Moss-Fish

Where have I been? I've been camping!


Here is Tika, hanging out in the driver's seat. (Yes, she always looks surprised.) For those who are curious, Tika is a miniature Australian Shepherd. She's about the size of a large cat - but will still herd cattle. Amazingly, she remained absolutely silent when a herd of deer come through the campsite after dark. She doesn't hesitate to bark at strange people - but apparently large wilderness creatures are just fine in her book. Tika also took on the very important duty of following whichever camper left the campsite - which meant we all had an audience when we had to pee.

First we had to pitch the tent. Apparently T. purchased the super-deluxe tent o' doom after his last, moderate-size tent bit the dust. After stuffing two sleeping bags, a multitude of blankets, several backpacks, misceallenous gear, and one Lil Camper in the tent, there was still more than enough room to set up a card table with four chairs. Too bad I didn't know that BEFORE we packed. . .


Then we were off to "feed the fish." Apparently the fish in the pond next to our campsite can nibble the bait off your hook without a single bob from your bobber. While everyone else fished, I found a "fishing pole" for A. A. spent the first few minutes smacking every small green plant he could find - and then discovered the pointy end of his pole was great for poking the lake. After a few minutes of sporadic stick jabbing, A. hauled out a two-inch piece of green slime. "It's a moss-fish!" my friend S. exclaimed. We all laughed, and A. was very proud to have caught something.


The next day we broke down the tents, packed up the cars, and traveled to Mirror Lake. Our friend W. assured us the lake was only 11 miles from our campsite. He failed to mention that the last three were up a winding, rock-strewn, narrow road that crept up the mountain and ended in a clearing which was mostly "clear" because the trees ran out of oxygen and couldn't grow. A. discovered the joy of chucking rocks in the water - which kept him amused for hours.



All in all, I think our first camping trip was highly successful. We had a little trouble getting A. to sleep in the tent ("No, Mommy! Want MY bed. MY blankets."), and it didn't help that a rainstorm moved in around 6:00 p.m. - driving us into our tent and making spooky little pitter patter noises (spooky from A.'s point of view, at any rate) - but, overall, we had a great time.

My brave Lil Camper. Ready for the next round of rock chucking and moss-fishing - accompanied, as always, by the ever-present scent of sunscreen and bugspray.

Novel Day 1: Character Sketches

Okay *cough*, I'm on day two in real-time terms, but I have 5 out of 12 main character sketches finished. Pieces are clicking together. Story glitches are unsnarling themselves. What is this pesky thing you call sleep?

On another note, provided the weather is decent, this weekend will be the first time I take my son camping! While I am looking forward to introducing him to the joys of morning hikes, bird songs (withough the background of traffic noise), and campfire cooking, I do admit I am slightly nervous of all the mountain critters who will see him as a small hamburger.

It wouldn't be so bad if there hadn't been so many weird animal attacks this year - alligators, bears, mountain lions.

Actually, my husband tells a great story about the time he and his uncle were treed for six hours (or more) by one of nature's rarest creatures - an ALBINO MOOSE! (And for those folks who have never experienced meeting a moose - they are NASTY pieces of work.)

Hmm... if a bear can smell toothpaste in your back-pack, I wonder if he'll be attracted to the scent of graham crackers - consumed a half-hour before bedtime. Then again - I doubt anyone will be able to smell anything past the insect repellant we'll be forced to apply. The mosquitoes are out in force this year. And silent. I haven't heard a single mosquitoe hum. Creepy. I wonder if it is a function of nature - like the non-rattling rattlesnakes. At this point, we kill every snake that rattles, so only the devients bred - leading to rattlesnakes that bite without their characteristic warning. Take heed now! If the mosquito hums - spare its life!

Incoherency and silliness factor has been reached. I am off to bed.

First Draft in 30 Days

Time to get off my behind and get working on the novel I've been telling everyone about for nearly five years . . .

Thanks to another great recommendation from my friend M., I have in my posession a wonderful book by Karen S. Wiesner called First Draft in 30 Days. After skimming the first few chapters, I came to one conclusion:

The book was not written with the mother of a two-year old in mind.

Having said that, since my copious free time is roughly equivalent to one third (if that) of a normal, kidless, individual, I hereby commit to trying to complete the 30 day outline by November (roughly 90 days).

If everything goes as planned (and it never does) - provided A. doesn't spill apple juice on my computer or drive me to distraction by repeating "mommy, mommy, mommy" 492 times . . . completion of my outline would coincide nicely with an event called NanoWriMo - which encourages writers to attempt to write a 50,000 word novel in one month.

For anyone who just noticed that I gave myself *three times* the time limit to write a 30 day draft - and then immediately turned around and claimed the possibility of writing the full novel in a month - umm.... I'm running on two-year logic. No actual logic is involved, but my intentions are great - which, oddly enough, explains most toddler behavior.

We'll just say I'm nourishing my inner child. Wish me luck!

Close Call

This morning, I discovered that I have two flightless baby robins bouncing around my front yard . . . and 10 minutes later the weed whacker folks came to hack my yard. I managed to convince the weed whackers to skip my yard (and my neighbors - I better tell her why before she complains to the HOA). Lucky baby birds.

WHEW!

To My Friend Sherri: You Know Who You Are

I finally found an author who actually used crepuscular in a sentence. Twice. Who knew?

Avast ye Bastards!

Much to my mother's horror, I still play Dungeons and Dragons. The discussion went something like this:
Mom: "I mean, really, can you see yourself still playing that game at 30?"
Me: "Yep. And I'm going to teach my son to play too."
You can imagine the rest - and no, it was not pretty.

The funny thing about Dungeons and Dragons is how much hate and mistrust it has inspired - when in actuality, those of us who are avid players will generally admit to being dyed in the wool GEEKS. Whatever you have heard about this game, I guarantee you that observation of an average game day would reveal a bunch of geeks with dice, saying terrifying and mystical incantations such as:
"I think I missed."
"Did you add your bonus from Bless?"
"Oh! I forgot. In that case . . . ::roll dice:: ummmm... I hit for 2 points."
"Did you add your strength bonus?"
"Crap. Um . . . I hit for 4 points."
"The monster growls at you."
If you think that was boring - imagine eight people gathered around a table, repeating similar conversatons for eight hours (or more). D&D players do, in fact, hide a secret weapon. We hold in our mortal hands the power to BORE PEOPLE TO DEATH.

In my experience, the general composition of a group tends to include those that are fascinated by computers, those that are fascinated by science fiction and fantasy, and those that are fascinated by extremely complicated games, such as recreations of the civil war in which you must individually control and move entire armies. Playing with miniature paint is just a fortunate side effect of D&D addiction.

But seriously, I think that D&D has quite a few points in its favor. It encourages the use of imagination. It encourages problem solving skills. And for anyone who has never seen a D&D rulebook - the rules are over 200 pages of reading. Any teenager (or youth) capable of reading and retaining 200 pages of rules governing everything from mock battles with monsters to scaling the cliffs of the Grand Canyon - had better not fail his science test with the excuse "I don't know, mom. It's complicated."

D&D is not a game that you win or lose. And it is most definitely a TEAM EFFORT. Everyone involved is playing a different character, with different skills - and different personalities. If you are determined to run off in your own direction, without telling anyone or working with the group, you usually end up dead, or embarrassed, or both. And thanks to such spells as Speak with Dead - your friends can quiz you about your excruciating stupidity even beyond the grave (though, apparently, not underwater (seriously - check the rule book)).

D&D teaches strategy and forethought - and, to a certain extent, division of knowledge - which is a fancy way of saying, different perspectives. And D&D teaches you to VALUE those perspectives. An elf is a creature that loves beauty and sunlight, air, wind, and trees. A dwarf loves the earth and the soil, carving deep caverns into the world, and prying out gems. An elf loves fine wine, while a dwarf loves strong, dark ale. And while neither may actually be friends with the other, the dwarf can appreciate the elf's ability to locate water and animals to be hunted - while the elf can appreciate the dwarf's strong arm and sharp axe.

And I would like to break here and mention: ANYONE WHO BLAMES D&D FOR ATROCITIES THEY COMMITTED BECAUSE THEY ACTUALLY THINK THEY ARE AN ELF had a host of mental problems anyway.

As for me . . . I hope I never tire of the game (which is highly unlikely - especially since I seem to have made friends with the entire floor of computer geeks in college). I love the clatter of the dice as they roll on the table and the good natured ribbing and jokes that grow out of living a story together. Even now, when all of my friends get together for a special occassion (a wedding, a party, yet another frickin' person needing assistance with a move...) we relive old games. We probably sound like a cryptic language to anyone else, but all it takes is one spark to light the tinder. . .
C: "Yo, M. Do you remember when you failed your dex check and fell in a gelatinous cube?"
M: "That wasn't funny."
C: "Dude, that was hilarious. Even better than the black squirrel incident."
M: "I told you we would never speak of the black squirrel incident again."
S: "What? Black squirrel incident?"
C: "Okay, so we have M. tied to a tree, 'cause we think he might turn into a werewolf. And he makes us promise that we won't untie him, no matter what - when suddenly the entire tree begins swarming with these black squirrels . . . "

If your eyes haven't glazed over yet, you just might be a closet D&D player. It may be time to buy a set of dice, dust off the imagination, and make new friends in very geeky places (though I never have to worry about computer repair - SCORE!)

Life is too short not to go on grand adventures.

Do You Speak Spider?

Spider tally so far. . . Four.

Expected tally: unknown.

In the past two days, I have discovered a baby daddy long-legs creeping out of my book bag (and I accidentally removed two of his legs during capture and transport to the garden - for which I feel terrible); I pulled a green spider off of my husband; found one (or possibly two) gnat-sized brown spiders hanging from my glasses; and saved a daddy long-legs from certain death by drowning in my sink.

All of which leads to two possible conclusions. 1) I attract spiders; or 2) its spider hatching time, and I happen to live in the hatchery - which essentially boils down to the basic precept: I ATTRACT SPIDERS.

Obviously, they are trying to tell me something. Do you speak spider? If so, please let me know. I am very curious what they are trying to say.

Something Borrowed, Something Blue

I am no longer allowed to borrow things from my friend, S. S. loaned me her CD set of 7 Habits of Highly Effective People. Shortly after I finished listening to the collection, my car was stolen - and the list of items missing is as follows: my CD player (no surprise), a case of Arrowhead water, the necklace to my work ID card (though not the card itself), my She-Daisy CD (BASTARD!), and - of course - 7 Habits of Highly Effective People.

I repeat. A car thief stole my borrowed copy of 7 Habits of Highly Effective People.

Some people may think I harbor a bitter taste for Mr. Car Thief. In actuality, I would be rather interested to meet him. Not only did he take such an odd and interesting assortment of things from my car, he then stole another car after mine (in a much nicer neighborhood) - and gifted me with the next fellow's spare tire, jack, business cards, glasses, and papers from inside the glove box. Apparently he works on some bizarre bartering system.

I also had one of those steering wheel covers that provide ridges to give you a better grip. Mr. Car Thief didn't like it. He cut it off. My husband explained that this was so Mr. Car Thief could take his fingerprints with him - except Mr. Car Thief left the cover on the passenger seat.

But I digress. $100 later, S. now has a new copy of The 7 Habits - along with Mr. Covey's new release - the 8th Habit.

S. next loaned me a book called The Four Agreements (absolutely fascinating read). Not only did it open my heart and my mind to a new possibility - a new way of considering the world and how we interact within it - it also served as a nice chew toy for my new puppy (who climbed on my $600 writing desk, scratching the surface, solely to chew on S.'s book, knock over a poisonous plant, eat said plant, and spend the afternoon puking all over my floor).

Amazingly I kept the puppy. I bought S. a new book, and now, literally, I have a dog-eared copy of The Four Agreements in my library. While I am grateful to increase my library of spiritual/wisdom books, I would like to think that there is a simpler way.

Then, last week, S. loaned me Geronimo: The Autobiography of a Great Patriot Warrior, which has promptly been introduced to my two year old and a full glass of apple juice. I managed to wipe the book down fairly quickly, and none of the pages are sticking together - but I am undecided as to whether or not I can return the book in good conscience. And I didn't even get to read this one yet!

Something old,
Something new,
Something borrowed,
Something blue.

Something stolen,
Something chewed,
Something drenched,
in apple juice.

Choice

There are times that I envy Christians their blind faith in a higher Power.

How comforting to lay your troubles upon another. To know that even when bad things happen, they have a purpose - even if it is a purpose that you cannot see.

But, long ago, I made the choice to be the captain of my own ship - and the Biblical God does not take kindly to those who wish to be in control of their own destiny. I am not made of the material that can believe without proof.

In short, I lack faith.

It boils down to choice and responsibility. The Pagan religions place you in charge of your own destiny - but also hold you accountable for your mistakes. I have found that I am a brutal taskmaster. And though my heart aches with the choices I have made, I still revel in my freedom to make those choices.

But it does not mean that I am not weary, and that I do not need a place to rest my head. Any who have wished me ill have found satisfaction. Yet I persevere.

To dare to hope. To dream.

I brush the cobwebs from my eyes.

A Tarot Profile

VIII - Strength.
My guiding light. My personality and soul card. My greatest blessing and the source of my greatest pain. I am fascinated by the many aspects of strength. Tonight, I choose to study the 8 cards from my deck (The Fey Tarot), as a profile and insight into my own personality. It is amazing how well matched I find these cards to the events of my life and my own foibles.

I begin with the 8 of Chalices. A lone fey (or fairy), dressed in warm leather clothing, has turned her back on a journey up a winding staircase. At the top of the staircase, a goblet sits, glistening and beautiful. A waning crescent moon casts its light over the scene. The fey is resolved, heading away from the chalice, yet her eyes give away the desire to turn back, the doubt for her chosen path.

We are passing friends, this fey and I. We understand each other. Part of what keeps her from pursuing the path to the chalice relates to fear - and the other half to her own sense of self-worth and honor. The easy path is not necessarily the right path. The fey in the 8 of Chalices has come to realize that the goblet at the end of her journey is not be meant for her. It is out of consideration for others, out of a sense of duty and courtesy, that the fey turns her back on the treasure. We who respect others are also unfailingly polite. We highly value courtesy. This strict adherence to internal codes comes with a price . . . the fey's eyes have betrayed her desire to touch the goblet - yet the discipline of her body ensures she continues to descend the stairs - though her heart may be breaking. We do not cry in front of others. We walk, our heads held high, until we find a hidden sanctuary . . . . The fey in the 8 of Chalices is on a solitary journey. No family or friends are near to offer their support. Her decisions are hard. They are hers alone. What this fey decides, she must abide by.

The 8 of Pentacles is an artist, caught in mid-creation of her work. The fey sits before a giant golden coin, her face and clothing smudged with paint. The object she is creating holds her full attention. The blank slate awaits her touch. Her work area is not tidy, discarded colors and palettes cover the floor. Paintbrushes are piled in jars. This fey is the fey of creativity. Pentacles are generally a connection to the reality - the material world. They can also be an expression of wealth. The fey in the 8 of Pentacles is cuaght in a most awkward position - a creative dreamer in direct contact with the physical/material realm. It is hard to follow our dreams when we are tied up paying bills, checking the mail, and feeding the dog. The wealth of the artist fey lies not in her home or belongings, but in the bright flame within, that which inspires her to create. Ironically, the material world can either nurture such a spirit - or stamp out its existence entirely (think of all the artists who "sell out" for money - or end up doing jobs that never use their skills or make them happy). This card encompasses all of the creative process, with its ups and its downs. The fey's eyes are focused on her art, the distractions of the real world forgotten for a few precious hours. She is content, making her mark upon the world.

The 8 of Wands is a fey running through the tops of the tree branches, bells jangling from her costume. Even frozen in motion, her manner exudes energy and movement. She is like a picture of an athlete jumping hurdles. Though the picture is of a form in flight, the mind grasps both the launch and the landing. This fey does not look pleased, but rather frightened. Power, motion, and energy can be difficult loads to bear. With ability comes responsibility. I cannot tell you how many times self-proclaimed "psychics" have told me that I am a source of great power - that I shine like a beacon in the spiritual world. True or not, I know that I attract psychotic people - which has been an endless source of frustration - and this has led to two theories: 1) I am a victim - and psychopaths can sense it; or 2) I burn like a beacon, and the psychotic are drawn to my strength because they think I can heal them. Personally, I like to go with choice number 2 - but it does not decrease the need to be wary and alert. It takes talent (and energy) to walk in such precarious places. The fey in the 8 of Wands is racing through the thinnest branches at the top of the tree. The view must be spectacular - but, as with all things, if she missteps, there will be a terrible price.

The 8 of Swords is a few in bondage, her arms and legs tied, her face serene in the face of adversity. A sword fills the lower-right hand corner, its edges sharp. There is a hint that the fey's bondage is of her own choosing, as she could easily wriggle over to the sword and cut her bonds. Once again, we see the themes of responsibility and choice. There is the concept of consequence and price. I cannot tell you how often I have felt that I am my own prisoner. The question that remains unanswered in this card is one of control. Is the fey a prisoner of her own volition? Is there a reason she has deemed it more important to remain in bondage than to cut her bonds? Or is she merely apathetic - and it is an imposed captivity? Either way, serene in the face of fear, this fey is knowledgable of control and of choices. When they have stripped her of all else, her captors will find her face serene, for they cannot strip her of choice. The mind is a truly amazing place, and rationalization a grand friend and deadly enemy, all at once. Whatever her reasons, the fey has decided. Like the fey in the 8 of Chalices, strict discipline allows her access to her deepest sense of honor and duty. Whatever choice was made, she will not turn back. As a prisoner, she is strong, and finds strength in her suffering.

An interesting portrait. And, in my opinion, very accurate. But enough sunshine and light for now (and if you can't hear the sarcasm in that comment, you've got issues). It is once again time for me to sleep - perchance to dream of the road I am walking, to see my path laid amongst the fragile branches, and to see the glory of creation I leave behind. With any luck, I will find confidence in my choices. Serenity in the bonds of my own choosing.

Writing Exercise 1: Garden of Fear

Exercise:
Topic: Fear
Point of View: third
Use the following: tomato, green, pink, water, aruba

Don't use any proper nouns, even naming of characters.

The only birds left in the garden were crows, their feathers glossy with black oil. The tomato plants lay in ruin, their juices running over the torn soil to gather in shallow hollows and form puddles that resembled vials of spilled rose-water, but did not smell as sweet. One ripe tomato hung, suspended by a bare thread of green vine, and the crows took turns tearing at its flesh. The tomato twisted in an errant breeze and the lip of a grievious wound came to light. It began as a small slit, barely enough to reveal the first layer of tender pink flesh, but the cut deepened and spread, finally releasing the small yellow seeds at the tomato's heart. This is how it is best to describe the politics in Aruba. The appearance of abundance and prosperity, growing on the vine. The sunny day enjoyed, with no thought to the crows. The tomato, twisting, on a tenuously held vine. The largest crow eyed the tomato, its dark eyes casting the garden in shadow.

Fetusmart

I couldn't help myself, once I saw this on PoN's site.

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I adopted a cute lil' cow fetus
from Fetusmart! Hooray fetus!

There are times that I think I live in a sick sick world . . . and then something like this proves there is still hope for us all.

Welcome to CowMart! Sole distributor of homegrown organic cow fetuses. We don't pump any unnatural hormones into our fetuses, we simply immerse the entire cow in an organic nutritional mix for optimal health and growth. Tuesday madness coupons mean TWO for ONE prices! Get your cowlings from Cowmart, where fetuses are family!

I repeat my new motto: If you can't laugh at life, you spend too much time crying.

Strength

Strength.

What makes one person strong? And one person weak?

Oft times, I feel like a blade being tempered in fire. The searing heat (rooted in emotion?), the steady hammer-blows (akin to my heartbeat), the shaping of white-hot metal (mettle?), followed by the shocking plunge into a bucket of ice-cold water.

Which begs the question, if I am a blade being forged, then to what ends am I being forged?

I have recently taken up the art of tarot (and there is no doubt in my mind, that it is an art). The cards do not so much tell the future as provide a new perspective - which, for those of us who believe our perceptions create the future, amounts to roughly the same thing. Tarot is similar to the inkblot test used in psychology. The meaning of the card is secondary to your reaction to the card. A flower means one thing to me, another to you, and another as a physical manifestation of the Universe.

But I wander from my main point . . .

While I do not believe our destinies are sealed the moment we are born, I decided to follow the tarot exercises for the selection of a personality card and a soul card, all based off of the numerology of my birthdate. According to Tarot for Yourself by Mary Greer, you calculate your personality and soul cards by adding your birthday together as day, plus month, plus year. Suffice it to say (since I am choosing not to reveal the exact date of my natal celebration), my first set of numbers adds to 1988, which, added together horizontally is 26, which added together is 8. If your number is more than 23 (which mine was 26), then your personality and soul card are one and the same - giving extra emphasis and focus to that number.

8 is Strength.

Aha! But there are other cards to calculate, such as my Zodiac card - which is . . . um . . . 8 - Strength.

I am beginning to see my problem.

And for those who have read my earlier post regarding arachnaphobia . . . I am afraid of 8 legged critters with bodies that are two circles stuck together - like the figure 8.

And I have always been fascinated by the google, symbol of infinity, which looks like . . . ummm . . . a figure 8.

Strength is not always a blessing. Strength often combines with responsibility, and is drinking buddies with leadership.

So many times, I have been told that I am strong.

So many times, I have weathered the flame, the hammer, and the critical shock. I have seen my soul shattered, and put the pieces together again. I have learned to excise pieces of my personality, to mercilessly cut apart my own inner workings, and to sew together the gaping holes of spiritual injury.

But there is a price. There is always a price.

My strength has come at the cost of my emotions. And my challenge now is to break through the self-imposed isolation. Once, when I was young, I thought I had found the solution in cutting off all emotion. If I did not care, then no one could hurt me. And now . . . now, I realize that I cannot touch anyone else either, through my barriers of glass. My barriers are thick. I built them well. And shattering them will echo the earlier shattering of my soul. I am not yet sure if I am ready for yet another round of fire, hammer, and rigid form.

It is a delicate process, forging a sword, without destroying the metal.

I must take care not to cut myself.

Regrets

The wind blows the scent of
a flower, from ages past,
into the empty cavern of my heart.
I fold my pain close,
stare at dark shadows
inside my navel.
I am giving birth to myself.
Fear washes against my ribs,
wave after swelling wave of
internal sandpaper.
Solitude.
I seek solitude.
The butterflies have mutated
into carniverous catepillars,
yet evolution,
destiny can still be found
in the lines of my palm.
A light shines from within.
My navel expands,
my eye fixed,
on the unbroken,
the shining token that grows within.
My past is a piece of me.
It is part of the weft and weave
of Life.
How can I regret anything
from times past?
The scent of the flower
awakens memories.
If the world was not broken Then,
it is possible the Now
would not exist.
And the burning navel,
instead,
expanded into darkness.
Its light, an unborn star.
Absence of regret
does not negate
pain.
So I hold to my pain.
Shuddering, delicate.
Sometimes I think it is the only truth I know.
Though it rends my flesh,
I hold it to my beating heart,
I lower my hands,
and the pain touches the light in my navel,
and that which cut
my soul to ribbons,
sheds a guiding light.
My face is upturned,
seeking.
My navel ripples with
creation and pain.
I am giving birth to myself.
I will hold my child
to my warm breast.
And, regret
Nothing.

I couldn't be gifted with the type of rhyming poetry that ends up in Hallmark cards or as the Coca Cola jingle. Oh, no. I had to be gifted with the gut-wrenching poetry that guarantees I will die - a starving artist. I need to either move to India or keep my day job. ::sigh:: Guess I'm going in to work on Wednesday after all....