The Coolest Writing Analogy Ever

Since I fell in love last winter with The Night Circus, I’ve been keeping an eye on Erin Morgenstern’s blog. She’s the magician who wove the tale of lovers locked in mortal combat through their gifts, who are played as pawns in a greater competition between rivals posing as mentors.

It’s a gorgeous book. Read it.

Ms. Morgenstern’s blog is as whimsical and magical as her novel. She writes her life as if each moment is an air-brushed wonder no matter what occupies it – an enviable point of view to which I doubt, being a Virgo, I could adopt, myself. It’s just not my style. I can, however, appreciate the vision in others. Almost every Friday, she posts a ten-sentence story with a photo snapped by a friend (the collection is called Flax-Golden Tales). It’s worth checking out if you like fairy tales and mystical musings.

She also posts bits about her process, what she’s reading, where she’s going, how her current project is proceeding, etc. In truth I’m unsure which planet she’s from, but I’d certainly like to vacation there.

A couple of weeks ago, she posted a piece titled Writing Analogy in Cocktail Party Form (see it here) that is the best description I have ever read of how an author can work literary magic without either overwhelming her audience or casting them adrift. I didn’t get the metaphor while I was reading it, of course; I check her site more often from the office than home, and you know what side of my brain is in charge at work. Thank the gods that she said it out loud at the end of the post. It was brilliant, beautiful and curiously educational. I’ve filed it away as a guideline for my own future writing, bearing in mind my penchant for describing detail to the nth degree. (I think the “n” in nth must stand for nauseating.)

I know writers are supposed to write for themselves, and I generally do, but it’s hard not to write for your perceived audience as well. I suppose I could write my own analogy based on my radio days, when the best tip I got was to picture an audience of one when I switched on the microphone. After all, even a runaway bestseller is read by one person at a time, isn’t it?

One Acquainted With the Night

This isn't actually Julian. It's John Taylor ...
but he sure looks like Julian!

Evening is his favourite time of day, so it seems appropriate that he suggests meeting to talk over dinner. He calls at 5 p.m. to tell me that he’s running late, but will be by to pick me up as soon as he can get free.

When he finally arrives, 2 hours later, he does so in a white stretch limousine. The driver holds the door for me and I, felling a bit like Cinderella, accept the long slender hand which extends from within the shadowy interior of the car. He draws me in to sit beside him on the soft leather seat, the door closes with a muted thump, and the limo glides away from the curb.

He is decked out in the trappings of a rock star: black leather trousers and a matching bomber jacket over a loose-fitting crimson silk t-shirt, complete with silver-studded belts knotted at his lean hips, and a pair of Ray-Bans over his eyes in spite of the limo’s tinted windows. He compliments me on my appearance and expresses genuine regret at keeping me waiting while he finished up at the television studio. “We’ve missed our reservations, I’m afraid,” he adds, pulling a battered cardboard box from the far corner. I inspect the contents at his invitation: paté, French baguettes, Edam cheese, petit fours and a chilled bottle of champagne. “I hope you don’t mind,” he says in his soft voice, as classical baroque music begins to mingle with the warm spicy scent of Paco Rabanne. He removes his sunglasses and tosses them aside with a smile. “We’ll have more privacy this way.”

I look at him, wondering whether this is going to be an interview, or a seduction.

copyright 1988 Ruth R. Greig

* * *

This is an excerpt from the biography I wrote in 1988 about a fictional rock band called Jazz. Painful as it is to read, it is also my first recorded encounter with one who has become my best-beloved character – the truly eternal Julian Scott-Tyler.

Classically-trained, born to wealthy parents, alternately temperamental and casually offhand, he was passionate, opinionated, brooding, and wildly romantic. He was also the bass player. Listening to Jazz will never see the light of day, but it was the first big project I ever completed. I was also reading Anne Rice at the time, envying her lushly textural style, and one day lamented to Ter, “I wish I could write a vampire story like her.” To which Ter reasonably replied, “Why don’t you?”

Bwahahahaha! It had never occurred to me that I could, let alone would, write a vampire story. But the idea intrigued me and I immediately set about scouting for my immortal hero. I can’t say that Julian put up his hand – like most of his kind, he was conscripted – but, boy, did he rise to the challenge. I worked with him and his world for years, finally producing a series of short stories collectively titled Stolen Seasons in which he, if not narrating himself, figured prominently throughout the larger tale.

He is one of those characters who stay with you long after the story is over. Seasons is set in the 1880s, but the cool thing about Julian is that he has moved with the times. He fits in the modern world as well as he fit in the old one. This flexibility makes me hopeful that he will one day have more to say – and based on a story I wrote last Christmas, there`s a very good chance that he will. But not yet.

Not yet.

Until he decides to talk again, I remember him fondly on his original birthday (vampires have two – the first to mortal parents and the second to immortality), so to celebrate May 27, raise a glass of cabernet or tomato juice – or O-negative, if you`re that way inclined – and join me in a toast to the eternally incomparable Julian Scott-Tyler.

Happy 378^th birthday, handsome.

The Captains Kirk

There’s an ongoing debate among Star Trek fans as to who was the best captain of the USS Enterprise. My stand has never changed. Hands down, it’s James Tiberius Kirk.

Nowadays, there’s a second level debate raging: who makes the better Kirk? My stand on this one is a bit less definite. Like my position in the case of Connery vs. Craig as the better Bond, it depends. In the 1960s 23^rd century, William Shatner was perfect. He made Kirk smart, sexy and self-assured, laying solid groundwork for Chris Pine to take over some 40 years later.

In the 21^st century’s 23^rd century, Kirk has by necessity become street-smart and somewhat wild-eyed, prone to decimating Starfleet’s rules rather than bending them to his purpose. The elements of Shatner’s Kirk are present and respected, but this kid Pine has propelled our hero to courageously crazy heights. His Kirk is caught in an alternate reality brilliantly devised by Alex Kurtzman and Roberto Orci that has honoured the history of Trek while opening up a literal universe of possibilities for the captain and his crew. Tinkering with a cast of iconic characters could have been a disaster, but it’s proved to be genius. For me, it was Kirk who would make or break the reboot.

I was sold from the first moment in 2009. Yesterday, Ter and I saw Star Trek: Into Darkness. With no idea what to expect, I was blown away again. It all works so well, as well as or maybe better than the original series, but whether the vision is Gene Roddenberry’s or JJ Abrams’, it’s all about the Captain. (Sorry, Spock fans.)

So kudos to Chris Pine for doing proper homage to a character whom I have loved since I was a kid. His James Kirk is the perfect hero for our modern future, just as Shatner’s was perfect for it in the 60s.

Best of all, the rear view swagger is just as captivating now as it was then.

Better Than Air

Apparently, flanerie is not an option at the office. I cannot leave the building without a destination ... and what better destination is there than the best chocolate shop in Victoria? I can’t decide if it’s a blessing or a curse that Chocolat is located right downstairs, especially since I’ve lately discovered that my debilitating headaches are not triggered by cocoa but are in fact due to gluten sensitivity.

This is my third day back at work after a week of writing. It started out painlessly enough, but as the days creep by (and I mean creeeeeep; slow as molasses in January), my back starts to bug me and my brain starts leaking through my ears. Ter says it’s sick building syndrome and I believe her, but I’m a dolt about getting outside for air because it invariably costs me money. If not a five-dollar tea latte, it’ll be something equally frivolous and expensive, but at 11:00 this morning, I was literally falling asleep at my computer, soooo ...

A walk around the block brought me to the chocolate shop where I bought a Cerise – a cherry soaked in brandy and enrobed in dark chocolate. It’s sitting on my desk as I type, luring me in with its smooth cocoa scent and pink lustre finish. What’s really silly is that it very well may sit there until tomorrow. I didn’t need the chocolate. I just needed a place to go while taking an air break.

Maybe I’d get out more if air cost two-fifty a lung ...

Auto Biography (Part I)

“Julian’s Jaguar”

Yowowowoworrrr ...

I am a car fiend. If it’s fast, shiny, and powerful, I want it. Ergo, cars figure prominently in my writing unless it’s a historic piece, in which case one horse functions as capably as five hundred. After all, a single horse can also be fast, shiny and powerful.

Julian’s Jag is as important to his character as it is to me – if you’ve already met Julian, you’re probably as crazy in love with him as I am. If you haven’t met him, you’ll have a chance in his birthday blog next week. Suffice it to say that he appreciates a British classic as dearly as I do, though he has the cash to upgrade on a yearly basis. I, alas, can only dream.

Or write.

This moment is taken from a story I wrote last Christmas. He and I have been reunited after a long separation, and are leaving in his XK8 for an appointment with destiny ...

* * *

There’s no thump like the thump of a Jaguar door closing. It signals a retreat into luxurious solitude, where the only sounds in the cabin are the sounds permitted by the occupants. Julian starts the engine and five hundred thoroughbreds wake up beneath the hood, yet all I hear is a baritone rumble like thunder in distant mountains. So much power would shake the hubcaps off my Mustang. The Jaguar doesn’t even tremble. I do more than tremble when Julian leans toward me and his hair falls over my face. I gasp into it. “What are you doing?”

He sits back, drawing my seatbelt with him. “The clasp sticks a bit,” he says, snapping said clasp into place and snugging the belt across my hips. If he has to use extra force, I don’t see him do it.

“You mean this car isn’t perfect?”

“Nothing is, once you get to know it,” he replies with a smile.

My heart is making more noise than the engine. The ivory interior is immaculate, finished with burled elm and bits of chrome. The dashboard is lit up like the bridge of the Enterprise. Julian slips the car into reverse and I think I have a religious experience right here in the front seat. He has to ask me twice before I hear the question.

“Which hotel?”

“The Coast Stanley Park.”

Reproachfully. “Oh, darling.”

“I knew you’d be impressed. Are these seats heated?”

“Only if you switch them on.”

So it was a religious experience.



The Importance of Tea (Part II)

"Societea"

There are few pleasures more delightful than time spent in the company of friends.

Contrary to what my job performance appraisal states, I am not by nature a social animal. My first preference is always to be writing. However, after a few days lost in my own head, I generally find myself in need of interaction with my fellow beings. This past week was sublime in the creative department, but like a mother stuck at home with an infant, by the end of it, I was ready for some adult conversation.

Yesterday, Ter and I were half of a quartet attending Sunday Afternoon Tea at the Manse, hosted by a wonderful woman who began life as my supervisor, and who became a treasured friend after her retirement some years ago. The fourth member of this little group also worked with us in that office, and is my tea buddy in the office where I work today, though she came to the inner circle as a member of the family, being a niece of Ter’s best friend in high school. (This makes her a friend, a colleague, a daughter, or a kid sister, depending on the day.) This eclectic group gets together two or three times a year, always for tea, always at one home or another, and inevitably for less time than we need to catch each other up on what’s transpired since we last met.

I revel in these occasions. No matter who is hosting, there is always too much food, lots of tea, loads of laughter and fond reminiscence. Yesterday we covered everything from the recent BC election to gluten sensitivity to grandchild-minding to residential relocation to updates at Ter’s office (where we all once worked together) to appliance replacement, to movies, e-readers and writing, and would still be talking at this instant had Ter not heeded her domestic hardwiring and begun clearing away the dishes after four hours had passed. We parted with massive hugs and promises to keeping touch until next time. I came away as always, overstuffed and loved to within an inch of my life.

People drop in and out of life as required. Some, like my family of origin, are mine by default. Others are people I work with but don’t see beyond quitting time. A precious few become friends who will meet me for coffee or a midweek lunch. Even rarer are those for whom I will punch a hole in my schedule to accommodate a visit. An invitation to tea is a truly special summons if only because I care so deeply for the women I will see there. I adore Ter every day. I cherish my little office tea fairy. As for the Mistress of the Manse … she is so utterly cool that I want to be just like her when I grow up.

 

 

The Office Tea Fairy, Mistress of the Manse, and Ru

(tea at "the Laurels" December 2006)

Ter was the photographer

"The Jewel Man"

A little story for the heck of it ...

The jewel man was an artist. He worked magic with bits of glass and glitter. Every piece he made held a little bit of his soul, so he was loath to part with any of them. He kept them in a showcase like a museum display, pleased to elaborate on minute details whenever someone expressed their admiration.

“That bracelet,” he would say, “I made from pebbles I collected on the beach. I ground and polished them and my apprentice drilled the holes to string them all together.”

It was a beautiful piece. Speckled stones no larger than a child’s fingernail, threaded with silver beads on wire as fine as unicorn hair.

“And that one,” he would say, pointing, “was a new-sprung leaf. I picked it myself, and my apprentice melted the gold I used to paint it.”

Another lovely piece, a delicate gold leaf strung on a silken cord.

“These,” he said, “came from a little dove new-possessed of its feathers. My apprentice held the bird as I clipped the fairest few and fit them on the hooks.”

Such pretty earrings, soft and white as fresh-fallen snow, fitted to small scarlet beads that glistened like pinpricks of blood.

“Each one of these is precious,” the jewel man said with pride. “Each one means the world to me. I could not bear to part with any of them, so none are for sale.”

One morning, the jewel man and his apprentice were walking. The morning rain had cleansed the air and the world smelled fresh and alive. While strolling through the garden, the jewel man’s eye fell on a spray of drops like diamonds scattered across a leaf. “Ah!” he cried to his apprentice, “those drops will make a fine necklace; I must have them for my collection.”

He reached a fingertrip to the first glistening drop, but the raindrop scuttled away. The jewel man tried another, and the same thing happened. Every drop he tried to capture trickled beyond his touch. Some ran together, hoping to escape in a crowd or make themselves so large that he could make nothing of them. “Hold the leaf,” he told his apprentice, to no avail. He tried and tried, but caught none of them.

“I would have made them beautiful,” he lamented. “I would have given them a soul.”

The apprentice said nothing, but the apprentice knew that the rain had a soul of its own, as had the bracelet stones and the tender leaf and the little white dove. These things had no need of the jewel man's soul to make them beautiful. The apprentice thought the rocks and trees and raindrops should be left on display where they belonged, where they shone at their most glorious without manufactured pride.

The jewel man was an artist. The apprentice was a magician.

copyright 2013 Ruth R. Greig

The Great Gatsby



Leonardo diCaprio - the 21st Century Gatsby



Once in a rare while, I’ll see a 30-second TV trailer for a movie I had no idea was being made and every hair on my body will stand up like it’s been fried. It happened a fortnight ago when I saw a blurb for “The Great Gatsby” opening on May 10. I can’t explain why, but I just had to see that movie.

So I did. Gods love her, Ter wouldn’t likely have gone on her own, but she came with me last weekend and wants to see it again before it hits DVD. I’ve been playing the soundtrack thin (except for two heavier-duty rap tracks—I’ve never been big on rap and Mr. Beyoncé produced this one) all week. Everything about this production was flawless: the story, the cast, the setting, the costumes, the music, everything hit the right note and left us stunned as the credits began to roll. Walking back onto the street was like beaming onto another planet; I wasn’t sure where we’d left the car and couldn’t conjure the words to ask. We hardly said a word until we got home and then I think it was Ter saying, “We have to see that again.”

Five days later, I’m still aglow with the beauty of it all. I was grateful to learn from the pre-show that Baz Luhrmann produced and directed, as I may otherwise have experienced the same initial WTF? reaction I had with “Moulin Rouge” some years ago. I came this close to sacking that one until my right brain kicked in and the story started to make sense. Not so with Gatsby. This time, I was ready for the genius instead of resistant to it. (BTW, “Moulin Rouge” has become one of my favourite go-to pictures when I want a good cry.)

The cool thing about Luhrmann is that he uses modern day music and effects to tell a story from another time. He totally nailed the crazy excess of the idle rich in the Roaring Twenties, and underneath it all was this wrenching love story that broke my heart even as I was dazzled by the decadent chaos around it. The players were awesome, really talented actors who aren’t so famous that they couldn’t make the characters real. I think, too, that I may be a closet Leonardo diCaprio fan, as I’ve liked him in everything I’ve seen though I’ve not actively sought out his films. He’s the big name in this one and he played the perfect Jay Gatsby. Perfect, I tell you! He’s grown into quite the movie star, in the same class as Gary Cooper and Gregory Peck and all those guys from the golden age of cinema. He’s got that rare charisma that improves as a man matures. George Clooney has it. So does Brad Pitt. Actually, a few actors in our generation have it, but the films themselves are less interested in capturing glamour these days, alas.

I haven’t read the book so I don’t know how true the script was to the original. All I can say is that it hit all the notes for me as a moviegoer. It also hit me in another odd way, but that’s another blog entry. Right now I have a story of my own to finish writing. “Between the Storms” is past the halfway mark and the climax is looming. I want to push it as far as I can today, as I’ve got other commitments tomorrow and this weekend which, while I will enjoy them, will also demand that I tear my gaze from the stars and flip my extrovert switch to “on”.

Before I forget, I’ve had to include a link to “Young and Beautiful” from the soundtrack. My inner romantic swoons every time I hear it. Gorgeous!

Later, old sport.

Fifty Shades of Grey

8:00 a.m. May 15, 2013

Fifty seats. A Liberal majority. Worse, a greater majority than they had before the May 14 election, which begs the question: “What was that all about?”

It was a duplicate of the provincial election in Albert last year, where the advance polls predicted that the Wild Rose party would rear up and bite the Conservatives in the butt, and the advance polls were wrong. In BC, the advance polls predicted a healthy majority for the NDP, and the advance polls were wrong. Very wrong. Appallingly wrong. So wrong that if I screwed up in my job like that, I’d be fired.

Well, maybe not.

In any event, Ter and I watched with increasing horror last night as the numbers tilted alarmingly in the opposite direction from that which the polls and political pundits had predicted. It was almost amusing to watch the talking heads scramble to explain what the heck was happening as the ballots were counted. Without a political science degree or any sort of experience beyond observation of human nature (which apparently weighs as much as a political science degree), I think two things happened: a split vote, and fear.

If you combined the votes for NDP and Green party candidates, they outran the Liberals in almost every riding. I say “almost” because there are pockets in the province where the Liberals won’t move unless TNT is employed. Same with the NDP, in fact. The Greens are gaining popularity and good for them; it’s just that they act as spoilers for the dueling titans who have historically batted the people back and forth over the past few decades. If only more people had voted for them, perhaps the results would have been a minority government with more power to the opposition.

And while the advance polls seemed to favour a public desire for change, in truth, people are afraid of change. Especially when they feel threatened or hopeless. Most of the folks elected last night were the same folks elected four years ago. Where change was forced because the incumbent did not run for re-election, the voters took the fear route and chose a promise of a strong economy based on the sale of our natural resources and a bunch of other long-term schemes that basically rely on winning the lottery. But if you repeat something often enough, people start to believe it's inevitable, and the Liberal message was pretty well all about the money. It wasn’t about the people, unless you count the typical slam attacks on the guy running in opposition.

I believe that people do want change. They want their kids to be better-educated and have better opportunities. I’m for all that; but I also believe that planning so far in the future dismisses the needs in the present. Our kids are our future. They need funding now, not down the road when they’re heading to post-secondary education (and how many of them will make it that far if their current conditions stay the same?) I don’t understand how the economy works. I only know that the cost of shelter, food and utilities increases by leaps and bounds every year, and my salary doesn’t. Truly, I doubt that would change no matter who’s in charge, but really? I hoped for a courageous outcome in this election, and I didn’t get one.

Bugger.

On the bright side, I just got back from my walk. It rained earlier on and the air smelled green and sweet at the top of the slope, and salty/tangy near the water. The world hasn’t changed with the election. The birds are still singing, flowers are still blooming, the bears are still playing Aussie rules football in the middle of my bed, and I’m still on vacation. I’m still a writer.

And the sun is still up there. It’s just behind the clouds.

Twitchy Tuesday

You know how I believe that Tuesday is the worst day of the week? Not so during vacation! En vacances, it’s perfectly positioned – deep enough in to have had a few days off and far enough out to have a few days left.

I’ve taken a week off work to wrestle with vampires and angels, so naturally I’ve checked the HBO listing and discovered a rerun of The Newsroom is on this afternoon (perfect for a tea break), assessed baking supplies for next weekend, and intend on a couple of loads of laundry before the day is done. I also discovered it's a bad idea to take your blog log to the beach; it gets in the way of meditation. I did take a few pictures, though. This one is my favourite, snapped a few feet from where I was sitting.



 



I'm running hot this morning, finding it hard to settle, so I'd better get my tea together and boot the writing computer. Jake`s story has a working title now - "Between the Storms" - and it's coming along quite nicely despite my interference. I reckon once I get into the rhythm, I`ll stop being a jumpy twitchy time-waster. A day this precious should not be deloped.

 

 

Sunday Sermon

I used to be religious. In my teens and twenties – when I already knew everything anyway – I appreciated the structure and the society of the church. I followed the lifestyle easily, probably because I was naturally disinclined to smoke or drink, and while I may have gotten into boy trouble, I never had the chance because, regrettably, I was more interested in them than they were in me. Besides, I was a writer with rheumatoid arthritis, so my preference was to quiet creativity and introspection. I respected God and loved Jesus, followed the commandments as best I could, and confessed when, knowingly or unknowingly, I broke the rules.

But I couldn’t stop asking questions. Worse, I couldn’t blithely accept every answer. I began to notice inconsistencies, disparities and inequalities that God supposedly frowned upon but, in practice, appeared to support. Women were revered and oppressed at the same time. That bugged me. Men were accepted as weaker and more susceptible to temptation, and therefore more readily forgiven. That really bugged me. How was it that such untrustworthy creatures were given authority over the women and children in the congregation, and why were said women and children expected to obey them without question? It was never purely black and white for me, but I went along the path they said was set for me and waited to fulfill my destiny as wife, mother, and dutiful daughter of God.

Well, the path didn’t go where they told me it would—and I suspect they would say it’s my fault. To which I reply, “Phooey.”

I’m actually much happier than I think I would have been had Mr Right shown up in all his godly glory. My spirit is free to explore and decide for myself what works and what doesn’t. I still believe in a greater, infinite power, though the form that power takes is less the god made in man’s image and more a benevolent source of strength which I can call upon as I choose. I’ve always believed that I have more control than I was taught. Now I know it.

I can choose to view the world as a wondrous place of beauty and miracles, or I can choose to live in fear of it. Same with my fellow man. Now I “get” what Jesus was preaching, and you know what? He preached the same principles as Buddah and Mohammed and Ghandi and the Dalai Lama and Jon Bon Jovi:

Love’s the Only Rule. Be here now. Treat yourself with the same kindness and respect as you treat others. Believe in magic. Be grateful. Trust that you will always have exactly what you need. Conduct yourself with integrity. Be honest. Accept change. Create change. Create art. Seek joy. Find beauty. Breathe.

Don’t believe everything you think.

I’m not suggesting that you do all this at once. It’s hard to keep a positive outlook all the time. Just pick one and try it for a day. Just for today … because, really, all there is, is Now.

With love,

Research

Even when I’m not writing, I’m writing. My imagination is always floating around behind my mind, picturing scenes, overhearing dialogue, sussing out a character’s style in clothes or cars. Yeah, it looks like I know where I’m walking or I’m totally engrossed in that pile of invoices, but it’s all an illusion. A ruse to keep Left Brain occupied while Right Brain ponders truly important things like what kind of gun is sitting on Jake’s kitchen table, or what flavour of ice cream is Kim’s favourite. Jake is guessing that she’s a strawberry cheesecake girl, (she’s not); but wait. Does Haagen-Dazs still make strawberry cheesecake ice cream?

I’ve had to do some research for this story. Expert advice was called upon for the arms question, but I know where to go for ice cream. Or I think I know. Turns out there are two Haagen-Dazs websites: one for Canada and one for the US. Though the story takes place on Canada’s west coast, I had to check out both sites because no matter where they roam, my characters all share my belief that H-D is the best ice cream.

Neither site features strawberry cheesecake as a flavour, so I’ve had to amend the story accordingly. Boo hoo, eh? If only my visit to the Glock website had been so easy.

Flanerie Will Get You Nowhere

A dear friend of mine recently turned me onto a new word:

“flânerie = the act of strolling and doing nothing, of having no objective or destination. A person who practices this delightful-sounding act is called a flâneur.”

She was so taken with the meaning that after sharing it with me, she decided to do it herself.

I have not heard from her since.

In any event, we determined its status in English (noun) and in its original French (verb), and decided to try integrating it into our vernacular – not to mention our daily routines. Without realizing it, I’ve since learned that the policy of “be here now” is a perfect vehicle for the verb.

I had moments of savage purpose last weekend – laundry, baking, dusting that included the baseboards because springtime sun is brutal about busting the bunnies. I got a fair bit of work done with Jake, too, though, as usual, the characters are running the story so it’s not taking the expected route. But between those bursts of directed energy, there was flânerie. We packed a picnic lunch and carried it across the street to sit seaside as we ate. We wandered up to the summer market to stock up on fresh baby tomatoes and strawberry/vanilla bean jam, then meandered back home. I lay on the sofa and listened to an album all the way through, which I count as a mental flânerie.

The real world demands that we pay heed to the clock, but the New Age philosophy is true when you forget about it.

“You have all the time you need.”

Really. You do. Stay focused, stay in the moment, pay attention to what you’re doing. Indulge in the occasional flânerie. You’ll be amazed at how much you accomplish and how good it feels.

On Dallas Road

Dallas Road (the big house with the flat roof is Chez Ru)

"On Dallas Road"

What is it about the struggle of the sea,

The lust of a spirit longing to take shape
And dashing itself upon the rocks in its
Frustration, bursting into a thousand
Fragments of sun-dazzled spray,
That makes us laugh like children
As we dance out of its way
Then back again,
Daring it to touch our toes,
To try again to capture what we are
Water with substance
Spirit with flesh
Saying, “Catch me if you can”?

This morning I spent some time sunning on a log at the beach. The sun was still rising and the water was as tranquil as the Pacific ever gets. I lay on a big chunk of driftwood and listened to it gently washing ashore, sucking back pebbles on its retreat, and as the chatter began to fall out of my head, I was reminded of this poem.

I wrote it 20 years ago this July. That day, the water was livelier and Ter had ventured onto a concrete finger, whereupon the surf crashed near her toes and sprayed up into her face. She laughed like a little girl – I remember that very well – and when we got home, I dashed out a poem to try and capture the moment.

Today's walk was an attempt to be here now. No past, no future. Just the present, the gift that is now. At the end of a week where gratitude came solely in the form of “that could have been so much worse”, Ter put up the reminder on our refrigerator: “Just for today, be present in the moment.”

She then went to work. I dusted the furniture and ate my granola in front of the “big” computer, watching a couple of video links people had sent to me. One was just silly. The other led me to a Robbie Williams (I loooove Robbie Williams) tune called “Candy”, which has such an infectious hook that I looped it all the way to the beach and will likely buy the album ’cause it made me so happy. I had a brief moment of panic when I decided to lie down on the log where I was sitting (how was I going to get upright again?), but once I was down, the sun was so warm and the breeze was so sweet and the water was like music that I could have lain there indefinitely. But then the poem came back to me, so I hauled myself up and hiked back to compose this post.

Now I’m going to make gluten-free scones, then brew some Whiskey White and see if Jake wants to talk to me.

The past is past, so let it go. The future is yet to come, so don’t bother about it. Just be here now.

With love,