I came here, to the library, to write some more of my short story, Forest Walk. I don't feel any inspiration, at the moment, to add any new words.

I know I want to add some more in between the first scene where she is in the camp and the bicycle scene. I want more meat in that area.

In the mean time, I'll journal some.

I'd like to explore my desire to write, my need. Is it realistic? Yes, the need is; but is it realistic to think I can make any money from my writing?

I don't really know. But writing... making a little money from writing, has always been a dream of mine. A dream since early childhood.

Ever since I started reading, I wanted to create my own stories. I wanted to put into words all the images in my mind, pass on the tales that grew from my imagination, and have people read them.

Somewhere along the way, I was discouraged. I'm not so sure if I was discouraged from writing in particular. I was just discouraged from believing that any dream I had was ever to be fulfilled.

This reminds me of a line Marge speaks at the end, or near the end, of an episode about not trying to live up to your dreams. You'll only fail anyway. (Can't remember the quote, nor which episode. Arrrr)

Over the years, I have gone after some of my dreams. I've taught pre-schoolers for over four years. I had a job that made some rather good money for a few years. I've traveled some. I am a mother.

Each dream I've reached for, I have achieved with some relative success. So, it seems there is no rational reason to not attempt this dream.

I've been told more than once, over the years, that my writing is good, enjoyable, and should be out there for more people to find. This has been validated a few times. I've had a poem published. I've had an essay stolen by an English teacher, who submitted it to a contest as her own...and it won. I've had an article printed in a science fact magazine many, many years ago. (I've had a few other things published also, but those don't really count.)

Of course, if anyone really does read this stuff, they may be wondering why I'm writing this down. I think mostly to have it in black and white. I know this stuff, but having a reminder that I can return to might be just the fire I need to get me moving in the right direction.

Today is his birthday. He would have been fifty-six years old today. His wife, his widow, returned my call today. She is spending his birthday with his mom. We spoke for about an hour. We spoke of him. We spoke of random past events. We spoke of our current fears – where are we going (we're both dealing with the daily challenges of unemployment).

I think at one point I overwhelmed her. I know I overwhelmed myself. I babbled. I babbled about so many things, to avoid the one thing we really wanted to talk about. I'm so glad that I was able to finally stop myself, so that we could talk of what mattered.

I am so glad that I had him in my life. I'm so glad we were cousins. I'm so glad that he and she had found each other. I love him dearly, and to know that his final years were spent in the joy of knowing a deep and abiding love brings joy to my heart.

Happy Birthday to you! May you be Flying Across The Universe Free As A Bird forevermore.

I woke this morning with tears on my face. Waves of grief had swept me over and pulled me into its watery depths.

In the dream that caused such a real-life response, there were two losses to grieve. Cousin John was one, and with much ado, I was finally able to ask him to leave. It was amazingly painful. But I think he's gone. Gone from my psyche which clung to his memory and that so wanted to hear from him at least one more time.

The other loss, represented by a dark-haired, cafe au lait-colored skin 20-something year old girl with a baby in a stroller, I'm unable to explain. Since I have not lost anyone who fits the description, I have to assume that she represents some aspect, or a group of losses. Whatever those losses are, I mourn them almost as extensively as I've mourned the loss of John.

Maybe she represents the way I felt last night. The loss of friends. I acted foolishly at one point, yesterday. I felt justified, in that everyone else was getting cut breaks, but I also feel (and felt) embarrassed. I also felt everyone cut me out. My friends were no longer my friends. In a room full of people, I felt so very alone. At one point, I wanted to run out and cry.

The girl with infant...does she represent friends in general? Maybe girlfriends/feminine energy that are in my life?

The baby: a term used on babies by me is precious.

My female friends are precious to me, and yesterday I felt severed from them. I felt as though I lost a part of my heart.

I feel as though I've lost all creativity within the last few years. Seven years in a job with a company that claimed creativity was important, yet squelched anything and any idea that didn't fit their mode, took its toll.

I've attempted, sporadically, to keep some kind of flow going. I wrote a novel every November. I tried my hand at painting, scrapbooking, photography, and even a little leaning toward music. Each kept the fire flickering, a dim reminder of what had been, what could be.

Sometimes, I wake up in the middle of the night and fear that I have lost all my ability to create anything at all. I can't – won't – believe that's true! Though I've not been able to write any fiction since January, I've not done any scrapbooking since October, and I've not written any prose or poetry in several years.

I think the bigger question is – what is squelching my creativity now? I'm not working. I have time.

Mourning. Waking each morning to the awareness of all that has been lost these past few months. Memories of losses long past rising to the surface. It seems that should be fodder to shake the prosaic mind from its lethargy. Instead, the words stay locked up inside of me, as I close my eyes and dream of sandy beaches and warm breezes.

Fear. Wow, is that one getting old! What if I open the box, and there's nothing there? What if I create something and everyone laughs (and it wasn't meant to be funny)? What if...What if... Even I am getting weary of the what ifs that keep haunting me. Grant you, I don't think I've been filling the box with so many very interesting things, lately. Especially while working. After work, there was no room, no energy, to resupply the mind with intrigue. All I wanted to do was veg and sleep. In that manner, they who had control, kept control of my daily life. I lived to serve, instead of serving so that I may live my life.

They, those pundits of the “make your life better” belief systems, say that once you see the obstacles to your goal, then it is easy to get through them to your goal. Getting through them may be important, but saying that it is easy is misleading. Fear can be a solid wall, with no top in sight. Once you've chiseled through some of the wall, you find there's another wall awaiting you, or as in a dream the other night, a panther waiting to maul you if you dare cross its path. These don't make the reaching of the goal impossible, just very daunting.

I'm sure there is a way to re-awaken the muses that once whispered their arias to me. If anyone out there can give me a hint, I'd be greatly appreciative.

As I was driving home from D...'s place, I was contemplating the reason that I really didn't want to go home. I didn't want to go home to an empty place, (and it felt like it would be so very empty). I reminded myself that I would be there to fill it up. I realized I didn't want to go home to me. I didn't want to be alone with myself tonight. How sad is that? (And if I didn't want to be with me, why would anyone else?)

I usually am okay with being alone with my thoughts, and sometimes really like being alone with me. This meant there was a lot more lurking under the surface. I pried a little. I didn't want to pry too far while I was driving. Who knew what beasts were awaiting their opportunity to leap up and tear my throat out? Enough beasts from the terrible depths of day-to-day life have already torn through my heart and psyche, that I didn't have the desire to face any more.

I opened the box that holds the hidden, and rarely bidden secrets, a small crack. Out came an image of my Aunt's Easter table, a place setting in front of every seat, the seat at the head of the table empty. Every family member attempting to avoid looking, yet casting a sad and surreptitious glance in its direction. Earlier, I told someone that I was glad to not be there. I find, though, that I can't help but cast a glance with my heart in the direction of my family, and our recently lost.

With that image, the memory of my mother's passing came. She passed away in April several years ago, just before Easter Sunday. My Aunt Clara had set a place for my Mother at the Easter table. It was loving, and I found it very painful. (And this year, a place is set for my recently departed Aunt Clara.)

With each passing Easter, the joys and sorrows rise to the surface. This year the sorrow is speaking a little louder. The recent injuries to the heart and soul are still somewhat fresh, and have re-opened some of the older wounds.

Some of the joys that were scattered throughout the day were of great benefit. Sharing the UU spirit, and later, a friendly lunch, with my friends, Dar and Chris. Discovering newborn goslings while walking with Dar around Virginia Lake. (And Chris feeling comfortable enough with me to nap in the car instead of walking with us.) Enjoying a movie in the comfort of their home. It's no wonder I didn't want to leave. All the joys, everything that felt revitalizing revolved around being in their company.

And now, with some of the sadness lifted, some of the beasts having been tamed by the music of the universe, (or at least music of Mickey Hart), I shall move onto the contemplation of my dinner.

It's been about a month since I've checked in here, to write down my thoughts, to express my fears and my hopes. The past month has certainly been filled with all of those.

My mind is a non-stop train of ramblings and munchings. Sometimes there are even a few deep thoughts running through the grey matter.

Fears...how do I even begin to categorize those in some form that would make sense. Most of my fears, as is true with most people, are irrational, but seated in reality. Fear of death overwhelmed me for weeks. I no longer stay up all night, yet the reality that I'm not the healthiest 50-something year-old woman does not escape me. I'm healthier than many of my friends, yet that might just be an illusion since I don't go to doctors to do all those tests that our modern-day society says we need.

A newer fear, and definitely more firmly seated in the real is the fear of illness or injury. In a world where the medical industry is still more based in greed instead of altruism, I have little to no options for even the most basic of medical care. A blackened, and possibly broken, toe will need to heal on its own. A toothache goes untreated with hopes that it doesn't become abcessed.

And a yet newer fear, covers the most basic needs: food and shelter. It whispers to me in the middle of the night. It guides my hand when shopping. I've kept it at bay and have faced it down. When I think I've put it aside, it rears its ugly head. I hope to soon be able to put it asleep.

Hopes...there are far too many to list...some which are just pipe dreams to use to build stories with. Others include a hope to find something that will alleviate the fears listed in the last two paragraphs, and a hope to visit my son and his new wife in August.

Hope is a funny thing. Without it one can sink into great despair. Yet for many, hope only comes to them when life looks despairing.

Quotes about hope:

Hope is the worst of evils, for it prolongs the torments of man. Friedrich Nietzsche

He who has never hoped can never despair. George Bernard Shaw

Hope is like a road in the country; there was never a road, but when many people walk on it, the road comes into existence. Lin Yutang

I still believe in Hope - mostly because there's no such place as Fingers Crossed, Arkansas. Molly Ivins

Here I sit at the Sacramento Train Station, waiting for the train that will take me on my final leg home. I'm looking forward to being there and fear the loneliness that threatens to engulf me once again.

My cousin is dead. Maybe if I say it enough times, write it enough times, I'll finally be able to settle with the truth of it. Not that I don't believe it, not that I don't know it to be true, but there is still that small inkling of hope. Hope that has no real hope. Just a wish that it weren't so and that some day in the near future I would hear his voice on the phone, comforting me – sharing his warmth, love and trust as no one else in the world ever could, ever would for me.

I know the deep sense of loss will slowly become a dull ache. The large void in my heart will mend, mostly. I know this, because all these things happened after my father, then mother died. I know this, yet I wonder if the fear will fade. That took longer in the past. I have no guarantee that I will have enough time in my life for that to fade away. Yet, I don't like living in fear. It irritates me. It unbalances me. In drowns me and cripples me. I don't want to be crippled.

Maybe, if I can remind myself, with conviction, that cousin Johnny would not want me to be crippled with fear – maybe I can grow past it, and re-find the excitement and joy my life is meant to be.

I just arrived home from walking along the Truckee River. I walked over three quarters of a mile today. At one point I stopped to watch the sun set behind the Sierras. It made for a cooler and slightly more hazardous walk home. I was well-prepared for the cold, but all my clothes were black. If my pale skin and blonde hair weren't such beacons in the dark, people might have walked into me and no one would have seen me when I crossed the street.

While listening to the river rush past me, I was reminded of my times meditating at the edge of the Deschutes River in Oregon. I find that I need some of that healing power that only rivers and oceans can bring to me. I'm not as lost or devoid of any desire to live as I was when the Deschutes River called to me such a long, long time ago; but I am lost, and I am scared, and I feel very alone.

The river allows me to let loose of some of that angst. It takes it away, so I can feel like I'm not drowning for awhile.

Also, the walk itself feels healing. Stretching muscles, pumping heart, fresher air in the lungs, all add up to a happier me. I can feel the difference. I have more energy. Maybe I'll sleep better tonight.

I am listening and watching the reports of the preparations for the Presidential Inauguration of Obama and find myself crying. What a truly amazing time I live in! In the early nineteen-sixties, children were hosed down with fire hoses because of the color of their skin. I watched the news in silent shock. I had not even reached double digit years, and still knew that things had to change.

Men, women and children were denied access to education, were not allowed to enter certain establishments and were denied basic needs because of skin color for so much of our country's history.

As in the sixties, when so many of the disenfranchised were bussed into Washington DC to hear Martin Luther King, Jr. speak, Obama's people have worked to guarantee that many of our poor are bussed into Washington DC for the Inauguration. One man, over 100 years old, started his life picking cotton; and now, he will be attending the Inauguration of the first black man. He broke down at the wonder of it all.

There are so many people who do not really understand just how truly amazing this event is. Less than fifty years ago, this man who will be swearing in as President of the U.S., would not have been able to enter an ice cream parlor. For them I feel a mix of sadness and joy. Sadness, because so many tend to be so blasé about the event. Joy, because so many have been brought up in a time in history that did not include the hatreds of the past.

Yesterday, I ran into an old Journal for 2003, while cleaning and rearranging the television situations in the bedroom and living room. I, of course, could not resist reading it. The majority of the Journal was written during the middle of 2003.

I was trying to get myself hired by GT. I moved into the townhouse I currently live in. T, B and I had a falling out. I was just starting to get involved with E, therefore, also exploring the more extreme nature of pain/pleasure.

I wrote a lot. I'm almost envious of the person who went places and wrote, who stayed home and wrote, who wrote during lunch breaks. No wonder I didn't read as many books then. I was writing.

Today was one of those days that reminded me how much I dislike shopping.

After a trip to the post office to deliver a gift for New Years and a couple of BookCrossing books for BookRays, I headed over to Circuit City to check out their supply of DTV converters. Can I say, "wow, how totally unimpressive?" More cheaply made stuff. Ok, they did have one name brand. And, well, I have to bow my head in subjugation. and with diminished pride, admit to buying one.

Yes, despite my heroic attempts to find either of the two more highly rated converters, I had to admit defeat to the overly aggressive salesmen (yes, plural -- it took two to finally whip me and beat me down).

I asked several questions that the box notes didn't delineate, which sent them running to computers for answers, and told them of the reviews I read. They were convinced I would be so much happier if I went with satellite, which the store conveniently has the deal with the company to sell the monthly service. When all else failed, I asked one of them if they watched only a show or two, would they pay for TV. He had to concede that he wouldn't. At least that got him back on track to selling me a converter. Yippee.

I know business is bad, but geesh, give a girl a little room to breathe!

So, now I head upstairs to show off my technical skills (to no one in particular) and marvel at the digital age of television.

I saw "The Day the Earth Stood Still" today. The new version, with Keanu Reeves. The special effects are fairly good. Keanu made an adequate Klaatu. The movie, though, is nowhere as good as the original. The rest of the actors' acting was erratic -- sometimes too dull and other times way overboard. The newer script does not live up to the script used to create the original 1951 movie and the ending comes up short. Even with the decent special effects, I cannot recommend spending money to see this on a big screen.

The second half of my day was punctuated with frustration at shopping for a DTV converter. I need to find one for my upstairs TV. As is common when we are forced into a change such as this, there is little to no preparation, or protection for the average consumer. The stores that do carry converters, carry a VERY limited selection -- and the choices available are all pretty poorly made and have poor reviews. As the coupons that can be obtained to help offset the cost have a limited life span, one is forced into buying a piece of junk, or to surrender to the inevitability of going TV-less. Not that that is such an odious solution. I watch so little television that going without wouldn't be a major loss.

There are so many times I sit down to write, but there's so much going on in my mind, that to find a coherent sentence is nearly impossible.

I know. That sounds like a pretty lame excuse. I'm a writer, after all. Writer's write. They write, no matter what. So that makes me a pretty undependable writer. I write, sometimes. I run from writing more often.

It's funny. I love the idea of writing. I love writing, when I can get myself to the page. It's the build-up. I'm happy when I come up with a concept to write about; and when I write, I feel whole. I can't stand the process of getting myself psyched up to write.

Considering that the process of getting ready to do something is what always bogs me down -- going to a gathering or beginning a project -- it may make sense that getting myself psyched up to write would also bog me down.

It's obvious what part of the process of writing I need to work on. And the solution is fairly obvious, too. In the past, I wrote everyday. No matter what, I found the time and space to write. I can do that again.

So, I just have to find a way around all the fears that are preventing me from doing so. The fear of failure. The fear of success. The fear that no one is really going to care what I say. The fear that what I might be saying is pretty meaningless in the scheme of things, anyway. Which it is, but that doesn't mean that someone out there might not actually find meaning in it for them.

Look at all the meaning we've applied to Beatles' songs and to paintings hung on museum walls. Walks into woods have signified death and random natural carvings have become the faces of famous people.

Maybe I should leave it up to others to judge whether something I write has meaning for them or not. I'm not a very good judge of my own writing. My inner critics shout too loudly. My inner hecklers belittle nearly every word. My inner editors censor anything that even inches toward painful.

I did it! Doing Snoopy dance in my living room!

A few years ago, I used to do Morning Pages - 3 pages of hand-written pre-day spill. There were mornings I remember struggling to get the pen moving at all. Days of tripe and lists and nonsensical paragraphs. There were days where all I seemed to be able to do was delve where I didn't want to delve. Then there were days where in the morass of my mind, I found a little gem, I wrote a small poem, I wrote a short story, I developed a character. Walter came from one of those sessions. I wonder if I can find my novel by doing morning pages...even if they're not really morning pages, like today.

Today, I've already had my mind touched with CBS Sunday Morning, an airbed that had given up its life sometime in the wee hours of the morning, breakfast, and splatters of TV bits. The remnants of someone's business is on the auction block. I don't know who they are, but I empathize with their pain. Losing a dream, how can one compensate for that?

Dreams... I've had many, some have been realized, some tossed away as no longer desired, some being held for a rainy day. Rainy day = retirement. Will I have a retirement? Under which administration do I have any hope of being able to retire? The present administration was definitely too busy securing their fortunes to give a damn whether someone like me would have an opportunity to retire.

Maybe Gretchen had it right. She died before she had to look at an ominous future greeting people at a small town Wal-Mart. "Hi, and welcome to Wal-Mart. May I check out your derrière while hugging you?" {shudders}

So, what of those retirement dreams? I've taken to read about 100 books a year, so that dream is almost realized. Still waiting on that feeling of, "Gee, I've lived long enough -- let's do something really scary like Bungee Jump." I'm not there yet. I've written three novels (four if you count the Cara fiasco). Now, if I can get them published, then another dream will be well into play by retirement. Ah, the big one -- finding the place that truly feels like home to me.

That's been a challenge. I know Reno is not it. Nor was the Los Angeles area. Central Oregon was home for awhile, and maybe it can be home again -- when I'm not struggling to make a living. My son hopes it will be Seattle. Too rainy for me. I have to travel about more. I have to experience the land in different places. I hope that my biggest dream does not become my biggest failure. How do I compensate if it does?

Is this a sign of NaNo to come? I sit down to write and spend the whole time just perusing email, Netflix and other LJ'rs? Now, I'm too tired to write, to make any sense of my day, my life, my mind.

NaNoWriMo is only days away, and I am in a mild panic. I don't know what I'm going to write about. I thought I did, but the setting was just too grim, I guess. I can't get the main character to move past the opening scene. I can't even imagine what happens beyond the first paragraph. How am I going to get 50,000 words, if 500 words seem impossible?

Even that wouldn't seem completely and utterly hopeless, but I have a new problem this year...I don't have any characters yelling at me. There's none even whispering much to me. Each of the other years, I've had characters babbling in my head, impatiently waiting for me to bring them to life. This year, there's no one really there. I heard whispers of Elsa earlier in the month, but she seems to have slipped away into hiding.

I've been in major input mode the last couple of weeks and very little output mode. Maybe by the time midnight of the 31st rolls along, I'll leap into output mode. Maybe.

What will I do if I don't? People are depending on me to be their example. I'm depending on me. I've made it 4 years in a row. I can't, and won't allow defeat before I even have a chance to begin. Somewhere, there is a character waiting for his or her story to be told. Maybe there's a small guinea pig that develops a taste for sushi. Maybe there's a were-moth living within my walls and I just haven't been quiet enough to let it whisper its story to me.

The NaNoWriMo Kick-off Party was a success! We had 18 writers and their support friends show up. The number of newbies is impressive. I'm so glad to see so many people, young and old, take an interest in writing. I hope we can all keep each other interested and motivated throughout November.

The party made me want to start my novel so badly. It's so hard to not start writing,...though I have no idea what I'm going to write about. I thought I did. I even had some characters started, the basic scene, and an idea for the beginning. Now, I'm not so sure I want to write that story. I'm not so sure I feel I can tell that story, yet. [sigh]

...and I wish I could get off.

Today I awoke to fairly severe vertigo. A result of a borderline ear infection. It was so bad that I didn't think I was going to make it out of the shower. I fell into the wall, had to grasp onto anything handy, and go stumbling back to bed.

A friend took me to Urgent Care and the doc verified what I suspected, though the ear infection wasn't really full-blown, yet. He gave me Nasonex and sent me home for bedrest today. I am going crazy with boredom. If I could actually get up and do things, I'd be much happier. Going up and down the stairs the few times I have, has been a real challenge. (If you've seen my steps, you'd truly understand. Maybe I'll add a pic.)


( See Picture )

I'm getting my wall put up, my cupboards put back up and a new sink in today! The noise is the one things keeping me awake, and so worth it! I can't wait! I have to wait until Monday to get the cupboard under the sink taken care of, the ceiling repainted and kitchen back to be fully functional. Then I can get all my things out of the living room and back in the cupboards where they belong.