Tell me something good

Something. Anything.

I just learned my oldest cousin has died. Not old old. In his fifties.

Cancer. Fucking cancer.

Don’t go yet

Temperature: dipping, it’s about to rain.

Eating: not a single brigadeiro or beijinho for a while, ufa.

Drinking: not a drop until…Saturday, when it’s party time all over again.

Listening: as those beautiful young people sang Je vole, and I tried to cry in dignified silence only to realize other mothers were attempting the same, so we just let rip for a bit.

Watching: another disaster unfold in Ukraine. Putin and his monstrous minions are an affront to humanity.

Reading: is food for thought, balm for the soul, good training for your concentration and powers of immersion.

Writing: more words I will be choking on when it’s time to deliver them, but I feel deeply and I let it show, deal with it.

Thinking: Are we really going to outsource thinking and decision-making to a machine? When even those in the know don’t know all the inner workings of these machines? Think we will always be able to outsmart them? Really? No, I’m no Luddite. On a branch of my family tree sit partisans and freedom fighters to remind me that I don’t have to just sit there and take it. Neither do you. Nothing in how technology is evolving is natural and inevitable. Decisions and choices are being made; by us, for us.

Feeling: So much to celebrate, so many changes happening this summer, my heart will surely burst. Oye, don’t go yet, don’t go yet…

O Natal tá chegando! 🎄

Temperature: 2/35.5 degrees with more snow on the way.

Eating: Greek chicken gyros. Yes, we do still eat meat on occasion at Casa Dita. I ruined the boys by taking them to a churrascaria. On every trip to Brazil. My infinite bad. Which I’ve been trying to rectify. But what did they ask for just the other night? Poulet au vinaigre aka Lyonnaise garlic vinegar chicken. It’s a process.

Drinking: a wrappucino. What’s a wrappucino? I have no idea, but I bet if I had one, I’d have extraterrestrial wrap-it-all-up energy oozing out of every orifice. Which sounds like sci-fi gone horribly wrong. Maybe just a cafezinho then. (Yes. Afternoon coffee. Again. It's a process.)

Listening: Kissing and a-hugging, dancing and a-loving, wearing next to nothing, burning hot as an oven… That would be the B-52s, folks, proud purveyors of love and unity through music and pop culture since 1977. What Christmas with my sister’s family will look like. On a scale of one to are-we-there-yet, how excited am I? Stoked, sweetie darlings.

Watching: I have never been less excited about the World Cup. As if the tournament in Russia wasn’t bad enough. Much ado about nothing or genuine reasons to boycott? No one does pissed-off-and-for-all-the-right-reasons-ones-I-will-explain-in-an-educated-yet-entertaining-fashion-if-you-can-focus-for-more-than-a-TikTok late night better than John Oliver.

Reading: Everything the Light Touches by Janice Pariat, and Corruptible: Who Gets Power and How It Changes Us by Brian Klaas. Highly recommended by yours truly, madly, deeply.

Writing: up a storm so that everything gets wrapped up before the holidays. Hmm, so that’s why I concocted that stimulant of a wrappucino...

Thinking: ...not that I’m in need of a stimulant, the smiles, giggles and shenanigans of my nieces...ai meu Deus, that's motivation enough.

Feeling: There shall be eternal summer in the grateful heart. (From the poem A Grateful Heart by Celia Thaxter.)

P.S. I will stop by before Christmas. 🤝

I think I remember how this conversation went

 

"Get out of that pen."

"But I'm not in the pen."

"Get out of that pen. Now!"

"But I'm not inside the pen."

Yup, I could be a handful.

Thank you, dearest Mom and Dad, for all the adventures and this dear life. I'll raise a glass to our extended family, and I'll do it with gratitude, longing, and love. 

Happy birthday to me; I owe it all to you.

Whenever, wherever

“What happened to your voice?”
“We did some talking. Okay, a lot.”
“Yeah, I remember,” he said, shaking his head, thinking about the last time she visited with us.

Where have I been? Busy. And in the garden. ‘Tis the season to plant and propagate and move things around and move outdoors. And wish it was a bit warmer. When it’s not a dry spring it’s a rainy one, thank you climate crisis, and there’s no telling what summer will look like, not yet.

And I went to see a friend I’ve known since the 7th grade, the only school year we shared, the only time we lived in the same place at the same time. And yet we’ve managed to stay in touch, through letters and postcards and phone calls at first, the few and far between trips to wherever the other happened to be living at the time, through uni and different jobs and different partners and new babies and new neighborhoods. That’s how deeply we connected at the tender age of thirteen. Kindred spirits, sweetie darlings.

Doesn’t matter how much time has passed, we just pick up where we left off. No awkwardness, no effort. I think I gained five pounds in those 72 quite intense hours, she is an amazing cook, and that last glass of wine ruined my sleep but no regrets, and apologies to the neighbors, there really were just two of us in the living room, not ten people singing and dancing and laughing. And crying. The good, the bad, and the ugly; no taboos.

I’m still pooped but so happy I got to see her again, live, it’s been a while. I hope you have someone like that in your life, dearest denizens, and if you don’t, I hope you find someone like that in time. Like all loving relationships, this will end in tears. Some day the last time we met will be the last time we met. And yet I think what I’ll remember best is her smile and her laugh. Not because her life has been carefree, it really hasn’t, but because despite everything that has happened, she never gave up on herself or others or life. She is loud and proud. She is kind and hearty. She is my true-blue friend, someone I’ll love, admire and respect till death do us part.

Oh life. Dear life. Look after her, dear universe, you hear?

And goodbye May! Everyone ready for June?

Cool heads, warm hearts

The year is drawing to an end and we’re all exhausted and perhaps a bit fed up and even disgusted with how the world is shaping up. What is a girl/boy/your (pro)noun to do? Laugh? Cry? Drink? Sink? All tried and true coping mechanisms. That don’t change a thing or make you feel better in the long run. So what do we do, dearest denizens? We pledge ourselves to truth, justice and equality. We say no to despair and roads to nowhere and yes to solutions and ways forward. But where do you find such things? How do you get your hands on a roadmap like that; whatever it is you search and yearn for in this life?

Is it a case of not knowing enough about X that makes you jittery and uncomfortable? Do you find making decisions difficult if not impossible? Do you feel helpless, maybe even vulnerable, and not in a sensitive open to the world kind of way but in a sensitive open to exploitation sort of way?

My solution, or a solution: Read, dearest denizens. Voraciously. A snippet here, a chapter there. Broaden your mind, your horizons, without ever having to leave the comfort of your…wherever you prefer to read. Read about what fascinates you. Read about what baffles you. Read about what scares you. Read to discern fact-based information from biased BS. Read to know what others think on important matters and matters important to you. Read to understand how you are being steered. Ignorance is not a badge of honor, a clean slate, proof of innocence. It’s you being susceptible to disinformation, misleading and abuse. It’s you flailing in the wind, grabbing whatever extended arm seems sturdiest. It’s a choice you don’t make but one made for you and sold to you as your deepest wishes come true/greatest fears dissolved. Don’t fall for that, any of it. A little skepticism, a little self-preservation, goes a long way. Using your knowledge, putting knowledge into action, can change your life and the world.

For better or worse, now that’s another matter. Because knowledge is power. So arm yourself. There are, of course, numerous booby traps along the way. Everything from apophenia thru negativity bias to whataboutism. An alphabet soup to cloud your vision and judgment; we’re all susceptible to some degree because we’re human. But there’s an antidote for that, and I don’t mean a cure for being human. I mean the dangers of biases and propaganda techniques. And yes, it’s reading on them. Get to know the world and how it works. Get to know yourself and how your mind works. If you don’t know about the past/the world/yourself, how are you supposed to understand and navigate the future?

But…but…no one knows what’s going to happen in the next five minutes, let alone five years! Bingo, baby. That’s why it pays to be prepared. As prepared as one can be. [And there are leaders and governments out there not all that concerned with educating citizens properly, specially girls. Literacy is the key to agency. An illiterate person busy surviving is not likely to stir up trouble, not by oneself, or demand that their rights be recognized and respected.]

Of course, you can choose to go with the flow, to react when need be. But that usually means resorting to old tricks and solutions, treading water, hoping for the best…posting before thinking, screaming over others, general aggression and confusion that serves those who benefit from general aggression and confusion. (Hint: and I hope you already practice this, consistently: as the saying goes, every thought spoken out loud should clear three gates: is this true, is this kind, is this necessary? I'm still learning.) Your mind can be the worst sort of minefield, one you may end up navigating with a false self-image and deeply ingrained misconceptions as your compass. The world and everyone you encounter affects you; how they treat you, how they speak to you, whether they ignore you or acknowledge you. We spin a tale about who we are, and just like so much of information these days, it’s not always based on facts.
 
A snippet here and a chapter there amounts to tens of thousands of pages each year, and don’t tell me you don’t have time. Put the phone down, maybe? (Unless it’s your reading medium of choice, of course.) Books are sacred. They’re magic carpets. Time machines. Empathy builders. I’ve watched in horror as people mariekondo their libraries into extinction. And, sure, not all books merit another read and certain types of info need to be updated from time to time, but once a coronal mass ejection shuts down cyberspace, libraries and bookstores will become our temples. And those with know-how will show how.

For all the sound and fury, I still believe that most of us only want what’s good for all of us. So when you feel exasperated with the world, consider this: Most people are kind, decent and altruistic. Not saints but fellow humans trying to do more good than harm. They don’t shout about it, they don’t make a big production of it, they don’t do it for attention or accolades. And they sure as hell don’t do it for money. They just want to get on with their lives, this one round we’re given, and since they don’t know how long their round will be, they try to make the most of it, hoping to leave a meaningful mark instead of a stinking stain. This benevolent streak of ours, that’s what we should focus on. Isn’t that the meaning of life? According to Monty Python it is.

Try to be nice to people, avoid eating fat, read a good book every now and then, get some walking in, and try and live together in peace and harmony with people of all creeds and nations.

That’s my Christmas wish, sweetie darlings. For you and me and all of humanity.

P.S. Remember that eye-watering pain in my hip I once mentioned? I have a diagnosis and of course it’s bad news. Nothing I did, something I inherited. Can’t be cured, only controlled. All I can do is keep taking good care of myself. I will be in pain from time to time. I can live with that. So long as my feet carry me, my brain functions, and I wake up not dead, I’ll be fine. I’ll take my cues from a great-aunt in her late nineties. If you ask, she’ll tell you how she’s doing. But you won’t hear her complaining. C’est la vie, baby. And c'est de la merde. And this is the first, worst and last on this subject.

The leftovers

Life goes on. That's what they say. That's what I've been told, that's what I've told myself, that's what I've told others upon the loss of a loved one. Truth be told, it's but a half-truth. Sure, your life goes on. You wake up happy to find a pulse and get on with whatever your life is made of. But a story within your story has come to a full stop. Just like that? Just like that. You don't get to see how it plays out. The future has come to a full stop. Plans you had, dreams you had, are now plans and dreams frozen in time.

Life goes on. But so does death. Those we lose will remain lost, tomorrow, next month, five years from now. The loss is forever. It's been five months since my mother-in-law died, but I haven't had the heart to tell my husband the bad news yet; that it will always hurt, that there is no use trying to run and hide, pain and grief ride a horse that never tires.

I'll start with the good news. What won't last forever is the bleak, the dark, the black. Colors will reclaim their rightful place as the black block grows smaller and smaller. And love...love and gratitude never die. You never bury those, those you get to keep and cherish for the rest of your days. And some days will be better than others and soon most days will be better than the rest and maybe, as time goes by, that stunted story will make sense or, at the very least, you will come to accept that it never will, and that's just the way it is.

A midsummer night's dream

I dreamed I wrote a rather long and rambling essay on the economy, ecology and equality. Long because of the amounts of cause and effect and problems and solutions I managed to cram into that one piece, rambling because of the myriad associations, the links and bridges I managed to build. Full of pathos, I went from global warming to refugees to immigration, from nationalism to fascism to racism, from global trade to global warming and back to refugees again. My theory of everything.

Too bad I don't remember half of it but I do remember feeling a strange but strong sort of relief getting it all down in writing, as if I hadn't quite known what I thought on the subject before I wrote about it and had now laid down a burden, the anxiety that comes with the feeling you don't understand the world around you, the hows and whys, the implications, the consequences. In my dream I had managed to collect my thoughts, observations and opinions, arrange them in a well-structured manner and lay them out coherently and elegantly. (One can dream, right?)

He built this garden for us, they were called, my nocturnal notes, a slight but quite deliberate misquote of a Lenny Kravitz song, I presume, since I opened with a picture of our garden, a garden I gladly work on but one my husband has had a heavy hand in creating. So he doesn't bring me flowers every day. He built me a garden. I realized this is the longest I've stayed put, and not the least because of the garden that grows around me, a house that's like the tropics in the arctic, the peace and happiness I feel in both.

Who has the right to peace and happiness, or prosperity? On what terms? On whose terms? Who promised life would be easy, fair or happy, a man once asked when the question came up, a man who'd never suffered or struggled, who'd never been and never would be any type of minority, an outcast, disenfranchised, displaced, the underdog. No one had ever denied him, crossed him, belittled him, stomped on him or stood up to him. I understood his question. I just don't think he did. I don't think he gave a second thought to where his wealth came from, to whom or what he owed it to.

Taking a close, critical, honest look at most anything usually makes you focus on the flaws and the problems in something, then promptly sign up for a transcendental meditation class, learn mindfulness, go buy one of those adult coloring books, whatever takes your mind off the fact the world is a pretty fucked up place getting worse by the second, now that you really look at it and think about it, so better not look too closely, better concentrate on things closer to home such as you, yourself and, well, you, Jon Lajoie was right: Fuck Everything. Wait, what?

One of my university professors believed cultures evolved in cycles, all cultures following the same cycle but at a different pace. All clashes between nations, cultures, creeds and even individuals stemmed from our conflicting values and views, our place on the cycle, and our need to impose those values and views, our will, on others. I've seen such forces in action, determinism, relativism and entitlement at its worst. I've seen evidence to the contrary, kindness and compassion and selflessness at its best.

Maybe authors and artists can't change the world but they show us what it's like to live in it, what it feels like to be human, living under the same sun and moon but very different stars.

When all is said and done

 
Warning: verbal incontinence ahead.

Year-end review time! So how did you do, compared to how you expected to January 1, 2014? I started out all eleison, all merciful, not too hard on myself. And ended up, well...as the Mythbusters will tell you, failure is always an option. It wasn't a catastrophic failure, this year merely confirmed an observation: I'm an on-off person. When there's work to do, I'm all over it. When it's time to kick back, shoes and gadgets go flying into the depths and won't resurface until it's time to go back to work.

So. Maybe I should apologize for the radio silence here at the den but I won't. True to form, I've been working hard so I can enjoy some rest and relaxation over the holidays. Be with family, visit friends and take care of the new addition to the family, Chloe the cat. I know horses and hounds but I've never owned a cat. [I know. No one ever owns a cat, not really...] I've envied friends with cats and I've wanted one for the longest time, and now we have one, and not just because I wanted one but because the whole family did. She's a European shorthair and the sweetest, fiercest thing.

All in all, my life hasn't been very tale worthy. Work. Exercise. Family & friends time. Chores. Not always in that order but always some combination of the above. There's been some backstage drama worth a post or ten but that's personal and a business matter and nothing I can go into right here right now. It has certainly given me pause and another glimpse at the unsavory underbelly of a trade I've worked in for a long time in many capacities. So hardly a surprise, just another observation confirmed. People are the best, kind, loving and compassionate. People are the worst, cruel, selfish and unjust.

What else? I've been thinking about memory and identity and our lives, the only shot we have at doing everything we'll ever do, and I've been thinking about time, how it's become a luxury item [although I do believe that's an illusion, a creation after our own selves; there's still time, we're the wasteful ones and always in a hurry]. There are no winemakers in the family, only people who enjoy wine. Should you decide to become a vintner, from scratch, buy land and vines, it would take you a minimum of twelve years to see a grape worth squashing. The prerequisite of a quality wine is a quality vine, and those can take up to forty years to yield their best produce. Forty years. Still wonder why some wines cost a fortune? Someone somewhere waited half a lifetime for a vine to reach its full potential. Sometimes they wait by the vine in vain. Sometimes it comes to nothing. You can make bad wine from good grapes but not vice versa.

Take your time. Wait it out. See what happens. No time like the present. Carpe diem. Strike while the iron is hot. One of the biggest lies we tell ourselves is that we make decisions based on cool careful calculation, on knowledge, the intellect, dollars, pounds and euros, the bottom line. Maybe lie is too strong a word, the wrong word. Maybe it's not a lie but a blindness to how much private emotions and past experiences factor. We like to think of ourselves as sensible beings who can keep our sensibilities in check when the limbic brain, the reptile brain gives the first and fastest response in any situation and most of us never learn to override it. Most of us aren't even conscious of it's workings but everyone knows the physical reactions, the swell of emotion that so easily takes hold of you when something unexpected happens, good or bad. If you have time, you reason. If not, you react.

Some are all emotion and reaction all of the time. No one is reasonable and sensible in everything they do. Feelings factor and that's a fact, one dictators have shamelessly milked since the first undecided human decided s/he needed a determined leader. How else would despots garner attention and gain followers? Why on earth would anyone raise a hand or their voice against another unless they're driven by a logic, a rhetoric, that stands and falls on the feelings they generate, the reactions that follow, the emotional satisfaction they can bring?

"I'm going to slaughter 6 million people. Who's with me?" "I will give you a strong, proud nation, the greatest this world has ever seen, a glorious kingdom that will last a thousand years. Who's with me?" The power of words. The power of emotion. Words can be used to generate empathy and respect. Words can be used to create conflict, to divide and oppress. The very same words in some cases. Take the Bible, the Torah, the Koran, their words too often misused for personal gain, selfish purposes, evil. Just listen. Look around you. Here I babble but the world, oh dearest denizens, sometimes the world just renders me speechless.

Like dearest Europe, for example. Where are you going, old girl? Anti-immigration, anti-Islamic sentiments, anti this and anti that. Hatred disguised as nationalism. Nationalism disguised as patriotism. Egotism disguised as reason. This is your answer, your solution? What's the question again? You make them up as you go to justify your actions or should I say reactions because the only brain I can see at work and in charge is the reptile one. You feel threatened, you attack. Is there a reason to feel threatened? That's what I'd like to know but man is it hard to have a conversation with someone deeply immersed in a monologue. Take Erdogan whose new palace is bigger than the Louvre. The Louvre! And don't get me started on Orbán. One of my oldest friends is half Hungarian, and she's just... Well, not living in Hungary for one and probably never will be if this is their trajectory. And Putin... Putin explains Russia and Russia explains Putin. Don't be fooled, though. Russia and the Russian people are two very different things.

And I'm at it again, aren't I, soapbox out and foaming at the mouth... Great, just great. Let's talk about something else, shall we. The holidays? Yea! Whether you celebrate at Christmastime or not many around you do. I know it's a hard time of year to be alone. If you are, I still hope you enjoy the peace and quiet the holidays bring, even for a few days. I hope you do all the things that make you happy, things you enjoy, and if that's too much self-absorption to your liking, I hope you take up people on their invitations for you to come over for dinner, drinks, coffee... Maybe they're not asking because it's the Christian, Christmasy thing to do but because they really want you there. Life will resume normal programing in a few, you'll be swept away and full of excuses why you can't thanks for asking maybe some other time. Go.

We most certainly celebrate Christmas at Casa Dita. There's not much religious faith at the heart of our celebration because of the different individuals and denominations coming together, but there's love and compassion, there's empathy and respect, the moral compasses of die hard worshipers, agnostics and atheists alike. A religion, a life!, not rooted in love, compassion, empathy and respect...what purpose does it serve?

From soapbox to pulpit. Religion and politics? I just broke some social media rules, I believe, like all two of them. It's just that... Gah. 'Tis the season? Up next: New year, new gear! Are you thinking of a theme for 2015? Share if you dare. I've been on Facebook and Twitter, can you believe it, on-off as per this year's/this life's theme, but still. So find me if you want to keep in touch on a more daily/weekly basis.

I haven't had time or energy for writing fiction lately and that's a shame because I write in my head all the time. I intend to be a good girl over the holidays and get some words down on paper. Yes, paper. Still enjoy that, immensely, both writing on some and reading print. The computer and keyboard need a rest and I need some rest from them.

The dark days have been a drag but we got some snow yesterday and there's more coming in today. No more dreaming of a white Christmas, it's here and so is the winter solstice, the shortest day of the year. Which means longer days from now on, slowly but surely! Another cause for celebration, what our "pagan" ancestors celebrated before baby Jesus and St. Nick started facing off. Can't shout too loudly, though, this is the land of Santa after all. Since we live in the vicinity, he visits Scandinavian kids on Christmas eve.

You bet the wee ones are excited and so am I. I need a break and some downtime with family and friends. I hope you get some rest too or if it's an adventure you crave, I hope you find one. I hope you find what you're looking for. I hope you keep the faith, whatever lies at the heart of your belief/s, and I hope whatever it is, it's rooted in love, compassion and respect. It would be sooo easy to give in to despair and cynicism, the world bombasts us with reasons every day. But we're not quitters, are we, sweetie darlings? It's our world too and love is our resistance.

Merry Christmas, sweetie darlings, and a most excellent new year.

When I'm 84

Mercifully free of the pressures of youth, I'm gonna grow up, settle down and leave childish pursuits behind. On second thought, no.

I'm gonna start smoking cigars. Not like every day but every once in a while, those big fat juicy ones that last all afternoon. I'm gonna sit outside in a comfy chair, a book in one hand, that cigar in the other, puffing the day away.

I'm gonna eat candy. Like every day. Not many I really like but the ones I like I really really like so that's what I'm having.

I'm gonna have some port every night before bed. Or every morning before I get out of bed. I'm gonna have a glass of whatever the hell I want whenever the hell I want it.

I'm gonna try out a hallucinogen. Gotta know before I go what all the fuss is about.

I'm gonna have a this-is-what-it's-all-about heart-to-heart with my grandkids, if I have any. I assume that by the age of 84, I'll have some wisdom to dispense. And the wisdom to discern if I don't.

I'm gonna make sure I live where I've been happiest. I think I already know where that is. You're welcome to visit 'cause I ain't budging, I'mma soaking in bliss till the end.

I'm giving away but the bare essentials so there's no fuss and no fighting over what's to be done about them. Can't take 'em with me, can't put a price on what's priceless, and the most precious things sure as heck don't fit in a box.

I'm gonna take a daily walk around the neighborhood, or block, or garden, holding Hubby's hand. Or maybe we'll just sit outside, side by side, talking or just watching the bugs, birds and bees, the wind in the trees, and maybe we won't see them or hear them as well as we used to but at least we'll be together.

I'm gonna die on my birthday, but I'd rather not do it when I'm 84. Let's make that 104. Nice, round, coming full circle ring to it, don't you think, dying on the day you were born, in the middle of a great book/good meal/interesting conversation, nothing left unsaid, nothing left undone. Well, except that book/meal/convo. Being dead, I doubt I'll mind all that much.

Eleison

Happy New Year, dearest denizens! Everyone accounted for? Are you glad or sad to see the holiday season go? How was yours anyway?

Mine tasted of dates, gingerbread and smoked salmon, of figs, butter fudge and port, of glögg, ham and wine. It smelled of pine needles and hyacinths, of burning wood and endless rain, meaning it looked quite bleak outside but chummy and yummy indoors. The soundtrack was a cacophonic symphony of languages and laughter, of playful slash bickering kids, of carols and classics and rock and pop. And it felt like a change of pace with a pinch of bittersweetness for all the loved ones I couldn't talk to or touch, only think about this holiday season.

Many look back, take stock and plan ahead around New Year's, make promises, make demands. This year I'll do more, be more. Reach higher, go faster, be stronger. Nothing wrong with that, I guess, if it really keeps you going where you're headed, if it actually helps. I see no shame in taking the long and winding road, though, as long as you don't stop. Be as kaizen as you dare, just please don't be too hard on yourself.

Maybe this year you'll speak a little softer, be a little kinder, more forgiving and merciful. Yes, especially to yourself. In this world that so greatly values independence, moxie and self-reliance, I wish everyone would find the strength to admit to themselves and say it to others that "I need you." Those seem to be the hardest words. Not I'm sorry or Thank you or even I love you but I need you.

OK. Up and at it, sweetie darlings. We have all year to get this right. Let's not waste a single day.

Love actually

I attended the best kind of wedding last weekend, one that looked exactly like the happy couple; it could not have been anyone else's ceremony. It was a large gathering of family and friends ages zero to eighty something, and not a stiff upper lip in the house, just a sweet day that had us sighing and crying and a fun night that saw us laughing and smiling.

I've known the groom for twenty years, watched him grow from where-shall-I go-what-shall-I-do to a seaman to the dashing sea captain he is today. (I kid you not, even the guys had to admit he looked awesome in that uniform.) I've known the bride for far less than that, but one thing is evident and makes me sooo happy for him: a fun-loving, life-loving, adventurous man has found someone who'll have no trouble keeping up with him. Alas, the last of the Mohicans has been tamed. Actually, his friends could not be happier that it is so.

It was good seeing people I don't see too often in person. As much as I appreciate modern technology (and a decent waterproof mascara) and all the ways in which I can keep up with friends all over the world (I wish I'd had that in my early youth) it will never ever be the same as hugging someone, sitting down for a chat, shimmying the night away on the dance floor, looking them in the eye and telling them I have truly missed you, kissing someone and wishing them every happiness.

All in all, it was a very life-affirming weekend, and the world being what it is, life being what it is, there are never enough of those. Then again, why should happiness be the anomaly and the rest the norm? Why is happiness so often followed by some measure of guilt, or fear? Survivor guilt, fear of loss. Because nothing lasts forever? What if you chose happiness, love, life, light? Because nothing lasts forever. Could you take it?

I saw the Carl Larsson exhibition at the Finnish National Gallery, a broad selection of definitive works and rare gems alike. I'd seen his art in books and posters and postcards, more often than not depictions of hearth and home, days in the sun, children at play, the great outdoors, flowers, self-portraits, his chin held high, a mischievous grin on his lips, light light light. What I didn't know was how much of a muse, how tremendous an enabler, how deeply loved and how talented in her own right his wife Karin was. I knew nothing about his humble beginnings or the defeats he encountered late in life and in his career. I hadn't seen the book illustrations he'd done, dark, detailed, morose even, so unlike anything he painted in his dear Sundborn, the images the mind's eye sees when you hear the name Carl Larsson.

I had no idea all that light came from a very dark place, a place his friend August Strindberg accused Larsson of turning his back on so he could paint travesties of life and living, an accusation that led to a falling out and left Larsson hurting. Because the man knew his shadows. They followed him all his life. They're all over his art, small details you catch on your tenth or twentieth viewing; when did that get there? But he made a conscious decision to stand with his face to the sun. The shadow still stood there. Of course he knew that, but turning his back on all that light would have left him with nothing but that shadow and that's where he would have disappeared, engulfed by things that were just as much a part of him as everything the sun had touched.

Why is it more honest, more true to life, more genuine to stand in the dark? Why is it naive, false, desperate, hopeless, to opt for the light? Because there are apt to be disappointments? Well, duh. I submit to you that it is much easier to give in to depressed thoughts, expect failure and fail yourself than to keep up hope, press on, and save yourself. So don't tell me to take off the rose-colored glasses. You first with the crap goggles.

Proof of life

How was your weekend, dearest denizens? I know, it's Tuesday, but it feels like a Monday. So how was it, le weekend? I had a festive, family one. My sister turned thirty and my niece was baptized and we all got together and it was such a perfect day.

We now have an Amelie in the family and she looks just like my brother, which makes her a very handsome girl (as Austenites know, the height of beauty, so stop cringing, she's the cutest!). 

As long as there are babies and books and brothers and sisters and music and dance and bubbly, I don't care about the vitriol being projectile vomited through the nostrils of social media sites and news media alike. It's exactly what it seems: bad jokes in bad taste not to be taken seriously or to heart. (No, seriously. What gives? You need a hug? What is it?)

Have a great week, sweetie darlings, wherever you are.

December will be magic again

I'm sorry for the radio silence, sweetie darlings. It's all good, promise! It means I've been hard at work. It means I hope to have good news to relate in the coming weeks. 

So much to wrap up before Jesus faces off with Santa, but I deny being stressed out. There is no need to panic. Not yet, anyway. I'm on schedule with deadlines, even the self-imposed ones, and I've got a Teflon suit to don if the sound and the fury of the pre-X-mas fuss starts feeling a bit too much.

Mad Men beware, we have read our Seuss at Casa Dita. "Maybe Christmas," he thought, "doesn't come from a store. Maybe Christmas...perhaps...means a little bit more." The kids have written Santa (and once again, he does not, I repeat, he does not live on the North Pole. At the Arctic Circle, okay?). They know Jesus put the Christ in Christmas. But what they're most excited about, what they anxiously wait for all fall, are the little things they remember doing last year, and the year before that, every year a bit more.

Tradition. The scourge of change and progress, and a source of comfort and continuity. Some traditions I've introduced, some come from Hubby's side. The best by far are the ones the whole family has had a hand in creating. New ones. Ours. Decades old or brand spanking new, traditions put the Christmas in my Christmas.

I will catch myself at the intersection of chronos and kairos, teaching something I remember being taught, having a meaningful conversation over a mundane task, hands hard at work, minds wide open. In the middle of giving instructions, telling a story, answering questions over the counter, I will look at my children, their faces glowing, cheeks full of cookie dough, hands breaded in flour, and see myself. In that instant, the past, present and future bleed into one. I'm a girl. I'm a woman. I'm an old dame. And everything makes such perfect sense.

P.S. Thanks for all the best wishes I've received during the year, Special Mention: chain letters promising fortune and fame. Alas, they didn't work. Maybe I jinxed them. Never passed them on. We'll never know. But. I've devised the perfect plan to ensure next year is glitch-free. Next year, just send me a check, some bourbon and bonbons, a Marlies Dekkers gift card, or an extra hour to my day. Or make a donation to your favorite charity. Support your favorite authors, buy their books! Get some for your friends, too!! Much appreciated!!! Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go have lunch.

If you don't know me by now

I've been having the weirdest dreams this week. Weird weird weird. It's also been a productive week, which is nice. I've known the other variety, too. I've been thinking a lot about last year and last fall lately and how maybe it's not a surprise that the Romantica I submitted, rewrote and still couldn't get right didn't work out. I'm absolutely astonished I managed to write anything at all, all emotion one minute, feeling nothing the next just to stop the hurting, even for a second, as I was. Some of the stuff I do profitted from the detachment, other areas suffered a severe blow. Turned out I'm not Superwoman. Imagine my surprise.

Ah, sweetie darlings, we are all just troubled souls, aren't we, swimming in an ocean of illusion, dead calm on the surface, violent currents underneath. How can I say that? I don't know you, you say? I know how you feel. [Look into my eyes.] I know how you feel. [Look into my eyes.] I know how you feel. [Not around the eyes. The eyes.] 

I know how you feel.

What the hell?

I'm hypnotising you into forgetting it's Frisky Friday. It's not working, is it? (And did I promise to post every Friday? I can't check if I did. It'll drive me to drink if I did, and now is not a good time, seriously.) I know what you're thinking. I didn't have time to write a post, right? Wrong. I started writing about porn, one thing led to another as it often does, and before I knew it I had written some seven thousand words instead of seven hundred and oops.

It's the curse of the multidisciplinary mind. It ain't funny. It's a curse. A curse! It has you wishing you had a spare brain or two, 72 hours in a day, a desert island and an extra month all to yourself so you could read and write and read and write and try it out and try it again because that's how you make sense of life the universe and everything, and that you could live to two hundred because there's so much to do and look into and try to understand, too much!, in one lifetime. What a fascinating world we live in, dearest denizens. Fantastic! And people, OMG, people are the best, and relationships better than best, and what about sex? None of us would be here if it weren't for that drive!! Brilliant!!!

So I got a little carried away as I'm wont to do in my pathology and have stuff enough for ten blog posts about pornography, and maybe one day we'll look into those one interesting tidbit at a time, but first I need to sift through the thing, choose a POV, my position (but I want all positions!), and write a focused, coherent post about porn, not a Theory of Everything. And I've only started looking for No-Performers-Were-Scarred-For-Life-While-Making-This-Movie movies for your viewing pleasure, because there's porn and then there's porn, and if you'd like visual stimulation beyond what reflects from the mirrors around the house you should be getting some, but not just any ol' crap.

I'll dig up some suggestions for next Friday. When some of you will be elbow-deep in turkey and gravy. Well, The Rest of The World won't be. Everyone is equally welcome to join and pitch in when Frisky Friday ventures into the world of adult movies. Same time, same bat-crazy channel. Until then, if you can't be good, be careful, okay. And keep thinking those sexy thoughts.

Sweet dreams (are made of this)

Had to wait for almost a year but it finally happened. Got a visit from my grandfather, the gentleman I lost last November. I didn't see him in the dream. We talked on the phone and he told me there was somewhere I should go. He even gave me the address, or rather the name of a street. There's no such place (I checked), not verbatim, it's just a metaphor, but for what, that's for the subconscious to know and my conscience to find out. I just think it's interesting my mind chose him to deliver the message. Still, it was good talking to him.

I've been looking forward to this because it's not the same as looking at photos or reminiscing, it just isn't and I can't explain why. But the feeling of peace after one of those dreams...it's the closest to heaven you can get on this earth, or the closest I imagine I'll ever be. It's beauty and happiness of the bittersweet kind; you wake up smiling only to realize it was just a dream. Oh well. Such is life.

Another dream is a little closer to becoming reality, I see the finish line with this latest Romantica of mine! Doesn't that just make me wanna sprint when what I need to do is pace myself, gracefully glide across that line, not head-on with my tongue hanging out, my limbs about to give and with the taste of blood in my mouth. God I miss a proper workout. My shoulder is doing better but my foot is still shot. It turned out to be worse than I initially thought but it'll heal. If this is the Universe forcing me to stay put, BICHOK, it's working. Give me a limp et hop, I'll give you a book.

But who was I kidding thinking I could ever write full-time. No one literally writes full-time, it's exhausting, as fun but as draining as a proper workout. You can only go full throttle for so long before you have to recoup and replenish. I will admit to being a bit impatient to submit this book, though. Get it over with. Not because I'm sick of it but because I can't wait to see how it goes over with my editor. Big or lead balloon, I've liked the book all along, I've enjoyed working on it. Even when it's given me grief I've wanted nothing more than to sort it out. Wish me luck, will you? Then again, what's luck got to do with it?

Sleep tight, sweetie darlings. May the plot bunnies bite.

Back to the future

The bad news: I'm back. The good news: I still fit in my jeans, which is nice since going out in a bikini is no longer an option, and nothing short of a miracle after a carefully premeditated and conscientiously executed attempt to consume some two hundred acarajés, a bovine, all the seafood and desserts you could name and some you have never heard of, all washed down with guaraná, sweet coffee and some very fine cachaças. You do not want to see the contents of my suitcases. I could open a supermarket, except I wouldn't sell any of the goodies I brought back for anything, I just couldn't.

Bahia did me good. Brazil, she heals me. I'm descansada and bem passada, rested and roasted. Funny how you sometimes don't realize how badly you need a break until you give yourself permission to unplug. I did, and fully embraced living without clock or calendar, amazed at how they search you for sharp objects at the airport but what do they hand you when your unidentified fried object of an airline meal arrives: cutlery to carve up whatever and whoever looks tastier; how on some hauls you can only resentfully dream of the liquids and lotions on sale beyond the Strip Here And Then Bend Over There checkpoint because they will all be taken away from you in the next said checkpoint unless you had the foresight to bring along those silly silly little containers and good luck trying to transfer anything into them when turbulence it is from start to finish (I say drop off the gentleman who lost some very expensive beverages and the lady who was forced to hand over a small spaful of stuff at Helmand because they looked and sounded pissed enough to win the war on terror in five minutes flat); how many shades of red, green and gold there are; how there's fruit and then there's fruit; how Salvador had grown but how some things never change; and how, sitting on the beach, enjoying the sand, the wind and the water, I felt like what the horizon looked like, as I hadn't felt in a long time: calm, clear, whole.

Fast forward to the present, here where the sky hangs low, the rhythm stomps instead of swaying and people sound as if they were talking backwards. Our house had taken a beating courtesy of the seasawing temperatures. A landslide of snow falling off the roof had torn off both the gutter and the downpour from the southern side of the house and a rather freakish phenomenon had killed our internet connection on the northern side. No fun at all when you have some catching up to do, news, gossip, and yeah, work, but it is what it is, it will all be sorted out eventually, everything is going to be all right.

Until then, plan B, a.k.a. Hubby's phone, which I've confiscated and hate using, damn annoying nonexistent buttons, illogical apps and programming, but as I said, it is what it is, on with the show now playing at Whipped Cream where I'm picking up where I left off and guest blogging about revisions. Hope I didn't sound too harsh. It's my personal take, based on my limited experience, of course. If it annoys you, I'm sorry. If it helps, I'm glad.

I hope the rest of the year is as good for you as the last two weeks were for me. So I don't know you. It doesn't mean I don't care. Happy Groundhog Day and Chinese New Year, Feliz Festa de Yemanjá. Happy Wednesday and forever after, my dearest, dearest denizens.

Nip/Tuck

What is this, the Dead Author Society (in reference to how the den has looked this week)? More like the half-dead author society, sweetie darlings. My babies gave me my first flu of the season, so I haven't written to you much this week. Well, neither have the Brontës. What's their excuse? Oh, the annual DASCon. Okay.

I gave myself a deadline; a story I wanted out of my hands by the end of the week. That's what I've been doing the past seven days, every moment I could spare; nipping and tucking, getting rid of the boring parts, breathing fire into the rest (at least that's what my throat feels like, as if I actually had), and drinking gallons of tea since coffee tastes like cigarettes when your whole head is congested.

You know what? It is done. That's what I wanted to report, but alas I can't since it isn't so I won't, but: I got close, very close, close enough to feel good about my progress. Am I going to send out a half-assed manuscript because by God I said by the end of the week I would? Of course not. When you're running a fever (and when you haven't had coffee for a week and may I please have this one addiction in addition to this awful, awful!, writing bug?!), you don't know your shit from your Shinola. And you only want to polish your stuff with one of them.

So, I won't be writing to you much until it's done, over with and out of my hands. I hope to celebrate it with a jumbo mug of café au lait from Brazilian beans I'll grind myself and sniff sniff sniff away in abandon, if I can. Ah, the small, simple pleasures. I wish you a week filled with them.

An education

We celebrated my maternal grandfather's 90th birthday over the weekend. He's unwell after a lifetime of splendid health and thus unwilling to go without a fight, and some XO cognac once a day. I'm happy I still have him, my last surviving grandparent, a live link way back into the 20th century.

Yesterday would have been my maternal grandmother's 90th. She has been gone for over a decade now, but she's still very much present in their home, my home of many childhood summers. My second set of parents. Born a day apart, married at nineteen on the eve of WWII, years given to the protection of fatherland and mother tongue, laborious reconstruction and four children later, they stayed together until her death.

He taught me how to tie my shoelaces, use an axe, start a wood fire and drive most any motor vehicle. She taught me how to run a household in general and how to cook without books in particular, and she read to me then taught me how to read. The gender division was glaring but I got to take part in everything, to benefit from both roles at play, to play freely with both.

They were eager to teach and I was expected to listen close and learn. I got to try out things my parents might not have approved of (had they known of my adventures and tutoring...) for the fear I might be too young, that I might get hurt. Did I ever. Nothing serious, of course. But when the lesson is to get up, dust yourself off and try again, and again, until you get it right, you have to forget about pretty and let yourself get gritty. They let me, time and time again, and for that I'm eternally grateful.

Wait. I wasn't going to talk about them, only tell you what I've been up to, sweetie daaarlings, because I know you could hardly eat or sleep or think straight not knowing where I'd gone, right? Tsk. Right. Anyway, no time left to talk about what I had in mind. I have a date with my WIP, and there is no such thing as fashionably late in Scandinavia, just plain rude. Since the title of this post isn't that off the mark, I think I'll leave both as is. Enjoy the rest of your week, wherever you are.

Part joy and part guerrilla warfare

That's how Ed Asner described raising kids. Well said, Ed. To see who's winning, who's educating who, and how it relates to the craft of writing, come visit with the Nine Naughty Novelists today. 

Yours truly madly deeply has infiltrated their ranks with a guest blog post, so come on over, comment, commiserate or congratulate yourself on the decision to have DINK or SINK tattooed where you can always see it lest that ticking noise starts bothering you and you need to be reminded of your goal in life. 

I wouldn't trade my babies for the world but I would take back some reactions, or rather overreactions, if I could. I guess some things you have to learn the hard way, and learning to live without regrets...self-discipline...living in the moment...these are only some of the things my children challenge me to aspire to.