Anything to declare?

Don't leave home.

The Illusionist

How are you, sweetie daaarlings? Enjoying your life sentence on planet Earth?

I went off the deep end, dove down and deeper still, in search of that missing heart of mine. I haven't located it yet, but I have a hunch how to retrieve it when I do. I don't expect to get it back in mint condition, but I do expect to swim my way back to you. I wanted out of those waters as soon as I had him them, but there are no healthy ways to speed up these things, only hurtful ones, hurtful in the long run. 

But: I am in the business of make believe, of making you believe, so let's suspend disbelief for a moment, shall we, and pretend together. Imagine a day when that ache in the belly, that sensation of being strangled is gone. When that heart is back in its place, a little worse for wear but not so obviously I couldn't fool us into believing there was never anything wrong with it. I might not feel so now, but I can imagine.

I can imagine because the first thing I registered this morning wasn't heaviness but a woodpecker knocking at the top of a lamp post, a sure sign of spring. Stupid bird, waking me up. Smart bird, using an amplifier. I can imagine because when my youngest whispers "Mommy, don't be sad, I love you," it's my child's voice I hear, not hers, six words to break and mend that heart.

I can imagine because I step outside and find the snow gone from the streets. I can feel the ground beneath my feet and it feels good at long last. I can imagine because I have breakfasts to make and hairs to brush, I have books to write and languages to sort out, and, I quote, "I have my health." [bangs head against door] "I have my health." [and again] A lover friend to come home to, so many things to be thankful for. Those are not illusions but proof of life. That is all I focus on while I try to swim, not tread water.

Play along, will you. Let me come and prattle on or ponder, talk books and movies and men and sex and women and life, the universe and everything. I swim so much faster that way, every day a little closer. Let's pretend it's already that day somewhere in the future and I'm already that much closer to you. I know I said I wouldn't rush it...but I'm swimming as fast as I can.

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.

The Onion Song

Sweetie daaarlings, I'm signing off for an extended weekend of eating and drinking and family fun, writing when I can steal the time (I will, I will, I must!), and most definitely reading, for the wee ones and by myself.

Get some rest if you can, or raise hell, go crazy, life is way too short to be cool 24/7. That's an order. Disobeying this order will result in very unnecessary headaches of your choice that come Tuesday next will make you rather regret not listening to Dita this April first. Chillax, for me, pleeease. I'm batting my eyelashes here, oh yes I am, emphatic, hypnotic. And my feminine wiles do nothing for you, do they? Damn.

Fools are my theme, let satire be my song, said Lord Byron. I'll leave you with this link to perpetual April Fools'. It would all be cute and funny if some of it wasn't so dead-on.

Enjoy your weekend, wherever you are.

Waters of March

Yes, I've been redecorating. Kind of psychedelic, isn't it? Borderline claustrophobic also, not having that airy outdoors view, so I'm not quite sure this is it. They went Joni Mitchell on the pier, paved paradise and put up a parking lot. It was bye to the den in the lighthouse, the caravan rolls on. I needed more room anyway so here we are, wherever I lay my hat and so on.

The view isn't particularly inviting or inspiring at the moment anyway. It's raining but I've never been more pleased with the weather lords. As wonderful as it was having a Real Winter, as they called this one, it's now supposed to be spring and I wouldn't mind if the weather matched the calendar. Rain to melt the snow is fine by me, the Waters of March signaling the end of winter. You may have heard that song by Tom Jobim, in English or Brazilian Portuguese, except the lyrics differ depending on the language. In Brazil, and the original version, the rains signal the end of summer. 

Meanwhile, back in the northern hemisphere, I haven't forgotten you, dearest denizens, I think about you all the time. Are you happy? Content? Zinged or Zen? Lost, dazed and confused? Come here, sweetie daaarlings, let me kiss it better. Don't let the growls or the looks fool you, I only pack a tight package to keep the pink gooey stuff from oozing out, you know. 

I have been busy trying to buy some more time to write. The logical thing to do was to take that job I was offered, right? It's only part-time and it's all about balance, the one on my bank account and keeping this pencil of mine sharpened, putting skills to good use. These projects help my writing since they're more often than not language-related. You gotta keep those muscles flexed or they will shrivel. I can't have that now can I? What a waste that would be.

I remember a time when a project like this one would have required everyone flying and working on location. Yes, I'm that old. Is that a problem? Now we all sit at our respective homes all over the globe and still manage to work together and discuss and negotiate things without necessarily ever meeting in person. Kind of awful and wonderful at the same time. Kind of like my writing career. I'm not tied to a place, I'm not tied to certain hours. As long as I do what I was contracted to do, it doesn't matter where or when I'm at it.

There's a price to such freedom, of course; the temporary nature, the need to be super organized and self-motivated. And if anyone knows where I could purchase a day with 72 or even 48 hours in it, I'd pay a handsome finder's fee for that. I'm not writing as much as I would like to be, but I've been taking steps in that direction, one after the other.

I met two dear friends over the weekend, women I hadn't seen for a long time, women in a situation a lot like mine. We had to laugh at the insane schedules we juggle, dog-tired at times but sporting a grin, the kind only that freedom can give you. Not money, not safety, but the knowledge you're being true to yourself. The choices we've made have been ours. We haven't sacrificed our families but we haven't sacrificed ourselves, either. We feel privileged to be doing what we love and know and do best, proud of what we have achieved and the risks we've taken. 

It hasn't always been easy. I'm sure it hasn't always looked like the most sensible course of action when we could have played it safe, but it's been worth it. No guarantees, no safety nets, no regrets. Tomorrow will be here whether we worry about it or not, and the day after. But even ten years from now none of us will think looking back on this rainy Tuesday that "I wish I had..."

I have said this before and I'll never tire singing it, in particular to all the women out there, Special Mention those whining and worrying men are doing this and that and who do they think they are and the nerve! Why aren't you up there going for that job or asking for that raise? You do know your own worth, don't you?

Go. Before it's too late. It's never too late. Do it. Try it. It is that simple. It is damn hard. I won't say it isn't, and I can't do it for you, but I'll love you for it. Respect you even more. Best of all, you'll respect yourself. It's not a bad place to be on a rainy day in March.

The bed of the well,

The end of the line,

The dismay in the face,

It's a loss, it's a find

And the riverbank talks

Of the waters of March,

It's the end of all strain,

It's the joy in your heart.