I don't know much about sticky notes

Every day at least one person winds up on this blog because they've googled the words "sticky notes on my dashboard." I thought it was because of one post. The name of the post? Sticky notes on my dashboard.

If you have a Mac, I suggest you go here to find out about the latest sticky notes on your dashboard. In spite of my post about the subject, I don't know much. I don't even use a Mac these days. Now that I've visited that link, I'm even more miserable sitting here typing on this aesthetically miserable PC.*

I wrote that post back on March 23rd of this year. It was my fourth post. In a way, those sticky notes on my dashboard were the impetus for this blog. I had so many of them that it was becoming a problem. Many were thoughts about a new scent and I had green notes for colognes and all things light and airy, gray for incense, pink for floral and so on. The yellow notes were for ideas about whatever was on my mind at the time, mostly snippets about translating poetry and the vagaries of language.

I had had other blogs, a website for my tat business, and a myspace page where I mostly wrote about music and tattoos, but I never kept up with any of these for long. In spite of all conventional wisdom, I decided that I just had to be who I am and put it out there. I'm a generalist, a dilletante, a jack-of-all trades and master of a few, and someone who flits from one interest to another.

And lastly, I had this crazy idea that being interested in everything was some kind of remedy for depression. I think it is, though my life hasn't proved that to be entirely true. Yet, without this crazy desire to find out more, to continually explore and learn, I am not entirely sure I would have survived. No matter how depressed I've been, if there was a good book to finish, I'd have to read it, even if the demons of depression were screaming at me that life was not worth living. If I had some knitting to do, how could I leave it?

There might be new perfumes in my mailbox on Monday or a moment of pure bliss on the cushion while meditating. There have been days, weeks and even months when the weight of abject misery was crushing and rendered me useless, but still, I was always easily distracted, in a good way.

Driving in my car to see a therapist, lost in delusions and desperate for some relief, I saw a flock of snow buntings, hundreds of them, swirling over a barren field, raising and falling as one undulating mass. Who could be miserable in the face of such beauty? One eye was always open to these things, thankfully.

So, sticky notes, well. . .if you've landed here and wanted to find out about them, I presume you've gone already. And too bad, for both of us, for the other thing that is interesting is stumbling onto new things and starting a conversation with a stranger. Speaking of which, can't you silent people lurkers leave a few comments? Do you need a bribe of some sort? I may be late with the gifts I already owe, but I still have one slot left for a free gift! Speak up!

*I will certainly offend someone by saying that I abhor that little dog who shows up to find my files. Not only is he not cute, but he does a very poor job of finding files. Just this evening I showed this to Dick and he said, "Isn't there some way to turn him off?"

Photo note: Check out the things people have done with post-it notes here.

Not all natural is good for you

I tried, in vain, to find where I had read the difference between synthetic and natural patchouli.

I had remembered some of it, was sketchy on the details, and thought "better get it right on the science", but here's what my memory offers up: I had once thought I was allergic to patchouli and could just not be around it. I've sent workers home because they were wearing patchouli, asked tattoo customers to return when they're not, made a rule where I once was boss that noone was allowed to wear it, and once had to leave a restaurant where my waitress smelled of the stuff, for I was nauseated and couldn't imagine eating.

Now I wear some scents with patchouli in them and think, "This stuff smells wonderful." Not always, of course, but there are a more than a few.

What's going on here? Not much. I still can't abide by what's sold in the health food stores or artsy clothing shops.

The difference is this: The patchouli in my perfume is not natural. Does that surprise you? After all, natural is supposed to be good, and synthetic is bad.

Here's what Luca Turin has to say in his book "Perfumes: The Guide"; ". . .the difference between naturals and synthetics is complexity. If you smell them, pure, natural raw materials are more interesting than aromachemicals. That's because most naturals are mixtures of tens, sometimes hundreds of molecules, and the nose recognizes this. . ."

So, if I remember correctly, there was just a whole lot more to be sensitive to in a natural patchouli. Who knew what it was exactly that was bothering my sensibilities?

Don't forget - everything is made up of chemicals. Just because it's natural doesn't mean it's good for you. My mother grew lovely foxgloves in her garden, but I was told quite strenuously that I should not eat them. Not a silly warning, for I had been known to eat flowers (and even caught once on camera doing so). And not a silly warning, for eating digitalis can cause a heart attack.

Latex, which looks absolutely unnatural, is not. There's so much latex allergy in this country that most doctors and hospitals ask if one is allergic to it on intake forms.

Last week I layered a bit of Oshadi Roots, an all natural organic scent over some Bulgari Blu, which most assuredly has nothing natural in it anywhere. Neither scent smells great on its own, in my estimation, but the two together were heavenly (though not enough so to purchase either). The point? Together, naturals and synthetics can make a lovely brew.

I once thought I'd only wear cotton, wool and linen, but I've been thrilled with the jeans that have a bit of spandex in them. I'm not casting aside their comfort and their accomdation for a bit of weight change or a big meal just because there's something unnatural in them.

Image note: I've having quite a time of it today. My head hurts and my eyes ache and I can't find where I've read this or that. The discussion of natural vs. synthetics and allergies does continue in Perfumes: The Guide. I must apologize to Tania Sanchez for not mentioning she is the co-author. And, last but not least, somewhere is a quote from one of them about patchouli and the "dreaded dirty hippie smell".

Not really paying it forward

TMC gave me this badge, above, and now I'm supposed to send it to seven other blogs, ask them to post it, and then award it to seven others, and then. . .well, it's another paying-it-forward game.

I am sorry, but I can't play! Most of the blogs I read daily will not participate, either because they are just too huge to do so, and certainly don't need any more readers, nor would they care if I sent them this (or they'd find it quite funny, I'm sure). Others would not partcipate because they are not that active. And some wouldn't because I just know they don't do that sort of thing. And lastly, one of daily reads that contains blogs I peruse is not public. That's Ravelry, "a knit and crochet community."

The rest are on my links list, except for Now Smell This, a blog that is completely devoted to scent, all scent, and all the time (unlike mine).

Addendum: Another one of my daily blog reads is Ta-Nehisi Coates, at the Atlantic Monthly site. I love this blog. Lots of politics, but also hip hop, poetry and team sports (which I skip over). I'm glad to read someone smart who loves rap.

Saffron and red robes (I heart your blog)

I just deleted a post. I was writing in a style that is not my own. It's because of TMC. Her playful spirit is infectious. Her blog, Return to Rural, brings a smile to my face.

She's funny in a wry and often self-deprecating way. She lavishes praise on others without being soppy. She posts contests, games, and all sorts of pay-it-forward activities. She brings folks together. Do you realize this, TMC?

I was writing (and deleted) some stuff about how "I HEART her blog". I have no idea how to put a heart symbol where the word "heart" is. TMC does.

I was trying to be nice but a little bit snarky. Trying to be is not being.

Then I thought about how we're both Buddhists. She wrote that she wanted to be a Buddhist nun, and if she was, she'd be wearing saffron and red robes.

I once thought that I might be better suited to living the life of a monk, but if I were to become one, what color robes would I be wearing? Black, gray and white.

Buddhism hooks people in different ways and sometimes, I think, it's externals that get you at first. Now, I have no idea how TMC got to be a Tibetan Buddhist, but I know this about myself: I love the austerity of Zen. I love the stories of these crazy stoics, like Huike, who stood outside the Bodhidharma's cave until the falling snow had reached his waist. This was still not enough to prove to the Bodhidharma that he deserved his teachings, so Huike cut off his left arm to show his sincerity.

The ardent students of old would tie themselves up so that they would not fall over when they were in meditation if sleepiness came upon them. Zen tales are overflowing with masters hitting their disciples with sticks. Kwat! You fool!

But, when the Dalai Lama laughs, we all laugh. We cut off our arms with Huike, too.

Thanks, TMC. I do heart your blog.

Image note: From BananaFrog, who make beautiful, fun and playful paper goodies.

Addendum: And I forgot, she is the one who roped me into writing a novel in a month. Мне виноваты вы! Je vous reprocher! 我譴責你！ Yo culpo a ti! मैं तुम्हें दोष! Ich Schuld Sie! 私はあなたのせい！ But: Vi ringrazio per ispirazione a fare qualcosa che non ho mai pensato ho potuto fare, anche se probabilmente è un mucchio di vapore caldo cane merda su un pomeriggio di agosto. Vedi, io maledizione!

My day in other people's pictures

1. valantine's day rejection, 2. rock soup, 3. Watering the Wall of Indifference, 4. Halloween Party, 5. Day 94: This is making it stop, 6. (187) Eye vs. Tabasco Sauce, 7. The Quicky!, 8. MT Tools, 9. R&R 008 | Choke, 10. A Leap of Faith, 11. Szechuan Beef Proper 2, 12. wishing for summer, 13. THE BIG BANG THEORY, 14. Day 106 - I am a librarian, 15. DISCRIMINATION, 16. silent white... ♫ egrets from bali ♫♫

Today's mosaic game: Sixteen words entered into Big Huge Labs Mosaic Maker. Pick one image from the first page that comes up. No cheating. Post mosaic with credits. Don't take the photographer's words literally.

A question for today: If one encounters a personal injustice that is also an injustice to others, is one obligated to disclose it? I think the answer may be yes.

Surprise of the day

I'm making a red sauce, was short on cash, and so I bought a bottle of wine for $3.99. Figured it didn't matter if it was disastrously bad wine or not, 'cause I'd only use it for cooking.

Honestly, I don't like red wine all that much. This sounds snooty, but the reason is that I don't like cheap red wine, so if I do drink it, I mix it with sparkling water.

If I want some booze, I go for the micro-brews. I like good beer and good beer is affordable.

So, I'm making a sauce and the bottle's been sitting on the counter for a while, breathing. I wondered how awful it was and took a swig. Didn't bother with a glass. It's cheap wine, nearly as cheap as Nightbird (if they still make that) and anyone who drinks that does it right from the bottle.

The stuff is good. Imagine my shock. It lacks that fizzy and overly sharp tang of a typical low end red wine. I figured I must be delusional, so I googled it. Surprise number two is this: "Tisdale Merlot. . .kind of like finding a hidden treasure or $40 in a coat pocket from last winter."

Image note: What, you expect a better photo for a $3.99 bottle of wine?

Making assumptions

I'd make a lousy eyewitness.

Last night, sometime after 6:00, but earlier than 7:00, there were two ambulances over at the store. They were there for what seemed a long time. How long? Beats me. Long enough for both Dick and I to think that whoever was in there must be dead. And when they took off, they went in what I thought was the wrong direction (and I can't give you specifics because I realize I don't know if this is an east/west road or a north/south road, which is crazy, 'cause I've lived in this county for nearly twenty years).

Well, the wrong direction is towards a hospital that is further away than the right direction, if you are wondering. This meant to me that someone was either dead or needed more care than the hospital in this county could provide.

I just got back from walking over to the store. It seems particularly quiet today. It's gray, drizzling and the air has a cold bite to it, not like the unusual warmth we've had for a week. As I walked along the road, I remembered the ambulances from last night and wondered why we didn't give a second's thought to the possibility that a baby was being born. No, we imagined death. Maybe a hold-up. Someone having a heart attack. Something bad.

The store was as quiet as a library. Maybe it's always like that and I just don't notice, but I doubt it. I didn't see anyone familiar working there and got worried. Maybe someone who worked there died. I said to the stranger behind the counter, "I know I'm being nosy, but did something terrible happen here last night?" The minute I said it I felt foolish. "Something terrible?"

That's when I realized I truly have been living in a fictional world all week. This is real life and something happened to a real person.

For the sake of privacy, I won't tell you what happened. I don't know the details, but I will. It is a small town, after all. A non-fictional small town.

Photo note: Some Maine road. Looks a bit big. Is it going East, West, North or South?

The end of the "novel"

No, I didn't quit. Something far more momentous happened. I realized I am writing a novel. Not a fake novel. Not a faux novel. Not a so-called novel.

And not, as the title above says, a "novel".

Furiously writing away for eight days, it was all fun and games. I was playing, as I've written before.

Today, as I edged towards 23,000 words, I realized that I had nothing more to write about except for the ending. I didn't expect to come up with an ending until it was about to end, but I have. It's a good one, too (I think). After all, I am writing a mystery of sorts. I've said "it's not all that mysterious", but a bit of a surprise hit me the other day and I like it. It'll probably take about 3000 words to write that. Herein lies the problem: what do I do with the rest of the 20,000 words I need to finish this novel?

20,000 words, even though they came easily at first, well, they are looking daunting today. I have an urge to write all afternoon, but I'm stopping myself. I choked this morning when I stepped back and thought of myself as the reader of the fine mess I've gotten myself into, and I said to myself, "If your narrator keeps up this babble for too much longer without some plot twist, you're gonna put the book down and that surprise ending will never be revealed." I usually finish books that I've started reading, but if they get boring and they're mysteries, I'll say "who cares who did it?" and toss them aside.

This was starting to shape up to be one of those. Oh no.

I threw a plot twist in the mix today. It isn't much, but it'll spice it up some. It's nothing to jump up and down about because it's totally plausible. My characters are not allowing me to put anything outrageous in there. This, to me, is a good thing. I'm not telling them what to do. They're telling me.

But it's hard. Right now they're being a bit quiet. That narrator still wants to babble about everything and nothing and I'm saying "shut up".

When I realized I was involved in a small battle and that the last 490 words that I wrote was almost painful, I thought, "Huh. I am really writing a novel".

It doesn't matter if it's good or not. I highly doubt it is. But it has life and maybe a bit of truth about life, too. So, if I wind up with only a chapter of good writing when this crazy adventure is all over, I'll be happy. Well, knowing me, that's not exactly true, but. . .

Image note: I learned to type on a montrosity like this. I think it's a beautiful montrosity, but they are hard to type on.

Seeing this made me realize something important. I usually write with rhythm. Even the keys on my laptop make a sound. This blog entry wasn't written that way, for it's more of a piece of self-reporting (I hesitate to use the word "diary" for some reason).

I know that the novel has its own life simply because of this: the narrator has a different rhythm than I do. I can hear it while I'm writing and it's most recognizable. Perhaps that why I can tell when it's off, and I hesitate, for it's not just the words, but the sound. This blog is called "everything is interesting" but y'know, this is really interesting, to me (that is).

Wasting large amounts of time on nonsense

1. Fröken Julie, 2. Waiting on the platform in Great Neck - New York side, 3. Some Trains Go Nowhere, 4. Sheep in the mist, 5. Basilica di San Marco, Venice, 6. General Tso's Tofu, Eggroll Machine/Cafe Mimosa, 7. Socks of Kindness: a recipe, 8. 座禅会会員様　'Zen meditation club members', 9. what is not a priority, 10. CRIMINAL MINDS, 11. Bookshelf: My literary Refuse, 2004 (with notes), 12. screenshot4, 13. Maine0090, 14. Untitled, 15. Picture 329, 16. Rosy Button ~ Page in my Happy Quilt Journal ~ for no particular reason other than I can

Once again, I'm copying something TMC's done over at Return to Rural. I don't know how she does it, but she routinely finds fun things to do on the web. I dearly needed a respite from writing about nutcases and disease. Unfortunately, I also needed to be asleep by now, but making this mosaic took a bit of time, and now I feel compelled to post it.

The task was this: answer twelve questions and type your responses into Flickr. Then, pick a photo that you like from your first page of results. Click here for full instructions.

I wanted a symmetrical box, so I expanded the questions. My twist on this is that I'm not going to tell you what the questions were that evoked these visual responses. One interesting note, however - some people on Flickr have opted out of being able to use their work in this manner. In field #11, above, I couldn't find a photograph that I liked that was usable. This occurred (thus, leaving a blank square)) not just once, but three times, and since I believe it's three strikes and you're out, I changed the question.

See if you can guess my questions. Some are obvious. Others are not. And maybe this wasn't just a time wasting bit of nonsense. Some of those pictures suggest potential future blog entries (like I don't have enough).

Live blogging Guerlain Habit Rouge

Note: I started this in the Shoutbox. I had settled down for some non-web reading and as I am assessing my reaction to this new-to-me scent, I figured, hey: live blog!

4:33 First impression: strong lemon. Wait up: strong rose/rosewood?
Quite complex. I'm curious how this plays out.

Thoughts that waft through my brain: This was first released in '65. What did it smell like then?
I can't remember what Luten's Chypre Rouge smells like. Was the rouge part a nod to this scent. I suspect so.

I have an untrained nose.

4:53 Why does my left and right wrist always smell differently? That is a true mystery.

4:54 My right wrist smells quite a bit like Dzongkha. Mmmmm. My left wrist, I think, has not caught up. It still smells sweet, while the right is more dry. Ah, the mystery is solved, I suspect: the right wrist is further along in the drydown.

Checked Basenotes to see what I'm missing. I got the lemon/rosewood thing right, at least.

4:59 I find it hard to identify woodsy notes, though I love them. I'm discovering that patchouli isn't the horrible thing I've always felt it to be.

Thinking back to when I managed a clothing store, I realize I must have seemed like a monster of a boss when I told a girl, "You can't work here today because you smell like patchouli. You can wash all you want, but I'll still smell it. Don't wear it to work again."

Then, when I hired a girl to work at my tat shop, I told her I only had three rules:
1. No patchouli.
2. No showing up to worked stoned or drunk.
3. Be on time.

She failed on all three, but that has little to do with Habit Rouge, does it?

5:04 This one is a winner, so far. Could even wind up on favorites list. Time will tell. Stay tuned.

5:11 More Dzing! than Dzongkha, though sweeter and certainly not as weird. Yes, Dzing! is weird. Not the type of description that makes me sound like an authority on anything, but I never claimed to be. Dzing! was meant to remind one of the circus, elephant poop and all. How could it be ordinary?

Habit Rouge? I'd say it was ahead of its time.

6:08 Ah, the highs and lows of first sniffs. . .I'm now disappointed. Let this be a lesson to anyone who tries a scent at a store, knows enough to let it drydown, walks around for half an hour and falls in love. This love affair may be over sooner than you think and you'll be stuck with a scent that you're trying to trade away to someone else.

The final verdict: If it had stayed the way it was at 5:11, I'd be delighted. But no, the final lasting impression of Habit Rouge is one of rosewood,or really, a old musty rose. I think of a bottle of German rosewater that my mother once had, never used (but pretty to look at) and the small tin of cold cream that my grandmother carried in her black purse, or maybe even the exact scent of her lipstick. From "ahead of its time" (which still may be true) to "old-lady-ish". Yet, I still find it likeable and admirable. And I will try it again. Well, maybe not. We'll see!

Photo note: Jean Paul Guerlain with the new Habit Rouge

A planned lull, perhaps

I woke up with a terrible headache. My eyes are red and sore. Too much writing and too much reading, all on the computer, can take its toll.

I planned on going to the Zendo today, but I can't imagine the Saturday rituals of chanting and bowing. I want to go back to sleep. When my koan floats into my mind, all I can think of is how it relates to the novel.

Dick sent an old blog entry of mine, "Islands", to someone last night. The writing is quite different than what's been my usual fare for quite a while now. The pace is leisurely. It doesn't read like a diary entry. It contains no silly remarks.

I've nothing against silliness. It's good for my spirits. But I do have to wonder what happened to that thoughtful writer. Caught up in the frenzy of writing 1667 words a day, then 2000 or more, as much as I can, unfettered and giddy with excitement, have I lost my voice? And in spite of spending all this time on the pseudo-novel, I've written more than one blog entry a day. Meanwhile, I'm typing up operative reports, physical exams and autopsies of fictional patients at a fictional health center in Florida for my medical transcription course.

I am unhinged from reality. On the one hand, it's wonderful. I now know I have many voices and stories inside me, and I'm already thinking ahead to the next novel. Maybe the tone will be more like the one in "Islands". So, even as I write this, thinking I've lost something, I realize I'm wrong. Yet. . .

I'm not sure if I should go back to bed or drive the 28 miles to my meditation group. And I'm thinking that in spite of wanting to hit the 25K word goal I've set for myself this weekend, I may be better off sitting and sewing. My house is a mess and I ought to do some cleaning. Everything non-essential in my life has been on hold all week.

I'm afraid to lose my momentum. So, I'm waffling. And I'm waffling, too, on what to do with my day. I hate it when I question my plans. I'm rather rigid that way. And when I'm feeling as I do right now, I think it's usually best to go with my first instinct. So, sleep just may be in order, even if I've not gone to the Zendo for a week.

Even though it's morning, I'd like to end with the Evening Gatha, chanted by one lone and plaintive voice at the end of each day at Zen Mountain Monastery in New York:

"Let me respectfully remind you, life and death are of supreme importance. Time swiftly passes by, and opportunity is lost. Each of us should strive to awaken… awaken. Take heed, do not squander your life."

Does this mean I shouldn't go back to bed?

Photo note: Zen Buddhist monk practicing zazen. Somehow I doubt he's thinking about plot twists and surprise endings, but one can't see into the mind of others.

I don't know who this monk is. The photograph has no attribution.

Addendum: I went out. We chanted the Faith Mind Sutra today, which is a long one. It's my favorite sutra and if you click the link, you'll see how absurd my saying that is.

NaNoWriMo, You're My Baby

Beebopaloola you're my baby, beebopaloola I don't mean maybe, nah-na-nanowrimo you're my b-baby now, my baby now, my baby now. . .my baby now. Dadada da, dada dada. . .

It's 11:00pm exactly. Just closed my Word file. It's day 7 of National Novel Writing Month and I've written 19,275 words. That's approximately 77 pages of a novel.

You may be saying to yourself "That's not much" but I'm astonished. If I had said to myself, "Julie, you must write 77 pages of a novel by Friday night" last Saturday, I would have choked and choked fast. I would have said to myself, "That's impossible. Get off my case." I would have worried that I was crazy.

I may be crazy right now, but it's a good crazy, something that Ta-Nehisi Coates, my new breakfast blog must-read wrote about earlier in the week.

I'm writing a murder mystery. It's not particularly mysterious, but it may have a surprise ending, which is a surprise to me. I wasn't sure who dunnit when I started, decided who did do it on Wednesday, and came up with a different idea this afternoon, one that grabbed onto my leg with teeth and couldn't shake off.

This is fun. It's play time here in my living room, where I sit on the sofa with my laptop and type away. These characters have become my friends and their world is completely real to me. I drew a map of where they all live, named the towns and the major roads and where some important landmarks are. I started with one character (and a dead one, who doesn't say much), no motive and pretty much no idea of where I was going with this. It's improv, pure and simple. Suddenly, new actors are appearing on the stage and doing things I didn't expect. It was supposed to be a one-woman play and now I can't keep things under control.

When this thing is over, I'll have a mess on my hands. As the plot thickens, I see I'm going to have to go back and change things people said, times and dates and all sorts of details. But maybe not too much. After all, people lie, or don't remember things all too well.

I do need to know some hard facts. The way the dead guy died, well, I don't know how they could've determined it was a murder. So, I need to ask a doctor. I want to know the blood gas levels and all sorts of stuff like that. Do I need to? I'm not sure.

I've got police reports that are probably ridiculous and psych evaluations that are missing all sorts of important information, like a plausible diagnosis (but for who, I'm not telling).

I thought this stuff would hang me up, but I figured, go ahead and write it and fix it later. It's working for me.

This is like cooking without a recipe and with ingrediants I don't know much about. One big beautiful mess of a stew. Will it be edible? I have no idea, but it sure is a blast cooking it up.

Photo note: Not quite the scene of the crime, but close.

Addendum: Can't sleep, my brain's on fire (fa fa fa fa fa, fa fa fa fa, fa fa). Tried to read reach the 20,000 word mark before I went retired for the evening. Not that I ever retire for the evening, but. . .I fell short by 475 words.

It was fitting that "Psycho Killer" just happens to contain the words, "Can't sleep, my brain's on fire". And yes, I know that the "fa fa fa fa fa" part is not directly after that line, but I don't remember what is, and it's time for bed, not googling lyrics. Good Night.

Finally, something about scent

Last week, I received a collection of samples that I've wanted to try for quite some time. So far, nothing has thrilled me.

Ginestet Botrytis had a whiff of rotting teeth in it, which (thankfully) was gone in the drydown. It figures that there'd be something rotten in there: Botrytis cinerea is a fungus that affects many plants, though it is most notable for its use ("noble rot") in sweet wines like Sauternes. I remember being disappointed in this scent, for it was supposed to be similar to Frapin 1270, which I adore. I went through the Shoutbox and found nothing but my complaints about the "bad teeth smell". Some review, this is. Now I'll move on.

L'artisan Parfumeur Mure et Musc: "Boring" and "Why'd they bother with this?" I love L'artisan scents. This was the first time I was underwhelmed by anything from that house. I did make a note, "The drydown is rather nice", but that's not very descriptive. I'll try this one again.

Frapin Caravelle Epicee: First impression was that this was Frapin 1270 "but not as good". Drydown was basically vanilla with a bit of prune/raisin thing going on. Nice, but there's plenty of scents like this. There's supposedly no fruit note in here, so I don't know what's up with my nose. You might want to distrust any of these mini-reviews.

Which brings me to the Guerlain Spiriteuse Double Vanille. Very nice. To my nose, it's Vanilla with pipe tobacco. My first impression was "vanilla! so what?". That other smell, robust, yet dry (and perhaps not even tobacco), was lovely. I still prefer Serge Luten's Un Bois de Vanille, with it's cotton candy burnt sugar smell (which impossibly, smells sophisticated).

Right now, I've got on Amouge Jubilation XXV. First sniff was "Ack! Alcohol!" Then I walked out to the mailbox. I felt like I should have a very expensive gray men's suit on. It smells like so many other men's scents. It gets rave reviews from Now Smell This, but what can I say? I don't like it. That's all. Dick came in, said hello and then asked, "You've got a new perfume on?" I put on very little, but it's sillage, I'd imagine, is huge, if Dick asked me that. I can't smell any of the notes that it's supposed to have. It's just screamming at me with "I'm an expensive men's scent! Look at my just polished shoes!" Shall I scrub it off? Nah. It's not offensive. I hope it fades, but I fear it won't do it fast enough.

I was surprised to learn that it was created by Bertrand Duchaufour, for he's responsible for many wonderful scents, including one of my favorites, L'artisan's Dzongkha. If you type the word Dzongkha into the "search this blog" box, you'll find it comes up alot. Here, I've saved you the trouble.

OMG (something I do not regularly type): Serge Lutens Chergui is now being sold in the United States. Shameless begging: please see the little "Help support this blog" over in the sidebar? Wanting something this expensive is insane. But Chergui is my first love! I do have about 9ml of it left. . .

These reviews were not much, I admit. I'm still hating the Jubilation, which is an awful thing to hate with such a nice name and all. I have about a dozen more new scents to try and hopefully the next bunch of "reviews" are a bit more interesting than these. Maybe this requires my finding the scents more interesting. The winner of this bunch: The Guerlain.

Photo note: Grapes with noble rot. For some pretty serious wine tours, click here.

Addendum: At 5:45pm I had to scrub. I felt like I was being suffocated by the scent of Jubilation! How I scrub: First, I use a Spanish black soap (name forgotten) and then I follow up with Burt's Bees Carrot Nutritive Lotion if I have to wash so much that my hands are dried out or just washing doesn't do the trick. In this case, both were true.

Burt's Bees Healthy Healing Carrot Nutritive Body Lotion (which smells lovely): $9.00 for 8oz.

Amouge Jubilation XXV: $245.00 for 1.7oz.

Addendum #2: Luckyscent has the Chergui for twenty bucks less than Aedes. . .

Mediocrity

When I was tattooing, I had accept a certain level of mediocrity. Some days I wasn't all that enthusiastic about what I was doing. Tattooing yet another rose with a banner with a banner wrapped around it is not all that creative. Just how good a job can one do when the customer wants exactly what they see in the book? I just did the job.

And some days I was mediocre for no particular reason.

And yeah, there were times when I did a great job, deserved an A+ and a tip. But that wasn't an average day. I was average tattooist, maybe a little better, but not really. I learned to live with that fact, and thought it was a good lesson, for I'd once been such a perfectionist that it kept me from doing many things. After all, in my family, if I came home with a report card with 7 A's and one B, my parents would ask "What went wrong?"

So, my blog was rated by blogged.com. I got a 7.3 for "very good". They're just being nice. 7.3 is not "very good". It a bit below average. 7.5 is a solid C, and though I've conquered my perfectionism, getting a C is not good enough for me.

I looked at some blogs that got ratings of 7.3 all the way up until 8.3 and then said to myself, "You don't need this." I don't. I love blogging, and maybe I'm not word class (hell, I wouldn't give myself anything over an 8) but, really, a C minus?

Sure, my posts are long and I don't have a specialist's topic. I think that's something good, but that's me (and that's why this is my blog).

If you enjoy this blog, please help me get that number up. Click here. Maybe one reason I got a mediocre rating is that I've been categorized as a "religion and spirituality" blog. Huh?

Well, there isn't a section called "Dilletantes", so they had to pick something.

Image note: For a small collection of old report cards, click here.

Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery

Once again, I'm copying something TMC posted over at Return to Rural, but she got it from Ice Cream is Nice Cream.

As I've had a most productive day thus far and need something silly to help me procrastinate doing the next thing on my day's list o' things to do, I figured I'd do the "I prefer meme". What do you prefer? Mind are in bold, just like TMC's.

birkenstocks or designer shoes
I'll take the or in this one. I don't like birkenstocks. Do I like designer shoes? Not particularly. Do I like really interesting shoes? Most definately. But these days, I mostly wear Keens, which may merit the term "21st century birkenstocks"
outside or inside
This year inside seems to be winning. But there'd be no inside without the outside, so how can a person pick just one?
hoping or planning
I do both, but hoping often leads to planning, so I'll choose that one, please.
carrots or peas
I love peas. I also love carrots, but I seem to eat a lot of peas. Peas with butter. Peas in curry. They are so nice and green (except when they come out of a can, but that's a whole nother kettle of non-fish)
cheese or chocolate
Cheese, cheese and more cheese. Bring it on! I'll take cheese over chocolate any day of the week. Doesn't it seem like I'm using more cliches than usual? Anyhoo, sometimes I feel like I'm not a "real woman" 'cause I'm not all nutso about chocolate.
wristwatch or intuition
I may not wear a wristwatch, but I do like knowing what time it is.
milk or juice
I don't drink milk, so that's out. Juice, I've recently found some (raspberry lemon) that I like to put into sparkling water. Sparkling water (or seltzer, as they call it in New York) is my drink.
creating or viewing
Without the inspiration of viewing, I may not create, but still, I prefer to create.
walking or running
If they could invent a really effective sports bra, maybe I'd run. I miss running around like a kid.
bouncing or rigid
See the last entry.
cozy or breezy
This woman likes cozy. I can't sit on the sofa without my blanket. Life without being cozy - aw, I just would be miserable. Woodstoves, wool and three feet of snow. I love it.
fancy or hearty
Considering how much I like pot roast and turkey dinner (yes, I'm a disgusting carnivore), I must choose hearty. And then there's biscuits and gravy and dumplings and. . .I'm hungry!
chuckle or guffaw
I can't say I've ever done either.
whisper or announce
Everyone says I speak too softly to even hear. Says one person, "I don't hear half of what Julie says. I just nod my head and smile." Nice, huh? Sorry, everyone. I hear things too loudly!
lick or bite
No comment.
snuggle or grope
I refuse to choose.
sing or listen
I love to sing, even if I can't sing very well. There should be more singing on a daily basis.
kiss or hug
Again, I refuse to choose.
wonder or discover
And once again, I think there's no discovering without wondering, but discovery is even more fun.
anticipate or achieve
To heck with both of these.

Well, the world is full of false dichotomies. Commentaries and sutras about "picking and choosing" abound in Zen Buddhist literature. I'm too tired to think or write about that.

Photo note: Okay, maybe I should have written "I prefer designer shoes." John Fluevog, for instance. I don't own any of his shoes. I can't afford them. And where the heck would I wear them? In my muddy yard? When I'm walking through snow? Over to the General Store? I'd still like a pair. Okay, I love interesting shoes much more than my Keens. I might not wear the shoes above, for those colors are almost sickening, and I absolutely wouldn't wear the ones below, because I don't wear opened toed shoes (or sandals), but they are so, ahem, interesting, and because of that, I had to post two (a first!)

Novel update

If you look at my NaNoWriMo gadget on the right (somewhere, just scroll down), you'll see, if you've looked at it before, that I eliminated the message "Here's where you can see if you should tease me, congratulate me or ________" I forgot what the third option was.

The updater isn't working this evening, but my word count is now 12,078 13,12914,614. Giving myself a pat on the back for fourfive day's worth of so-called "work". Hey, it's a so-called novel. So-called work, as opposed to real work, makes sense to me.

This is just too much fun.

And I have no doubt I'll hit the 50,000 goal by the deadline, unless some aliens land and take away my computer or cut off my hands. Ooh, sorry for the last image, but I'm leaving it. You see, participating in this writing adventure is causing me to write the oddest things, and then just leaving them there.

But, I had always done that. No wonder I'm finding the 1667 words per day goal achievable. Once upon a time, I was a perfectionist. I've left that in the dust.

Image note: Another strategy to stop crazed writer from writing.

Addendum: Until my next post, I will continue striking out dates and old word counts. Hope I post something soon. I will, no doubt. And I thought that while I was doing NaNoWriMo that I wouldn't blog too much. Between typing up fake medical transcripts, the pseudo-novel and this, the muscle in my right forearm is sore. That better not get any worse or I'll be slowed down, and I am feeling like an express train that skips those dinky little towns. Wave to the empty platform! Bye-bye! (What is she writing about? Has she lost her mind?)

Post-election day post

I feel absurd writing about anything other than the fact that Obama was elected president last night. It's so big. Maybe it's too big to write about, at least for me. Besides, I'm exhausted. For your consideration, here's "my life on Election Day 2008":

The day started calmly, though thoughts of past election day shenanigans and disastrous polling danced through my head, causing me momentary bursts of high anxiety. I was happy that I had been asked to poll-watch, even though I figured there wasn't much to see in my little town and even if the turn-out was larger than normal, with only something around 400 registered voters, how busy could it be?

I tried to do some schoolwork before Noon, when I was to be at the Town Hall, but I never got around to it. I read every stinking poll there was until I was dizzy with anxiety and tempered hopefulness. I read every last blog that I normally follow and at 11:50 I walked out of my house.

I asked my neighbor for a ride over there, 'cause I didn't have time to walk. She grumbled about calling some friends and family who weren't planning on voting, and how they still weren't planning on voting. I didn't know who she was voting for (and I don't know now how she voted), so I said, "I don't care who you're voting for - I just want people to vote." That's true in theory, but I wanted as many people as possible to vote for Obama.

I will be honest about something I should keep secret: I was undecided until the last moment about one of our Senators. Susan Collins seems like a very good senator, but she's a Republican, and I wanted them to go down in flames yesterday. But I didn't like that I felt that way. I've never been truly partisan. So, I've been flip-flopping for the last week. It made me realize that the thoughts I've had about people who were undecided until the last minute in the Presidential election may have had similar feelings. Here in my little town, 75 people voted outside of their party for Obama. Maybe they felt hesitant to jump ship. I didn't understand and now I think I do.

The poll-watching was silly. More correctly, it was overkill. I sat there with a list of Democrats, checking off names of people who arrived to vote. There was a steady stream of people, but no real lines (unless you count waiting with two people in front of you a line). About one hundred people voted while I was there, and only two or three of them stated their name in a voice that I could hear. Everyone was whispering. Add to this that some people had heavy Maine accents and I kept repeating myself, "Could you please state your name again?" I had one chance to ask them and that was it. It's a law!

What was strange for me is that, despite living in such a small town, I saw almost noone I recognized. Many people I know here did not vote. Others, I found out, had voted early. The women working at the polls for the town knew everyone and I felt rather foolish for they knew me. But I've only lived here for going on four years, which makes me quite the newcomer. Never mind that I've lived in this country almost twenty years.

I'm glad I brought my knitting. It made me seem less like someone who was there in some official capacity keeping an eagle eye on things and being an outsider.

There were two "incidents", actually. One was disturbing to me on a personal level. A dear friend of mine, who passed away over two years now, was checked off as having voted. Huh? I did the eulogy at her funeral and I don't think she came back from the dead to vote (though she would have loved to). And to all of you who think it's awful I'm making a joke about this, she would have liked that, too.

But, yes, she was still on the voting rolls. It was the unofficial Democratic tally that said she voted, and not the town's, so it was corrected without having to find out if someone pretended to be her. Noone did. But still, it's a bit of mystery.

The other little incident was that a woman showed up, wearing a "I Voted" sticker and walked around, shaking each of our hands, while stating her name. Huh? Oh, she was running for office. But doesn't she know she's not allowed to campaign inside the polling place? She expressed complete ignorance of this law, which I learned in elementary school. She tried to stay, and shook a few people's hands before she was asked to leave. The town clerk said she couldn't do it and she appealed to me, saying "What's wrong with introducing myself?" I told her it was glad-handing, which was campaigning, and that's that. Me, the kill-joy.

I proably would have voted for this woman, but I was so unimpressed by her trying to either pretend she was ignorant of the laws of polling places or trying to convince us that we were, that I didn't vote for her.

Dick and I voted at 4:00pm, got our stickers and came home where we both sequestered ourselves with laptops until 7. . .I made a 15 bean cajun soup with too much thyme in it and then realized all those beans on a night that I was anxious wasn't the best of ideas.

At 7:00pm, when the first results starting coming in, I was sure that the polls were going to be proved wrong. The earliest votes were for McCain and as much as I knew that these were all states he was expected to win, I became a nervous wreck.

More results came in. We were watching CBS, MSNBC and CNN at the same time 'cause we've been election junkies. I checked various blogs during lulls, which were few.

When Obama won Ohio, "they" said it was pretty much a done deal. Dick wanted to open the champagne, but I wanted to hear someone say "Obama wins" or that it's impossible for McCain to win until we started celebrating. When did that happen? It had to be before Obama actually did win, for we were drinking champagne for an hour or more. I can't remember. Last night is rather a blur.

Dick said he was calling it a day at 10:45 'cause he had an early meeting in the morning. I said, "It's possible I'll wake you up with my yelling when they call it for Obama."

I lost track of the time. At 11:00 I decided I wanted an apple. I was in the kitchen, cutting an apple into pieces when the electoral vote reached 284.

Here's what I experienced, on account of that apple: I sat down in front of my laptop and saw a picture of a girl curled up in a little ball, down on the ground, surrounded by other girls who were crying. My first reaction was, "Did they shoot Obama?!" Then I looked at the top of the screen: Obama 248 Electoral Votes.

I did start screaming. Dick came downstairs and as I watched people crying in Chicago and Harlem and Spelman college, I started to weep. I couldn't stop. The phone rang and it was my father. He asked, "What's wrong with your voice?" I said, "I'm choked up." "What?!" "I'm choked up!" "I can't understand you!!!" "I'm CRYING!!!" My father: "I never thought I'd live to see this day."

I was glad McCain gave the speech he did. And Obama, well, it was almost too much. That music added to my sense of unreality. I wished I was in New York City or Chicago, for I couldn't wrap my head around the fact that he won. Here in my sleepy little town, everyone was, well, asleep. There's no street to be out on, if people were to take to the streets. Well, no sidewalks, that is.

I sniffled and cried a little more, read everything I could get my hands on, e-mailed people and twittered some, and finally, at 2:30 or so, went to bed.

My aunt called this morning and she was choked up. Something happened that is far bigger than Obama winning the presidency. It has a lot, for me, to do with not being a white anglo-saxon protestant or any other type of Christian. It has a lot to do with having my ancestors being killed en masse. It has a lot to do with my mother, who made sure I went to schools that were integrated when I was very young and took me to rallies and marches. It has a lot to with not being from here, where I live, and as I poll-watched yesterday, I felt that keenly.

This was personal.

So, I could write a bit about this, after all. But now I'm done.

Photo note: Obama in Berlin. Strange and awesome (in the true sense of the word). The sea of white arms. The legacy of crowds past in Germany. And much more.

Too stunned about reality, so I wrote fiction

I assumed that I'd be posting about the fact that Barack Obama is now our President-elect on Wednesday, November 5th, 2008.

But no, instead I'm giving you a NaNoWriMo update: 2061 words today, 10061 total. That means I am a little over 1/5th of the way done. If it took me four days to write 10,000 words, then it'll take me, theoretically, 16 more days to finish, so this means I'm golden. But I'm going to need more than 50,000 words, the way this story is shaping up. My narrator is a blabber mouth who will not stick to the topic. She may be too boring for anyone to want to stick with, but I will stick with her to the potentially bitter end.

On the reality front, I am too tired and too stunned to write intelligently. I wasn't sure I could concentrate on my schoolwork, either, so I put on my bathrobe and played with the novel. Notice: today I was able to write the word novel without a self-deprecating indicator. However, I did write the word played instead of worked. But, it wasn't work, so why should I call it that?

I hope to be able to write about the election results and how I felt last night, but I just can't do it today. Maybe I'll feel differently later on, but I suspect I may be asleep. I can't stay up past 2:00am and drink champagne without feeling like crap the next day. Ah, this is one area in which I miss my earlier self!

Painting note: Vermeer "Woman Receiving note from Writing Buddy" 1667-1668

For the real name of this painting, click the Vermeer link.

Yes we did

I wept.

Do the right thing

I should be meditating, but I was drinking coffee, and, of course, I had to check in with Andrew Sullivan's blog.

I watched part of Obama's stump speech in Charlotte, North Carolina, where he spoke about his grandmother. Last night I got choked up when I heard that she had passed away, just one day before she could see her grandson become elected POTUS.

I had tears in my eyes just now, as I heard him talk a bit about her ("It's hard, a little") and about all the "regular heroes" that this country has. Y'know, all this talk about Obama being some sort of celebrity just hasn't rung true to me. Sure, he's charismatic, but it's not the same charisma that one sees in Hollywood people, or those we might call "superstars" (a word coined by Andy Warhol, who came up with the 15 minutes of fame concept).

No, the regular heroes are us. Or they are like my partner, Dick, who works as an Ed Tech at a small elementary school in the middle of nowhere. He doesn't get paid well (and I hope that he isn't mad at me for writing this publicly).

On Halloween, I saw kids run up to Dick and hug him. He's been a hero to many kids. He's touched their lives, maybe even changed them a little. Meanwhile, as we struggle financially, people who push imaginary money around at desks on Wall Street or play imaginary teachers in movies get paid millions of dollars.

My vote today is for people like Madelyn Payne Dunham (Obama's grandmother), all the people who work at public schools around this country, the rest of the world (who's watching our every move), the children who live next door to me, for you, whoever you are, and for me, too.

Now I'm going to finish my coffee.

So far, it's a beautiful day.

Comics note: Charles Schulz was always a political cartoonist, but he was quite good at hiding it.

Anxious

Preface: If you landed here by accident, saw the Obama graphic and had a bad reaction, please click here to read a conservative's take on why he's voting for Obama. Now, I'll proceed:

I've been upbeat all day. I even listened to Rush Limbaugh and was able to laugh him off, just like I used to.

I should have closed my laptop an hour ago. I could have spent some time studying how to use shortcuts and macros in MS Word for medical transcription. I could have worked on the faux-novel. I could have been meditating. I could be sleeping.

But no. I stayed on the web far too long, long enough to start reading every worst case scenario that could happen tomorrow.

Then I thought, oh, Twitter will make me feel better, but no, it did not, for there are plenty of twitterers (or tweeters or whatever they're called) who write hateful things. I forgot about that.

I read a plausible article about how people who are more conservative are less apt to participate in polls. That freaked me out. Is it possible that all the polls have been wrong? The likelihood of this being true is statistically and logically unlikely, but still, I am anxious.

I worried that the polls in Maine have been wrong, because I've seen so many McCain signs, but I found out the other night that my local campaign office had its signs stolen.

Oddly, that made me feel better the other night, but on this night, it makes me wonder if my vote will be stolen. But I'll be watching, 'cause I'm a poll watcher for the afternoon here in my small town.

I don't think anything will happen here. We do it the old fashioned way - paper ballots. When I moved here, I didn't even know that paper ballots were used any more, except in third world countries. I like paper ballots. I feel like I really voted. There's a pencil and there's a piece of paper that I can hold in my hand. I put a mark in a box and I can even erase it if I've made a mistake.

One year I helped count ballots. We stayed up until after midnight and we only had something like three hundred of those things to count. I don't know how they do it in the larger towns and cities. It must be insane.

But I'm getting off track, as usual. I'm nervous as hell.

I bought a bottle of champagne today. Dick bought a bottle when it was predicted that Kerry might win, and I told him he shouldn't have done it, 'cause I was sure Bush was going to win and I did not want to see that unopened sad bottle of champagne in my refrigerator the day after. I think it was a year until we finally drank it.

I was feeling buoyant, hopeful and full of energy when I was in the market today. I drove home on some roads I'd never been on before and actually got lost. I saw many Obama signs in the town of Hermon, which surprised me. Then I noticed that the houses on this road were pretty fancy and that made me sad.

Why are there so many McCain supporters in the poorer areas of Maine (or any other poor rural area of America)? I don't understand it at all. I give pretty much everything a lot of thought. It may not be the best or most informed thought, but I try. I listen to people and I haven't lived in a bubble, knowing only those who are "like me". Yet, I still don't understand. Or maybe I do, and I don't want to think (or write)about it.

And maybe that's why I'm anxious. Or not.

Image note: I think this is a beautiful piece of graphic design. Yet, I just wanted to post the word hope without a picture of Obama. I had trouble finding the word in the right font. . .

But, here's a few thoughts: Let's remember this election isn't about Barack Obama. He's not an idol (even I think he's cute), he's not perfect and things aren't going to get instantly better when and if he becomes president. The world is far too complicated for that to be true. He can't do it all for us.

After the election, get (or stay) involved. If you care about health care reform, tax reform, tort reform, protecting our constitution, the homeless, the working poor, the lousy wages teachers get, the war in Iraq, terrorism, civil liberties. . .You get the picture. Whatever it is, Obama is not going to snap his fingers and solve all the world's woes.

Don't get me wrong. I think an Obama win will change quite a bit, but I'm not going to get into that now. It is time for me to go to sleep. See you on Election Day!

Addendum (and yes, I'm still awake, as far as I can tell): I just found a good remedy for pre-election day jitters, 27 pundits predicting an Obama win including Karl Rove , with only one dissenting voice. Who is this guy? You tell me!

The character wearing a bathrobe

Chris Baty writes that putting on a special piece of clothing will get you in the mood to write. Quite frankly, when I read that, I thought it was silly. Saying I read it is not quite accurate - I only skimmed it (because I thought it was silly). It seemed like saying, "Hey boys and girls! It's time to put on our thinking caps!!!"

So, yesterday I wrote about 3000 words, all while I was wearing my bathrobe. I told Dick, "When I take this bathrobe off, you can talk to me." And then I was all set, and because it's the night before the election, I'll say this; with that bathrobe on, I was fired up and ready to go.

Some writer I am. Was that an appropriate use of a semi-colon? I have no idea.

Who cares? I'll find an editor.

As far as the bathrobe thing goes, it really worked. Today, after I got home from school, I felt like I was probably not going to be able to work on the faux novel (today's new self deprecating word for it). What did I do? I put away my groceries, laid my schoolbooks aside, sorted through my mail, put on my bathrobe and wrote a note that said "Dick - I've got on the bathrobe. Talk to you when it's off, around 4:15."

I stopped writing at 3:30, so he never saw the note.

Here's the oddest part. It makes total sense that the bathrobe trick is working, for the protagonist is in a hospital at present. I needed to introduce a long section that was from another person's point of view today and I just could not do it.

Why not? Because of the bathrobe.

There was no way that this other character would sit on a sofa in the middle of the day wearing a bathrobe. Absolutely no chance of it. So, what am I going to do? I think I might have to pull out a suit jacket and put it on next time I write.

Do you think this has gone too far? I've heard of method actors, but are there method writers? Am I going to have to start wearing a sheriff's badge, a suit jacket, a bathrobe and, well, who knows what else. . .there's going to be more characters and they don't share the same closet space.

Photo note: A bathrobe with lobsters on it from L.L.Bean. Not what I'm wearing, but my character just might.

If you haven't already done so, get out there and vote tomorrow!

The NaNoWriMo Meter

I'm still not giving out a link to National Novel Writing Month's website, 'cause it's still having problems. Even my word count meter is loading slowly, if it's loading at all. So, in the spirit of my being a crowing bit of a jerk, here's today's word count: 2316 for the day (so far) and 8879 total. I didn't realize I was so competitive. This is great motivation for me, and honestly, I did not expect that.

Tomorrow, I'm going to be an official poll watcher for part of the day. I also have other things to do than sit in my bathrobe pretending I'm someone else.

I'm sure I will write about politics tomorrow. I can't believe the election is finally here. Yeah, I know other people voted early, and I could have, too, but to me, voting is on the first Tuesday in November. Actually, for some reason I've always had it in my mind that voting is on November 4th. Is the presidential election always on November 4th? I feel quite stupid, and I am not googling this and pretending I did know the answer.

Ah, well, Rush Limbaugh said I dumb on the radio today. He said even worse, actually.

ADDENDUM: I was curious about what some other NaNoWriMo's participants in my state were up to and the first post on the message board showed that someone had written 12,000 or so words already. I was awe struck. Then I got to post number four or so and see someone claims 43,000 words (plus some). Now, I may be competitive, but really, isn't that a bit insane? Maybe these people are on Adderall. I hear it's good for writing term papers. . .

Books, childhood, writing

I do not plan on abandoning this blog because I'm, ahem, writing a novel. I plan on being extra busy. I'm already tired, though the time change may be a good reason for that. It usually takes me two weeks to adjust to the time change. I don't mind that it gets dark an hour earlier than it did yesterday. I like the dark, and Maine is more than a bit bleak in the Winter, so I don't need to see it as much. Sounds strange, when I put that into words.

I thought, perhaps, that since it's only 8:30, I would put in a bit more time working on the novel. Let me amend that last sentence: I am not "working" on this novel. I am playing. Maybe the fact that I feel like I'm playing at being a novelist is why I have called the collection of words I've written thus far the "novel", referred to it as the "so-called novel" or wrote "ahem" in the first sentence of this post. but the truth is, I am playing a novelist (though not on TV).

Heh. I was intending to write about music. So much for that. I am not going to.

I wonder why it never occurred to me to be a writer. I learned to read at a very young age. I was fascinated with the written word. I remember very clearly that, when watching TV, if there were words on the screen, I'd call for my mother, because I wanted to know what those words were. Of course, she'd never arrive on time, but I know I did it anyway, much to her annoyance. Thinking back, I'd make a bet that the first word I learned to read was "Acme", the brand name on every product in Looney Tunes cartoons.

Saying books were an essential part of my childhood would be a gross understatement. When I was still in the picture book stage of life, I made my own, and I continued to do so after I started reading books without pictures. I still have some of these books, things made of colorful construction paper with names like "Cherry Street" and "Fun!" It reminds me that there actually was a time in my childhood when I had a happy side. There were some made of plain white paper, that I dictated to my father while he typed my words. I recall one in particular, which was a ghost story, and I wanted to draw a skeleton, but it was beyond my abilities, so my Dad drew it. I was quite impressed! My father drew wonderfully funny cartoons. On some Sundays he'd draw faces on soft boiled eggs and they were so fantastic I didn't want to break the shell. Of course, I had to, and learned my first lesson in non-attachment. Aha! Maybe that's why I became a Buddhist as an adult.

I still have some of these little books somewhere. They are the only things of my childhood that I still own. I have no family photos, nothing, but I have these.

I continued to draw but I stopped writing and became a reader instead. My reading was voracious. In the summer between the fifth and sixth grades, I made a pact with myself that I'd read one book a day. Why I wanted to do this, I have no memory of, but I remember it was a big deal. I got a roll of adding machine paper and fixed it to the ceiling of my bedroom. When I finished a book, I'd write the name of it on the paper tape, and sure enough, by the end of the summer, the paper was hanging near the floor with the names of all the books I had digested. I'm hard pressed to tell you what I read that summer, for I basically forgot each book as I started the next one. It was a contest with myself. I know I read Agatha Christie and stayed up late into the night to find out who dunnit. I had a sense that all her novels were terribly similar, but I was obsessed with reading all of them. Did I? I don't know. Probably not, but I may have read all the ones that were in our local library.

I was lucky to have a world class library in the town I grew up in. I was lucky, also, to have a father who advocated for me obtaining an adult library card before I was twelve. I still remember him arguing with the librarian at the front desk about the absurdity of not allowing a child who wanted to read good books to borrow books outside of the children's section. I'm sure my father could have taken these books out for me, of course, but I suppose he thought there was some principle involved. I did get an adult library card before I was twelve. I was thrilled. That library was a big one and there were countless books and new worlds that I clamored to dive into.

If it wasn't for that library, I have no idea, absolutely no idea, how I would have made it through childhood. The library was my safe haven, no matter what the problem was. When I was bullied at school, the library was the place where I was treated well, and no book ever bullied me. When my parents were fighting, the library was the quiet place where noone ever raised their voice. When I needed to escape from anything, the library was there, and so was the escape of both fiction and non-fiction. I could travel to ice caves in places I never heard of or far flung galaxies filled with aliens. Truth was, I was pretty non-discriminatory in my reading. My library allowed ten books to be taken out at one time and I would always, absolutely always, come home with all ten.

First I'd look at what was in the new book section. I did judge books by their covers. Whoever came up with the aphorism "You can't judge a book by its cover" is dead wrong. Okay, maybe that was true back before there were graphic designers and art directors and all books were bound in a few different shades of leather, but you absolutely can judge a book by its cover.

You can spot a romance novel or some chick lit a mile away. These are two genres that I have actually never read. It seems impossible to believe that I didn't at least try to read one or two, but I can't think of any.

I've read everything else (and I don't mean I've read every novel in the world. I mean, how many lifetimes exactly do you think that would require?)

I've gone through so many different phases where I'd read only one genre until I couldn't take it any more, or I'd read everything by one author, all in a row. I still do this now and again.

For nearly ten years, I would not read anything that was written after 1915 or so. Before that, I was a science fiction fanatic. I did think I had some sort of problem. Reading about the past or the future was certainly escapist, but isn't all fiction reading escapist? Maybe. Maybe not. I suppose it depends on how one reads.

For me, it really was mostly about escape. Reading blocked out the world. Add to that the fact that if one is reading, most people will not interrupt you, and it's the perfect thing for a maladjusted kid (or adult). And one can bury one's face in a book. Yes, a book is the perfect hiding place.

So, why did I never think of writing? I know I wrote fiction in junior high school and I got good grades, but it never occurred to me that I could write books. That was for other people, very special other people. I was not one of them. Maybe I'd keep a journal and sometimes venture into writing from someone else's perspective, but a book? No, I couldn't imagine being an author.

Writers were rarefied creatures who I imagined had immense imaginations. Coming up with a plot? How did they do it? It seemed beyond my imagination even to imagine how a writer came up with a plot. And unfortunately, I was brought up with the belief that if something didn't come naturally to you, and you had other talents, you should leave those other dreams aside. So, if the thought ever arose (which indeed it did) that I might like to try to write a book, even just to see how it felt or what would happen, I'd just brush that thought aside as fast as I could.

So, I guess I'm finally doing it. I'm writing the book I should have written when I was twelve years old. Here's one thing I'm grateful for: if I wrote it then, I would have had to write it longhand or on a manual typewriter. Ouch!

Image note: From Clara Hinton's 1906-1907 diary. Find more at the Historic Iowa's Children's Digital Diaries Collection.

Lace Knitting Class

For any of you who live in Maine, I'll be teaching one or two classes at Heavenly Socks Yarns in Belfast on November 17th. Go here for details.

Photo note: Not the greatest photo, but the shawl is eight feet long! It's from Folk Shawls, and makes an excellent project for a beginner lace knitter.

Sunday morning (sort of)

I'ts 9:11a.m. That's the new time, so it doesn't quite feel like the morning to me. I think, "Oh boy, I've got an extra hour."

So, instead of getting myself straight to my meditation cushion, I get on line, watch McCain on Saturday Night Live, read various posts about Joe the Plumber having a history of physically abusing women, decide to write a blog post, still haven't meditated, chew my nicotine gum too quickly. . .

In other words, as the old-timers would say, I'm hopped up.

I received invites for "write-ins" and can't imagine attending any of them (and I won't). I can't write fiction with other people around. Yesterday, when I started writing the "novel", I told Dick, at 1:48p.m., "At two o'clock I'm starting writing and you can not talk to me for two hours."

We live in a fairly large house. It was quiet, which is the way I need it when I'm writing ('cept for blog posts and e-mail). At some point, Dick must've watched a YouTube video or something. I could not concentrate. I remembered that there were earplugs in the bedroom, but that would mean I'd have to get up from my seat, and move away from the computer. I couldn't do it - it would break the spell. For two hours, I was completely immersed in my character and the imaginary community in which she lives. My main character, at present, doesn't have the liberty to move around much or get what she needs when she wants it, so I don't either.

So,I grabbed some earbuds, jammed them into my poor ears, pulled my hoodie over my head, and then further sequestered myself within a tent of a blanket. This didn't work entirely. I still could hear the sounds of whatever Dick was listening to, and I thought, "tomorrow - I'm using earplugs!"

Now, today is tomorrow, and I'm wondering about some pretty dumb things like whether or not I'm cooking dinner tonight and if so, can I cheat and use yesterday's leftovers. I'm also freaking out just a bit, for the election is in two days! I also wonder what the heck I'm doing sitting here blogging instead of meditating and worried that I'm going to have a hard time not thinking about my plot when I do get myself on that cushion.

I am also still thinking "I'm not a writer!" So what - I am having fun. If writing this so-called novel doesn't get in the way of living life, it doesn't matter what it's for or whether it's good. If it stops being fun, I'll stop (perhaps).

On a far more serious note, Dick just showed me a video on YouTube that I suggest you watch. Thought San Francisco was a nice place? Not if you're homeless.

Image note: Anonymous 15th Century Chinese book illustrationMonkey mind. I've got it bad today.

NaNoWriMo Update: 2014 words today. 5976 total. And still having fun!

NaNoWriMo Day 1

I'm not going to give you a link to the National Novel Writing Month's website because it is not operating properly. There's a time countdown (29 days and six hours or so left), but the "collective word count" is 0.

So, I'm not pleased because I wanted to upload what I've wrote, all 2,253 words of it, and see my meter go up. Boo hoo!

I'm not above giving myself a pat on the back for doing my bit today. I've now got an imaginary bunch of towns in Maine, a few characters and a start. I did it!

If any other nanowrimo's know what's going on with the site, please tell me! When I can access the page where one uploads words for the official count, the field just won't work. Everything else does (but as slow as molasses). Help!

Anyway, day one went well. Hooray!

Update: 10:42pm The word count is now 3127. Still can't upload it to NaNoWriMo.

What are you doing?

That's the Twitter question.

Today:
1.Take shower (done)
2.Get dressed (done)
3.Drink coffee (half-done)
4.Eat 12-grain hot cereal (waiting for it to be done)
5.Get gas
6.Go to my meditation group
7.Go grocery shopping
8.Start novel
9.Eat dinner
10.To be determined later

Note: Starting a novel is number eight on my to-do list.

Come join me on Twitter, if you like, where I'll be leaving short messages about my Nanowrimo progress. I have no idea how to ask you to join me, as I haven't figured out the Twitter thing, but my screen name is julesinrose. And if you're a nanowrimo yourself, come buddy me.

Image note: Doesn't it look crooked? It's an optical illusion. Dick says, "It is crooked. What are you talking about?" He's sitting right next to me, so I haven't said anything. Yes, the do-to list is crooked, but the box is not.
And I think this is interesting. Really.