ouch!

my hubby just got me an mp3 player. it is black. i told him,

ooh, the dark feminine, good job.

his is white. all morning i've been grooving to the soothing (sort of), sounds of blue october.

i'm writing a proposal. it is a grueling, ego shattering experience. i like to think i'm egoless (i'm not). i like to pretend i'm beyond this publishing business (i'm not). the fact of the matter is, every writer wants to be published regardless of how good a game they talk. if they tell you otherwise, they are either clueless or lying (go with clueless, it is kinder).

i don't like that i'm having to measure my works against others to see how they will perform and sort of forecast how mine will (hopefully). i'm a writer not madame fortuna. maybe this fortune cookie will give me some hints, hmm. i've been thinking a lot about how we try to intuit the future. this feels an awful lot like doing that.

writers always pick the best sellers and say,

mine is far greater than this book, because, well, i wrote it.

and tell them what else they get bob

if you pick up this book, you get a neurotic writer, who will sign books disingenously because she really doesn't know why people sign books at all. other than to collect some meaningless scribble.

who are we kidding? who am i kidding? do i really think i even stand a chance beside ann lamott? yeah. right.

can't i just stand on my own merits? gone are the days when a piece of writing got picked up by merit alone, i guess. and the thing is kids, i have so many legitimate reasons why i never completed my degrees, why i've been struggling for every crumb of writerly wisdom i've managed to devour. but none of those reasons will reflect on this proposal. only the bare bones of who i am and what i've done.

it's a frightening prospect really. saying,

i've got nothing but the work to show you. i've got no good reason for you to want to publish me other than i can write all ready. i can write.

but does that affect the bottom line? will the fact that i can actually string a few words together in a meaningful way amount to much? i don't know. i just don't know.

i don't pastor a megachurch, or have a base to exploit. i don't have anything really going for me except i think my book might actually be meaningful to this generation. is that crazy? who am i to think i've got something to say? again, i don't know. i just don't know.

i am really just a stay home mom who homeschools her girl. a poet. and that's about it kids. nothing else. nothing of note to mention. no distinction to garner oohs and aaahs. i'm just me. is that enough? at this point, i'm not really sure.

i'm doing market analysis right now and it kills me. if i am still a functioning human being come tuesday, God be praised, because it will be Him who gets me through this and not my steely will which has gone soft on me the past few days of nonstop writing and working.

i'm pissing and moaning sure. but i want, more than anything, to present myself in the best light. and i'm just scared. afraid it won't be good enough. afraid i won't be good enough. and i know they say,

it's a rejection of the work and not you,

but tell that to someone who just poured their entrails upon a page that it's not them. it still hurts.

i had a friend ask me last night,

are you going to be okay if it doesn't go well?

i said,

eventually. it will hurt. but i will get over it.

the fact of the matter is, i don't have my hopes pegged on anyone but God. it will be an ACT Of God ALL mighty if i do get published. that is all i've got to say kids. i've got no credetials of note, no significant successes thus far in life, nothing other than i can write a few things that make people laugh, and maybe think. is that enough? who knows.

we all go through it, this writerly business is grueling. i sometimes wish i were in emily dickinson's shoes. writing my little heart out. now and then dropping a basket of yummies to the kids on the street. tending my garden. writing for the bliss of writing. living my life out unencumbered by the NEED to be published. just living. just writing.

but no. here i am, trying to sell myself. trying to say, here is why people will read my works, when i genuinely have no clue. i don't. will the book flop? maybe. will it skyrocket? hopefully. will i get a few more books out of this shenanigan? i hope so. but who knows, who really knows.

why should they take a chance on me?

i'm still working on that one. let me know if you've got any ideas. my cute smile and witty comebacks don't amount to much on a proposal.

it basically boils down to slaying my ego and giving it my best shot. rejection or not, i must walk this road. open this door. go through. i just wish it weren't so scary and i wasn't so alone.

psyche

shortly after i corralled my thoughts on persephone, i came across the story of psyche. i think it was a day or two later. things work out like that for me, i write about something, or start contemplating a topic and suddenly the world opens up and shows me all it's hidden treasures.

so i read a book that said, do not identify too closely with persephone. she is the queen of the underworld and you must not stay there (or die essentially), which struck me as sound advice.

a bit more i learned about persephone, she was kidnapped, and it was a narcissus (aka daffodil) flower, dark red enough to almost be black, out in a field that drew her attention (it would have caught mine, too). she was with her mother, demeter, the first time she saw it. she returned to it late that night as she couldn't forget it, and the full moon shone on it, illuminating it.

she bent to smell it when the ground rent and a chariot of horses, i believe they were firey, came to carry her away. to the underworld. she ate only six pomegranate seeds while in the underworld, and stays a month for each seed she et.

and ultimately zeus did play a part in releasing her, with the caveat that she must not have eaten in the underworld. but hecate is the goddess who helped demeter find her lost child. hecate is a type of crone, essential to unity.

psyche, though, now her story is quite different. she also encounters persephone, but it is at the end of a long series of trials which she cannot possibly accomplish with out divine help. eros, her beloved (aka cupid), sends the help she needs. with each successive task aphrodite (aka venus) is certain psyche will fail and not marry eros (aphrodite's son).

with each task, psyche wants to kill herself. overwhelmed by the seeming insurmountable odds. i understand this. despair hits her and without intervention, she would not be able to accomplish any task. she simply lacks the ability to navigate the stormy trials.

all ends well. she does not eat from persephone's table while in the underworld, she appeases charon, the boatman of the underworld, and crosses styx. she feeds cerberus the three headed dog which guards the gates. she does not expend energies on tasks other than her assigned, which requires great wisdom and discernment.

she emerges triumphant, yet falls into a deadly slumber for not heeding aphrodite's full counsel. eros, ultimately saves her, and then they are married in the big fat greek wedding of the ages. zeus makes her immortal, giving her the nectar of the gods. and badabing all ends well.

yes, psyche it is.

what does all this mean to me, i'm still figuring out. but mythology is a love i've long neglected and i'm glad to have it back again. much to read, much to write, i must away.

peace.

skates

i'm not sure if it seems like i just do fun stuff all the time or if i just make it sound interesting by offering my take on it all. my life is full of the same drudgery as yours, dishes, laundry, floors, meals. i just don't let it eat me alive.

as i was thinking about it this morning, it came to me that i dismiss the drudgery to the periphery of my life, i do not let it take center stage, ever. poetry weaves in and out of everything i do. even sleeping.

my dear friends who lament to me about not knowing what to do, or how to do it, break my heart because i remember a time when i was there. i remember a time when i worked and slept and worked and that was about it.

but then i began to go rollerskating, i've always loved to skate. never learned how to rollerblade, though i've often thought about it. now i wonder if the old bod can handle the bumps and bruises of blading/learning to blade. it probably would have been wise to learn it when i was younger and less inclined to really hurt something if i took a dive. but now, there's a lot more of me than there was then, so it might be dangerous. i'm a committed skater, so i will likely just get new skates when i feel the urge. got rid of my old ones for some reason (i don't know why) and have been longing to skate again lately.

when i was nineteen, i found a large park with great skating paths, it was about 45 minutes away from where i worked, but the beach was about 1.5 hrs away, so it was a nice compromise. i grew up by the beach in my high school years and skated from torrance beach all the way up past manhatten beach. then when i moved after high school to orange county, i'd skate from huntington beach to laguna beach. nothing like skating down the beach.

i wiped out once, i will tell you this briefly, as it is the only broken bone story i've got. i was carrying a ghetto blaster (remember when radios were huge?), playing metallica or something, and my stopper, break, whatever it's called, came off. i went flying but my hand around the ghetto blaster broke my fall, except that i had been in a beauty pageant and had on a full set of fake nails (that is not as great a story as it sounds, but perhaps i'll tell it), and my nail ripped off with all the tender flesh of my pinkie on it, and i broke that tiny pinkie bone. ouch!

a guy walking his dog went right past the bloody mess that i was, didn't even ask if i was okay. i picked up all that went flying and sopped up the blood in my tank top. then my sister took me to emergency after i made it back to our apartment.

i've completely gotten off my point, but that is all right, i had to get that story out. sometimes things get in my head and if i let them sit there they take up all the room like a big fat man on the middle of the couch. no where to sit until he leaves, so i write about it, essentially feeding him, and he leaves.

i'll write more about drudgery in my book. which was my whole point anyway.

peace.

the dive

well kids, i've printed out my manuscripts, both are compiled, now i'm trying to pretty them up. read passages newly written aloud to my husband last night, who seemed to tolerate them well. i'm also compiling fifty poems and i've got all my recent unseen stuff (unseen by 99.9% of the people i usually show stuff to that is).

i kept thinking this book (the poetry) will either make me or break me. but isn't that the case with everything we write? perhaps it is more the shtick of poets, confessional poets at that, to lay themselves upon the page for scrutiny. and sometimes we just have to launch it out there and see what happens. i wonder what will happen. i really do. it's an exciting time kids.

a time,

my sister says,

when my heart's desires are coming true.

we were in barnes and noble, i was walking up and down the rows of poetry and i asked my sis,

do you think i'll ever have a book here?

knowing you,

she said,

yes.

that reminds me, i've got the greatest shots of my sis. i've been waiting for her to send them since she visited (remember, i don't take pictures), so i'll have to show her to you.

this first picture is of a dive she took when we were walking home. she hit a glitch in the cement and landed with a mighty thud. she lay there laughing and laughing. it was great. if you're going to make a complete fool of yourself, the least you can do is enjoy it, eh? people were looking at us, saying

is she all right?

she said,

i always do stuff like this.

and just lay there laughing. she is very graceful normally, but that day, whoa! i turned around and saw her bent over and moving forward intent on going down. i couldn't stop, help, or do anything other than quell my laughter (by force of will) until i knew she was all right. then i took pictures of her. (what are sisters for if not to memorialize our foibles?)



she was parked on the concrete like this for about five minutes. you'd think she was very comfortable she stayed there so long. i love her. she's great. since i can't seem to upload any normal pictures, so you'll just have to imagine her upright, eh?

catcha later cats.

convent

went to the convent yesterday with the lovely 84 year old helen.

found out the origami hat is called a miter. the bishop carries a shepherd's crook and wears this hat which can be "as unique as the bishop. and damn ugly" according to a 76 year old friend of helen's. i had a blast with these ladies.

they told me they were on the way out to the convent once, oh, twenty years ago or so, and stopped by the black horse tavern for drinks. then they went to meet with the mother superior with liquor on their breath. funny. they laughed when they spoke of it. i laughed right along. i hope to have friends for this length of time when i am old.

the miter the bishop lady had on was beaded by a native american, i knew that. i could tell by one glance at it. i asked her after if it was and she said,

yes, cree.

i knew it was northern.

it's heavy in the summer.

it's made of leather isn't it?

yes, she made me a stole (sp?), moccassins, and miter.

they are gorgeous.

thank you.

so i nearly kept up with whole service, and what i found to be most interesting was the altar boys (aka, priests. they looked like overgrown altar boys. grey haired, towering over the short rotund priestesses.)

the women did a lot of singing. these female priests. which i enjoy. before one priest was to sing the reading from the new testament, she went over to the bishop who anointed her with oil and laid hands on her and prayed. it was quite regal.

the overgrown altar boy got the same blessing, and held the bible open for the singing priestess. while another towering altarman (i shouldn't call them boys), swung the incense thingy, what are they called? censure i think (maybe not), and the whole time we were singing he kept swinging that censure and wafting incense all around the sanctuary. fortunately it wasn't right in front of me or i would have broken out into a fit of coughing to rival an emphezema patient.

so, this chapel we were in was gorgeous. the altar was inlaid with icons and gold leafed. if i were to join any church, this would be it. man it was gorgeous.

i'm not opposed to the liberal standings of this particular genre of churches, as i'm pretty open minded. get 'em in, we'll clean 'em later, is my opinion.

i'm still in need of a good scrubbing now and then.

i was noticing how goodlooking some of the priests were. wowza. what a load that is to carry. not only standing in for God, but being a looker too. i had to keep looking away because there were some mighty fine heirs of righteousness present and i didn't want to transgress, if you know what i mean.

the ladies, not so much.

one priest stood up after they shed their vestments, and he was wearing scarlett from head to toe. a more gorgeous get up on a priest i have never seen. apparently only bishops can wear this color. and it was stunning. that miter and scarlet getup are the strongest argument for being a bishop i've ever heard (or seen, as the case may be).

that's all. i was standing there the whole time with my irreverent humor running through my head thinking,

you God are merciful to get a kick out of me.

but He does, go figure.

one week.

i have about a week left before i turn in two manuscripts. i hadn't realized how much i had to say, how long i'd been wanting to say it, how meaningful this message is to me. i'm still enamoured of it.

my sister says her oral hygenist, whom she mentioned my book to, wants to read it.

i laugh because, i keep hearing that. very few have seen the actual pages, but there are a few, and i keep hearing this chorus,

where's the rest of eve?

they want to see more. which is a blessing. i pray the words come out someday, and that they arrive with the Spirit of the living God on them, in them. that they are more than just letters and symbols. but that i actually have, as my life motto professes, caught the breath of God on the page. such heights i aspire to.

i've not really got time to blog, and less so next week, so forgive me if i miss a few days, but knowing me, i'll try to come up with something to say.

my girl enjoyed the piece about her spinning out of orbit. she just drew a picture of it. whenever i find a picture on the floor, i can usually tell exactly what her state of mind is. perhaps i'll have to scan some and show you how she uses stick figures in most cases, to convey the state of her soul.

from when she was a tiny girl, she's been drawing. once we watched a godzilla movie and she drew the oriental lady singing to godzilla, i think she was about two or three then, she drew music notes coming out of the lady's mouth to indicate song.

the child can get concepts on paper, that is for sure.

so she hands me this tiny piece of paper with her world careening out of orbit, drawn on a scrap no bigger than a raffle ticket stub (the tiny ones). the signs she says, (because i wrote in a piece, the signs are there anyone can see she's falling--wait, that was from a piece she hasn't heard, so i'll have to go look back and see where she got my words from. she must hear words the way i do, by being silent and listening)

are a broken heart, a hammer for anger, a friend, and a tear drop. these are the signs that her world is careening out of bounds.

good thing, my arms can hold her in.

better teach her, when mine fail, His never do.

she asked me the other night,

mom, what's shadow?

darkness. sometimes we fall into darkness, and get sad.

i hadn't meant to explain all this to her yet, but well, the sooner the better i guess.

peace.

the exceptions

i'd rather be around nonchristians than christians any day. i'm sure that surprises no one. perhaps it's the weight of judgment, or percieved judgment, i feel around the saved, which means it is all in my head, and i'm the real problem. yes, that is probably true.

but imaginary judgment or real, i still feel more comfortable around the unsaved. call me crazy.

i've got to say i've met some profoundly wonderful christians of late, they seem to be the exception. why are all the exceptions available only by email, or internet? how come i can't find those exceptional people in my congregation or community? is the problem that i'm not looking, or only seeing my misperceptions? perhaps.

not that i don't want to be questioned on theological issues, fine. but after you've grilled me on my latest belief (which is the same as my former, there is only One God, after all, nothing's changed). i feel a bit less certain that you're not evaluating everything i say and do by some standard. is this wrong? sometimes i wonder if being utterly honest with my doubts and misgivings, as well as my certainties, will work against me rather than for me. i don't know. i don't know anything.

i do know that the conversations i most enjoy are those which are like a long walk on a sabbath. meandering, just let me be with you type conversations. not many have time for these type conversations which is perhaps why i feel the weight of judgment, because by the time i've settled your doubts about my dubious beliefs, you've got to go. so i get grilled and then you leave (i don't often let these types of conversations happen more than once or twice. i don't need those kinds of friends).

i find with the unsaved, i don't have to convince them that i'm all right. they assume that to be so. why is this assumption any different in the christian community?

i think the focus is too much on appearances. i don't tell many what i'm reading (all of it, that is) because i just don't want to hear it. i don't want to have to assure folks that i'm all right, that what i'm reading won't lead me down the path to ruin (that's a line from a tracy chapman song), i don't know where i'll end up. perhaps i'll end up ruined, but even then, i'll be all right. i'll still be in the Hand of God.

how can i give anyone certainty about my beliefs when i am so uncertain about anything and everything in life. either you believe me saved or don't, either way, it's not really my problem. i know that i know. you're understanding of my knowing isn't high on my priority list. and the unsaved just don't care about that stuff, but it seems like the only (ONLY) issue on the minds of many christians. but are you really saved? (they keep asking, maybe because i have changed churches and moved so much in my life, i find i need to keep meeting people and making my salvation known). settle their doubts, as it were.

but why?

i know we can't just assume everyone is saved, but i'd sure like to talk about the deeper things of God. the mysteries, in a noncombative way. an openended conversation with no real arrival at THE answers, because there are no real answers to the plaguing questions of the day.

i'd like to be in relationship with a bunch of christians who rest in the certainty of God's ability to keep the sheep in the fold. to retrieve the one and move forward. not always this, but did they escape, but did they escape question. such a skittish church. but maybe that is all just in my mind.

maybe i'm the only one who doubts if i am believing right, and am just projecting this on others (which is entirely possible).

i do not know. but i am grateful for those friends of mine who know that i know and move forward with me, meander conversationally with me, and don't always bring me back to the are you still saved question. i'm tired of that question.

last time i checked, God wasn't letting me go. if that has changed, and likely it won't, there's nothing can be done about it from this end. so why belabor it?