Sorry I haven't been on for a while. Thanksgiving in New York, then Jim went back to Baghdad until Dec. 21 plus I've been slaving over Chapter 10. It's a turning point in the story and it needs to be right. Still not there yet but I will post an excerpt anyway. This one is kind of R-rated in case that bothers anyone.
Jack was leaning on the wall with his eyes closed. He looked as if he was bearing the whole weight of the building by himself and I wondered how many shots of palinka he had consumed. I started over to him but Aunt B was suddenly there, her monstrous tits jutting out before her on a mission of comfort. Really large breasts intimidated me. Actually, I was afraid of them. Some childhood trauma, I suppose. Bridget had been a 34B and I wasn’t any bigger.
I put my face up to the glass and peered in. It was very dark inside. There was the light over the guard's desk to the right and, in a corner to the left, a sculpture of white marble stood almost ten feet high, illuminated by overhead fairy lights. It looked like two men embracing but that could just be my strange state of heightened sexual awareness. I remembered a day last year when my harmonica player and I had stopped by another musician's trailer. We smoked one joint and then I sat down to watch a small black and white TV while they talked about song lists and schedules. I watched a show on PBS about horticulture. I can still see those mushrooms in my mind. I remember looking around and being surprised that no one else could see that they were all turning into penises. On Public Television! Later I found out that the pot was laced with opium. I was having that kind of day, where everything was making me think of sex.
As I stared at the statue, my eye caught on the red glow of a cigarette. It waved in the air towards the guard and I saw him look over and give a nod. He got up, came over to the door and unlocked it and then stepped back to avoid the flood of Bogi’s small army. We were twenty-strong, shouting and waving arms and umbrellas in the air. The noise was deafening, dissipating somewhat as we came through the door into the two-story high lobby. There was a momentary clog as Aunt B tried to drag Jack in after her with two uncles in between. She let go and then we were in.
I went over to Jack. "I think someone in the corner told the guard to let us in,” I said, glancing back at the statue. I couldn’t see anyone there.
"What? What are you talking about?" He frowned at me, as if I existed just to confuse him. Then Aunt B took hold of the mountain of flesh that was her right breast, pulled it to the left and let it fly back at me, knocking me aside. At least that’s what it felt like. It was like being in a pillow fight without a pillow. This was going to take years of psychoanalysis.
Thursday, November 29, 2007
Sunday, November 18, 2007
Chapter 9.Get Lost/excerpt
The water was hot and strong. I was so grateful. I could feel myself starting to come alive again. Amazing, the restorative powers of water and steam. I grabbed a towel, dried off and quickly drenched my self with lotion that smelled spicy and lemony.
I couldn’t believe it was only 6:00 in the evening. I strapped on my watch, laced up my boots and grabbed my leather jacket. A small basket of fruit sat on the table. I grabbed a banana and left.
Back downstairs, in the lobby, there was a roaring fire burning in front of soft and pillowy chairs. I had a strong urge to go over and curl up in one with a book. That had been my plan, after all.
Jack looked up from reading the Financial Times and glanced at his watch. “That was record time.” He gave me a slight smile and stood up.
“Do you have a car?”
“Sort of.”
“A Trabant?” He nodded.
“I thought they were outlawed.” The Trabant is an East German car with a two-stroke engine that burns like rags in kerosene.
“It’s been rehabilitated,“ he said.
We put our coats on and left.
I couldn’t believe it was only 6:00 in the evening. I strapped on my watch, laced up my boots and grabbed my leather jacket. A small basket of fruit sat on the table. I grabbed a banana and left.
Back downstairs, in the lobby, there was a roaring fire burning in front of soft and pillowy chairs. I had a strong urge to go over and curl up in one with a book. That had been my plan, after all.
Jack looked up from reading the Financial Times and glanced at his watch. “That was record time.” He gave me a slight smile and stood up.
“Do you have a car?”
“Sort of.”
“A Trabant?” He nodded.
“I thought they were outlawed.” The Trabant is an East German car with a two-stroke engine that burns like rags in kerosene.
“It’s been rehabilitated,“ he said.
We put our coats on and left.
Saturday, November 17, 2007
New Christmas Cards!
I have new Christmas Cards in my online store at www.cafepress.com/nancyvala One is a little chickadee on a branch in the snow. Almost everywhere in the United States has had snow at one time or another even if it is the stuff of legend.
The other card is a legend — a legend of Saint Nicholas who was the bishop of a province of the Roman Empire called Myra which is now in Turkey. Three daughters received three bags of gold and were able to marry their true loves, or at least they were able to marry. This was the 3rd Century.It's too early to think about decorating, that happens after Thanksgiving, family and turkey. But it's not too early to order your Christmas cards, buy stamps and make up a list. Good quality and lots more fun designs.
Wednesday, November 14, 2007
Get Lost/Chapter Eight (an excerpt)
My body began to feel warm and expansive and I moved around the tent. I was enjoying this feeling of being lost, going down any path that looked interesting. From the first decision to fly to the park, to getting involved in Bogi’s story and R. Andromeda and now drinking two shots of firewater in less than five minutes — it was all not like me but I thought that might be the point. I was an orphan now, at least I didn’t really have much hope of finding my father, and I was free to be whoever I wished, following any path. I touched the little goddess in my pocket again and thought of Bridget. I hadn’t grown up with any organized religion; she had thrown at me bits and pieces of whatever she thought might be helpful or interesting. Saint Francis, incense, yoga, physics, Rumi, the Desiderata and her bottom line, kindness. Sometimes I envied my friends who had their roads marked everywhere with signs: Path to Glory, This Way to Hell, Paved With Good Intentions. But mostly I was grateful.
I had wandered to a far corner of the tent when I saw a small version of the spice cabinet sitting on a desk. I went over to it and opened a drawer. Inside were paper clips, and I realized that this was a working desk. I quickly shut the drawer and looked around guiltily. Behind the desk, hanging from a rope, was a corkboard with a cluster of photos. My drinking friend was in every photo with his arm around each person, all of whom appeared (judging by their level of hilarity) to have indulged in the Mongolian firewater. I looked closer at one photo. Could it be, yes it was — Jack Oriole. Smiling happily! With his arm around my host! Well, it made sense — all the musical instruments — Jack must do a lot of business with them.
And here was my host, by my side and anxious to get me back into the world with price tags. I pointed at Jack. “Jack, Jack!” he said happily. He looked up at the stringed instruments hanging from the ceiling and opened his arms wide. Evidently, Jack had bought more than one. He put his arm around me and gently started to push me back towards the bazaar but I pointed at my watch. It was time to get those rolls and coffee. He picked up my hand, the little goddess on my palm, folded my fingers over it, and whispered, “Go with God.” Then he went over to the couple. They were standing guard over a beautiful rug and looked ready to buy. No one saw me stumble over nothing as I headed toward the door.
I had wandered to a far corner of the tent when I saw a small version of the spice cabinet sitting on a desk. I went over to it and opened a drawer. Inside were paper clips, and I realized that this was a working desk. I quickly shut the drawer and looked around guiltily. Behind the desk, hanging from a rope, was a corkboard with a cluster of photos. My drinking friend was in every photo with his arm around each person, all of whom appeared (judging by their level of hilarity) to have indulged in the Mongolian firewater. I looked closer at one photo. Could it be, yes it was — Jack Oriole. Smiling happily! With his arm around my host! Well, it made sense — all the musical instruments — Jack must do a lot of business with them.
And here was my host, by my side and anxious to get me back into the world with price tags. I pointed at Jack. “Jack, Jack!” he said happily. He looked up at the stringed instruments hanging from the ceiling and opened his arms wide. Evidently, Jack had bought more than one. He put his arm around me and gently started to push me back towards the bazaar but I pointed at my watch. It was time to get those rolls and coffee. He picked up my hand, the little goddess on my palm, folded my fingers over it, and whispered, “Go with God.” Then he went over to the couple. They were standing guard over a beautiful rug and looked ready to buy. No one saw me stumble over nothing as I headed toward the door.
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
Get Lost/Chapter 7
“So, what brings you here, Rubika?” he said, glancing at the pile of papers and books. “I thought you had already put us on the cosmic map. Or have the borders changed again and we are the last to know?”
“You would be the first to know, Andras.” I said. He lit a cigarette and smiled through the smoke. There was a small, companionable silence while the conversation around us echoed up to the angel and dirt-encrusted ceiling.
But I knew Andras would not give up so easily and his next question came right back to the point: “So why are you here, csaj?"
I laughed. “Bonaventure Maps got a complaint about a map I did and I came to check it out and see whether I should make a correction.”
“Whether you should make a correction?”
“Yeah, I hiked out there today and absolutely nothing makes any sense.”
I told Andras the whole story while he smoked and listened.
I’ve known Andras since I was a baby in Budapest. He is three years older than me. He tells people I was the first woman he slept with — on a blanket on the grass in the park when he was four years old and I was one. He is tall and muscular with dark eyes, heavy brows and black hair tied back in a ponytail. I had seen a video once of Elvis Presley jamming with his band, some kind of comeback tour. They were all sitting in a circle and at one point he stood up like he just had to stand up from being so alive and so full of some raw, primal energy. Andras has that same kind of animal grace weighted by caution and a quiet courage and an acute sense of the absurd. Yeah, ok, I had a big crush on him. Unrequited.
“You would be the first to know, Andras.” I said. He lit a cigarette and smiled through the smoke. There was a small, companionable silence while the conversation around us echoed up to the angel and dirt-encrusted ceiling.
But I knew Andras would not give up so easily and his next question came right back to the point: “So why are you here, csaj?"
I laughed. “Bonaventure Maps got a complaint about a map I did and I came to check it out and see whether I should make a correction.”
“Whether you should make a correction?”
“Yeah, I hiked out there today and absolutely nothing makes any sense.”
I told Andras the whole story while he smoked and listened.
I’ve known Andras since I was a baby in Budapest. He is three years older than me. He tells people I was the first woman he slept with — on a blanket on the grass in the park when he was four years old and I was one. He is tall and muscular with dark eyes, heavy brows and black hair tied back in a ponytail. I had seen a video once of Elvis Presley jamming with his band, some kind of comeback tour. They were all sitting in a circle and at one point he stood up like he just had to stand up from being so alive and so full of some raw, primal energy. Andras has that same kind of animal grace weighted by caution and a quiet courage and an acute sense of the absurd. Yeah, ok, I had a big crush on him. Unrequited.
Monday, November 12, 2007
Get Lost, Chapter 6
It's hard to not get caught up in the details of a mystery, how this connects with that. You start to lose the entertainment value. I'm working on that. Anyway, here is an excerpt from Chapter 6:
About 20 feet ahead was the park ranger’s office. The TV was blasting and I had to bang loudly on the door. It was opened wide by one of the rangers. His uniform shirt was unbuttoned and stained and looked slept in. He was tall and thin with dark, chronic shadows under his eyes. He wasn’t much older than me.
“Jo napot kivonok.” I said. He mumbled something back and I continued in Hungarian. “I need a permit for the day. I was here about a year ago to make a map of the park.” I handed him my ID card, he looked at it for a long time and then took it over to the photocopy machine. I followed him into the small room, leaving the door open part way. The air inside needed some freshening. There was another ranger slouched on a chair in front of the TV. He didn’t look up. I looked over at the TV and watched as two women with blonde hair, lots of cleavage and short skirts sold jewelry with great enthusiasm, bending over and using their very long fingernails to point out the stones on each glittering piece. Soda bottles, bags of chips, and packages of cookies were scattered over a scarred table. I wondered if they were stoned. The tall guy came back with my ID, his eyes on the TV, and held the card out in my direction. I had to lean in to get it.
“Do you have any maps here of the park?” I wanted to see if they were using our map or something else.
He gave an irritated sigh, went over to the desk and rummaged through a drawer. I saw what looked like an ancient hamburger and turned my head away. I wondered if these rangers ever got outside. They were very pale.
He handed me the map and went back to the TV without a word. The map was ours and there was the stream. I was eager to get this whole thing cleared up. I said goodbye with no response and left.
Flights were not allowed over the park so I had to hike in. Hiking was a big part of my job. Attention to detail and things that might not be seen from the air were what made Bonaventure Maps such a success. The best place to stop for the view or cross a stream or an obscure focus; I had once done a map that was made up entirely of beautiful and hidden Madonnas in the city of Prague.
It took me an hour to hike to where I had marked the stream. The trails were well-maintained. There must be someone else responsible for that — I couldn’t imagine those two doing any kind of manual labor.
The trail split in two, with one branch going up a slight rise and then down again. I recognized the downward trail but the stream wasn’t there. In front of me was an immense wall of slate. I stood there and stared at it like the apes in front of the monolith in 2001: A Space Odyssey. Soon I would hear horns and cymbals. Brown branches armed with red-tipped thorns reached up the wall five feet or more and pushed out another four feet, stretching to the right and left. Sleeping Beauty’s briar patch. I remembered the white boulder and walked over to the right, squatting down and peering through the thorns. There it was: a white rock with black tracings on it. The markings looked like birches in the snow and yes, I think I had taken a photograph of it. If I could find that . . .
About 20 feet ahead was the park ranger’s office. The TV was blasting and I had to bang loudly on the door. It was opened wide by one of the rangers. His uniform shirt was unbuttoned and stained and looked slept in. He was tall and thin with dark, chronic shadows under his eyes. He wasn’t much older than me.
“Jo napot kivonok.” I said. He mumbled something back and I continued in Hungarian. “I need a permit for the day. I was here about a year ago to make a map of the park.” I handed him my ID card, he looked at it for a long time and then took it over to the photocopy machine. I followed him into the small room, leaving the door open part way. The air inside needed some freshening. There was another ranger slouched on a chair in front of the TV. He didn’t look up. I looked over at the TV and watched as two women with blonde hair, lots of cleavage and short skirts sold jewelry with great enthusiasm, bending over and using their very long fingernails to point out the stones on each glittering piece. Soda bottles, bags of chips, and packages of cookies were scattered over a scarred table. I wondered if they were stoned. The tall guy came back with my ID, his eyes on the TV, and held the card out in my direction. I had to lean in to get it.
“Do you have any maps here of the park?” I wanted to see if they were using our map or something else.
He gave an irritated sigh, went over to the desk and rummaged through a drawer. I saw what looked like an ancient hamburger and turned my head away. I wondered if these rangers ever got outside. They were very pale.
He handed me the map and went back to the TV without a word. The map was ours and there was the stream. I was eager to get this whole thing cleared up. I said goodbye with no response and left.
Flights were not allowed over the park so I had to hike in. Hiking was a big part of my job. Attention to detail and things that might not be seen from the air were what made Bonaventure Maps such a success. The best place to stop for the view or cross a stream or an obscure focus; I had once done a map that was made up entirely of beautiful and hidden Madonnas in the city of Prague.
It took me an hour to hike to where I had marked the stream. The trails were well-maintained. There must be someone else responsible for that — I couldn’t imagine those two doing any kind of manual labor.
The trail split in two, with one branch going up a slight rise and then down again. I recognized the downward trail but the stream wasn’t there. In front of me was an immense wall of slate. I stood there and stared at it like the apes in front of the monolith in 2001: A Space Odyssey. Soon I would hear horns and cymbals. Brown branches armed with red-tipped thorns reached up the wall five feet or more and pushed out another four feet, stretching to the right and left. Sleeping Beauty’s briar patch. I remembered the white boulder and walked over to the right, squatting down and peering through the thorns. There it was: a white rock with black tracings on it. The markings looked like birches in the snow and yes, I think I had taken a photograph of it. If I could find that . . .
Tuesday, November 6, 2007
Going gray 4
First stage done. Got my hair colored close to its natural shade (sort of) and then pretty much cut it all off. The cut is a bit more extreme than I meant to have but it grows quickly and this way the time until it's all grey (or gray) will be so much faster. In the end, that's worth more to me.
My hairdresser (Amy/Nash Hair Design/Falls Church, VA) was wonderful. She is talented, precise and she was excited for me which is just what I was looking for.
A strange thing happened when I got home. I walked over to a mirror to surprise myself with the new me. Instead I found myself thinking "But that's who I was all this time" as if my red hair had been a disguise. A friend of mine, Marion Roach, wrote a book about redheads called "The Roots of Desire: The Myth, Meaning and Sexual Power of Red Hair" and she inscribed it to me this way: "For Nancy, a natural redhead in all ways." Someone else told me I had the "personality of a redhead." Not sure those were compliments, but I will take them that way.
So here's to my red hair, it was a lot of fun while it lasted.
My hairdresser (Amy/Nash Hair Design/Falls Church, VA) was wonderful. She is talented, precise and she was excited for me which is just what I was looking for.
A strange thing happened when I got home. I walked over to a mirror to surprise myself with the new me. Instead I found myself thinking "But that's who I was all this time" as if my red hair had been a disguise. A friend of mine, Marion Roach, wrote a book about redheads called "The Roots of Desire: The Myth, Meaning and Sexual Power of Red Hair" and she inscribed it to me this way: "For Nancy, a natural redhead in all ways." Someone else told me I had the "personality of a redhead." Not sure those were compliments, but I will take them that way.
So here's to my red hair, it was a lot of fun while it lasted.
Monday, November 5, 2007
Get Lost/Chapter Five (an excerpt)
“‘Have a Coke or something’? Excuse me?” I said. Cecilia loved beer and could drink me under the table any night. She wouldn’t look at us and a blush came up on her cheeks. My mouth dropped open as I realized what it could be. “Oh my God, Cece, are you pregnant?”
She grinned happily. “Yeah, and Helena knew already, didn’t you, Helena.” She turned to me, “She wouldn’t let me have any french fries yesterday, said I had to be careful what went in.” Helena just smiled as she wrapped the cards back up in the silk and put them in the small wooden box. I stared at the box for a moment and then turned away from it as Cecilia took my hand.
“I want you to be godmother, Ruby.”
“But I don’t believe in God!” I blurted it out without thinking. Helena gave me a kick under the table.
“Ow! I’m sorry, Cece, but what do I do if I don’t believe in God?”
Helena looked at me sternly and said, “Ruby, Cecilia knows you and so do I. You believe in God, just not the god of an organized religion. But you believe in a spiritual power higher than yourself, you have good moral values and you follow them as best you can. You would be a good influence for any child.”
I stared at her. Helena rarely gave anyone a compliment. I was touched. I wanted to believe that it was true.
Cecilia squeezed my hand. “Yeah, Ruby, that’s how I feel, too.”
She grinned happily. “Yeah, and Helena knew already, didn’t you, Helena.” She turned to me, “She wouldn’t let me have any french fries yesterday, said I had to be careful what went in.” Helena just smiled as she wrapped the cards back up in the silk and put them in the small wooden box. I stared at the box for a moment and then turned away from it as Cecilia took my hand.
“I want you to be godmother, Ruby.”
“But I don’t believe in God!” I blurted it out without thinking. Helena gave me a kick under the table.
“Ow! I’m sorry, Cece, but what do I do if I don’t believe in God?”
Helena looked at me sternly and said, “Ruby, Cecilia knows you and so do I. You believe in God, just not the god of an organized religion. But you believe in a spiritual power higher than yourself, you have good moral values and you follow them as best you can. You would be a good influence for any child.”
I stared at her. Helena rarely gave anyone a compliment. I was touched. I wanted to believe that it was true.
Cecilia squeezed my hand. “Yeah, Ruby, that’s how I feel, too.”
Chapter Four (an excerpt)
I took my mug of tea out on the deck and looked down at the lake. I should go down and see if there was any bittersweet on the trail to Joe’s house. I should go and tell him I would be gone for a few days. I could just call but he didn’t always answer and anyway, Joe always made me feel like the cat that can’t stay away from the person who hates cats. I didn’t think he disliked me but he was so reticent -- I wanted to rub up against him, jump in his lap, make him scratch my ears. It was a strange reaction and he had no idea I felt this way. I just found it amusing to picture it without actually doing anything about it.
I put my boots and fleece on, went down the steps and followed a path of pebbled rocks to Joe’s house. It was near the lake and surrounded by trees so that you hardly noticed it. The house was a simple A-frame of weathered gray wood with tall, narrow windows. I thought it was beautiful. Everything about it was solid and well done with a few touches here and there: a large and beautiful dream-catcher in one of the front windows, stained glass in a small side window, a carved wooden railing on the front stairs.
It was dusk. There were small rustlings in the grass on the side of the trail. The cabin looked warm and inviting -- I could see the glow of a fire on the walls. I was almost at the stairs when the door opened and Joe stood there watching me. His silent attention never bothered me -- in fact, it somehow made me feel protected. After my mother died, he disappeared for awhile. When he came back, he wasn’t drinking anymore, at least he didn’t appear to be and when he came into the Yellow Moon he only had tonic water with lemon or lime.
I put my boots and fleece on, went down the steps and followed a path of pebbled rocks to Joe’s house. It was near the lake and surrounded by trees so that you hardly noticed it. The house was a simple A-frame of weathered gray wood with tall, narrow windows. I thought it was beautiful. Everything about it was solid and well done with a few touches here and there: a large and beautiful dream-catcher in one of the front windows, stained glass in a small side window, a carved wooden railing on the front stairs.
It was dusk. There were small rustlings in the grass on the side of the trail. The cabin looked warm and inviting -- I could see the glow of a fire on the walls. I was almost at the stairs when the door opened and Joe stood there watching me. His silent attention never bothered me -- in fact, it somehow made me feel protected. After my mother died, he disappeared for awhile. When he came back, he wasn’t drinking anymore, at least he didn’t appear to be and when he came into the Yellow Moon he only had tonic water with lemon or lime.
Friday, November 2, 2007
This long endless week
I've been sitting at my computer all day working and not exercising, my dog is not happy with me. But I stayed a while longer to finish Chapter Three. Another excerpt:
Chapter Three: Baltimore Jack's (excerpt)
“Are you in trouble with him?” said Bogi eagerly.
I drew myself up a little. “I’m not sure there is a problem — just a question about a map I made. I came to straighten things out. In fact, I’d better go in and ‘face the music’ as my Ma used to say.” I turned to smile at her but she was staring at me.
“You’re here about the map?” she said, an odd note in her voice. Her face was suddenly pinched and white.
“Bogi, what’s wrong? Were you there? Did you see the wall?”
Instead of answering me, she turned and whistled to Bruno, a loud piercing note that I envied. I could whistle like that when I was 15 and had a chip in my front tooth. Then my dentist had convinced me to fix it and just like that my tomboy years were over.
She turned back to me and gave a little shiver. “I saw the wall. It was creepy and strange. I felt like I was in a Disney movie, the one with the briar patch.”
“Sleeping Beauty? A briar patch?” My brain was not making connections.
“Yes. And I thought I heard music.”
“I don’t remember anything like that. All I remember is the stream. I sat on a big white boulder and ate my lunch and I remember I was thinking about my boyfriend and what a shit he was.”
Chapter Three: Baltimore Jack's (excerpt)
“Are you in trouble with him?” said Bogi eagerly.
I drew myself up a little. “I’m not sure there is a problem — just a question about a map I made. I came to straighten things out. In fact, I’d better go in and ‘face the music’ as my Ma used to say.” I turned to smile at her but she was staring at me.
“You’re here about the map?” she said, an odd note in her voice. Her face was suddenly pinched and white.
“Bogi, what’s wrong? Were you there? Did you see the wall?”
Instead of answering me, she turned and whistled to Bruno, a loud piercing note that I envied. I could whistle like that when I was 15 and had a chip in my front tooth. Then my dentist had convinced me to fix it and just like that my tomboy years were over.
She turned back to me and gave a little shiver. “I saw the wall. It was creepy and strange. I felt like I was in a Disney movie, the one with the briar patch.”
“Sleeping Beauty? A briar patch?” My brain was not making connections.
“Yes. And I thought I heard music.”
“I don’t remember anything like that. All I remember is the stream. I sat on a big white boulder and ate my lunch and I remember I was thinking about my boyfriend and what a shit he was.”
Thursday, November 1, 2007
Going Grey 3
I'm depressed about being grey today and I haven't even started yet except for 1/2 inch of silvery roots. My old hairdresser is convinced I will look worse with grey hair and didn't return my phone call asking him what he would be willing to do. Maybe he didn't get the message but I felt like I didn't have enough energy to argue with him anyway -- I really need some positive vibes. So I've been calling hair salons and interviewing people with pretty lame results. The answers ranged from "I don't know" to one guy (with 21 positive internet reviews) who told me that I would just have to live with the roots showing for six months -- "Don't let anyone tell you rinse or highlights, just bite the bullet." I don't think so.
So I called my cousin Doris who recently let her hair go grey. I have not seen her but I hear from others that she looks great and she is happy. She gave me some tips, like going with a lighter brown to cover the red and proceeding from there. She made me feel better, even giving me an "inner beauty" pep talk. You have to do a lot of research in this relatively uncharted territory. It does look like I will have to cut my hair and just hope that it will still grow, old as I am. Ancient as I am. (Like I said earlier, it's been a long week!)
I need a catchy name
for this challenge I've created for myself - finishing the second draft of my novel, "Get Lost". Any ideas?
I've been reading (studying, really) "Hero With a Thousand Faces" by Joseph Campbell. I looked at a loose overview of the steps in a Hero's Journey a long time ago as a structure to use in an action/adventure but never read anything in depth. It's a good book but I keep wondering when the woman gets to have the adventure. It was written in 1949. But I guess we are all getting our turn in literature now, making new myths. I found it interesting how many mythological symbols I put into the book on my own: an old crone/mentor, guides along the way, an amulet, water that is blocked and then freed. All these mythological symbols and archetypes swimming in our collective unconscious.
Chapter Two: Java Jive (excerpt)
The Java Jive is an old silver diner, built in the 1920s in Art Deco style. It sits next to the train station, on the Moose River. The customers are travelers, locals and tourists following the River Route and there is a steady stream of business from 6:00 a.m. until 4:00 p.m. when it closes for the day. At 5 o’clock the moon comes up: a big harvest gold neon moon that sits on top of the building in the rear. This is the Yellow Moon Bar, Happy Hour from 5 to 6, Live Music Thursday through Saturday until 2:00 a.m., closed Sundays.
Helena Hrabal, a Czech immigrant who came here 35 years ago, runs everything. She is my godmother, had been my mother’s best friend. She is hot-tempered, peppery, strong-minded and unexpectedly sexy. Unexpectedly, because she is 62 years old. I could say it’s the sexiness of someone passionately engaged in life and that would be true but she is also just damn hot. She has developed flirting into a high art. Every man I know is in love with her except for the ones who get nervous around that kind of stuff. I worked for her as a waitress in the Java Jive for three summers in high school and one summer after college. Sometimes I help out if she needs it. As I came in the door, she gave me a kiss on one cheek and then the other.
“Ruby, dear, how are you?” She held my face in her hands and looked deep in my eyes. There were sudden tears in hers. My mother’s death was still close to both of us.
I've been reading (studying, really) "Hero With a Thousand Faces" by Joseph Campbell. I looked at a loose overview of the steps in a Hero's Journey a long time ago as a structure to use in an action/adventure but never read anything in depth. It's a good book but I keep wondering when the woman gets to have the adventure. It was written in 1949. But I guess we are all getting our turn in literature now, making new myths. I found it interesting how many mythological symbols I put into the book on my own: an old crone/mentor, guides along the way, an amulet, water that is blocked and then freed. All these mythological symbols and archetypes swimming in our collective unconscious.
Chapter Two: Java Jive (excerpt)
The Java Jive is an old silver diner, built in the 1920s in Art Deco style. It sits next to the train station, on the Moose River. The customers are travelers, locals and tourists following the River Route and there is a steady stream of business from 6:00 a.m. until 4:00 p.m. when it closes for the day. At 5 o’clock the moon comes up: a big harvest gold neon moon that sits on top of the building in the rear. This is the Yellow Moon Bar, Happy Hour from 5 to 6, Live Music Thursday through Saturday until 2:00 a.m., closed Sundays.
Helena Hrabal, a Czech immigrant who came here 35 years ago, runs everything. She is my godmother, had been my mother’s best friend. She is hot-tempered, peppery, strong-minded and unexpectedly sexy. Unexpectedly, because she is 62 years old. I could say it’s the sexiness of someone passionately engaged in life and that would be true but she is also just damn hot. She has developed flirting into a high art. Every man I know is in love with her except for the ones who get nervous around that kind of stuff. I worked for her as a waitress in the Java Jive for three summers in high school and one summer after college. Sometimes I help out if she needs it. As I came in the door, she gave me a kiss on one cheek and then the other.
“Ruby, dear, how are you?” She held my face in her hands and looked deep in my eyes. There were sudden tears in hers. My mother’s death was still close to both of us.
Thank God this week is almost over
It's just been one of those weeks when I can't sleep, can't get anything done but must force myself to anyway. Spinning wheels syndrome. Last November I wrote a 50,000 word novel in 30 days (NaNoWriMo), got a certificate and then pretty much let it drop, just noodling at it here and there. I wasn't getting paid, you see, so it went to the bottom of the priority list. Now November is here again and I've been working on it and getting ready to enter the contest again but just discovered that you can't enter something you've already entered, even though it would be different. I just discovered NaNoEdMo, an editing challenge, but that's not until March of 2008. So I've decided to have my own personal editing challenge. FINISH THE SECOND DRAFT BY THE END OF NOVEMBER! I will post excerpts every day. It's just to whet your interest, some day you can buy the book and read the whole story.
Chapter One: Ruby gets an e-mail
Certain groups of people — artists, neurotics, and brain-damaged patients — show greater susceptibility to color influences than the average person. Red toenails on my bare feet on the deck railing, a red cardinal high on a pine tree branch. Far below, a red kayak rests on the shore of a small, wooded lake. I feel a sudden happiness.
I close my eyes, lean back in my chair and let the sun and balsam-scented early morning air work their magic; the knots in my stomach start to unravel and my body relaxes.
It’s been a month since my mother died in a kayak on Lake Superior, kicked ashore by a sudden storm. I quit my going-nowhere job in St. Paul making maps for gas stations and kid’s parties, quit my going-nowhere relationship with a harmonica-playing, almost certainly cheating boyfriend, loaded all my stuff in my yellow pickup truck and moved into her studio/tree house in the North Woods of Minnesota.
My mother, Bridget O’Hara, was tall, red-haired and shimmering; she could light up the room. She was an artist. She was impetuous. I am Ruby: small, dark and quiet. I think for a long time before acting and then I move quietly, in between the action. I like my life to be smooth. But now I have uprooted myself from everything familiar. I feel lost, as if the North Star has gone from the sky.
Chapter One: Ruby gets an e-mail
Certain groups of people — artists, neurotics, and brain-damaged patients — show greater susceptibility to color influences than the average person. Red toenails on my bare feet on the deck railing, a red cardinal high on a pine tree branch. Far below, a red kayak rests on the shore of a small, wooded lake. I feel a sudden happiness.
I close my eyes, lean back in my chair and let the sun and balsam-scented early morning air work their magic; the knots in my stomach start to unravel and my body relaxes.
It’s been a month since my mother died in a kayak on Lake Superior, kicked ashore by a sudden storm. I quit my going-nowhere job in St. Paul making maps for gas stations and kid’s parties, quit my going-nowhere relationship with a harmonica-playing, almost certainly cheating boyfriend, loaded all my stuff in my yellow pickup truck and moved into her studio/tree house in the North Woods of Minnesota.
My mother, Bridget O’Hara, was tall, red-haired and shimmering; she could light up the room. She was an artist. She was impetuous. I am Ruby: small, dark and quiet. I think for a long time before acting and then I move quietly, in between the action. I like my life to be smooth. But now I have uprooted myself from everything familiar. I feel lost, as if the North Star has gone from the sky.
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