Buckley Vision

I talk about The Beatles a lot, but I've got Jeff Buckley on my mind tonight. If you've never heard him, run (seriously, click over to google and slam his name down) to him now. He's the kind of artist that will have you locked in, committed and completed by the end of the set. 


He's also someone who explored music as they felt it. The child of a talented man, he didn't pigeon-hold himself. He was who he was, and became something even greater. We all have that power - to rise above the occasion and ourselves. 


His fate wasn't what I would have written. Like so many of the majestic, he burned out too soon, and left a gaping hole in the form of his loss. But he gave endlessly of himself while he was here, and his music is an uplifting reminder. 


In 2011, you can be more than you ever dreamed. It's all about you, and it all comes down to who you see yourself as. No one (and nothing) else matters. Dig a little deeper, breathe a little louder and believe. I dare you.


Your future is an open landscape, waiting for you (with, perhaps, the slightest influence from Bob Ross) to paint it wide. 


Today's word is: coterminous 

The Gifts Of Change

2010. It wasn't an epic year. At least not in a way that will have me looking back and sighing with undulating bliss. The many splendors that arose from its existance felt, at times, few and far between. The year will always wear the mark of loss. At least for the next great while. But in this past year, opportunity (if not prosperity) flourished.

I don't want to forget the good, and leave it shivering in the mamoth shadow of the bad. Because, as I wipe the rain from my interior Irish landscape, I am beginning to see that it's not as much good/bad as simply being.

At some point in 2009, I decided to build my boundaries. Tired of defining myself by how I was able to serve others (which inevitably led to my developing snarky grievences), I set forth to weed out unhealthy friends, surroundings and ideas. It was surprisingly easy. I learned how to say no. No, no, no, no, no.

Because of the life-gardening efforts, I feel full. The cobwebs have been wiped down, the clutter properly stored and the horizon waking. But there is still a ghost of sadness in the air. Of what could have been, on the other side of the grass and the dreams that withered there.

For 2011, I'm resolutionless. I'm going to stop saying that I'm not good enough. Whatever change comes clamoring through my overpass, I'm prepared to click my heels together, raise my chin and salute. Maybe not in a welcome embrace, but in recognition of occurance. I can no more control change than I can resist the urge to to write. It's always going to follow me.

But I can edit. And if I stop demonizing change, and allow it the grace of being what it is, I know I will be better off. Because while 2010 brought strife, it also brought hope, new friends and life-changing stories. Beginnings were born, middles were captured and the future was always hovering overhead, like a good-natured fairy.

I have read like a deprived, rascally waif in the year of 2010. My love for the written word has grown three-fold, and I've rediscovered classics, while rooting through the treasure of new authors. Genres were discarded in favor of experience, and all were celebrated.

I have tasted and savored some of the finest art created, and I'm still ravenous for more. And I've faced some of my greatest fears, only to find I can smile them away. The knowledge (all the answers and questions that make up the heartbeat of the universe) is still within my grasp. There is nothing I can do, that can't be done. And I love that - it brings me such joy and peace.

There is so much left unsaid, unwritten and undiscovered. But that is for 2011. I dream the coming year springs hope into reality. But no matter where I go, I have the comfort of change, and that her gifts will follow. I only have to step through the door.

"If you would attain to what you are not yet, you must always be displeased by what you are.  For where you are pleased with yourself there you have remained.  Keep adding, keep walking, keep advancing."

  ~Saint Augustine

Today's word is: panoptic

Looking Through A Glass Onion

One of the reasons The Beatles relevancy is undeterable, to me, is that their words make people think. Forums spike up across the internet with people debating lyrics, messages and hidden meanings. I think the truth is in the middle. All the songs have meanings to the people who wrote them, even if they were written for a laugh. But we're not always privy to the moments creation, and can't define each lyric by each turn of phrase.

What is most important to the listener, is what they take away. Like Frost's Road Not Taken, or Eliot's The Wasteland, the works definition matters most to the person doing the defining. That's one of art's most empirical qualities: as you experience it, you name it.

I'm a Sgt. Pepper's girl, but I find something from every song in The Beatles anthology of music. And lately, I've been drawn into Glass Onion. Metaphorically, rhetorically and realistically. I recognize myself in the music. Not in an "oh look, I see a tiny Paige trapped in a glass onion suspended over strawberry fields" way, but in a sense of self. The music just makes sense right now.

I blame my driving wanderlust. At the core, I am drawn to my impulses, and to the need to experience. As a child, I indulged these without thought. As the need arose, I pursued, persevered and conquered. Then I started growing up. Or trying to grow up. I formed all these notions about who I am supposed to be, how I need to present myself and the normal way to act.

Today, we have a lovely life. One I'm proud of, but one that is spent on the other side of the glass onion. Seeing how the other half lives, being who I've been instructed (by myself, society or Professor Gradgrind) to be. And the thing that strikes me, is that it's all so...layerless.

My layers, or feathers - because I prefer to be a peacock of a Paige to an onion one - they're who I enjoy defining myself as. Suppressing myself for someone else's norm is so unsatisfying. It's anti-ringing out my balalaikas. And why on earth would I be a version of me that doesn't please me in the first place?

I'm fallible, tenderhearted and overly aware. But I don't have to be scared to let my freak flag fly.

I hope whatever your resolutions are, or aren't, they're ones that will find you happy. Because life's too short not to enjoy living.

Today's word is: ephemeral

My Reading Rainbow

I wonder how many lives LeVar Burton's changed. He certainly influenced the hell out of mine, tossing me a book-shaped life preserver, and teaching me that all walks of life are story. Fodder is not created, it's introduced and seen. Where it goes is endless - all left up to the imagination of reader and writer.

Books are so important. They do so much, and give freely. Yes, we pay a small price tag - to honor the author, illustrator and publisher. But that's such a tiny chunk of change when the bigger picture comes into focus. My reading rainbow has provided me a pot of gold - a thousand times over.

The object of a book is to be read, shared and enjoyed. The consequence is that you most likely will learn something and find yourself served in more ways than one. But that's by-product. The birth of story is simply for telling.

I read like a garbage disposal. Proudly. There is not one book that has not impacted me. I don't always adore the story I'm reading, but it will provide me with a new idea, voice or reason. Even if it's simply showing me what I don't like, it's offering something. And I'm just one fuzzy headed girl - someone else will like the book, and that makes it even more magical.

Books and writers go hand in hand. Readers and writers go together like Laverne and Shirley. And the world is the largest book I know. As I cross today into tomorrow, I am aware that all I ever need to do is take a look. If it's not in front of me, it's in a book - lost somewhere in my reading rainbow.

Today's word is: sagacious

A Writing Haven

Practice makes perfect. Repetition, re-emergence and commitment to the craft of writing are necessities. Sometimes they're annoying musts, but they are fundamentally important.

This isn't to say there aren't days when I really want flip them off, lay in bed, watch crap t.v. and eat a carton of Barbara's chicken salad (the best chicken salad in the world, conveniently located in Franklin, TN).

But I get up, grab a book, curl up and slip inside. Or I drag my lazy ass to my laptop and punch out letters, stubbornly forming words into sentences. A few minutes within the world of a story is all it takes. After I step outside of myself and embrace the moment, I find I'm happily lost to it. It's getting around myself that always seems to be the biggest obstacle.

Not just in writing, really. In all walks of my life, I'm the biggest challenge I face. If I could easily let go, move out of my way and give myself a round of applause, well, no feat would ever fail me. It's just that's an awful lot of pressure - knowing that the only thing stopping me, is me.

So I give myself the gift of fallibility. I'm going to disappoint myself. A lot. But that's good, because that means I'm learning and seeing where I need to curve the road to meet my feet. And when the day becomes too much, and the hill becomes insurmountable, then I dance away in retreat.

I have my writing haven. It's a place in my mind where the colors are calm, candles light the way and books build the walls. Wide open windows show fields of possibility, and a worn rug lines the aged, wooden floor. In reality, it's just a happy place. Somewhere to go when everything becomes the most important thing ever. When life is overwhelming and nothing seems plausible.

I step inside my haven, exhale and pause. Because it's just a moment. It's just a task. And I can, and will, get to the other side of it. One book at a time, one note after another, as one foot follows the other.

Today's word is: bucolic

Nookin' For Love

Can you guess what I got for Christmas? I'm entirely intimidated by my new Nook Color. It's a fascinating and wonderful device. I can store thousands of books in a light weight gadget. *clears throat* Thousands of books. You see kiddies, dreams do come true: I. Have. A. Portable. Library.

Excuse me while I wipe the drool from my chin.

I'm enamored with Julie Andrews. It's one of those constants. As Mary Poppins she taught me that magic isn't simply a possibility, it's a certainty. You simply have to know where to find it. The Nook is a sliver of hocuspocus. I don't think even Ms. Poppins had the device of endless books in her carpet bag.

I typically carry 3 books in my purse. And a pocket dictionary. And an inspirational read. Or a Yoga book. Sometimes I add a pocket thesaurus. Then there's the TBR stack. My left shoulder pops when I reach back from the weight of books over years, but I respect the angry cartilage and bone as payment due.

Now I'm not saying I am going to give up my beloved paperbacks or hardcovers. Because a) there is nothing more settling than feeling the pages of a book turn - it's as though you're grasping the portal, and b) they are the essence of library - I mean how many e-readers can you stack on a freakin' shelf? And the covers, oh the thing of beauty that is a book cover tempting a reader can never be undone.

And if that's not enough, there's always c) the notion of reading a screen while taking a bubble bath and drinking a glass of red wine. Not terribly romantic, and I so do not want to drop the damn thing in the water - and if (when) I did - I would be the one person it would short circuit on and create a non-soothing jet/electric current environment.

But my new shiny Nook does have a "night light," so I can read in the dark. I may have to buy it sunglasses for my days of walking and reading, but while in the car, at a bar (yes, I'm the mental girl at the bar with a book, ignoring her friends and trying to morph into wallpaper) or during a non-Paige movie that my DH is engrossed in, I can escape into a new world.

Just like magic, with the wave of my hand, I will open the door and enter one of thousands of imagined worlds. Bless you, you amazing authors. Without bothering those around me, and with the swish of my finger, I'm scrolling through the pages and tiptoeing through the greatest adventures ever written. Bliss comes in one more form, and reminds me how grateful I am for the love of books - in all their many splendor.

Today's word is: legerdemain

How Doth The Little Butterfly

Today I rejoice. For so many things; my family, my puppies and all the joy that life has brought this past year. On this day, I'm uplifted by the good moments and the memories that accompany them.

It hasn't been the easiest year. Miscarrying a second time, and discovering that I have an X-man-like mutant gene, has been a formidable blow. Thankfully, I'm not one to back down from the whirling dervishes that try to stay my way.

But I don't know that I would have made it through the past few months without the people who believed in me, when I couldn't even see myself.

It gives me pause - and has me asking, "How doth the little butterfly?"

Alice treated the Caterpillar to a poem about a busy bee, and he rejected her version for the tale of a crocodile. But I'm looking to the butterfly. To the sluggish worm that wraps itself in a cocoon from the world, nourishes what needs to regrow, and blooms into something new.

I'm learning to grow my wings. To remake myself into the person I am. But the process isn't always simple, enjoyable or flawless. I'm grateful to the motley crew that have seen me through these baffling endeavors, and continue to make my days brighter.

If you ever find yourself on the other side of Wonderland, tie a ribbon to the nearest posy and hunker down. It's not where you are, but where you will be that makes all the difference.

How doth the little butterfly
spread her wings aside
toss back the covers of her shelter
and let the expansion fly.

How skillfully its born
from embers of a fireless day
recapturing the mysteries
and bringing way to way.


Today's word is: ataraxia

Pockets Of Poetry

The holidays have slunk in behind me, and threaded their fingers in my hair. The presents are wrapped, my smile easy and breath light. I'm happily leaning back into the hold they've taken over me. As such, I've decided to keep this entry in the spell I've fallen under.


Below is a poem born from enjoying the madness of time. It's a reminder, to me, that each second is fleeting. Like everything else, moments are measured by looking back. In the years to come, I will replay memories from this weekend in my head, and reshape them with nostalgia.


These rose colored contacts will continue to alter the sunset on today, gifting it will a perfection that could never be. And there is magic in that. In being able to filter out the nonsense and see the wisdom in what was. 

The Hand of Time

The marble smells of time. Dust tickles my nose and the smooth, cold surface reassures my fingers that while my heart may not survive the years that bring age and knowledge, something tangible shall remain. Botticelli couldn’t have done her justice. In her prime, photographs were barely able to capture the radiance that emitted from within her. Hair the color of sanded copper and skin, a whiter shade of pale, allowed her an angelic grace. Doe eyes of amber peered back with kindness through the photograph - a sort of humbled resistance. Reflecting, perhaps, an awareness that: this is I, and that is more and all I can ever be. She smiled with an ease that little showed the restrain her fingers told. The hand, that would later wrinkle and dry out like a succulent grape pulled too early from the vine, would tense in photos. Not so that you would see it, but I, I know it is there. Oh, but in the snap shot, the frozen moment of believed happiness, her hands are smooth and delicate. They are so meant to be kissed and petted. Long slender fingers with nails perfectly filed and polished to a shine. They would surprise you if you saw them now. Her life was not as lovely as the girl in the photograph. The girl frozen in time will surely move to Paris and live a life of luxury and nuance. She will start a trend of wearing oversized sunglasses and box hats. She then will write her name in the drying cement at the Louvre, and people will see her and know, my God, she is someone. No, her life was not as such as that. But, then a picture, it doesn’t tell the whole story, no, it is, after all, only a snap shot.

May your snapshots bring charm, and joy for all of your days. 

Today's word is: fizgig

An Open Letter To Charlie Brown

Dear Charlie,

Christmas can be very frustrating. It's a time of year when we might find ourselves inclined to reason like Eeyore, and throw up our hands offering, "Oh bother." Or tension, expectations and want merge into such a frightening symphony of give me, give me, give me, I need, I need, that all a body can do is kick at the dirt and mutter, "good grief."

But it's also a time of year best to experience being in the moment. Loading our own mental camera with film and taking Polaroids of the smiles, belly-shaking guffaws and exasperated love that seems to fill the air. Because we can't repeat this holiday. True, next year will roll around and Christmas (with all its glorified commercialism) will bang down our door and drip wet across our freshly mopped floors. But it will be next years holiday, coming on the heels of all of next years ups, downs and drag out dips.

Right now it's our time. Our time to let go of all the pent-up isms, and embrace everyone and everything that makes our holidays what they are. At the core, if we just let go of our judgements and narrow-mindedness, we can see beyond the heat of the moment and into the heart of it.

After all, as Linus said, "And there were in the same country shepherds abiding in the field, keeping watch over their flock by night. And lo, the angel of the Lord came upon them, and the glory of the Lord shone round about them: and they were sore afraid. And the angel said unto them, 'Fear not: for behold, I bring unto you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people. For unto you is born this day in the City of David a Savior, which is Christ the Lord. And this shall be a sign unto you; Ye shall find the babe wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying in a manger.' And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host, praising God, and saying, 'Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men."

No matter where your beliefs, isms or ideals take you, good will should follow. And its reward will prove three-fold, because what you give - in kindness, empathy and acceptance - will find its way back, and bring along its good pals, joy, peace and love.

Happy Holidays. I hope they bring you dreams that awaken softly and slowly slink around you - showing you that all things are possible, and will be.

Today's word is brought to you by Lucy:  pantophobia

Story Snapshots

I was reminded today of the snippets of story I store. Hmm. She sells seashells down by the seashore. Sorry, had to go there for a moment. As I was saying, I sometimes forget the words I've written. I'll open my head, tap out the vision and then leave it simmering on the page. It's not that I don't have pride or celebration for these works - it's more that I don't know what on earth to do with them.

If it's not a piece of a novel, or an article, I tend to pet the work and then put it away. Which I realized is just plain rude. So I decided to share a short-short. It's a handful of a tale, but a romantic little ditty. I hope today's blog brings you a moment of entertainment. Tomorrow, I will return to my regularly scheduled program of trying to save the world - and better myself (one day at a time).

Notes Of A Moment

On a piano, the keys are the gateway to notes, and the notes the entrance to song. On a major scale, the formula beaks down into notes of: Whole, Whole, Half, Whole, Whole, Whole, Half. In life the glance is the opening to interest, and intrigue the first paragraph to love. We break down as Wholes of many Halves, or Halves of a Whole.

She sat at the small table, ignoring the edge that kept digging into her arm, and the mini pile of gum that was attempting to stick to her leggings as her knee danced around it. Her fingers glided over the keys, back and forth, over and into, typing out the words that no one would hear. She was writing a song of her own that would never be shared, just like she did every other day.  

On a sigh, she lifted her gaze to find him watching her. He had his head tiled, allowing dark hair to brush dangerously close to one eye, and a satisfied smirk playing across his lips. She kept typing, though her breath caught and her heart stuttered.

He seemed comfortable, like the countertop that he leaned into had been made for his support. Behind him busy, cackling barista’s brewed their potions and accepted coin in exchange for the nectar of waking life. No one seemed to pay him any attention, even though he now held all of hers.

Five seconds, or forty hours, she wasn’t sure how long; she stared and became lost in the moment. In those minutes, the music she created seemed to float up and into the air. Notes plucked from her heartstrings trickled down into her lap. She wrote fervently, not bothering to care if her greatest creation made it onto the page, only knowing that she could not stop.

He appeared to be listening. His eyes grew dark and the air thinned, so that she had to force herself to find breath. His lips lifted and the world opened up. In his smile, she found all the answers and questions. Delighted she laughed, and he winked. With a slow nod, and invisible embrace, his whole being found hers.

She took the time to taste, smell and revel in all that he offered. Then, he took his first step and slowly walked from the counter, down the narrow hall and out the back entrance of the shop. But as he moved, he appeared to lift his feet in time to an unsung song, and he looked back once to say everything and nothing at all.

Today's word is: opine

The Mayhem Of Dreams

I was blessed (or cursed) with an exceptionally long memory. A bit of a detail whore, I tend to remember things in color. It's good for my girlfriends as a party trick - after too many cocktails, when they're trying to remember who dated who in the seventh grade. Or which mindless mis-adventure we took on which day, and who was with us back in the Fall of '96.

But it's also a flaw. When you remember things well, you can't easily forget them. I catalog time in little folders, stored in oversized boxes, in the labryinth of rooms inside my noggin. I'm not always aware of it - if ever. But there they are, the pages of Paige, perfectly settled in places where they never disappear.

If we have the power to clean out our closets, and de-horde our clothing, shoes, accessories, and junk that has over stayed its welcome - I wonder if I can clean out my memories. Not wipe them, or brainwash myself (so don't come at me with a black and white spinning hypno-top, unless you want my foot up your nether-region), but de-clutter.

I'm going to try to rewire my batches of memories, and shred the ones that I no longer need. You know, toss out the ones where so-and-so hurt me, or broke a little piece of my heart. Tear the fragments of memories that anger or cause my lip to curl, and turn them into confetti that I can toss out the proverbial mental window.

And I am going to replace those battered memories with openings for new, healthy and happy ones. For ideas that I can reshape into story and regrow into hope. Because this is my journey and I'm learning to steer my ship (damn it *foot stomp*). I can't control the waters, or predict the weather, but I can embrace being me.

I'm so far from being right, or perfect, or normal. But I'm working hard to be better. With confidence comes care, with care comes awareness and with awareness comes brevity. And with a little luck, there's a smile in the rain.

Today's word is: Quiddity

Write Out Loud

I'm working on living out loud, so it only seems fair that I write out loud. To accomplish this - because when I first suggested it to myself, I didn't understand what I was asking (which is often the problem with presenting a new plan of action to oneself - by oneself) - I decided to write out new paths.

Not for myself, although a few months ago I could have used the technique. No, these curvy roads are for my characters. Whenever I get stuck, I usually snark at the muses and keep going. But I've decided to change it up - and write out the frustration - by writing out loud.

Now if I can't quite grasp the scene, I write it the way I can't help but create it, then go back and pour it out again. I step back, do a little digging while wearing my research party pants, and then return to the land of the lost. I sit back down, stick my tongue out at the computer, shimmy in my chair and attack. By this point, I'm able to escape into the world again.

I guess what I'm really doing is throwing a temper tantrum, but in an academic, leather elbow patch/smoking jacket, tweed-wearing kind of way. You know, the write way.

I don't know if anyone takes agin' their stories because the fall won't meet the landing, but if you do, give writing out loud a try. You never know when you'll be back this way again.

Today's word is: librocubicularist

Setting The Scene

Music transforms my moods. So when I write, I try to accompany the characters personas. If I've outlined, and the scene is intense and dark (or full of pseudo existential revelations), I turn to classical music that fills the base-space in my head. Or something contemporary with a lot of kick drum and echo. If I'm letting the characters drive the scene, I tend to rely on whatever theme music that best accompanies the dictation of the novel (and its genre).

Since I write whatever flows out naturally, I don't have any set rules. The ones I follow are made up, based on what best works - in that moment. Like life, it changes sporadically and with fierce determination. So far it's worked well enough that I'm satisfied with what I churn out. But this is all for me and by me - inside of the wonderful written world.

It's done for the love of the craft, and the unstoppable rush it brings. Writing is a passion first (whether it's an author interview, review or novel), and a financial prospect second. For me, it's a lifestyle. Like eating healthy, doing yoga and cursing. I take it only as seriously as I take myself.

In life I also set the scene. Just as though I'm following a character, I play out the evening's (soon-to-be) scenes in a variety of ways. Typically from most pleasing to disastrous. My mental boxes unload all the possibilities and my id, ego and superego battle out which is most plausible, and then punish my imagination's proxy by reliving the worst alternatives over and over.

I don't do this with my characters. I just follow them. I don't do this with spotlights or book reviews. I take care with the outcome of my words, yes, but I don't give 84,000 altering endings.

And I know that it's only in my mind. That I'm creating the atmosphere. I hold my breath while waiting out the moments of high tension, but they have yet to lead me down the roads of Dali-driven never, never land. So I'm going to try, just for the rest of the weekend, to reign myself in - turn off my inner iPod (or boom box) and let the days softer sounds track drive me.

Because it all comes back to me, and how I set the scene.Whether in writing or living. So I'm going to try to let the sunshine in. And give myself permission to let the better part of the day take me away.

Today's word is: ubiquitous

Who Does The Voodoo That You Do

Dear David Bowie,

What kind of magic spell to use? Slime and snails? Puppy dog's tails?

Today I am settling for the magic of the babe. (The babe -what babe?- the babe with the power! That's right, the power of the babe!)

I started this blog to give myself an out. A place to collect, share and nourish my thoughts. But the main reason I knew I had to write, was to move on. Three months ago, we suffered a miscarriage at 9 weeks.

It's such a strange thing to throw out into the Universe - to share with whomever. But what's more bizarre, is that I've struggled with whether or not it's okay to do so. I certainly don't want to burden anyone with uncomfortable knowledge. And there - right there - is where the outer issue lies.

It's not taboo to lose a baby. It. Simply. Is. Not. What it is, is tragic, and fucking frustrating. Even with my innate sense of verbose rambling, I can't entirely put the reality into a picture for you. And I'm not sure I want to. But I have felt that sharing this side of me, is sharing a fatal flaw - showing my *stage whisper* inability. As though the fact that I have had two miscarriages over the past two years makes me less of a person.

Such a strange line of reasoning.

I'm no more now than I was before the miscarriages, but I do feel less - in a variety of ways. But I am beginning to understand there are reasons for this over and above what I can imagine. It's just a little pool of knowledge that has seeped into my overactive, silly, blossoming mind.

So now you know why I write. And I'm going to share something further. Today, in a matter of hours, we are going to pick up our newest furry family member. Her name is Moon Shadow (after one of our favorite Cat Stevens songs).

We are so excited, and full of holiday cheer, to bring her home to our other furry baby - our 13 year old, ornery, fabulous littlest best friend, Sunnie (short for Sunshine Daydream). And while we are on such a very different path than I imagined this time of year would bring, I am hopeful about the future.

I have no idea if we'll have children. That train of thought isn't in the visible vicinity of entering the station. But we do have a family. A joyful, off-beat, mad, wonderful family that I offer thanks for hourly. Life is meant to be lived. It's not always easy to enjoy the moments - and I beat myself down more often than not, over missed opportunity and lost chances. But I'm learning. And I'm willing to try to love myself a little better and welcome the joy that patience and awareness bring.  

So today I give thanks for you, for listening to my ramblings, and hope that by sharing my "flaws," I entertain and welcome you. No matter where you are, things will change. They will ebb and flow, grow and rise and loop into places you never expected to go. So remember to enjoy the moments that take you by surprise and lift you up - and when in doubt, always remember the voodoo that you do, and the magic of the babe.

Today's word is: thaumaturgy

Fallible Me (Paige) and her little man, Sunnie

Lady Moon Shadow

Grr Argh - 5 Words That Make Things Write

Some days, the words are forbidden. An invisible fortress presents a formidable blockade - preventing them from wiggling their way out of their kingdom and into my mind's processor. On these days, writing is a mountain named, "Give it up, girlie." Mocking me, knowing that I can't climb in these bare feet.

When I'm at the crossroads of Hell and High Water, I turn to my five shit-kicking friends. 5 words that trigger my mental lava from behind its somber hideaway. If you ever find yourself sinking, I offer these - as a cheeky, absurd escape into the better halls of merriment in your mind. Hopefully they will offer you keys to other, more advantageous, mental trapdoors.

apodyopsis-the act of mentally undressing someone

gongoozler-one who stares at something/an idle spectator

nudiustertian-the day before yesterday

automysophobia-a person who has a fear of getting dirty

gynotikolobomassophile-one nibbling on women's earlobes

If nothing else, I hope they grant you a raised brow or chuckle. Which I take as a non-verbal salute. Hopefully it's one that doesn't come as you stare for too long, imagining me naked - while you nibble on my earlobes - from the safety of a clean bath. See - now my imagination block is completely gone. If only I weren't feeling so wiggy.

Today's word is: abstruse

The Art Of Not Giving Up

This morning I lay in bed, pitching a giant boonie, and feeling the black dog upon me. I threw the largest mental pity-party ever. Well, maybe not ever - the past two years have brought a variety of angst-ridden gatherings. But this one certainly was a giant "suck it," extravaganza.

As the day met morning, I found myself surrounded by possibility. All the negative tendrils that had ensnared me, slowly, unraveled and lost their tether. Resolved to grasp the moment, to enjoy that the pressure, panic and exhaust weren't wrecking me - I sat back and found a lazy, but resilient passion.

It's so damn easy to get pissed off. To write the world off, and say screw it - I'm done. I've thrown up my hands, wiggled my ass and bit my tongue at the fates before. But it's generally a one-sided petulant dance. They aren't interested in my chicanery. Because they see farther than I can, and know greater than I do.

Today has taught me that when we come to the end of our rope, and the knot we're trying to cast to hang onto won't hold, that all we have to do is reach. Smile when it hurts, find one happy thought and hang the fuck on - because time is on its way to give you a new foot hold.

So I amend my earlier "suck it," scream and change it for this little chant: "I'm a driver, I'm a winner. Things are gonna change, I can feel it." Because, well, why not?

Today's word is: indefatigability

Words As Food

I inhale books. Like a literature vacuum cleaner, once I slip inside the pages of a novel, I'm gone. *Poof*

This is an art I perfected as a child, when I needed to find solace, or peace. I came to it so early on, that to this day my favorite pastime is still walking and reading. Or riding and reading. Or lounging and reading. Pretty much anything that connects me to reading.

My second favorite pastime is writing.

Whether I'm inside a novel, or the crevices of my own imagination, I'm happily devouring words. For hours, days, weeks, I turn over vowels, and pucker on vernacular (and all her savvy ways). And what I forget to remember, while living inside a written dream, is what words do. They are such functioning little buggers, that we can forget to see them as they really are.

Words are the bricks on the information highway. They provide us foundation, and the ability to communicate or ramble. We string them into images and pass them around like caramel flavored popcorn - eager to share a bite with a friend or neighbor.

During the holidays, words can grow horns. Stress, exhaustion, the overwhelming need to please others - so that we end up screwing off our heads and putting them back on upside down - all of these emotions can lead us to letting our words fatten, rather than nourish others.

Just like the right foods feed your body nutrients, the wrong words fester with hurt. I have to remind myself of this continuously. Like the other, healing, mantras I intake, I gently remind myself that the words I offhandedly jest toward someone else can harm them, even if only for a moment. 

I wish I could share happy cake (as my niece used to call it) with the world. But some days the words don't come easy, and I'm left with regurgitated cabbage, or vinegar fried pears. That's the breaks of living as a work in progress. But I'm trying, and the effort is there.

One day my stories will be freshly made, organic blueberry pie. My words will be honey-infused vanilla bean ice-cream. And patience will be my greatest crutch as I grapple to share all the wonderful isms I have discovered. Until then, at the very least, I promise you the best vanilla wafers a girl can buy.

Today's word is: opuscule

Go With Your Gut

It doesn't matter the circumstances - when in doubt, go with your gut. Your gut is unbiased, non-judgemental and uniformed. It doesn't muck up the waters with empathy, over-awareness or gentle guffawing. The gut is designed to hone in on what balances out, and what sinks down into the shitter.

I talk myself out of gut decisions on too many occasions. My isms, or indulgences, take over. Later, I berate myself into a million aggrieved pieces for going with the outside influence, and ignoring my friendly inner voice. I know this. I have been there, in different locations at differing dates, a hundred times. But still, my human consistency leads me from acceptance of the gut-er-ability.

When writing, I have tried to overrun my characters. Ignore their gut (in my gut) and push my way to the pathway I think should be there. It never fails - they get pissed off and vomit on the pages. What I preconceive as genius turns into garbage. And when I go back (for you must always get over yourself and go back), they show me a grand design that I never could have devised.

It's all in the gut. Just like faith in yourself, and inner recognition that flaws have unspeakable beauty, the obvious answers always surface - just south of the naval.

Today's word is: colposinquanonia

Sensory Inspiration

It's snowing out. Big, fluffy white flakes are slowly skittering down from the sky. The have blanketed the ground, coated tree limbs and outlined the best parts of the landscape. I find inspiration, not only in the beauty these falling soft ice chips bring, but in the way I feel watching witnessing their arrival.

Growing up is an exhausting process. A lot of miscommunication goes into shaping a person, as the years blur past and adolescence morphs into (near) adulthood. It's easy to forget the joys, to lose the romance and forget to look back into the merriment of being a child.

The snow brings me laughter, and great memories of the past. Of my mother making snow ice, of my brother and I racing to sled down hills and of my best friends joining us in all manner of shenanigans. In life, as in story, things never happen the same way twice.

I can't go back to those times. But I can reach out, and lap them up like a child does the falling snow. I can recall the moments and find inspiration that though gone, they are never forgotten. Much like snow melts, the times change. But their essence I carry always.


Today's word is: monkeyshine

When Words Come Alive

I'm in Biltmore Village this weekend, touring the Biltmore Estate and visiting the gorgeous city of Asheville. Here, up in the Mountains, where trees spear up and fur and pine greet each other with ease, I find my levels of panic depleting. There is rest, rejuvenation and recovery.

The Biltmore Estate itself is from another time. Touring the grounds is like stepping inside a snapshot, or pouring yourself into the moment a child sees its gaggle of gifts for the first time on Christmas morning. I can't help but feel giddy - like all possibilities have connected to one synapses and begun to bloom under my feet. All I have to do is pick one up to believe in, and it will become real.

That the Biltmore Estate exists - that George W. Vanderbilt had such a (astronomic, grandiose) vision, and kneaded it into being...it reminds me that possible is the root word for impossibility.

Inside the halls of this imperial home is my favorite room of all time. The Vanderbilts library is a place where dreams could be born. Row upon endless row of story - stacked high to the mural adorning the ceiling - speak to me. The pages call out, and my fingers itch to reach across and pull (just one) book from its hiding spot.

Here in lies the rub. Those books, those great tales, are now a petrified forest. They exist, yes. Countless (well, somewhere in the 23000 range) first editions are tucked away in their slots, slumbering for all time. Tucked inside, embedded on their pages are adventures, escapades in foreign lands, and pathways into dreamworlds. But you won't ever step inside of them. They are in a literary graveyard. So you can look, but never touch.

Their words call out to me. They whisper from behind the red velvet roped off line. But I won't ever see them, and their voices will stay muted, in the land beyond where words come to life.

But I don't let that mask my visit. Because the books may be silenced, but the stories never are.

Today's word is: apologue

The Silent Scream

Frustration happens. Whether it comes in the form of writers block, or disguised as one of of life's sneaky isms, it's inevitable. Sometimes the two coincide, or dance around each other. If I'm not in a groove with my writing, I'm pretty much apt to take it out on life.  When I am what's crawled up my ass - and not in a Malkovich/Malkovich, down the rabbit hole way - I'm experiencing a "self-indulged panty wedge."


Whenever this aggravation, discombobulation, steeped in miscommunication occurs - I'm left wishing for magic. For something otherworldly to challenge the discord that's overrunning the moments of my life. To make it all better. It rarely occurs to me that I can be the solution. 


It escapes me, the knowledge that I have the ability to take a few deep, square breaths. Four count in, four count hold, four count out, four count hold - as opposed to actually trying to breathe in the shape of a square, which I initially tried and only gained a series of bizarre looks.


I control my steps. I have been given the gift of decision. So do I decide to feed my malcontent and take against the world, my maker and the imagination creator, or do I use my most potent instrument and grant myself relief? I am going to start writing my way out of the situations that break me, and draw a new path to r.e.l.a.x.a.b.i.l.i.t.y. 


I may not like all the toxicity that I have to come face to face with. But I can find ways to respect the person I am, when dealing with these craptastic, barely-there chapters of (an otherwise, mostly, enjoyable) life. This is my hope. I am visualizing that it will bring me home to myself, as I learn to let go of the battle. 


So if you ever find yourself having an especially exhausting day - no matter the cause - you're not alone. I'm right here, hating the evil-shenanigan-infused-malarkey, and telling you it's okay to change your universe. I believe in you.  


Today's word is: hagiology

All You Need Is Love

Today marks the 30th anniversary of John Lennon's death. As I've previously mentioned (waxed unpoetically about), all aspects of my life have been influenced by The Beatles. At a time when I was looking to define myself, I found their music and it's kept me (relatively) sane.

Lennon in particular captivated me. His faith in people, in the ability to believe that peace is more than an ideal - that it's a reachable reality - embedded itself in me. That idea, well, it's not always an easy one to latch onto, and there are days when I have to tie my bootstraps to my belt buckle to keep hope alive. But I do. I imagine all the things I wish for as obtainable. I close my eyes and I believe.

If I didn't, I wouldn't have slugged my way through the writing trenches. I wouldn't have given over to the inhalation of written word and the ideas behind (and through) them. If I hadn't fallen in love with examples (and he's not the only one, but today I honor him) of people believing that love can conquer all...well, I would have lost my Pollyanna edge.

I'm not going to be able to do justice to why John Lennon amazes me. Mainly because he continues to do so. Now don't get me wrong, I'm not pretending the man was a saint. Lennon was a very flawed human being, and there are many aspects of Lennon that irritate, and baffle me. But the sum of his parts is a beautiful thing.

We are all so very fallible, aren't we? In life we will stumble, collapse and rake others through the coals. We will use our words as weapons, create justification in the face of accountability and ignore our inner truth.

But at the end of the day, as long as we keep trying, I firmly believe that there is nothing you can do that can't be done. There is nothing you dream that can't become.

Thank you, John Lennon - for all your many faces, and words.

Today's word is: callipygian 

The Inmates Are Overtaking The Asylum

Whenever I'm immersed in a story, I feel like the characters are pushing me out of my head and snuggling down into the Paige-shaped hole I've mentally left behind. When writing, this feeling is...intense. It's uncomfortable and a little scary. Control unravels and the story, characters and their universe takes over. I tend to quickly kick them out, run away, and recite the alphabet - or do something else wholly silly - to remind me I am me. The vortex is just a vortex, and it's all fun and games. Really. 

I don't think this is a singular reality - present only in my world. I think when you believe in what you are writing, creating, stroking to life (in a pen way - not a pervy one), you lose yourself to your art. You're not a slave to it, but a voyeur of it.

It's like watching the movie in your mind, as your fingers turn into whirling written projectors. But I get itchy in my own skin daily, and so I get very uncomfortable when I'm more at home wearing my characters. I know that sounds a little, "it rubs the lotion on its skin or else it gets the hose again," but I don't mean it in a mental way. Perhaps it's because I'm not judging them. I just let them be who they are and allow their story to play out. I know it will come together as it should, and the end result will rock my world. In my stories, or reading others, it always does.

I trust the written world more than my own. But that's something I'm not unaccepting of. It's like a dangling preposition. The rule book may say that it's a no-no, but aren't some rules meant to be bended?

Today's word is: illogicality

Today's Drug: Expectations

Hello. My name is Paige, and I'm an expectations-aholic.


I admit it. I struggle with placing expectations on people, places, vegetables, ideas and every thing in between. I would say, "I can't help it, it's not my fault," but that'd smell an awful lot like manure. I know that I choose to hype up whatever I'm buying into, whether it's buying a new gadget or pair of shoes. The gadget will bring me knowledge, great, heaping vats of it. The shoes, well, they will transform my southern hemisphere - creating a Keira Knightly leggy illusion.


I know why I do this. It's because I want, so very badly, to believe that it just takes one thing to change my life for the better.


Take this blog. I still have trouble considering myself a blogger. I have challenged myself to write daily, in order to become more of a sharing participant in life. But I think of this as my open-journal. Because I have expectations of blogs. I think they should fall into categories and do things. But this, well, this is just for me - and you - and I don't have any promises to offer, or expectations to live up to here. I can't.


The lack of expectations here, and the idea of applying this to other aspects of my life...feels so damn freeing. Like I'm using a foghorn to declare: I am me. I over think, over expect and (probably) under provide. But I'm taking being me one day at a time. And when all else fails - in living, writing, researching, and seeing - I promise to pucker up and K.I.S.S.


Keep
It
Simple
Stupid


Today's word is: causal

Fixing A Whole

If you've ever finished the first draft of a manuscript, you know that there are inevitable holes in your masterpiece when you come to the end. It's impossible to be outside of your head when you write. At least, in my opinion, if you're doing it correctly. You have to immerse. Totally lose yourself in the world you're shaping, birthing and creating.


You have to trust yourself, implicitly. You have to give control up, let go of the need to perfect and just write the fucking thing. Once you've emptied yourself, drained every fiber of written being, you will have arrived at the end of the page. This isn't the ending. It's just another beginning. 


The path to becoming a writer is full of either a hell of a lot of bumps, rejections, and finitos - or it's full of new challenges, beginnings and crests. It's like diving into the ocean, off the back of a boat in the middle of uncharted waters (at least by you), without a spear, underwater pepper spray or life jacket strapped on. There are unknown creatures, unexplored and uncharted realities that you haven't even begun to fathom. It's either certain death, or a great adventure -depending on how you have your mind set.


And the journey itself is full of holes. Places where you wish you could fill in and change the result, or vary it. But you can't, and you must keep on believing and letting go. You will get to where you're meant to be at some point. With a little faith, an insane amount of hard work and dedication to the craft, you will find yourself at the corner of Opportunity and Disillusionment. You simply have to remember to hang a left, dance while you believe and write, write, write. 


As for the finished first draft of a manuscript, it's got to have the holes. Otherwise you won't be encouraged to improve. Revise, rewrite, edit and bang your head into the door won't exist in your world. Without those demonic, exhausting  tools, and the experience of using them, the whole ride will end up being boring and nondescript. And then what will you have left to write about?


Today's word is: zeugma 

By The Power Of Grayskull

Power is a funny word. Not funny ha-ha, in a comical way, but puzzling. It doesn't give me the giggles like scuttlebutt, callipygianor or houp-doup, but it's quirky in its etymology. I mean, the term means "to be able." But I think when most of us think of power, it's in a granted matter - not an able one.

We all have the power to be better - better friends, better family members, better students, better teachers, better whos for whoevers. But we often forget to use our power to be better to ourselves. I think its easy to buy into self lacking, and feeling like we're not good enough. When this happens, it's almost second nature to think that we don't deserve good things - that the universe doesn't want to blossom open for us.

I was reminded today that power is an ability. Just an ability, no more or less. How we apply it is what matters. Yoda, and all his infinite wisdom, taught me that there is no try, only do or do not. I do believe that knowledge is power, and I believe that it will grant me answers in certain categories of my life, but I can't know all things.

There are simply too many rings inside of this trunk to decipher, and I'm pretty certain that's the point. Because maybe it's not the answers that matter quite so much. Perhaps the journey to them is where the true gain lies. The unexpected learning, the surprises that I'm not seeking - those are often more rewarding.

I am going to continue my quest for knowledge, because my thirst is near unquenchable. But I'm also going to work on accepting that it's okay not to have all the answers, and words. Because when they unexpectedly tumble into my lap, well, the fruit tastes just as sweet.

Today's word is: dendrochronology.

Baby You Can Drive My Car

My fortune cookie today advised me to do something daring. Since I don't want the Universe to falter, back flip and smack me in the ass, I'm going to follow this sage cookie's instruction. What I am about to tell you, while not a secret, isn't something I shout from the rooftops. It's quite silly, really. 

Well. Here it is: I don't drive. At least, not anymore.


It's not that I'm anti-driving. I mean, I don't wear a helmet and padded uniform while riding in cars (although the thought has crossed my mind). But if you ever want to meet me, it will have to be somewhere that my huffy can carry me. Or to where my feet can take me.

I suppose it's one of those things where you're either on the bus, or you're off the bus - and I exited two stops ago. Someday I may drive again. When I find that the panic has subsided and the statistics are no longer batting me upside the head, I'll get back behind the wheel. When it's fun again - being able to travel from point A to point B. But for now, I'm trying very (very, very) hard to accept this *flaw* and take myself as I am.


There it is. I'm waving my freak flag, hoping you're not slowly backing away from the computer screen, thinking, "damn this girl is special." But if you are, that's okay, too. I've been many things, and special is as special does. Besides it could be worse, I could have given up showering.

Today's word is: legerdemain. 

I Am Not An Ism (ism, ism, ism)

Life is full of isms. What is an ism, you ask? An ism is a philosophical, political or moral doctrine - or a belief system. The this-ism, that-isms of why I am me, you are you and we are we. Tact an -ism to the end of a word and wha-la; it's doctrinified to the third degree of bullshit. Or truth. Sometimes they blur together into a rounded, squishy play-doh-like factoid.

I'm writing this blog because I'm ism-ed out. I can't fit into a box, not that I'm pretending I ever could, and while I know which path I'm traveling down, I've lost my sensory perception. The roses I'm painting red aren't being admired, the puddles I'm kicking up aren't soaking my trousers. I'm not even sure if I looked down to see if I was wearing any. I'm just moving. Forward. Slowly, without seizing my joy.

Life is meant to be lived (thank you, Mrs. Obvious).

But it is. Experiences, especially the ones that freak us out, are part of what allow us to stretch out our matter, to expand our being and grooooooooooooooooow. It can be frightening tackling a new adventure. Some days getting behind the wheel of the car and reversing it is a scary exploration for me. But what I'm clueing into (gradually) is that each terrifying new task we take on, if done for ourself and not agin' ourself, will lead to at least one extremely gratifying reward.

Writing to you, well it's kinda weird. Who are you? Are you real? Am I really just writing to a random page in cyber space like I think I am? In the end, it doesn't matter. Because I'm writing for myself. I'm sharing me. And that is the most mind-boggling experience I can have. At least right now.

So no more isms. But maybe I'll tune in for a little bit of you-ing...if you're out there.

Today's word is: interactionism. 

Why Is A Raven Like A Writing Desk

Charles Lutwidge Dodgson posed this cheeky, asinine question through his maddest mouthpiece. Why is a raven like a writing desk? Me, I'm puzzled as to why he chose why. Shouldn't it be how? How is a raven like a writing desk? Why and how ask for two different explanations, and sometimes neither add up.

Why is everything not going the way it should? How come life is kicking me in my ass? Why is my ass now feeling saggy? How the hell did that happen?!? Why aren't happy, drunken leprechauns banging down my door to hand me mountains of gold? How am I going to make all these dreams that I stuff inside the spinning wheels of my mind come true? Why am I so bloody ambitious, and stubborn?

Ravens are the largest of the songbirds, excellent fliers and (in general) acrobats of the sky. So how is a bird of flight like a solid, wooded instrument of creation? I like to think it's because they both are more than they seem. That both get glanced over and discarded, because the beholder doesn't get it...yet. Ravens get mistaken for Crows, and writing desks can be misrepresented as nooks - tossed aside stopping stations used only to pay the bills.

Why are you the way you are? Are you a Raven? Did I mistake you as a Scarecrow humping Crow? Are you more than meets the eye? Well of course you are.

Something else important to note: Ravens have an undeniable voice. They have over 30 vocal calls, and while I'm sure not all of them sound like magic dropped inside a wishing well, then reborn into the sirens call - they are unique and extraordinary. It just takes the right melody harmonizing them before the rest of the world hears and begins singing out.

As for my dear friend, Charles Lutwidge Dodgson, well he's still my most favorite, celebrated (and today's word is:) cockalorum that ever put pen to page.