my heart fill at the tenacity of their vines climbing ever higher. It is nearly impossible to untangle the twining tendrils that twist around any available string, twig, and wire, invading and taking advantage of every crack, crevice, and fissure to move toward the light and warmth of the sun. They inspire me in this way.
So I take time and allow them to guide my creative need in a different way. I follow my eye as it sifts through their world, peering at close distance through my lens, invading their space in order to capture an essence I can never hope to actually be.
And as I go along I see things I hadn't noticed before - ants deep inside the flower gathering nectar, the way a spider has connected the flowers with a fine silk thread, how the vines encapsulate the netting I have given them to climb, the fine hairs that cover the leaves and stems, the nearly crystalline nature of the flower petals - all of it making me feel blessed to have stopped to see it. Really see it. And appreciate it. And keep it, this wondrous, beautiful, peaceful, blessed moment. And then I step back and take one more look and I am caught by the deranged joke Nature has crafted on my front light using my beautiful morning glories and their innocent nature. Growing there in the warm, nurturing sunshine I find this...
The lovliest hangman's noose I think I have ever seen. What a morbid sense of humor Nature has.
~ Peace and, well, let's just say that I suggest you mind your Ps and Qs. Nature, apparently, is watching.
Sunday, October 4, 2009
Brain Break
In order to maintain its health and retain access to the creative force within, you have to give your mind a break from time to time. Follow the link below to 7 videos from the Strange & Amazing Video Network at Yahoo Video that do that very thing.
http://video.yahoo.com/network/101149635?v=5949466&l=5218106
It's worth the time it will take to watch.
~ Peace and mental floss!
http://video.yahoo.com/network/101149635?v=5949466&l=5218106
It's worth the time it will take to watch.
~ Peace and mental floss!
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