Doing the Backstroke

2008-11-14T13:24:00.000-08:00

Yay! I finally found my old password for this site.

2005-09-03T19:27:00.000-07:00

God's alone

And I'm alone

Inside of God.

2005-08-18T20:02:00.000-07:00

Here's another old poem of mine--this one was actually published in a teen magazine like a thousand years ago!

To all who know
And some who don't
Wouldn't it be nice
To fly in the sky
With Lucy
Or dance with Jude
To yesterday's song
Out on Strawberry Fields
Maybe you'll meet
Mean Mr. Mustard and
Talk to Polythene Pam
Or to wander across
The universe on the
Magical Mystery Tour
Get a ticket to ride
With Sergeant Pepper
And see
The fool on the hill
But when it's all over
Golden slumbers will come
And you'll carry that weight
Till the End.

2005-08-16T19:58:00.000-07:00

I'm going crazy tonight. I spent the entire day prepping for my new semester and finished only one syllabus. Although I've taught the course before, I had to change a bunch because there's a new person in charge with different goals than those of the person with whom I've worked for the last 3 (or is it 4?) years. Once the class starts, it should actually be easier than before, but the switch is absorbing my precious time. I've still got to wrap my mind around exactly what I'm supposed to do.

Anyway, now I deserve a break, but I'm locked out of my favorite forum (darn server, I guess). What's a girl to do? Well, here's another little poem--an old one of mine--to pass the time:

When Doug died
so did my love.
Crushed to the ground
like leaves in the dirt.
When Doug was alive
so were hope and dreams.
Always something to
move on to.
Before Doug left
things were looking down.
My love to leave
unable to stay.
Sometimes I'd cry,
but it was
meaningless pain...
because when Doug died
the slate was wiped clean.
Nothing to cling to.
No one to hold.
No dreams worth having.
No life to live.
And Doug was Dead.
And that's when you left.

2005-08-14T21:17:00.000-07:00

And I drove

Across lands of asphalt and places of trees. Where landscapes were made by man and to places men seldom see except in movies and in dreams. I drove to an ocean surrounded by a city and to a city surrounded by a long dead sea. I played in fields where my ancestors were slain and stargazed at the sky to which they'd prayed.

I drove to a mountain where the snow never leaves--then back down to the desert of the Joshua Tree.

And I drove because all my dreams were wrapped up in being someplace where I wasn't and seeing things I've never seen before or since. I drove to the edge of sanity and ended on the brink of reality. I drove in the day just to see the light and kept on driving in anticipation of the night.

I drove and drove. And when the wind wasn't whipping my hair and my hands weren't on the wheel, I flew.

In my mind

I soared.

2005-08-05T23:01:00.000-07:00

Gad! What a lonely life this is!

Some days I can't stand being alive. Loneliness tearing, ripping, biting, gouging. Ah, but to tell the world, "I am lonely!": It just sounds so melodramatic and self-pitying.

I'm not the only one, though. So many people out there sitting in front of a computer screen, staring out the window, walking in the dark, dreaming of an unrequited love, watching a movie all by themselves, reading a story about a character who they wish actually existed, engaging in on-line chat or forum discussions, and just generally being alive and alone.

And what does it mean? Why do so many of us feel this gaping emptiness inside?

Prologue: Unity & Division

In the beginning, we were one, and, in that oneness, we were two. How we got here, who created us, I can’t say. Looking back to our youth, I remember love, I remember fulfillment. Since then, it’s been mostly emptiness and longing.

How we were ripped asunder remains unclear. In my memory, clouded by eons, I see an angry god and hear pronouncements of pain. The culprit was surely annihilated by such fearsome rage, but the damage had already been done. We looked down at ourself, and there were two where before there had been one.

Then we wept, and the gods wept with us.

Love, however, welled up inside of us, and the pain for awhile subsided. Clasped in each other’s arms, we could pretend that we were as we’d once been. Then—I’m not sure who started it—one of us wandered away. At first, as we learned to stand alone, the separation was no more than a few arms lengths; gradually, though, we often found ourselves almost out of sight before the panic set in. And, having discovered solitary mobility, we’d rush back to one another and lose ourselves in love.

The conflict, I suppose, was inevitable: No longer attached, our hearts and minds could no longer communicate directly. I was angry, my other self was angry, and neither of us could say why. We simply couldn’t find the words.

Hurt drove us to solitude that first time. Then we came to seek it for no reason. Perhaps it was simply easier that way—the frustration of hearing and not hearing…of touching and not touching: sometimes it just overwhelmed us.

Then we felt the stirrings of our first child. One of us embraced the life inside and thought she might be whole again; the other wallowed in bitterness and outrage over what felt like his second loss. (Always it would be so, and so I do not wonder that we think ourselves so different today. What might have joined us, if only in spirit, has only driven us further apart.)

Our child soon experienced his own separation, amidst a flood of blood and pain. Frightened, we clung to him and each other. His mother grieved at the emptiness he left behind, but delighted in his seemingly perfect singularity. His father simply looked on in awe.

Many children followed, each born in isolation. Even our twins, who embraced in the womb, came into the world alone and whimpering piteously. Only a few were complete in oneness, whole in solitude. We thanked heaven for their happiness and tried to learn from them.

As our brood grew and we spread out to accommodate that growth, we encountered others of our kind, suffering as we did. Our children, not understanding our—and their own—condition, and feeling only loneliness and longing, tried to find completion in these others. And what could we do but hope they would find it? So loss piled on top of loss as their mother felt they were each ripped from her once again, and their father, too, felt the loss, though to a lesser extent. Truth be told, he took comfort in giving comfort to his other self. Beneath that comfort existed another thought as well: that when our offspring had all moved on, left with only one another to cling to, we might have some semblance of the unity we’d lost and seemed to lose again with each new child that came between us.

Then, somehow we lost each another. I remember seeing my other self--not really even seeing because it was a sight I took for granted. Looking away. And when I turned back...nothing. My other self was gone.

I didn’t even realize it for the longest time. I think that maybe we had grown so used to the pain of separation that we couldn’t feel the fresh ache inside us.

Realization, of course, brought desperation. I was like a wild thing--rushing about, pleading, demanding, screaming, wallowing in a new kind of despair. No matter what I did, though, I couldn’t find me: I was powerless to make it right. Ripped asunder all over again, I wept until there were no more tears left to weep. Then--what else could I do?--I searched.

And I continued to search. Even now, I search...but to no avail. Longing has been my life for millennia, an agony of longing, so much longing that now, looking back over the centuries, I am left with but one conclusion: Unity, it seems, simply wasn't meant to be.

2005-07-31T22:04:00.000-07:00

My little one comes back tomorrow, and I'm so glad. I've spent the last week on the computer because I've felt so lost and lonely! Sounds like he's had a great visit--horseback riding, fishing, visiting the Donkeys, playing with the grandparents' dogs, and of course shooting off little model rockets. My week: checking my e-mail, posting to various Harry Potter forums, writing a couple short stories, working on my novel, and lying in bed awake for half the night at least 5 times this week--sounds like he had a LOT more fun than me. No, in truth, I've been very happy to be able to write this week; as I've said, writing never comes easy for me, so this creative period has been very satisfying. And I did get out of the house: saw War of the Worlds (very exciting!) with my oldest son on Friday and met my mom for breakfast yesterday. And, when the little one gets home tomorrow, we're going to go swimming! I think it's time to take a break from the computer. Plus, my oldest son is feeling put off about me taking away from his net surfing time!

2005-07-30T23:59:00.000-07:00

I've just had terrific news: my earlier rejected story got accepted! (With significant additions, of course. See below for the initial version.) Here's the link if you'd like to check it out: http://fanfiction.mugglenet.com/viewstory.php?sid=28705&i=1 . I'm too excited now to write, but just had to brag to someone (and everyone else here is asleep--like I should be!).

2005-07-29T23:50:00.000-07:00

I dream of running (and flying--but we all do that, I suppose), running as fast as the wind. But the pain doesn't pierce my chest, nor do my calves scream out their resistance. In my dreams, I am a flame, afire with the passion of the chase.

A secret name belongs to me when I run in the night: I am Jackrabbit, and she is me, but more than me. She is everything I'm not, everything I wish to be--beautiful and brave, heroic and free. As Jackrabbit, I run from the bitter darkness that threatens to engulf me--the loneliness, the longing, the unrequited love, the failure that I see myself to be. I run from it all as fast as my will can carry me, flat out like I've got a pack of wolves on my heels.

And the darkness I outrun, the darkness I hold at bay...it cannot touch me because I am a flame, flickering but alive.

I dream of running almost every night.

2005-07-28T16:29:00.000-07:00

Another productive day for writing! But now I'm starting to miss my littlest one. I just called to see how he was doing and he was too busy to talk much. That's sweet, though. He's never spent much time with his paternal grandparents or his father even; seems like they're completely uninterested unless I call, and then they're so happy to hear from us.... It's confusing, but I guess some people just don't like to make the call.

Anyway, I'm glad I did because my son seems so happy to be there. They're having the greatest time making little rockets as I called and visiting a little town that had real live donkeys walking around in the streets earlier this week.

My older kids and I are currently getting along pretty well. My oldest son read my original story and praised it! My daughter tried to read it, but she just couldn't get interested. I don't let that discourage me, though, because she doesn't like to read that much; she's our family math wiz. At least she tried.

I'm starting to look ahead to school now. I always start worrying about now (end of July/first of August), afraid I won't get enough classes to pay all the bills. I teach Freshman and Sophmore English lit and comp, but only as a part-timer--never know until the last minute how many and what type of classes I'll get. However, I love to teach, so it's worth doing the part-timer thing until I can get my Ph.D.

2005-07-27T19:47:00.000-07:00

I spent the day goofing off--reading fan fics and adding to the one I posted below. Since it's long enough now, I went ahead and resubmitted it. The story below doesn't change at all; I just added a couple other very short stories to it from 2 other perspectives. I'm calling it The Spaces Between: Sketches Inspired by Book 6 (of the Harry Potter series, that is). I'm not going to add it here because now it's too long for comfortable reading on this site.

I've added very little to my original story these last two days, but I'm not worried about it. I've had great ideas floating around my head; now I just need to give them time to come together before my mind's eye so I know where to go next. Although I've got things roughly outlined, I'm taking it a scene or two at a time, and the scenes themselves aren't all plotted out for me yet.

Aside from writing and reading, not much going on with me. The littlest one is still with his grandparents. I sure miss him!

2005-07-25T22:04:00.000-07:00

I'm so proud of myself because I spent a lot of time today on an original story I've been writing this summer. I think the darn thing is really coming together in my mind. My youngest son is visiting his grandparents for the first time in years, and the older kids basically ignore me anyway. Although I get lonely and complain about it most of the time, this "alone" time is starting to pay off a bit!

My story is a Fantasy, and, from the feel of it at this point, I think I'm looking at short to medium length novel. Today I really fleshed out a couple of my main characters and now have about two chapters. That probably doesn't sound like much, but I'm happy with it. If I can get two or three more done by the time school starts, I'll be content.

I wonder if it's bad to reflect on the writing process while I'm in the midst of it. I sure hope not! I've just been feeling excited about it, and no one around here really cares. In fact, I showed one of my short sketches to my mom today and she essentially said that it made no sense. My fault, though: I should know better than to share my writing with my mom. She's looking for Shakespeare or Jane Austen, and I'm just finding my own footing. Still, I can't think of anyone I'd rather discuss OTHER people's books with!

2005-07-25T04:00:00.000-07:00

My current entry is a little fan fiction I wrote and submitted to a fan site for publication. I just received the rejection. Unfortunately, it didn't make the length requirements, and I didn't want to revise it because I like it as it is. Oh, well: I'm probably too old to be writing fanfics anyway. Still, it was fun to write. And for someone who suffers writer's block as I do, that's saying a lot!

Warning: If you don't like Harry Potter, you won't like this. And if you do like Harry Potter, be warned that this story touches on the events of the 6th book.

Minerva’s Story: A Sketch

(Disclaimer: I am NOT J.K. Rowling and I do NOT own Harry Potter or any related characters or products. I wrote this story for fun and to honor an awesome author!)

Minerva took off her glasses and set them down next to the stack of parchment on her desk. Leaning back in her chair, she pressed her palms to her aching, blood-shot eyes.

“I need a break,” she murmured to herself, “and maybe some music.”

As she walked across the room, she stopped to add a couple logs to her living room fire and paused to gaze at the flames. More and more often, she found herself like this, unable to concentrate on grading papers, and lost in useless reverie. Pulling herself back to the present, she continued to the phonograph by the large overstuffed couch she often slept on these days, sometimes fully clothed waiting for the awful news of disaster that she knew was sure to come anytime now.

She looked through her collection of records and pulled out an old Beatles album—Abbey Road. Her tastes these days varied, but this was generally as daring as they got. George Harrison had never been a part of the wizarding world, she thought, but one could not miss the magic in several of his songs. “Something” was one of Minerva’s particular favorites. She liked the rest of the group’s oeuvre almost as well.

Listening to John Lennon singing “Come Together” at one of the turntable’s lowest volume settings, Minerva paced. Three thick throw rugs broke up her journey back and forth over the cold hardwood floor, but her warm, fluffy slippers protected her feet even from the spaces between those modest islands of comfort. She wrapped her arms around her waist, pulling her night coat close to her body.

“What is he doing out there, anyway?” she muttered. “Surely one of us could help him. Surely one of us would be a better confidant than that boy, prophesy of no.”

While she paced and worried, Albus’ face came to her. That sweet, elderly face that she’d grown to love over the years since she lost her husband, Marshall. She could see those tired blue eyes of his gazing at her with deep trust and affection over half-moon spectacles. Not love…no, he certainly didn’t share her feelings of love, but she felt no regret or embarrassment concerning her regard. Albus was a fine man, whose admiration and trust were reward enough for any woman.

“Because” played softly in the background. Minerva wiped a couple tears from her left cheekbone. Then she straightened her shoulders and shook the sorrow from her head. She knew what Albus wanted from her, and she had no intention of disappointing him. This school and its occupants meant more to him than anything else in the world; she would do everything in her power to protect them. She wanted to die when she thought of losing Albus, but she would do what she had to do…for him.

And for herself, too. She’d been at this school more years than she could remember. Although her first thoughts were of its headmaster and the dangers he faced for all of them, Minerva considered this school her home, its teachers her friends, and its students almost her own children (or, these days, grandchildren). No, she would let nothing evil happen to them if there was any way she could possibly stop it.

A knock sounded at the door, and her heart plummeted in her breast. She rushed to answer.

Relief coursed through her when she saw the familiar face before her.

“Albus?”

“Minerva, I have to be away from the castle for awhile tonight. Harry will be accompanying me. I would feel better knowing that you and some others were keeping an active eye on things—Remus, Bill, and Nymphadora will be joining you all.”

“Of course.” She paused. “Albus, I…you be careful out there.”

He reached out and grabbed her hand and squeezed it in his own. “I should be back in just a few hours. Take care of things for me.” Then he turned and walked away.

Later that night, Minerva sat in the hospital wing listening to those around her trying to make sense of what had happened this night. Shock held her in its cold, needling embrace, but occasionally she joined in. When the Weasleys arrived, she pushed aside her own grief and rushed to meet them. Then, slowly, as she watched them with their wounded son and as she saw Nymphadora and Remus reveal their affection for one another to the people around them, she forced down the remainder of the agonized, helpless feeling that had threatened to overwhelm her. Standing abruptly, she excused herself and left to attend to the duty that Albus had left her.

2005-07-25T00:20:00.000-07:00

Here's my first post for this site. I've posted elsewhere, but just never felt comfortable with the format. So here I am.

As I mention in my profile, my motivation for creating this blog is a deep loneliness I've been feeling lately. I have three children, two of whom are teenagers, and we used to talk about everything. Now, they're all growing away from me, esp. the older two. The youngest is still my boy, but he's always been more active and outgoing than the others anyway. I grieve most for the loss of the special bond I used to share with my oldest son. Don't get me wrong: I want him to go out and become his own man. I'm giving him his space. Still, I miss all the great conversations we used to have about books and music and movies and just about everything; he has always shared many of my interests. Lately, though, his taste in music has changed and he doesn't really want to discuss books and questions of philosophy with me; he wants to spend time with his friends.

My daughter and I have also always been pretty close, though in very different ways. She doesn't share my interest in books and such, but we've always found things like music and movies and boys to talk about. Now she'd rather hang out with the boys than talk about them--wow, that's scary!

I've been a mother half my life, since I was 17 myself, and I am lucky to have such great kids. I guess it's just time to find out what else and who else I am.