Apropos of Nothing

My Last Post

A couple days ago I dropped in a piece of flash fiction I'd written a little bit ago. No intro, and for no real reason...or if there was one, it's lost somewhere that my uncaffeinated brain can't quite find right now. Almost all of my work is first person, so no it's not necessarily autobiographical. The pieces that are real are often so covered in my own perceptions that, while there is truth, there is also a layer of the paint of my perceptions. It's how most people tell stories, I believe...It's the truth as they felt it. What was a minor part of a story to me, may have been a very emotional moment for someone else, and his or her story will reflect that. It's a key to figuring out what's important to people. Just listen, rather than try to persuade them to your version of reality. Because their reality is a patchwork of past experiences that have made them aware of different aspects of life. My awareness is different than my husband's, in part because he's 6'3 with forearms around the size of my calf.

It can be as simple as the wind. For me at 115lbs, the wind is a factor. That's all there is to it. Yesterday's wind was a shoving wind, and as we left the zoo, it was work to get to the car. For him, it was just a windy day. We joked about it (we joke about a lot and that's one of the most awesome things about him), but I remember being 160 lbs and a wind like that would have been laughable to me. But I'm portable and I know it (that is its own post; being thin isn't everything it's cracked up to be. See also: my clothes say things like Hannah Montana).

This I Why I Don't Write In The Morning

Because I've been handed a sock, two shoes, and as I type, Lokisdottir is on her way to help. While we are watching some kid's show, I have thrown a new variable into the routine and must be liberated. She has her breakfast bar (Z Bars, while not advertised as GF have given us no trouble)and juice while I have coffee. We watch a show, then play with trains. Today we are waiting for CoyoteCurls to surface from her makeshift tent in the great room...she's practicing for a camp out next weekend. Yeah on Mother's Day weekend, thank you YMCA.

Lokisdottir seems to be distracted by her Awesome Disney Toy that my friend gave her. For now. So I get to write more, but it will most likely end up being a lot about how surprised I am that I have time to do this in the morning. Because the second I'm engaged in writing, there will be an emergency, I am sure.

Well, everyone have a good one. I'm gonna go put shoes on Minnie Mouse before I get a fat lip.

The River is Mine

I’m sitting here in the coffee shop, tucked away in a corner where no one can see me. It’s not my favorite place, but the rain drove me inside today. Turns out I needed it though. Some demons left behind. Some demons yet to find. This place isn’t mine and I like it that way.

I usually go to a park not far from here, down by the river. There’s a sunbathed rock that is perfect for sitting, my feet dangling. Hot pink toes swirling in the eddies. It’s a quiet place where the currents carry, the sun warms, and I am alone. That place is becoming mine. It’s my imprint I feel when I return. On the bank are my own footprints I find each day. That spot on the rock I wiped clean. There’s a place I put my drink and a place I put my notebook. I’ve told no one about this place. Certainly not him.

I’d go to the dam where the roiling water hushes everything. Where it’s always raining a muddy rainbow. But it’s not mine any more. Those were my footprints but they’ve washed away. I loved that place until him. It was raining that night. His silhouette in the lightening. It was my own doing, really…or rather my own undoing. There was a sandy boot print on my floor mat for days. Pointing directly at me. A specific print from a specific boot for a specific job. I knew the print. I knew the job. I couldn’t bring myself to wipe that print away. I didn’t want to forget. For a moment he claimed that space. That place. I went back to the dam the next day, walked all over where he stood to let my tennis shoes have the last word. I kicked at the prints his tires had left. Erased them with my shoe. I walked all over to reclaim every rock, hidden stream and trail. Up into the woods until it became someone’s back yard. I walked all over, my feet staking a claim. Kicked at all the footprints that weren’t mine. I went to the dam to say good bye. I loved that place until him.

This place is only mine for a moment. The moment I am here. This shining moment of private smiles and hide-and-seek blushes. Nothing happened in this place, no ghosts can claim it. But they will. The dam is lost to me. But the river is mine.

Creativity the Slow Way

Mindless Work and Blank Pages

I love mindless work. Lifting, shoveling, hauling, mowing. It gives me time and space to think, but enough distraction to not overthink. Usually that's when The Muse is around, chattering away about this and that. Helping me break thoughts apart into smaller, more manageable ones. I like my iPhone because I can take notes. And though I have voice to text, I usually type...and now that I think of it, I prefer my creative endeavors the slow way.

Originally I had intended to hire someone for bobcat work, figuring that getting the heavy lifting done in a few hours would save a lot of time. But looking back over the last 20 tons of gravel, and the big pile of dirt I moved by hand, it gave me time to gain confidence in my abilities. At first I was really nervous about getting the wall in the right place, making sure it was straight and level and not too deep nor shallow. But Once I dug part of the trench, I started to relax about that part. Then came the gravel bed. Same thing. Nervous at first, but relaxed. And finally the wall. I'd helped my husband with several, already, so I knew the drill. Level on all axes, and after a bit check the level with the 4ft level to see that I'm trending, set a string, to keep it straight. But this was me alone with the tools, and a Really Heavy Blocks...and dammit I was NOT going to ask for help. But I relaxed and it went great.

Next was filling the space behind the wall, and for most of this part, it's just been endless wheelbarrows of stone, which I placed deliberately, because I hadn't decided yet what the boundaries of the terrace were going to look like. So I got to spend some time playing with shape, size, and depth; I know there will be a fairy garden for the dottirs, but I hadn't made many more decisions beyond that. Had I done this the bobcat way, I'd have had no chance to play with these ideas. So I set the first stage of garden wall, and tomorrow will buy what I need for the second stage (it's a different kind of wall block, but these will be planters rather than gardens, so I needed a heavier duty wall material that locked together, much like the retaining wall. But lighter). As a result I'm happy. I didn't have to make the garden any particular size because it was dictated by gravel. I had time.

I don't know what it is about the process of typing that changes things. I suppose I can stop mid-sentence, think, delete, reroute. Get distracted and come back. Fix a sentence in the first paragraph (which I just did), and return to whatever thought I'm working on. Voice to text seems so linear to me. Like having a bobcat dump a bunch of words onto my page, that I have to sort and re-sort until I get it right. Typing is slow, but not too slow (hand writing is just delayed death). It lets me play with adjectives, or find ways to get around using adjectives (I believe in using adjectives responsibly, which means I end up being a fairly tight writer. Even this blogpost feels long to me, because I'm not really sure I"m saying anything at all).

And She's Gone

Working on the terrace has brought me great joy, however it leaves me nearly wordless at the end of the day. That makes me sad, because I'm not getting anywhere with my writing as a result; yes I'm spending precious time on this blog rather than my various projects, but actual creativity is a struggle at times like this. And at least I'm writing something. And I will get back to it. I find I miss my characters after a while.

Googly Moogly

It's Been A While

The terrace is coming along, and has been taking a lot out of me; I've finished the retaining wall (about 30 feet) and most of the gravel fill by hand. I deeply enjoy this kind of work, so don't feel too sorry for me. I am starting to feel my age, though and that kinda sucks. It takes a lot out of me, so by the time the kids go to bed, I'm right there with them. Some day I promise I will post pictures, but for now, it's chilly and rainy and I don't have any recent ones.

A couple people have asked where the kids are as I'm working, and it depends. Sometimes Lokisdottir is with me, playing with gravel, or trying her best at chaos. Sometimes she is napping. Sometimes AwesomeDad takes her places that are more interesting than a pile of gravel. CoyoteCurls is still in school, and when she's home, she is sometimes right there with me shoveling up gravel from the pile and putting it into the wheelbarrow. Sometimes she's off playing with fairies in the front yard. Sometimes she and her sister are inside playing. They are pretty awesome together. Which is good. For now. Until they understand how to harness their full chaotic potential. Then I'm screwed.

Since I Last Posted

Lokisdottir turned two, and we had a nice little get-together with hers and CoyoteCurls' oldest friends. Nice, relaxed afternoon, really. She loves the new toys, which have kept her quite busy today.

I wish I had the ability to pick presents like the other moms do. I'm a present-oaf. Completely. I try to be thoughtful and all that, but it never works and I end up buying Legos and then consider a sympathy card rather than a Happy Birthday card for the kids. "I'm sorry, I'm not very good at this," the cards would say. Or "I'm sorry your mom is friends with an oaf". I'm the same way with AwesomeDad, but he's been good about not being too annoyed.

And My Nose

I woke up around 1am because Lokisdottir (who wanted to snuggle some last night), dove onto me head first. Right into my nose. I sat up and waited for the trickle...sure enough. I could feel the stickiness of blood and see it in the faint light of the nightlight. Got myself cleaned up in the bathroom, and once the auto-tears stopped (they just happen. No crying necessary; this is my second time. The first time, well, was stupid), I climbed back into my own bed, far from diving toddlers. I'm not sure how the rest of the family slept through my drama, but they did.

And Chaos

They have discovered my distraction. I'll try to be better. Promise.

Walls

Giant Legos

I've spent the last couple days playing with 82lb Legos. 54 of them, to be a little more precise for the first step in a multi-step project. The current task is a 20 foot long retaining wall that will later be extended another 15-20 feet. Next step involves a bobcat and what remains of the ten tons of gravel in my driveway (I will likely need more because, well, I just will). Then sand. Lots of sand. After the bobcat, more trenching, more gravel, more leveling, more wall.

After all that wall, all that gravel, all that sand, comes pavers. Several pallets of pavers that will become a Really Big Terrace for my husband. For his birthday. And because the look on his face he gets when he sees another project that needs to get done breaks my heart. I enjoy this kind of stuff and it's not that he doesn't. He's just tired and the man has earned that tired. I want to be a part of "untired" for a little while.

My goal is to have it done for his birthday, and I have a lot of reasons for that, but mostly it's because I rock deadlines and pressure. I think I've annoyed him a little with how much time I sank into the wall itself because he's been front and center with the kids (he is a rock star kinda dad, and to me that's totally hot). Once I'm at the point of putting in the actual terrace floor, I can easily work any and all of the time--just can't quite manage Lokisdottir and a wheelbarrow full of Giant Heavy Legos. And in a couple days I've dug a 2x2.5x20ft trench, filled it to six inches with gravel, installed a five course retaining wall and he has been awesome with the kids.

Woman's Work

I'm not letting him work on the terrace. He offered. He tried and I got mad at him. I'm funny that way now and again. It started out mostly about making this thing for the man I love, adore, and respect, and it has become somewhat of a statement to my girls. Well, CoyoteCurls anyway because she's seven. Lokisdottir will be two here in a couple months so she likely won't remember any of this.

It has nothing to do with "You don't need a man," because that's not quite the message I want to send (I'll get to that another time). It's about "You can do this stuff on your own. You're not "just" a girl. Being a girl is not weakness. Being a girl is what YOU define it to be; your parameters and on your terms."

And it's ok to want or need a man. Or a woman. Because we are humans and we are gregarious, and despite it all we do need people. But it's far better to want than to need a particular someone.

Holy Cow I'm Tired

I was going to write more, but I'm nodding off and can only hope any of this makes sense in the morning. Sure I could put this in a word document and cut and paste and edit and so on. But this blog is just as much a story of me and me has a lot of faults and flaws.

And an extreme need for sleep.

Thoughts on Writing

Stream of Consciousness

Or rather, rapids.

Borrowing

I don't assume every writer does it, but I do. Not from anyone else, but from my own life. Moments. Thoughts. Memories. I take it, mold it, knead it, turn it into something just a little different--maybe even the same. I think about it for a while. Stir in some emotion if it's not already there, and I run with it. Sometimes it's falling in love. Sometimes it's killing something that hurts. The viscera is its existence somewhere in my world.

Sometimes I wonder what people read in to what I've written. If they see the skeleton memory over which I've stitched emotions, and the flash of a story. Context is everything. So I suppose that assumptions can be made if the reader has a shared experience. He or she sees the house in which we both lived, and the love we may have both felt...but I've turned him in to something new. Because that character is not that person with whom I shared that space. It's a character who needed a place to live, and air to breathe.

Is This Autobiographical?

I can see the question in the eyes of a reader, when it's someone I know. And that one that follows "Is that (him/her/me/it/that)?" Sometimes yes a little, but mostly no; because I don't have characters in my life, I have people. I know a character's motivations, histories, thoughts. People, not so much. Characters make more sense to me, and sometimes even help make sense of people. But never does one equal the other.

Sense and Nonsense

Most times it's just me, trying to make sense of nonsense and broken puzzles. Understand departures. Find to my own little piece of real estate in Oh-I-Get-It-istan. I may never really know why you (for simplicity's sake) left, but that you did in the most hurtful way you could, but here I stand with some mismatched pieces of pottery and a pile of sand that looked like gold only moments ago. Explanations fall short, and I only dig my hole deeper as I struggle to understand, explain, comprehend, defend.I may never know why you started talking in the first place. Or why I responded the way I did. That is all nonsense.

And so I write. It's not unlike a scientist with a bug; slicing, dissecting, examining. Figuring out why it can fly, or how it poops. But the "you" in my story isn't necessarily "you" at all, rather a patchwork of all the other bugs that made me.

Or maybe it always was just nonsense, and you read context where there was none at all. Because I live passionately. I love passionately. And I love passion more than anything.

Waterfall

And the little kayak plunged off that stream and into nighttime.

What's In a Name?

Coyote's Grace

I need to change Baldursdottir's name. She's still just as sweet, but I can't ignore or deny her inherent Coyoteness, so I think she's Coyotecurl (she has blond ringlets) from now on. I wanted to keep with the whole Norse thing, but my favorite Coyotecurl story takes place over two nights, and left me disconcerted.

Incident number 1: Driving home in the spring, windows closed, but it's fairly nice outside. Coyotegirl, around two, says "Coyote stinky!" We have discussion, her only response is to repeat "Coyote stinky!" Get to the house, open the windows a bit before bed because it's nice outside.

Coyote's serenade from everywhere in the near distance. Close but not overly so. I love this, but the whole "Coyote stinky" thing gave me pause. Not a lot. But the coincidence was weird.

Incident number 2, the next day: I am loading the dryer, minding my own business, lost in thought about a beach, or space, or a grass stain, when behind me there is a voice. A tiny voice. A horror movie voice. "Coyote's waking uuuuuup!" Coyotecurl says this three times and dashes off into the house, laughing at some joke of which I'm sure I"m the punchline. I go about my day, forgetting the incident.

That night, windows slightly open, the world erupts in the calls of coyotes. I can hear them rustling in the tall grass sixty feet from my window. I closed the window and hid under the covers

The Nordsman

That's the 6'4" blond guy with the searing blue eyes I married. My nephew always referred to "Aunt Kendra's Nordsman," so that's who he has become. I wouldn't exactly call him a trickster, but he does have mischief in his eye, and I remain on my toes. Which is good for me. And it's never dull. Ever.

So

It's a house full of tricksters for me. It's all good, because I do love coyotes. And Loki. And mischief. Keeps life interesting and stuff.