I’m waiting for it (that green light) I want it

Temperature: a humid 20/68 degrees

Eating: a Mediterranean couscous salad

Watching: Greta Thunberg set sail for NYC. Fair winds and following seas, älskling!

Listening: to the shit she has to take from trolls, politicians, lobbyists and the corporate sector…which just proves she hit a nerve, a really sensitive one, one that needs to be poked and poked hard.

Reading: what’s new at school

Thinking: The children and youth of today have every right to be angry, frustrated and disappointed, we’re failing this stewardship job of ours and we’re failing them.

Feeling: We can do better, agreed? Sooo much better, in both our private, personal, daily lives, and in a public capacity as citizens of our cities, countries and this planet of ours. Exploit and abuse, or cherish and protect? Which road and MO secures a future for all creatures, big and small?

Just an illusion

I see dead people. They don’t know they’re dead.* Or, rather, they don’t know they’re not real. They talk to me, tell me about their goals and dreams and fears, then ask me to sort it out for them. Help them get there. Get over it. Get through to him/her/them. Get payback. Get in. Get out.

That’s the task laid at my feet. Can you help me? I can try. They are, after all, my creation. It’s all in my head. These imaginary people leading imaginary lives with their imaginary hopes and problems. It’s the writer’s duty to breathe life into it all. Sort it out. Do justice to them. Do right by them. Help them get there, get over it, get through to him/her/them, get payback, get in, or out.

Sometimes it works and everyone lives happily ever after. Or miserably. Depends. Sometimes it’s a dud and what they’ve given me doesn’t add up. Something’s missing and won’t reveal itself. They’re shells and resist being more. They are lost and determined not to alter course. Some are cut-and-dried, some take time, but you know the ones who are worth it really are worth the trip there and back.

Writing. The life of a puppet master. Never let the strings show.


*The Sixth Sense

Around the sun in 365 days

Temperature: a sunny 28.5/83 degrees

Eating: watermelon

Drinking: lime sparkling water

Watching: Watched The Age of Adaline the other night, drawn in by the…hmm…familiar premise.

Listening: to the sounds of nature now that half the city, maybe more, has migrated to the countryside, lakeside, seaside, home and abroad.

Reading: as fast as I can, though some books just make you want to stop and savor so I do.

Writing: Every chance I get and can squeeze in. No, I don’t know if those words will ever light a screen apart mine. Writing is as vital as ever. Being read? I honestly don’t know.

Thinking: It’s my birthday next week.

Feeling: It’s my personal New Year’s, time to take stock.

They are not long

…the days of wine and roses, aka summer in Scandinavia, so I’m off to enjoy it for a bit with family and friends. We have relatives to visit, people to entertain, and birthdays to celebrate. I’m acutely aware these family summers and adventures are coming to an end. My children are teens, and our oldest is on the cusp of adulthood and soon off to adventures of his own, a life of his own.

I’m ready to let go; it’s my husband who’s struggling with the passage of time. I think we’ve done a pretty decent job raising the next generation of men, and I’m confident they’ll do just fine in life. I’ve done all I can to cultivate their empathy and imagination and self-esteem, their creativity and curiosity. I gave them life, that Once upon a time, but it’s their story now. Can’t wait to watch it unfold.

But first, slow cooking, long lunches and even longer evenings, the endless summer nights midsummer provides. Movies, books, some writing. Brunches al fresco, walks in the garden with Chloe the cat. The city and the sea. With 19 hours of daylight to spare, it feels as if you have all the time in the world, and so much energy running through your veins there’s not much you can’t do. It’s true, sweetie darlings: people don’t run on coffee/tea/rage against the machine but solar power. Recharging as I write.

#TBT

#DancingDays #BoogieNights #D&B #Dub #House #Techno #Triphop
 
#Apollo440 #Massive Attack #PaulOakenfold#TheChemicalBrothers #TheOrb #TheProdigy
 
First off, I would like to apologize to my hair for the cruel and unusual punishment that was the early 90’s. I hope my face will be as forgiving, I used to do quite a number on the eyes and lips, black mascara overload and ruby stick on repeat. But those were the days of excess on many fronts, the dancefloor in particular, with endless hours of running on rhythm. Okay, some cider and the occasional beer and all manner of whiskey. But no drugs.
 
Not that they weren’t plentiful in the rave scene, but I kind of liked the idea of being the old school oddball keeping to the devil I knew, tipple. And, honestly, I didn’t relish the idea of losing control or waking up in a strange bed with strange people without underwear or memory of what exactly happened and whether I’d consented. (Getting a call from a panicky friend sealed that deal.) I was also a closet bluestocking who knew enough of what that shit was and feared what it might do, as in permanent damage. I felt like my brain deserved better than a total meltdown every Friday and/or Saturday. Yes, I know what alcohol is and does. You’ve got to draw the line somewhere and that was mine.
 
I’m fond of the girl I was back then. She looks like she’s about to step out and have fun, which she did, but to every thing there is a season. I’ve been kinder to my mane and skin since, and I don’t miss the dancing days. I do miss some people from that era, people who dived in with both feet but never found the Exit. They drowned in the Bristol sound, took a pill too many, went for the wrong kind of ecstasy. Too much of a good thing, and all that acid jazz.