The Writing Groove and the Pink Fuzzy Thing

I've lost my groove. And I suspect a lot of it has to do with a stuffed, fuzzy, pink, horned thing.

Let me explain.

Here's how the day usually goes (since I am not teaching this semester):
I wake up with Tom, eat breakfast.
I read my online newspapers and see what's happening in the world
Tom goes to the lab (or to teach)
I take my laptop to living room to work on my diss
I write for a couple of hours (sometimes longer, depending on how the groove is going)
Reward self by writing blog post just before lunch

Afternoons vary but usually they involve blogging, commenting on blogs and either revising the writing I did in the morning or writing more content for whatever chapter I'm on. I take a 40 minute break to walk on the treadmill (when I'm being good).

Mixed in with that is usually laundry and dishes and cleaning; if Emma's in the mood I play with her.

So, pretty much, I am alone all day, everyday (except Emma, who like any typical cat sleeps most of the time). Which is good for someone like me who is a writer.

Lately, though, recall as I mentioned a few days ago that I am house/dog sitting for a friend. Her computer is not my laptop. Her computer sits at a very tiny desk; my friend is barely 4"5' (or 4'5" I never know which is which), but you get the picture--she's petite.

I haven't written using a desktop keyboard in so long I have to look where the keys are. Again the backspace is my nemesis. She's got all of these great pictures all over the room that I keep looking at (tropical vacations, family, friends). I was on one of those trips with her; I'll tell you all about it tomorrow.

There's an old family trunk atop which sits family chockies, a mail scale, her framed Reiki certification, and two cute, stuffed, little, gray kittens dressed in human clothes.

Little angel statues sit on the desk shelves. A weirdly cute, hippo-faced, pink, fluffy thing with a horn covered in gold shiny fabric on its forehead, that I keep looking at, sits atop the computer desk, looking at me. I can't tell what the heck it's supposed to be. It's even got velvet pink feet and ears. I wish I had my camera; I'd take a picture and get your feedback.

I know what it's thinking. It's thinking I should just give up right now and go have a glass of wine.

I think/tell it, "I cannot, little, pink, fuzzy, horned thingy-- it's just after 8AM." My friend has some choice vino in full stock here.

Add to this that I am still on meds for my back. Goofy, fun meds if you don't need to be able to make coherent sentences or follow a thought to completion. I am so grateful I am not making as ass of myself on front of 20 freshman twice daily. At least no one can see me. I've reread some of my more recent posts and they seem alright.

I think I need to be at my own home.

I don't understand those folks who spend hours writing at Starbucks or other coffee houses. I guess they have gotten into their writing groove in their own way. I cannot write with any noise. No music, no talking. Silence.

Did I mention I am dog-sitting, too? He's adorable but demands a lot of sweaky toy throwing and petting and treats and letting out and playing tug with a pull toy. I don't feel guilty for not exercising. Rocky (the dog--a cocker-springer mix) is keeping me in shape with all of the throwing and the pulling and the fishing of his squeaky ball out of the part of the snow-covered yard where he poops (ew; took only one time for me to figure out that's not a good spot to throw the toy).

But writing for my diss? Nah.

I'm just glad she has access to the internets.

Otherwise I might just listen to that pink, fuzzy, gold-winged (I just now noticed those), thingy and go get a glass of wine.

(Oh, I think it's supposed to be a dragon?)

Then I'd be drunk blogging and we all know that can never be good. My kiver and lidneys wouldn't like it too much either. I mean, liver and kidneys.

I hope you all are having wonderful Fridays.

May no pink, little, fuzzy, horned, (and winged!) toys throw you off your A-Game today.

Talk to you manana.

PS: In case you missed it yesterday there was quite a stir in the comments section for yesterday's post. Seems I got me a troll (second one, I think).

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"The clean granite of reality"

I have always deeply admired artists and the courage it takes to live your passion and share it with the world. That's why I posted on the topic of "'Wearable' paper art" recently. I so longed in my younger years to be able to express myself through a visual medium. I've always been drawn to photography; my grandmother (born in the late 1800s) was a photographer. She called it a hobby. But I know if she had lived in a different time (if women had allowed themselves such pursuits), she would have rivaled Ansel Adams.

Ansel's one of my favorites. He was gifted visually, verbally and musically. If we are lucky, we are good at one, maybe two. But Ansel was GREAT at all three. His picture "Moon over Half Dome" in Yosemite was among a myriad of others he had taken of Half Dome over the course of many months, across seasons and weather. It was a difficult location to get to, the hike was long and steep; it's hard from the photograph to get a sense of the scale, but that rock feature is enormous. It stands nearly 1 mile above the valley floor. Something about the rock possessed him. He struggled to get the image 'right.' He wrote (c 1937) what the experience of photographing the stone had given him:

" A strange thing happened to me today. I saw a big thundercloud move down over Half Dome, and it was so clear and so brilliant that it made me see many of the things that were drifting around inside of me; things that relate to those who are loved and those who are real friends.

For the first time, I know what love is; what friends are.

Love is a seeking for a way of life; the way that cannot be followed alone; the resonance of spiritual and physical things. Children are not only flesh and blood-- children may be ideas, thoughts, emotions. The person of the one who is loved is a form composed of a myriad mirrors reflecting and illuminating the powers and thoughts and emotions that are within you, and flashing another kind of light from within. No words or deeds may encompass it.

Friendship is another form of love-- more passive perhaps, but full of the transmitting and acceptances of things like thunderclouds and grass and the clean granite of reality.

Art is both love and friendship. It is not charity, which is the giving of things. It is more than kindness, which is the giving of self. It is both the taking and giving of beauty, the turning out to the light the inner folds of the awareness of spirit. It is a recreation on another plane of the realities of the world; the tragic and wonderful realities of earth and men, and all of the interrelations of these."

I am grateful for this infinitesimal spot I have staked out here on the web, which as a virtual place has nothing solid about it (no granite here). I have boxes of stories, poems, the start of three novels, and now, on my laptop, I have three screenplays. I doubt if anyone but me shall ever read them. The same mish-mosh is true of this blog. It's a pretty good snapshot of the million things on my mind that make no sense, have no pattern. I try to make sense by writing it down (sorry if I've lost you).

Words are so personal and words surround us constantly in our daily lives. Talking to someone face-to-face is one thing. On the phone, visual cues are missing, but we can still hear someone's tone and inflection. Writing on a computer screen and reading what someone else has written on a computer screen (or on a printed page) is bereft of all external cues. All that is present are the words. The audience is always a 'fiction' according to Walter Ong. In the case of a blog, (or any online text) so is the author.

Thanks to all who visit and post here. It's strange to think that my fingers touch a keyboard to create symbols and words for the thoughts in my mind and with the push of a button, there they go (all boiled down to a series of ones and zeros; after all, what is 'real' anyway?) out for anyone to happen upon. But the words you are reading right now are no longer just my words, they belong to you, too.

Happy Sunday all.

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