Tell me something good

Something. Anything.

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

Cancer. Fucking cancer.

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?

Nolite te bastardes carborundorum

Temperature: -2/28.5 degrees with snow on the way.

Drinking: some belated wedding anniversary Pommery later on.

Eating: a test version of this year’s bûche de Noël, my son’s Christmas bravura. It’s a yes from me.

Watching: the posturing and grandstanding of budding and actual autocrats.

Listening: to their BS.

Reading: suggestions! Catherine Belton, Ruth Ben-Ghiat, Luke Harding, Anne Applebaum, Masha Gessen, and anyone else who dares speak truth to power, such as this year’s Nobel Peace Prize laureates. Maria Ressa and Dmitry Andreyevich Muratov were awarded “for their efforts to safeguard freedom of expression, which is a precondition for democracy and lasting peace.” There are some 35 working democracies in this world, and north of 140 countries we can label deficient democracies, hybrid regimes or moderate to hard autocracies. Democracy and social peace may be the ideal but they are not the norm; they are under attack and in decline due to populists, demagogues, despots and oligarchs eager to divide and conquer. Each and every one of us plays a part in enabling their rise or expediting their fall. How we vote, how we speak and write, how we shop and handle our finances, how we treat and regard our fellow humans. Our actions and words matter. Our silence and indifference have an even bigger impact.

Writing: season’s greetings.

Thinking: all the posturing and grandstanding, all the BS, makes the lot of you look like dicks, only smaller.

Feeling: Up and at ‘em, sweetie darlings, tyranny isn’t going to fight itself.

Friends, family, countrymen, lend me your ears

"[L]ike a sunrise or sunset...we appear and we disappear, and we are so important to some, but we are just passing through."

~Natalia in Before Midnight

Happy Valentine's Day, fellow travelers. 💋💓
 

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.

Sisters are doin' it for themselves

After the annus horribilis that was last year, I was looking forward to an uneventful rest of the decade. (Okay, my first Romantica got published. That was pretty fantabulous.) No such luck. My brother-in-law's partner and my sister-in-law's mother were diagnosed with breast cancer this summer. One has been given a clean bill. The other, well, we'll see.

On Monday I find out that my father had a health scare over the weekend, a heart incident. My brother and sister had already given him an ass-chewing so I tried to bite my tongue, but seriously, he'd had all kinds of symptoms for three weeks (!!!). No, s e r i o u s l y , gents, what gives? And I'm sorry if this sounds like a gross generalization, chew my ass if you feel like it, but in my experience when men get sick it's either a big production over nothing or they admit they need medical attention when their heads fall off and even then they're going, "It's nothing." Death grunts. "Really, it's nothing." More death grunts. I feel for the hospital staff; he's being absolutely impossible to treat or reason with, I'm sure.

The things that have been going through my mind this week...I'm getting palpitations just thinking about it. Sweet. Baby. Jesus. We need to talk about something else. How about some smart, brave, wise, reasonable women. As you may have heard, the Nobel Peace Prize for 2011 was divided between Ellen Johnson Sirleaf, Leymah Gbowee and Tawakkul Karman, "for their non-violent struggle for the safety of women and for women's rights to full participation in peace building work." The Norwegian Nobel Committee noted that "[w]e cannot achieve democracy and lasting peace in the world unless women obtain the same opportunities as men to influence developments at all levels of society."

That's what women have been trying to tell the world for a couple of centuries now. And now we have the portrait of Alfred Nobel in relief to back our demands. But seriously, it is easy to forget in the relatively free and egalitarian part of the world how disenfranchised, and I do mean stripped of both rights and dignity, many women still are. Far too many women. It is for these women, women and girls with no voice or visibility, that the three winners and prizes such as these bring hope.

Got another brave and tireless woman for you, one who's doing something to leave the world in a better shape than she found it, brought to you via The Rejectionist. La Rejectionista has cooked up a buffet of a fundraiser to help her friend Emily, a buffet bound to tease the taste buds of readers and writers alike. The first item is already up for grabs so hurry! How will you know she hasn't booked a winter vaca and this isn't one of those last-chance-to-send-your-dollar fundraisers? I'm sorry but who vacations in Nepal? Really, peeps, jeez. Give the cynic the day off and have a look at those items, alone worth the price of admission, surely! 

I do love a woman, a man too, naturally, who doesn't lament the state of things but sets out to do something about them. Yes, I know, you could have been a contender, start a clinic from scratch, save the planet, it's a done deal, really, save for the fact you don't have the time or the expertise. Well, Emily does, and you can play a part. Major role, bit part, walk-on, the choice is yours.

No, serious like cancer, everything counts. As in everything. Maybe this week you'll do one daily coffee run instead of two. That pick-me-up pretzel? That's what the coffee is for. If it's not picking you up, it's either decaf and explain to me why you're having it or you're not getting enough rest. Enough said, you get my drift. When I start thinking I've got nothing to give, I give it another think and all kinds of possibilities open up. Not only are you leaving the world a better place than you found it, you're none the poorer for it. Do the math. None. You can take that to the bank.

I would like to sign off by reminding my dearest denizens duty calls me to step out of the den this weekend so no Frisky Friday this Friday. Doesn't mean you can't still have one, you know, not-so-subtle hint hint. I would also like to remind the ladies out there of the importance of monthly breast self-exams. You can find instructions on frickin' YouTube if you don't know how to do it, so there is no excuse. None. And gentlemen, please, it's the 21st century. Your dick won't fall off if you admit you don't feel one hundred percent one hundred percent of the time. Admit it. I dare you. Damn right I'm upset. I'm too young for this shit. Don't make it worse now. There's an army inside you. An axis of light and wisdom and truth and beauty. Mobilize it. Conspire for good.

Until next week, sweetie darlings. Behave.

Tragic kingdom

And so it came to pass that the magic kingdom turned tragic. With the wave of a tragic wand, anywhere but here suddenly came near, and in that tragic moment the kingdom fell under a tragic spell.

And as the tragic numbers were counted, the tears and questions mounted. And the King searched for a magic word and the Queen for a magic touch, but the tragician had already spoken and said far too much.

And everyone could see it had worked like tragic and who could remember all of the magic, but the King and Queen, the women and men, they wanted to see that kingdom again.

You could hunt for a thousand seasons and come home without answers or reasons.

So you're telling me there's a chance

So. Got an answer for that submission of mine with Ellora's Cave. Revise and resubmit, it said. If you can. If you dare. No, that's not what it said but that's how it feels on first reading, like you've failed, royally. You pathetic excuse for a wannabe writer. Fluke. One-hit wonder. Not even much of a success, that first attempt, now was it, come to think of it, discounting the pirates?

Come to think of it, what are the odds? If you don't know me by now, here's the deal: I picked up writing after a long break and got an offer for the first erotic romance I ever submitted. Had to revise. Did. Got published. See the lovely gent to your right. So, been there, done that. Wrote something different this time around but will be going through the same grinder again. No promises, no guarantees, only the chance to prove I can do it. One chance and one chance only.

Can't remember who said and can't be bothered to Google that the world doesn't need another writer, or another story. Well, I think this writer needs this story. I need my work cut out for me, something so daunting I dare not lose courage, something dangled just within my reach, and the notion that maybe I'm not much of a writer after all, aren't I going to prove them any different?

This couldn't have come at a worse and it couldn't have come at a better time. She would haunt me for all eternity if I lost heart now, even if I feel it's already gone MIA. He wouldn't approve of the moping or the mourning, not for a second. He would ask, "Why the long face? Someone die?" I would nod. "Was it you?" I'd shake my head, he'd shake his and ask, "So why the long face?" He would tell me life goes on and I don't have to forget, I'd better not forget, only keep being kind, curious. Unafraid.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go bury my grandfather. Don't tell my editor. I need her to believe I can do this. I need her to believe I believe I can do this, and I do. So no long faces, no excuses, no complaints. Cheer me on, wish me well, and maybe somewhere in the not so distant future we'll be talking star-crossed lovers.

Be good. Be well. Be happy. With one hundred percent certainty, we're all gonna die. Do you know what the odds of being born are?

New York minute

Sorry I'm not in, I've gone is search of my heart. I seem to have misplaced it on Saturday; at least I feel like a donor.

Leave a light on when you go, okay? I need it to find my way back to the den; I wouldn't want to lose you, too.

It's okay. I don't care how much this hurts as long as she no longer suffers. It's all right. As soon as I find that heart I'll be back up on all fours in no time.

Now go tell someone you love them, and I do mean right now. You have one minute. Go.