other missings and noticings

Last night I had a meeting with the director of The Polk Street Players- a tiny community theater that uses the basement in our church. Michael is an 842 year old Englishman. It was nice. I helped him tape the seams on the flats before the painters tomorrow and we talked about all 38 of their par 38's. The theater seats 50.
I had not planned to go back into theater again. It's bad for families, esp those who want to do other things on the weekends. Of course, I have not done a quarterly production deal since high school, so maybe it's not as bad as the weekly event work, or local crew.
The point is I'm toying with the ideas of happiness. What was going on when I had my own person satisfaction and happiness at it's highest?
The Furniture Doctor-
being a stagehand-
the first couple years of my business-
Yes I love love loved doing the work. I loved the job, even (maybe especially) when I complained. Deep down, I wouldn't trade those 15 years for white collar any day. My only regret of that fact is monetary, but not the experience. The common thread was us working to realize a common goal- the team work, counting on each other to do what needed to be done and being trusted to do my part. It was knowing for sure that if any one of us failed, they others could absorb and get the job done. Unwarranted blame was unacceptable. Someone had your back. The end game was the goal, not the praises of any one of the team, and we were going to make it happen. We needed it to happen. And we are not going to bed until it does.
Back in those glory days, the goal was all we had. There were few pets, fewer relationships (outside the wings) and no kids. Our only obligation was the show. Once you have the pets, and love, and kids, and the house, and PTA and all that, is it the natural flow of life that you lose that single mindedness? This may be a motherhood thing where you have no choice but to split your own goal concept and give slivers to all your charges.

Away from home-

I've been missing my book. I'm out of the house a lot more now. My eyes are so tired by the time I get home. I'm feeling the "practical" of my everyday like distracting grains. I miss my characters and taking them out to play with them to see what happens to them and when. I miss seeing if a situation fits this character or that one better. I have not been completely keyboard quiet.
I have been working on the Walt Whitman Award for Poetry entry. I still have a few weeks. I just might make it to 50 pages without resorting to double spacing. I'm ok with taking the time off to take the stab at the poetry project. I first wrote poetry and didn't think I could write fiction. But I'm missing it.
It'll be good to go back after being away to see if what's there still holds when my mind is different. I'm looking forward to finding out if it does. And if it doesn't, I'll take a break, then go back again to see if it was the writing or my mood.
But I miss it-

Summer silence in the south ends
with the cooler air of an October night
raising the song of birds from
heat hiding hibernation

The low southwest sun of morning
Pulls heartache for the hearths
of flagstone chimneys in
history's abandoned houses.

Acoustic morning music moves through a memory
of long back days
that began with cooler October nights
and melodies of morning

Silence - Feminine Voice week 15

Unplug
Turn off
Let go
What is there to do
When the power goes out?
An awareness acknowledges the
Audio electromagnetic gang rape
that is convenience
forces a fear of quiet.
No comfort taken or relaxation
in case the assailant comes back-

Constant contact
forces fear of time alone.
Perpetual stimulation
Under satisfaction
Let go-

What is there to do
When the power goes out?

Paths- Feminine voice week 14

Two roads diverged in the woods.
I ignored them both to head into the wild- the unknown, to mark a trail by which others may learn to travel.

When I have been able, I have decided fully what I would do and who I would go to for learning. Of all the things I know how to do now, I created another path just to see where it would lead. My treasure map is in my head. I had no degrees, or accreditations, nor certifications when I handled and repaired Egyptian mummified cats, or Roman artifacts, or Napoleon's personal effects. I did not have years of specialized training for setting off explosives within 3 feet of 25 actors, nor for building the controller for doing so. I have been put in charge of $1,000,000 of lighting equipment. I learned and have done these things be picking through the vines, wading in the waters, and like in The African Queen, salted the leeches from my body only to slide back into the swamp to pull my burden to the sea.

I do not regret these paths. I miss them fondly as I attempt living outside my comfort zone in constancy and familiarity. I find new paths, though smaller, to relish. Perhaps less wild than before, but still there.

Autumn- Femine Voice week 13

In the courtyard
White wines in the afternoon
tea and toast with ginger jam at bedtime.
A great lid is taken off.
From no where, crows are every where.
The sky and heat are let out
cirrus clouds as vague as steam
draw out and cool the cauldron earth.

Black wings fan and cool the courtyard.
The metal bench pulls my body's heat
calling the needs of warmth
reflected from amber windows.
Feathers on feathers as they fly-
hollies and box woods shake
replying to the wind they make

Femine Voice- week 12 Sweat

I cry at the drop of a hat- any hat. I cry at beauty and pain, pride and elation and times of passion. Salt holds my emotions and carries my energies out. Otherwise, I become laden down, heavy, nonoperational. It's too crowded inside me, like sand in a pipe. I can not think things through. I grind to a halt and shut down. To relieve the pressure, salt purifies. It must come out. Crying is not the only way. It's the bleeder valve, but not the switch. Exercise videos and "working out" are not a substitute- forced, useless sweat like a love token to a stranger, too easy to forget because I have gained nothing.

The sweat of hard work lightens my load. I can load a truck, climb a mountain, rearrange the woodpile, shovel snow- things like these are the best therapy. An hour or two of sweat filled productivity brings my wisdom, peace and cleanliness. I need a visual confirmation of my work, something accomplished, pile A is now pile B. I have succeeded and have proved my worth. Then I can sit down to write what I have learned.

Tears of my body- Salting the earth of my garden.

This bell is ringing quiet

http://www.poets.org/page.php/prmID/121

Erika sent me this. I have been going through all my notebooks and I am having a very hard time finding 50 pages, let alone 100. To be honest, I don't have that many good poems. It's always interesting how age and experience changes everything. Some of these are downright embarrassing. I thought they were so very good and insightful and moving when I was 20. Oh, how I was full of pain and love and fear and it was all really really really important. I understand now why I was not not popular at poetry readings with my peers. Sheesh. When I read some love poetry with my mom's friends, they said they were beautiful devotionals to God. I didn't take that well at the time because I was sooooooo in love with the boy I wrote them for. God had nothing to do with it, and if they didn't get my poems, well I don't know what's wrong with them. Kids are goofy. Half my life later, I see where they were coming from, and they are right.

I have a bit more time before the deadline for the poetry contest. We'll see if I can get my soul moving enough to be poetic. It's been a rough couple weeks and I haven't had the focus to write, edit, even reread recently. It'll come.

A Whole New World

When creating a fantasy world, you have to know who your "good guys" are. You have to explain to your reader why they are the good guys and your bad guys are bad guys. I'm finding G.G. society has to be somewhat idyllic, but not unbelievably Utopian. You want your reader to want to live there on some level. Some parallels and a touch of reality makes a connection between what the reader knows and what you tell them. As a writer, I have to understand that a crime free world probably came from an extreme disciplinarian mindset. It's core social evolution things like that which determine the flow of classes and religion. I'm don't think I have to explain the full history, but I do need to know what it is to reflect the mood.

My society is classless so far. The religion is basic and sparsely mentioned in the form of traditions. Genders have equality. "Protect the men!" is just as likely as a cry as for the women and children. While parental responsibility is big, being a biological parent is not. To write a society, I have to decide what these people strive for, what they hope to earn in their lifetimes, and to achieve their end.

In short, in your created world, who are your hero's heroes?

I know who they are in my story. If I did my job right, then the reader will know who I am talking about. If I'm really lucky, I will change an ideal or two-
One can only hope.

Needing Pep

I'm having temporary discouragement. Other than the big bad world stuff, my application for another job has been rejected as well as my first attempt at a paid writing piece. It's the self pity moment of the new writer. I feel the same way when I think about how many books are in the library and who do I think I am believing my silly story is worthy of sharing shelf space? It's a nagging doubt that everybody has. You know you did at some point.
Just 5 more minutes to feel sorry for myself, then look at the review of my work and learn from it. But for the next 5 minutes, I'm not going to be so happy.