Why Do You Write?

What am I working on?

I’m wrapping up (HA ha…sigh) a novel right now. I started it on Nov 3rd during NaNoWriMo. I didn’t write 50,000 words in 30 days. I wrote +75,000.
I’m not bragging. It completely got away from me. It was like being dragged backwards through a hedge by a Great Dane.

I didn’t have it planned out at all.

A summary. “A successful woman writing a torchy historical romance trilogy grows to hate her characters and kills them in the final book. Not everyone is happy with that decision.”

Now the blissful early days of me saying ‘Ooh, a writing contest. That sounds like fun…’ are behind me. And I’m paying for it. Turns out I know how to use the language but I don’t know how to write. There’s something, there must be something, that makes this easier to keep track of, right?

I have to get the ending right. I’ve gotten everyone just where I want them. (It’s like herding cats) The denouement is at hand! But…but…wait a sec. I have another idea. I’d have to re-write whole chapters, sure I would, and introduce another character and it could use some editing, of course. But it could be done! It WILL be done.

Right now, I could end it in 5 pages. Why don’t I just end it? I don’t know….

SO…I decided to put it aside to percolate. Right now I am working on a young adult novel on behalf of my tween niece who is fascinated with all things magical.

It’s very fun to write it but I am not making the same mistake twice. Oh no…not THIS time. I’m going to plot this thing. I’m going to have a list of characters and NO ONE is going to come wandering in and screw up my nice neat plot line. Unless…unless it’s a really great character. And the plot calls for some action. But only then…

How Does My Writing Differ?

This is an easy question for me.

My writing doesn’t differ.

There are a million other writers who struggle everyday to put what gives them joy into whatever language they speak best. Whether it’s a cookbook or a mystery novel or a blog, I’m not different. I struggle to find the sweet spot. I grapple with the intricacies of the english language and walk around swearing and staring out the window and drinking too much. Sometimes I pretend I have a cigarette. God, I miss smoking.

I’m not Tolstoy. I’m not Austen or Cather or Faulkner or Pynchon. I’m not Thomas Hardy or Henry Fielding or Salman Rushdie. No. Because I’m not destined for greatness. The hand of God (or whichever deity you prefer) has not reached down and touched me with genius.

My writing is sometimes about how much the same we are. I write about love, joy, heartache, fear, sickness and the mundanity of the day to day. The stultifying frustration of routine.

Those things, unfortunately, I know about.

So, like millions of other writers, I escape. I do just what I shouldn’t do. I write about what I don’t know. I don’t know what it’s like to experience magic first hand. Unless you’re talking about the guy doing card tricks on the Amtrak to Portland OR. I couldn’t tell you how to behave if you come upon a body in a locked room. Personally, I’d immediately feel as if I were guilty of something. If a tall, dark, handsome stranger gave me a penetrating stare, I’d look over my shoulder to see who was behind me.

So I pretend. I pretend there’s a special place somewhere here on Earth that magic happens.

And I’m there to see it unfold.

Why Do I Write What I Do?

I write what I do because…ha. I just sat there for 15 minutes staring out the window. It’s a good question.

ummm…it’s the only way I can experience magic.

The horrid, boring blender that life dishes out can be slightly mitigated when I write. I know that because other writers have taken me out of my scary, nasty, real cancer life and transported me places I’ve never imagined.

I want to DO THAT. I want to forget this day. I want to pretend I’m well, and young and beautiful.This isn’t MY life, this one with illness and poverty and exhaustion. Fuck it. I want to write the joke that makes you laugh out loud on the subway car. I want to dress beautifully and fall into the rooftop pool and be rescued by a millionaire.

I didn’t know I could write until I started this blog. And at the risk of sounding falsely modest, I can’t really really write. Not like my heroes. On the other hand, I got a bit of a late start. I didn’t try writing until I got sick. I know there ARE a few tricks I wouldn’t mind having up my sleeve. But in a nutshell?

I write to make magic real. To make love real. To make adventure real.

It’s a fantasy. But it’s real to me.

How Does My Writing Process Work?

If there is any method to this madness-or what authors and experienced writers call process- it has escaped me. I believe you need to know what you’re doing to have a process. If I had a process maybe I would be calmer, clearer, more able to look people in the eye without thinking ‘YOU look like the kind of person who squirts whipped cream in the ear of a total stranger.’

And I think that look worries some of those who don’t know me well.

I think of it as a Divine Lightening Bolt from somewhere out in the ether ( I picture this guy).

He occasionally reaches down and fries my circuits. I can’t think of anything but my characters. ‘How did they end up like this? How do I get her out of the raging, storm tossed ocean? Really, Laura?! Someone threw a rock? Seriously? Who fired that shot? Jesus! Everyone STOP IT!’ They fight and argue and quibble and refuse to DO WHAT I WANT! What kind of process is that? I used to think writers who said that were jerks. So, I’m a jerk.

My goal for the new year is to learn a process. It sounds like heaven. No more waking up at 3am and thinking ‘hmmm…if she ran through the woods in a southwesterly direction she’d end up at the cabins. She could HIDE there until….”
and so on.

Please God. Give me a process. And I’m not talking about my hair so don’t get any fancy ideas!

 

This interesting process was begun by the lovely Kate at MaisonBentley. She included in me in this Blog Hop and in return I would LOVE to hear what Nate over at Corvidae in the Fields has to say about his writing.

Since there must be two on this Blog Hop-and I can’t resist….I have to send this Andra Watkins way. She’s published a fantastic novel recently called ‘To Live Forever: An Afterlife Journey of Meriweather Lewis” and she walked 444 miles of the Natchez Trace by herself and is probably busy working on her new novel. But I would love to hear what Andra over at The Accidental Cootchie Mama has to say about her writing.

Little Miss Marker and the Troll

Little Miss Marker. That’s me.

It’s hard not to think about what’s going on inside me. It’s like being on a road and you know, you absolutely know, that there’s a monster, a troll, hiding somewhere. Crunching rocks, spitting, stupid mean, it’s my monster. I can walk slowly or recklessly fast. I can put on the flashlight or walk in the darkness. It doesn’t matter. There’s a monster on the road ahead.

From the Norwegian movie Trollhunter – see it if you can. It’s really good.

I like to think I’m getting better but the fact is that this is a chronic condition. It will never go away. I carry the marker. The fucked up strand of DNA that allowed the beast to incubate. It was the little marker that I lived with all my life. The sign. I lived in ignorance and bliss. Little Miss Marker was there. I didn’t know.

I can see her. Sometimes I picture her so I can destroy her. I can’t ignore the fact of this monster. I know now. She’ll never go away.

Today was so beautiful. The leaves are changing here in the Pacific Northwest. The sky is full of towers of clouds in every shade of soft gray and pale blue, with distant glimpses of white buried deep inside. Grey the colour of the ash of a hot fire. Ponderous moving pillars that tear apart stickily to show a sky that was a blue that isn’t cerulean, it isn’t deep, powder blue, or pink. It’s all that. Hail turned the road white this morning, pinging, then ripping and pounding and, finally, ticking ticking on the car. I drove out of it. It was like an invisible wall. Hail. Then nothing. A dry road ahead. I drove with my windows down, I like that. The feel of the rain and hail blowing into the car. The sound. The wind had picked up and I could feel it, smell it, blowing along the pavement. Sweeps of leaves, the trees were roaring. It sounded like the ocean. A red and gold and green ocean.

And I can’t help thinking that this will all be here next year. But maybe I won’t be. All the things I love will be here and all my past will disappear in a gulp. Some pictures left. Some stories that people tell even though it hurts to remember what happened.
A couple of times, every so often, people will raise a glass and say ‘Here’s to Laura. She was…’ Whatever they’ll say. It doesn’t matter to me. The only thing that matters is ‘was’. She was.

This morning I woke up and I was afraid. I drank tea and read some blogs and answered some emails and made an appointment with the acupuncturist…I stood leaning out my bedroom window, looking at the rain coming down, watching out for the big spider that is living in the corner of the frame. I don’t mind her. She’s just trying to survive. My cat, Mr. Jones, came and sat with me on the window ledge, watching the rain. He was purring. I like the way he smells. He smells like flowers. He doesn’t mind when I bury my face in his fur.

I decided to get out. Drive somewhere. I like driving. I put on Hank Williams and sang along with every track. I know every word to every song. All 24 of them. I went to the Goodwill and bought a sweater and a big plate. We don’t need big plates but I bought it because I liked the fish painted on it. It was only 5$. I went to Sears to pick up a pair of cheap waterproof boots I’d ordered online. They’re too tight but I took them anyway. I don’t know why. I stopped at the outlet grocery store and bought cheese and tin foil. Some organic coconut palm sugar, whatever that is.

Right now I’m sitting in a local dive called Helter Skelter. It’s got a picture of Charles Manson on the marquee and a nicely framed picture of him with the swastika carved into his forehead right inside the door. It’s next to a tattoo parlour. It looks scary but the logo was what made me stop the first time I saw it. I thought ‘They’ve gotta be kidding.’ The owner said the name and the Charles Manson logo keeps out the straight people. The un fun crowd who care about things like that. Ha. He’s right. This is a working class place. Its full of nice blue collar guys. I buy football squares here. Drink a beer with the regulars. Sit and write when I’m alone. Try not to think. Listen to the guys cussing and swearing and laughing about someone almost capsizing their boat last weekend, the problems with the fishing industry, the shipyard and whether it’s hiring, cooking for the kids. Nice, manageable problems. No monsters here.

Except Charlie.

I have to go home. I can’t sit here much longer. The ipad is losing juice and so am I. I like to think I’m going to stay here for a couple or three hours, drinking, talking, writing, but that’s not going to happen. I’m sick. I tire easily. My feet are on fire from neuropathy. I am tired. I have to fight even when I don’t want to. I want peace. Quiet. But I won’t stop fighting. The only thing I have is my rusty bent coat hanger. Like that girl in the movie. Like that post I wrote back when fighting this was easy. I’ve got to get away. Use whatever I can. Escape the monster and run away.

Screw all this. Being afraid of the CT scan, what the blood tests say, whether I’m doing everything I can. I don’t want to admit that even changing the sheets on my bed tires me out. Work is harder than I thought it was going to be. The whole year is shot. This time last year I was so sick. We were moving. It was a nightmare. At least I thought it was. I was wrong though. That wasn’t the nightmare…it was just gathering steam.

Fuck.

The Golden Eagle (I know JUST how that Fox feels)

Just when you think you’re going to be able to settle down after a tough stretch and enjoy yourself…

…something always seems to come up.

You can’t just sit back, though. Sometimes you have to fight for what’s yours.

Whether it’s dinner or life itself. You can’t just accept what happens.

Until it happens…

Then you have to know when to quit! Something I’m not any better at than this fox.

And special thanks to the Montana hunter who took these shots with his cell phone. Dang nice work. Bet it was an iPhone.

Today I am going to tell you the story of MY encounter with a golden eagle.

I was new to The Valley, as it’s known among the locals, but I wasn’t really a local yet. I’d come there a short few months before and I was learning new things everyday. Like riding ATV’s. Loved them! They went places a dirt bike could only dream of going. If you wanted to carry cold beer, and I did.

I went out every chance I could and this one sunny day Kevin took me and a pair of exuberant 14 yr olds, Emily and her cousin, out for a ride.

We were WAY up there, on a shelf of the mountain. Kevin and I had brought along an impromptu picnic, consisting of Slim Jims, BBQ Fritos, Pepsi and 6 pack of cold beer. I opted for the beer. Naturally, after drinking the beer, I had to go take a whiz.

Well, it just so happened that we had stopped on the lee side of a cut bank looking down into a beautiful forested valley. Pristine. But steep. No where to go pee in private.

The other side, when I climbed up the bank, was STUNNING! Really. It was the prettiest thing I’d ever seen. An old clear cut from 100 years ago had turned into a meadow of wildflowers and tall green grass. It swept down to a drop off leaving a view of the Columbia River and the entire Purcell Range that enclosed The Valley to the west. And best of all? There was an old fallen tree. It had been blown over and was lying there just waiting for me. Perfect. It’s hard to find that perfect spot to pee. Believe me.

It had only been a week or so since I had been chased out of a bush while not enjoying a pee. I was still nervous back then. To me the Rocky Mtns were inhabited by man eating bears and starving desperate cougars and wolves and…and..you name it! It was going to get me if I wasn’t careful. So I was hyper vigilant. That explains why, when I heard a loud rustling noise right behind me, I panicked. I hit the ground running, with my pants around my ankles practically, thinking (and, unfortunately, shouting) there’s a bear in there. The guys were startled as hell and there was a scramble for bear spray and getting the wives and girlfriends on the machines, and some spreading out and soft talking and swearing by Al that he wouldn’t come out without the danged side arm again. This was the last time Donna, gosh darned it. So everyone was preparing to evacuate that particular area post haste, when out of the bush strolled a grouse. One bitty little grouse.

Gosh darned it.

It was ALL over the valley by the end of the week. Everyone thought it was the funniest thing they’d ever heard and when I heard Al and Donna tell it in company, I cracked up too. Dang it all.

But still it made me wary.

Now, I wasn’t exactly an amateur when it came to peeing outside. I was pretty handy at it. Fast and neat. I even had tp. But who likes crouching, right? Here was this wonderful tree to lean against and the VIEW was to die for and, best of all? No WAY anything could sneak up on me. A 100% 360′ view all around me for 100 yards. And nice and private. I could hear them talking and laughing down on the road behind me. I was by myself. Perfect. I was going to have the best pee EVER!

So I dropped my drawers and leaned against the tree next to the upended root ball. It was all old and dry and spikey but it was bigger at that end. I wouldn’t have to crouch down too much.

I begin. I hear a sound. It sounds like steam. Steam? hmmm…I look down. No steam. It’s not me making that noise. It’s getting louder. I’m getting concerned, where the hell was that noise coming from? It was a hissing now. Not like a snake hiss. I mean LOUD.

I glance over to my right and theres the BIGGEST FUCKIN EAGLE I’VE EVER SEEN. HISSING AT ME! Sitting on the root boll and the beak was about a foot from my gaping face! A GIANT yellow and pink POINTY gaping MAW! I wasn’t imagining that shit THIS time. Caveman brain took over.

I ran. Of course I ran. Unfortunately I didn’t pull up my pants so I didn’t get far. I tipped over immediately. Then I began an army crawl that would have made any drill sergeant proud. I think at some point I managed to pull my pants up but, between waving a streamer of toilet paper at the eagle, trying to recover some breathe to actually scream my lungs out, the undies were a problem…jeez. I peed on my pants. NOW wait. I didn’t PEE my pants. I peed ON my pants. There’s a big difference.

I rolled over and looked and that golden eagle was just taking off. It must have been sitting there the whole time I was planning my pee. Didn’t move. And it didn’t move while I fell over. Or when I crawled away whimpering with my toilet paper. It had been just sitting there watching my humiliation.  You know they aren’t like bald eagles. That white head and all. You can SEE those suckers. Golden eagles are the exact same color as an old fallen tree root boll.  Take my word for it.

And it gave me a look. It really did. It looked disdainful. I know all eagles look sort of disdainful but this one? He meant it. He swooped down the meadow and made a slow sweeping turn to come back and give me another look. He really did. He flew right over my head,  about 6 feet up. We looked at each, other eye to eye, and he had written me off. I was beneath his notice. I didn’t count. I could have been dinner but I peed on myself and that’s just gross. I felt small.

Jerk. Eagles are jerks.

Then I heard my fellow travelers ‘Oooh look! Look at the eagle! LAURA. did you see the eagle?!’

Yeah. I saw it.

But no one heard that story for years.

“Yesterday is history, tomorrow is a mystery, but today is a gift. That’s why we call it the present.” ― A.A. Milne, Winnie-the-Pooh

Why does kindness make you cry? Why do I cry when I should laugh and smile?

It was one of those days. We all have them. Just one little thing after another, building up, until you just want to scream. Little things.

The mop head broke off. The top to my coffee pot is missing. I decided to make tea and the tea bag broke in the pot so I got a mouthful of leaves. I tipped a container of garlic, chopped garlic, a big container, over. Yes. Right in the fridge. Why wasn’t the lid properly screwed on? Because I was probably in a hurry last time I used it. So I had to take everything out and clean the fridge. It still smells of garlic. I locked Otis out of the house by accident, I didn’t know he’d followed me outside when I went to unlock the henhouse this morning. There was poor Otis, in a total downpour, raining buckets, thunder in one continual loop, booming overhead, and Otis was outside the whole time. We don’t even have a roof overhang for him to shelter under. He was scared and soaked. Nice work, Laura!

Otis is very sad and I did it.

(this picture was taken right after he had a bath and climbed on my bed a couple of months ago. I did not take it today while he was so scared. I’m a terrible person, but not THAT terrible.)

I dried him off, he was shaking with fear and kept his eyes locked on mine as if to say “Why? Why did you do that? Did I do something wrong?” I felt like a terrible terrible person. I went to let him lie on the bed in the guest room-normally a no no for the dogs-and ran into a huge spider web! Seriously? A spider web. In the house. From door jamb to door jamb. Face level.

How long has it been since I was in the guest room? Too long, I guess. But the million dollar question?

Where the hell was the spider? Was it ON me? OMG…WTF…IT WAS ON ME! “AAIIEEE!!! There’s a spider on my head, I know there is, its crawling on my bald head…it was there a second ago! Now where is it?! There’s a spider on me…”..jump in the shower, turn on the water, get my clothes off ( in that order) I’m certain there is a giant spider on me. There wasn’t. At least I don’t think there was. I think it was an empty web. I hope it was. I’m not afraid of spiders. Seriously. I pick them up and put them outside when I see them, but today? I freaked OUT!

And then I remember Otis. Poor little Otis who can’t see very well. Who I just finished drying off. He thinks I’m mad at him, while I’m screaming and running around like a maniac trying to find the spider. He is now trying to cram himself under the dining room chairs. One after another. He tries the sofa. Doesn’t fit. Tries the chairs again. Laundry room? Can’t hide there. I’m now chasing him all over the house apologizing to him, pleading with him to stop. He keeps running away from me. Lovely. I finally corner him and DRAG him to the guest room. HAUL him onto the bed. He doesn’t want to have anything to do with me. He hides in my closet. I let him be. I’m a terrible person. Just terrible.

Then I hear the doorbell. I was in the kind of mood where I just had to ask “What now?”.

It was a package from Mr. Sugarbear. From a sweet little family somewhere in North Carolina. They sent me dog toys and lip gloss and a lovely scarf. Chocolates and lollipops and a card with some cash.

The card enclosed said ‘Sometimes we all need a care package.’

Today, I needed one. And out of the blue, somehow, Mr. Sugarbear timed it perfectly. It really makes you believe in a Higher Power. But it was the pictures, drawn by her own family, that really got me. Of all 3 of my dogs and me. Even Haida. I just started bawling. It was exactly what I needed.

But to ask again…why do I cry? I just sat there looking at everything spilling out of that box and I cried. I couldn’t help myself. It was so incredibly kind and thoughtful.
I pulled myself together. Gave Otis a blanket so he’d be more comfortable lying on all my shoes, and took off. Wearing my new scarf. Feeling like a brand new person, even with tears in my eyes. I went and bought a new mop. Now I’m sitting Bainbridge Island Bakery, having a biscuit with honey and butter and coffee. It’s stopped raining for the time being. In fact it’s a really beautiful, cloudy day.

It’s a wonderful day!

And I had to ask myself…why do you cry when you’re so happy?

Back in the beginning…

Thank you Mr. Sugarbear and family!

My Insane Days, Months, Years…I’m ready to get off the crazy train.

Have you ever wondered what causes mental illness?

I had a niece who I loved more than my life. She was the only thing that mattered to me. Seeing her from the day she was born and watching her grow up was a matter of pride and joy. Her first day of school, learning to swim, buying her first pair of real shoes, I was so happy. But she was remarkable. As she grew older I began to see her turning out to be someone worthy of the eyes of the entire world. I was so certain. Certain that she was someone who would change the world. She was so smart, reading well above her level, thinking clearly, reasoning, arguing her points, listening. She was an artist and a writer. She had ambition and drive. I loved her so much.

Haven’t you felt that? You look at a child and you feel you could fly to the moon and back for her.

Positive. Absolutely positive she would always love me. The sun revolves around the earth, that’s when her love for me would change.

Then one day, it felt like just one day, she turned into a drug addled loser. You’d think she had a 5th grade education, the way she put her reasoning together. Spouting nonsense, pointing her finger at me, at her Mom, and screaming that I was her ruin. Her Mom was the cause of all her failure. This family, the gov’t, her school….everyone but herself. She took off one day, hitch hiking with some homeless guy. To me it was agony. Not knowing if she was safe. Warm. Fed. Dry.

I made attempts to help her, including driving down to pick her up in a marathon 1000 mile turn around trip one January, when she claimed some drug dealer was going to kill her.

I sent money, clothes, camping equipment, once I put her up in a hotel room using my credit card and a lot of persuading because the hotel clerk didn’t want to rent her a room. But she was homeless and she had the flu.

Time after time, she’d use this family, her friendships to screw us all over. We were part of the system. The gov’t was praying chemicals from airplanes to keep everyone from sedated…seriously. She started getting weirder. And even more hostile and entitled.

Mental illness.

It was just a whisper. Surely she would pass out of this ‘phase’. But how can you tell? How do you know it’s mental illness? Without a diagnosis, without help, all you can do is watch in horror as the child you loved turns into a monster. That’s what she’s become.

She came back in July and brought a guy here with her. She also brought us this old dog. Bella. I think enough of you know her sad story. I won’t go into it again. Bella is fine, well, getting better, thanks to a lot of you helping me here when I had the GoFundMe site up. I asked for help, not only for me, but for my struggling family and for this dog. She had dermatitis, tapeworm, impacted toenails, a broken tooth, matted fur and the sweetest smile you’ve ever seen. So, we got her to the vet. Got her medication for her skin, and all her other ills. Got her toes fixed up and she is getting her tooth fixed when she is a little healthier and able to handle dental work and can be put under anathesia.

This person she brought seemed very nice. Unlike the previous mentally ill homeless men she picked up somewhere and brought home for visits that lasted months, this guy, by comparison was an improvement. Scruffy, untidy, with a sad sad story of his mom doing meth all through his childhood. It was a terrible story but not his fault. I thought my niece had found a nice guy. Not rich, not smart, not working…in fact he said they were living in a shed on his mothers property, but he had a good heart. I thought.

She still wouldn’t talk to me. I was in the middle of treatment and sick as hell. She would leave a room if I came into it. Not a moment of sympathy, concern or one expression of love or compassion. Just hard looks and scorn.

And I wondered. Was it mental illness? Just because she turned against me doesn’t mean she’s sick. For whatever reason she has in her head, I’m the enemy.
She isn’t a kid anymore. She’s in her 20’s. so I have to respect that she has a right to make decisions about who she wants in her life. No matter how it feels to me. Besides, I really felt horrid. I was fighting a killer cancer, I’d just lost my kittens and then my dog. I was at my lowest point in my entire life. I couldn’t, really couldn’t care much if she liked me or not. It’s been going on for years now, this strange hatred she has for me and this family.

It still breaks my heart, what’s left of it to break.

However, now we come to the crux of the matter. They left under bad circumstances as usual. She could never just say goodbye. There has to be a big dramatic screaming match. My poor sister, it’s worse, obviously, for her. This is her child. The apple of her eye. Her darling girl. Off she went down the road, leaving us Bella and a lot of heartache. Again.

Now this loser she is dating has gone onto the page I posted, the GoFundMe page, and claimed that Bella was his dog from childhood. He even posted pictures of him and Bella together. It turns out the whole story of Bella being found by them at a Medford rest stop was a pack of lies. Lies we believed. The fact is that this person didn’t want to take care of his dog. His ‘drug addled mother’, his very words, couldn’t take care of his dog anymore. So he claims that we agreed to take Bella and care for her. That we knew all along she was his dog. We would have taken her,too. Even if he told the truth we would have offered her a home. He didn’t have to lie about her story.

We love dogs and we understand that they deserve a peaceful, loving home to grow old in. We would have taken her happily! Instead, they felt they needed to tell an elaborate lie to explain the terrible condition of Bella. To save their self image as good people, who care about animals. To bring a dog in her condition was confirmation to me that these two jerks LET her suffer. They let Bella reach that condition and came up north to sell their weed and thought ‘Why not take Bella and leave this old girl with your Mom and your Aunt? What a good joke. They’ll have to pay for everything and we can take our 1000’s of dollars and leave them with the vet bills! What a great, hilarious idea!’

So, mentally ill? I don’t care anymore. Both of them posted to that page, which posted to both Facebook and Twitter, comments that I knew Bella’s story all along and was using Bella to garner sympathy. A lot of my friends saw those comments.
My extended family saw them. Maybe some of you saw them. It’s devastating.

It’s so incredibly malicious. GoFundMe is a reputable and wonderful site. They contacted me and made veiled threats about using their site to raise money under false pretenses. Threats that there would be repercussions. Good lord! I spent my first afternoon back from my first vacation in 5 years trying to do damage control. I need to prove I’m sick? That Bella is sick? That we have vet bills? That I have ovarian cancer?

So I did that and they tried to encourage me to leave the site up, that one bad apple shouldn’t ruin it. They removed his comment from their site and, at my request, disabled my page. I have enough for bills. I paid the rent. I did my dream vacation to San Francisco. I’m going back to work in October. I’m going to be alright. So is Bella.

This is long…it’s late. Almost dawn and I haven’t slept yet but I suppose that this is exactly why I started writing here. It’s cathartic and necessary to get out from under my cares and worries. Share my sad stories and sometimes my happy news.

Write it out, get it out of your head. Sometimes, maybe get it out of your life.

My Love is Killing Me

‘The Water Lilies’
Monet

I just wanted to see the sights. Just wanted to do something. Just something normal.

Walk around. See a city. Plan my day.

With me there is, I admit, a certain desperation when I do this.
A conscious tenacity. A refusal to admit it might be too much. That I pushed too hard today. But I HAD to.

I can’t help it. I have to see it. I know San Francisco isn’t going anywhere and neither am I…but…I have to see it. It’s my favorite city in the world. I grew up in California. We came here for crazy weekends in my 20’s. I lived here in 1967-The Summer of Love, baby! I learned to throw a frisbee in Golden Gate Park, I can’t tell you how much I love this city.

If you’d seen what I had laid out in front of me. What a delicious fantastic brilliant choice. The America’s Cup is still on. I could sit and listen to the drum circle at Hippie Hill in Golden Gate Park. The San Francisco Botanical Gardens, The Musee Mechanique. The Ansel Adams Museum. I could go to Little Italy, Japan Town, the Tenderloin, Castro, Mission, Drive the Golden Gate, visit Napa and Sonoma, head south to Monterey…do so much, if only I had the stamina. If I could do it…I couldn’t. I just can’t do it. So I picked the ONE thing I love the best.

I went to The Legion of Honor

13th century all the way to modern art.

Picasso

Modigliani

El Greco

Bouguereau’s ‘The Broken Pitcher’

The suicide of Lucretia

Which is so beautiful that I had to serch out a photo on line to do it justice…

Joos Von Cleve ‘The Suicide of Lucretia’

Bugatti ‘s ‘Baboon’

I just couldn’t tell you, I can’t show you…you have to see it.

Obviously I couldn’t photograph any of my favorites properly. The colours GLOW! Centuries pass and they still reach out and grab your eyes.

I’m all worn out and PISSED OFF! Why did I take my one vacation in years and years when I am still so messed up? Why didn’t I wait? Why didn’t I wait until I could really see my lovely beautiful San Francisco?

Why? Because its what you do when you’re in love. You rush off half cocked and eager. Just to show your love. San Francisco…you’re killing me, baby.

But I STILL love you!

Sometimes I Think I Am the Cliff

I forgot my cane.

Don’t you hate it when you get somewhere and you realize you’ve forgotten something. I think, in my head, I thought I wouldn’t need it. Really, it’s a positive thing.

It’s hard to walk without it. I feel as if I might tip over. It’s more for balance than anything. So here I am in downtown Orinda sitting under a very lovely tree but sort of, kind of, unable to walk around.

This is a nice town, Orinda. I’m on a real live vacation. Even if I just sit a lot. But sitting? It’s not something I’m given to. The hardest part of my sickness has been being locked into a position of weakness. Mobility is strength and sitting is so anticlimactic. I can only observe.

So here I sit and wonder. Who am I? What a question to ask, so late in life. It’s something I’ve asked more often since…well, that day. January 11th.

I sometimes think that I am what I observe. ‘I observe myself observing what I observe.’ Nothing more. Is it so bad?

Sometimes I think I am like a rock that has chipped off of the cliff wall that is my mother. A scattered fragment, that’s what we all are, her sons and daughters.

So I sit here, lame, broken pieces badly put together. Not enough glue or not the right kind. Pieces of me, sitting there waiting to be put back in the correct spot. The correct way. Observing my failures, my triumphs. Some days it feels right and other days…I am just a piece of something that has more meaning than I can see. At least right now.

I’m like a deadly progression that has become more of a parade. More or less. So I sit here under this tree with my aching feet and my clinging to a cliff face balance, trying to fit myself back in. Join the parade. Stop the deadly progression. Wave a flag, but not that kind of flag. The kind that’s red. Not the kind that signals danger. No, my flag is just a flag. It says ‘I’m here. Come back, don’t leave me. Wait for me. I’m coming, too.’

I’m like the bull. I don’t know why I charge. I don’t. I just do it. I’m charging at everything that scares me. Even if its a leaf, a cloud, the moon…things that shouldn’t scare me. But I don’t want to miss them. If I go, will I miss them? Will I know? When will the fear stop? When will I know? It’s okay to sit. It’s not my last summer. It’s not my last anything.

That’s what I say to myself.

I’m am the cliff face now. I am the cliff. I cannot be broken, not completely broken.

The Americas Cup!

I can’t believe I’m really here!

My brother drove me right to Pier 23 and dropped me off. I wanted to go by myself because I am very slow on my feet and I have to sit a lot. I didn’t want to have to think about anything but the race. Not about bathroom breaks or who is hungry or where we’ll stand…no. I’ve been surrounded my well wishers and loving family for months and this day I just wanted to be for me. Be Little Miss Independent again. It’s a big thing for me. My brother totally got it.

I went to have a Bloody Mary and sit a moment to savor the rush of the race going crowd.

It was just as I’d imagined. Huge ocean going private yachts.

People from all over the world, speaking 20 different languages.

The crowd gave the Italian supporters a big cheer when the flag went by.

The race was on! It gave me shivers to see them sweep past me and disappear into the fog. We all hoped the fog would burn off before the 1pm race but it didn’t. Still, it was light enough that they didn’t call the race off. We watched from the pier as they vanished into the mist. I had goose bumps!

The turn was almost under the Golden Gate Bridge, which was miles away, but no one left their places, it got quiet as we all stood there, waiting to see which boat came out of the fog and raced towards the next turn, way way out in the Bay. It was the New Zealand boat, the UAE, first by quite a large margin. It made the turn near Alcatraz and began to race towards the next turn. I was cheering as loud as the next person and I didn’t even have a favorite. Yet.

It was awe inspiring to watch them flash out of the fog (sorry about the poor pictures but it was hard to stand still long enough to take them!)

Here’s one of me, waiting to see who was going to appear for the final turn and the win. I was right in front of the buoy to mark the winner!

You can barely see them, but it was UAE in the front making the turn towards us! You should have heard the cheers from the Kiwi’s!

Here are the winners making their victory sail past the crowd!

It was great to see them so close under sail.

The Louis Vuitton yacht going out to greet the winners!

Both yachts after the race.

I was pretty tired out, just from standing so long. I didn’t hang out too long afterwards. Got to the BART station and back to my brothers house. I had a swim and we had a bbq.

What a great day!

The Americas Cup Race…I’m HERE!

This is my 100th post and coincidentally I am HERE! It feels great! I’m sitting at Pier 23 along with 6,000,000 other people. (Thats a gross exaggeration)I’m looking at the boats-which are huge! and I’m planning my next big move.

Oracle

This was my next BIG move….

But I simply have to brave the crowds to SEE the races. Wish me luck!

Being Kind to Strangers-Day 2

My brother didn’t recognize me.

A long time ago, what feels like a long time ago, last April, I said when my treatment was over I was going to come visit. He lives near San Francisco. He has a swimming pool and an extra guest room. So I waited until I was sure I had some strength and I got a ticket on a Virgin Airlines seat sale. $79 each way. I was so excited. My first vacation since 2005! My first plane trip since 2002.

It was time.

Boy did I hate it. I had to use a cane and a wheelchair to navigate the airport. I had to use a face mask and be pushed to my gate. The flight was delayed by just under 2 hours, it was packed at the gate and there were no seats. I wandered past a person with their belonging piled on a seat and they just ignored me. So I had to ask if I could sit there. The person just picked up all their things and left. That meant that me and myself alone could sit there because no one else wanted to sit by me.

I couldn’t lift my bag over my head and the lady on the phone said to just ask an attendant for help. When I asked if I could get help, the lady at the gate said she would check it and took it away from me. And I’d packed so carefully to accommodate the convenience of not having to check a bag. Darn it! Narrow seats were the least of it, so I decided day 2 of ‘Be Kind to Strangers Day’ was going to be dedicated to not being grumpy to strangers, too.

So I smiled my way through having to say good bye to Mom and Liza miles before the gate and kissed their worried faces, smiled through security checks and the shoe thing, smiled at the x-ray and the guns and crowds at gate B11 and smiled and smiled and smiled by myself sitting with a face mask and gloves and, finally, sunglasses so no one would see me crying.

I smiled at my book I wasn’t reading. I smiled at the man who put his seat back abruptly and smashed my knees. I smiled at the poor fellow next to me who looked like a professional fighter and was far far too big for his seat.

I got to the airport and found a wheelchair waiting for me (thank you Virgin Airlines) and I got wheeled to baggage claim. I collected my carryon bag and sat down to wait. And wait. For quite awhile I waited.

Then I saw my brother walk right by me. Looking. But he wasn’t looking for this person. Laura wasn’t sick. Laura had hair and wasn’t in a wheelchair with a face mask. He was looking for ME. For Laura.

I love my brother. He knew about my illness. He knew what to expect. But still, I’m so glad there is someone in this world that remembers me. Laura. Plain old Laura.
I love that he will walk through an airport looking for ME. The real ME!!! That’s who he was looking for.

And so am I.