Category Archives: Diary

Drown, Gasp, Drown, Gasp, Plus Birthday Recap

A couple of years ago, Skippy told me to be like the cork: sure, you get drowned by breaker waves, but you can just pop right back up again.

Fine. But you know, being a bloody cork means drown, gasp, drown, gasp…

Kind of like how I defined reincarnation during a recent study session before our priesthood exam: Lather, rinse, repeat.

Birthday summary: tea in bed. Phone call from my parents. Open gifts from parents. Watch cartoons. Go window shopping – window shopping because not one of our medieval stores had anything spectacular. I did get a Japanese bamboo roll pillow, though, and I am now an official Lush fan. That was my present from my husband: carte blanche in the Lush store. Mmm. Bath bombs, bubble bars, massage bars, soap, powder, face scrubs… my bathroom now smells like Lush, which is pretty darned all right in my book. Then sushi for dinner, where the staff gave me a piece of cheesecake for dessert. Anyone who knows me knows that cheesecake isn’t my thing. They’re always so kind, though, so I looked at my husband and said, “I’m going to eat some of this.” It turned out not to be such a sacrifice: it was the lightest, non-cheesey cheesecake I’ve ever tasted, more creamy than anything else. Then we went home and had a bottle of my dad’s amazing red pinot noir.

This morning, I woke up way too early, and wrote a short story before nine AM. I know; I think I must be sick, too. (Yes, Ceri, it’s on its way…)

Alas

Rain! Cool temperatures!

My husband asked me what I’d like to do on my birthday weekend, and I was rather depressed to discover that I couldn’t think of a single thing other than eating copious amounts of raw fish. If only Holly Cole had been in town this weekend instead of last weekend…

Writing Notes

Things I forgot to mention, which I ought to:

I wrote three-quarters of a short story on Friday, after my crisis. I’m usually in agreement with the whole “who says an artist needs to suffer in order to create?”, but lately it seems I need some sort of traumatic emotional upheaval in order to calmly sit down later on and whip something off. Word total for Friday: a very respectable 2,510.

Today, while the power was off (muttergrumblegrr) I researched and made lots of dialogue notes for that potential collaboration project. Out of the blue, I also wrote five and a half poems. (A half, because it’s not in its final draft yet.) Dedicated readers will remember my odd yearnings to be writing poetry this past spring (not that I had poems in mind, I just wanted to be engaged in the act of poetry writing). I find poetry very peaceful. Mind you, it’s also distilled emotion, which is like handling fire and ice at any time, and even more dangerous in my frustrated and fragile hands these days.

It’s even more special, because I started a new notebook. It’s Coptic-bound, with a Japanese print of a plum tree in blossom on it, and the pages are a dark ivory colour. I use my dip pen with black ink, too. Of course, it’s all to recopy the original pencil scribblings in my current notebook of ideas, complete with cross-outs and arrows indicating line rearrangements and so forth.

However — poetry. Goodness. I believe the last time I wrote poetry was around eleven years ago.

Yes, Yes, You Love Me, Thank You

Oh, honestly, people – I’m frustrated, not on my deathbed.

But thanks go out to everyone who left comments, e-mailed, or called as soon as they got off-line and tied up my phone for two and a half hours. Heartfelt thanks. Ceri even called long-distance from her writing retreat in Lower Prospect.

I’d be even happier if it would rain, damn it – really rain, indicating a low pressure front coming through, to break this dreadful humidity. Maybe I’ll head over to the secondhand bookstore around the corner this afternoon to look for the Dorothy Sayers books Ginger recommended for me – that ought to incite the heavens to hurl water at me, especially if I wear a white shirt.

Keeping things in perspective, I recently began to read Frida: A Biography of Frida Kahlo. And I thought I had problems with my back, and with mild chronic pain! Now I just occasionally feel guilty while I read it, knowing that in comparison, my health is far superior to what hers was.

I spent seven hours yesterday writing a 36 page take-home final exam (those who know will know), and to my stunned and utter incomprehension, I am still not done. It’s maybe only 80% complete, but after yesterday, I need a day away from it.