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.

The Slaughterhouse Rules

Dearest denizens, how are you, sweetie daaarlings?! I had to step out for a couple of days to take care of business and suddenly it's Thursday. How did that happen? All recovered from having to fear how the votes fell and who won? Al Jazeera and Iraqi voters, my bouncing buns. You were glued to the Oscars, weren't you?

Have you had a chance to pick up Alex yet? All those running for cover: Bad boys and girls! Go to my room!! A nekkid reading, perhaps, to get you in the mood for love? Would your pulse start to rush and all kinds of misunderstandings ensue? I'm pretty sure Hubby would object even though it's just skin. We're all covered with it head to toe. What if I wish to be seen and treated as all woman and not just a brain? I'm more than a head, you know. It comes with a body attached! That didn't come out quite right, did it? Where were we?

The project I was asked to do? Mucho interesting. I'm doing it. Just this one, okay? I'm good at it. Please? I do have books lined up for you, oh yes I do. I'll still write and love you, promise! I've also been chasing after You-Know-Who. Pointless, you say? Cut a head and three grow back? We'll see. I happen to enjoy me a little cat and mouse, Itchy and Scratchy style in their case. I don't have to make their life any cushier than it already is, do I?

I was told to be cool and not dignify their sordid business with any mention or reaction whatsoever. But come on, I know they're out there. You know they're out there. They know we know. Search most any author and all kinds of possibilities open up. 

Dearest denizens, do not dignify the dark side by even glancing their way. Don't think Darth Vader's smelly armpits, think festering Sith crotch (and you've all seen that airtight suit). That's what and where they are. Nas-ty. They raise a deep contempt in this writer's heart, a heart she all too often and maybe unwisely wears on her sleeve, but said writer never claimed to be after wisdom, did she, merely justice. 

I knew it would be bad, I only had no idea it would feel this awful. Really really really really really really really really really really awful. Yes, the spate of the just and true, this burning in my belly. Better get used to it, I was told. I cut myself out of the game and three other writers get posted. We are quite expendable to Those-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. 

I'm not bitter, just a little green and idiotically idealistic and angry. Forget hate, it's pointless; worse still, paralyzing. But anger, yes anger can fuel little engines that could into superhuman feats. I shall tell you all about mine in my memoirs, The Slaughterhouse Rules, not to be written any time soon for I am still a young and untried soldier of love with many battles to wage and books to write.

It's still Read an eBook and Universal Women's Week. Ooh, and Optimism Month, kryptonite for the cynics and the occasional realist. Let's mess with both the cynics and You-Know-Who, shall we, and buy an eBook, and keep it all to ourselves. Because we can afford one. Because our favorite authors are worth it. Because we're not going to go or see very far standing on the shoulders of mental midgets and sitting inside stale Sith suits. 

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a date with Those-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named disguised as a punching bag. Step back. Things will get ugly fast. Never fear for my sanity or peace of mind, sweetie daaarlings, I've found the perfect means to get my, hmm, reactions under constructive and creative wraps, thoroughly enjoying every second of it. See you in my room after carnage then. You can leave your hat on. 

Killing time

Remember my last entry, about how there's nothing on television? Or I think there isn't? Therein lies the problem, I was informed. That it was snobbish and what not to say so. That there is in fact loads on and maybe I haven't been paying attention and how dare I snub reality television when millions love it to death? 

Hold up. I wasn't writing off anything, merely saying in a roundabout way I don't enjoy reality TV, and believe you me, I make a point of checking out everything. Want to catch that ever-elusive Zeitgeist? Take a close look at popular culture and there you have it.

I've killed a particle of my ability to enjoy TV and film by studying them in earnest, and as with most things you set out to deconstruct, they lose some of the magic and luster in the process. Only when and if you get past the analytical phase can you go back to enjoying something in antediluvian bliss. Almost. 

The more you consume any certain form of popular culture, or any art form for that matter, the harder it becomes to find something jaw-dropping to induce goose bumps and make you want to go tell it on the mountain. But when you do, you forget everything. You exist for that moment, in that moment, wish you could hold on to it indefinitely. It may have been something as far removed from your daily experience as they come, but it rang true. It felt real. You felt it. You felt.

Those moments I enjoy. I only haven't found them watching reality television. Doesn't life and livelihood feel enough as if you're on The Apprentice and Big Brother at the same time? It's sudden death in the boardroom and it's murder on the dance floor and aren't we all glad it's not us and what the hell was s/he thinking? Gimme my fifteen minutes? Ka-ching?

If that sounds elitist or finger-wagging, so be it. If I have time to kill, I opt for reading and writing; calling the amazing women in my life I'm proud to call my friends; loving Hubby; an enredo I can dance with our babies; kicking and punching until I'd need more than Firestarter to pick me up from that mat if I truly needed to kick butt. That's what's real to me.

Bittersweet symphony

What a weekend. A christening and a funeral, drops of joy and sorrow and rain, laughter in remembrance, giggles and giddiness under the sun and at the door of things to come. I looked at those faces, old and young and younger still and hoped they would honor the promises made. That promises once made had been kept and that good-bye was not tainted with remorse.

I wondered do they know that the next two minutes and twenty seconds is all they may have? Would they be able to let go there and then without pain or regret? Many of the people who even choose to talk about this say that if it's a full life, a fulfilling life, you couldn't let go, you wouldn't want to. Think of all you'd miss out on. If it's such a full and fulfilling life, shouldn't you be able to, with everything said and done? Things usually aren't, are they, said and done, hence: pain and regret. Enter scapegoat: Death. But come on now, he didn't do it, or leave it undone. It wasn't his choice of words, or his silence. It is always ours and we're only projecting.

To make a life and a work complete requires playing all movements from a composition. As beautiful as any individual movement may be, it is only a part of the whole. Leave one out and have someone asking about it later on. Leave something out and start wondering why the sweet doesn't taste as sweet anymore. Disown whatever makes up all the heaviness and be burdened with it.

What if being on a first-name basis with the Grim Reaper is the only way to guarantee he has nothing on you? Call his bluff, let him know you're onto him and watch his act fall apart. Invite him in and cast him an understanding glance and see him take off that cloak. Grant him an understanding word and he will be crying on your shoulder in no time how all the world hates him and how he knows it's a dirty job but he honestly forgot to read the fine print. He won't smell your fear (he gets that a lot) but Life most certainly will and she will resent you for it. So take a fearless bite out of the bitter and taste how sweet the sweet tastes once more.

What a monotonous piece life would be without the tensions, the contrasts and counterpoints it takes to write a symphony. Leave a part out and it doesn't sound right. Leave another out and it doesn't ring true at all. Let the music play in all its complexity and dance as slow or fast as you dare. And show some sympathy for the devil, will you; poor Reaper has two left feet.