Live-blogging the light fantastic

Warning: The following new posts have been created without the aid of a keyboard and big screen.


I realized I was inundating my poor, unsuspecting friends with way too much information via text (because I can send from anywhere, I was). This basically amounted to live-blogging the quotidian, so I figured I might as well move to actually doing that, and decided to post by email.

Writing down what I’m doing serves as a reminder of both what I intend and what I accomplish, which seem quite important to me just now – no matter how deadly dull that might be to read.

Plus, I strongly suspect this will lead to even more typos, spelling and grammatical errors than usual.

You’re welcome.

But then, I found that WordPress has this lovely app! Much higher chance of posts that make sense!

Feel free to ignore me completely, but if you do want to see what’s next, get in touch. I’ll give you the new address of my ramblings. Once you find your way there,  please be patient while I try this out!

{Much as I’d love to share more with you here, I really don’t want to do so where my ex is privy to it.}

If you want to see what I’m up to these days, drop me a note at: moosilaneous<MONKEYTAIL>

Looking forward to hearing from you!

Sick in bed

I was determined to banish electronics from my room to focus on getting better.

That isn’t possible when your home phone is a cellphone.

And then, of course, I was just too excited to see how this would work. So consider this a test.

After this, I’m going back to sleep.

{Read more at my new site. Contact me and I’ll give you the coordinates, if you didn’t use to be married to me!}

A good day was had

Yesterday was the first freezing rain of the year. Perhaps because of not having grown up with it, I am always amazed by just how difficult it is to get around in such weather, as well as how stunningly beautiful everything is with a sheen of even a light coat of ice.

BH had already put on the winter tires and shoveled out the garage, so the car was inside and easily managed the roads. The sidewalks were another story altogether.

I managed to get to work by lazing around till BH was ready to take the girls to get their flu shots, and he gave me a drive right to the corner where my bus stops. I nearly did the splits getting out of the car, but grabbed a hold in time, and ventured on towards the verge of grass that parallels the sidewalk for most of the distance between the corner and the bus stop.

In case anyone reading this has not experienced this weather, I should explain that frosty grass provides ample secure footing compared to the truly invisible ice covering the slight dips and grades of the sidewalk. Sliding along a flat surface is one thing, but trying to climb the tiny rise of a where a curb is cut to facilitate wheel chairs (etc. – what is that called?) is nearly impossible. At the very least, you lose at least some forward ground with each step, and at any moment you may come a cropper.

Once I made it to the grass, I stopped to catch my breath. Just then a fit young man landed right flat out on his back while crossing the street. He was going fast enough that he slid a foot or two after landing. Another young man, waiting for the bus, called out and made sure the fellow didn’t need help getting up. Then he turned to me, and, very graciously, offered me his arm to maneuver the last four meters or so to the actual bus stop. I appreciated the offer, I said, but I was worried I’d take him down, too. He retorted that together, we’d be four-by-fouring, and so much more stable – and off we went. It was all very cheerful, and very kind of him to try to make out like he’d have offered to anyone, but I still felt pretty ancient!

I arrived downtown where either there’d been lots of salt laid down, or it was just warm enough to melt the ice. There were only the odd (and still invisible) slippery patches. While I was picking my way somewhat carefully along, but not in full shuffle mode, I noticed a man busking outside the World Exchange Plaza. He was playing, it seemed, some kind of bright red wind instrument. I thought it was some kind of bagpipe, maybe? As I got closer, I realized the red thing was some kind of neoprene cozy for a recorder. I could see it was a soft tube about 10 or 15 cm across, about the size of a large-diameter wine bottle. It must have had a hole on each side to let his hands in, since his jacket cuffs disappeared into it, and presumably a hole in the top for his mouth fit on the recorder and one on the bottom to let out the sound. It seemed a brilliant idea: his fingers, and the instrument, were completely covered. He played beautifully.

If I wouldn’t have had to re-route an extra 10 meters (on treacherous ground!), and fish around for some coin, I’d definitely have contributed for his hard work, and the pleasure the sweet sounds gave me.

I had another couple of things to be pleased about, too. I had on a new-to-me sweater that a good friend had passed on to me, disappointed because it just didn’t work on her. It’s a lovely sweater, not only for its colour, a rich periwinkle blue, but its delicate all-over crocheted lace pattern. I was somewhat dubious about my outfit, feeling rather frumpy with a big wool skirt and a white cotton sweater under the cardigan. However, A pulled out a gorgeous almost-cobalt blue string of beads from my dresser while watching me dress, and insisted they would just make the outfit. I indulged her, or bowed to her better fashion sense, if you will, and figured I might as well give it a try. I was glad I did. Over the course of the day, I got several compliments for the sweater, but most importantly, I loved just looking down at my arms on the keyboard and seeing the cheerful colour and remembering the kindness of my friend who had given it to me.

That same friend also took time to check on me, since I had been at somewhat less than my best the night before. Her inquiries were very timely, because, despite my cheery sweater, and having a couple of good anecdotes to recount from my trip in to work, I really still needed that extra boost. As an even greater bonus, we made plans to attend a local church’s labyrinth walk on Friday evening – so, something to look forward to, too! I am extremely grateful to have her in my life.

The ice had completely disappeared by 11 when I went out to run an errand. In fact, it was just cool and wet-ish enough to make me feel like the little West Coast puddle-jumper I am at heart. I began, for the first time in ages, it seemed, to feel in my element.

Some awesomeness on the Internet

I have a huge passion for blogs.
I rarely do much here, or comment on others, and now I am even limited in the time I have to even read them, but lately,  there’s been some great stuff – go check out:

Tim Hoyle’s post on Willpower

And the almighty Julia:

I keep THINKING blogging, I promise I’ll soon actually write some…

Wherever you go…

There you are.

We’ve been through a patch of rocky ground, my small family and I, for which I take full responsibility. Yet through perseverance, dedication and downright stubbornness, I think we are approaching the other side.

At the same time, there has been much worthy of celebration, much growth and, you know, life goes on. Little A is turning 5 at the end of the month, and is more independent, willful and beautiful than ever. J is 6 and a bit, as caring, insightful, and concerned, and equally, though remarkably differently, beautiful. I am absolutely gob smacked by them. They are so completely their own people, with their lives separate from me, creatures I feel I have had little hand in creating, only delivering and caring for.

I know it is a biological imperative that they adore me, no matter how great it feels to know that they do. But then they do stuff, for good or bad, that is all me, and I think, nature or nurture, I have passed on something here, I have changed the world.

It is all I can do to contemplate the power I have invested in me, continuing to mold these young minds simply by choosing how they spend their time, their influences and stimulations. Or, at least the awesome job of trying to protect them as they venture out into the wider world. It’s terrifying.
But, you know, keep on swimming. And they keep on growing. And so do I.

Depression and writing

In my humble opinion, depression and writing may, on occasion, happen to be responses to the same stimulus. But writing , or any other art, does not depend on great emotional turmoil. But for the most part, the pain just makes the art harder.

This idea is better put, here:

On depression and the writer | Write Anyway with Alice Bradley.

The idea that depression somehow feeds creativity is nonsense. Depression is a parasite. We all have limited reserves of energy, and mental illness drains these reserves.

Her point was  further supported in this delightful snippet I stumbled upon at The Sun Magazine:

Why must every literary examination of Robert Lowell, of John Berryman, of Anne Sexton, of Jean Stafford, of so many writers and artists, keep perpetuating the notion that their individual pieces of genius were the result of madness? While it may be true that a great deal of art finds its inspirational wellspring in sorrow, let’s not kid ourselves about how much time each of those people wasted and lost by being mired in misery.
 — Elizabeth Wurtzel

Best feeling ever!

I thought I had read everything written by novelist Tom Robbins – of Even Cowgirls Get the Blues fame – years ago. Then, one day, recently, I picked up Half Asleep in Frog Pyjamas from a library sale table. For a buck, I thought, if I’ve read it already, I’ll enjoy his poetic prose again. And, with any luck, my pathetic memory should allow me to be surprised again at the plot twists.

The real surprise was that I had not read this one! Published in 1994, I had missed it entirely.

I have been rapturously enjoying it of late. It is full of improbable characters, plotlines and paragraphs like this:

”There are landscapes in which we feel above us not sky but space. Something larger, deeper than sky is sensed, is seen, although in such settings the sky is invariably immense. There is a place between the cerebrum and the stars where sky stops and space commences, and should we find ourselves on a particular prairie or mountaintop at a particular hour […] our relationship with sky thins and loosens while our connection with space becomes as solid as bone.”

I have been transfixed by the giddy delight of knowing I have found something that not only is great fun to read, but provides a chance to renew my acquaintance with a favourite author and his luscious descriptions of Seattle weather- yes, I actually miss the rain on the Westcoast