The moon is a sunlit object.

Expose accordingly. (From thirtysomething, the episode in which Gary has died and his friends are all gathered at Michael’s house, and Melissa remembers a few moments she had spent with Gary, one morning, taking pictures of him whilst he slept.)

: )

Tonight I went on a moon-seeking field trip.



I headed out about 90 minutes too early, but it was a positively fantabulous night here in my little world: sunny, cool, perfect. And first I headed east toward Akin (Home of the Bulldogs), but I did not drive far, only to (I wanna say) Timothy Lane and then turned around, came back through town, and then I drove west toward Christopher (Home of the Bearcats) but turned north at Rend City Road. Toward the lake. Drove all ’round the lake; saw a deer, missed getting a shot of it when the SUV in front of me when roaring past it; continued up toward Keller Mine Road, saw the sunflower field (now withered) that Kurt told me about earlier this summer; got momentarily disoriented; snapped a couple of just-past-sunset shots. Drove back toward the lake and realized this would be my optimum shooting spot; however, there is no good place to park along the bridge, which is about 4 miles in length and isn’t really like a bridge at all, mostly it’s a highway over the water, if that makes any sense. Took 2 sunset shots from Sailboat Harbor (no sailboats tonight), then drove back the direction I’d come from. Wound my way back around the lake, and still, no moon.

Decided to stop by my house, tinkle, and go to www.almanac.com and find out JUST what time the moon rises around here, anyway! (9:10 p.m., I discovered. Ah, not for another hour, I thought, until I realized: Eastern time!)

I hopped back into my car and sped up the highway, heading for the bridge. Kept glancing over my left shoulder as I saw a very bright light behind me, beyond the trees, and then, as I drove over the first section of water, with Annie Lennox belting out the first song from the Medusa album, which I am now hooked on, along with No. 9, I glanced into my rearview mirror and saw the orange moon behind me and off to the right.

I headed over to North Sandusky, to Shelter 3, just before my favorite picnic area, and as I looked through the trees, I saw the sight I was seeking:

I angled the car with the high beams toward the lake, shifted to park, grabbed my big-ass cool-blue Maglite, my Coach Swiss Army knife (for protection from wild animals, of course) and my camera and hiked down to the water. Took a few shots of the moon itself and then, whilst leaning against a tree for stability, took a few more of the moon and its reflection. (To me, it resembles an exclamation point, inverted and reversed, the opposite of this: ! ... like in Spanish, perhaps, and with a bit-too-big gap between the line and the dot, but still. Works for me!) Then I jogged back up to the car, feeling only a tiny bit jittery when I heard a rustling in the trees off to my right. (Wolves? Bears? Jaguars?) But, hey, I had my big-ass Maglite AND my knife, right? (Still, it was very dark at this picnic area, in spite of the moonlight. Freaky, just a little!)

The moon was shining full force by the time I returned home.

Cloudy

Cloudy
By Simon & Garfunkel

Cloudy
The sky is gray and white and
Cloudy
Sometimes I think it’s hangin’ down on me

And it’s a-hitchhike a hundred miles
I’m a ragamuffin child
Wearin’ a finger-painted smile
I left my shadow waitin’ down the road for me
Oh, I’m

Cloudy
My thoughts are scattered and they’re
Cloudy
They have no borders, no boundaries

They echo and they swell
From Tolstoy to Tinkerbell
Down from Berkeley to Carmel
Got some pictures in my pocket
And a lot of time to kill

Hey, sunshine
I haven’t seen you in a long time
Why don’t you show your face
And bend my mind?

These clouds stick to the sky
Like a floating question why
They linger there to die
They don’t know where they’re going
And my friend neither do I

Cloudy
Cloudy
Cloudy
Cloudy
Cloudy
Cloudy

: )

Yes, this song always makes me smile. And I should be making an S&G mix, which I have promised to at least one co-worker, but I can’t do it this minute. Or this afternoon, probably.

[NOT. IN. THE. MOOD.]

And funnily enough, it was supposed to be sunny today. And cool. Instead, it is cloudy. And cool.

And I had a chance to go sailing, which is something I have never done before, but when the possibility came up earlier in the week, I declined. I am not sure why, other than, at the time, I did not feel like doing “anything” today.

Yes: I could see into The Future. And I knew that, come Sunday, I would not want to have Formal Plans.

And, so far, this is shaping up to be a planless day: 2 phone calls @ 10:45 or so, the first on Line 2 followed immediately by the second on Line 1, both of which whilst I was still in bed ... shuffle over to Ben’s for a bottle of Dasani and a bottle of Coke (I like to think of it as my own private stock; it’s cool to have a vending machine RIGHT ACROSS THE STREET ... a very quiet street at that) ... nutritious baloney sandwich and potato chips lunch ... second viewing of (half of) The Dancer Upstairs, this time with director’s commentary going (I like how John Malkovich says “’member” instead of “remember”; it sounds so kid-like) ... and now type-type-typing away while Simon & Garfunkel play in the background (at this moment: “For Emily, Whenever I May Find Her”) on the stereo, and some ESPEN Classic special on Andre Agassi is showing on the TV.
And I am thinking about going to see Hero because my movie sensei tells me it is beautiful, but if I do go, I would want to go to the 2:15, and here it is, nearing 1, and I have not even thought about waking up, completely, let alone showering. And I have to allow at least 20 minutes travel time, and I am really nowhere near traveling.

So, here I will stay.

Shots of Andre winning the (1999?) French Open, and he is crying and happy and sweet. Will he win the 2004 U.S. Open? I sorta hope so. It would make for a fitting closing to his career ... he could ride off into the sunset, a la Pete Sampras in 2002.

Truthfully, at this moment, I do not care who wins, male or female. This year has been about drawing into Anti-Sports Mode, for me, work-wise, locally, which feels a little strange at times, after 16 years. And I tried to get “into” baseball this season, but the Cubs have been infuriating, and yes, I do like the Cardinals, but my Cards fan friends seem to enjoy harassing me so much that it makes me NOT want to root for the Redbirds, and yet I secretly find myself thinking that it would be SUCH sweet poetic justice to see the Cubs, somehow, meet up with the Cardinals in the playoffs and BEAT THEM.

Although, just by writing that, just now, I have most certainly jinxed the Cubbies. AS IF they needed me to add to the mix. But my, it WOULD be sweet.

: )

And I have watched so little of the Olympics that it is almost as if they have not occurred.

What I do not like is watching non-live sports. I mean, I enjoy these highlight shows and retrospectives and what-not, but there is nothing like seeing a sporting event LIVE. Even if it is on TV, and perhaps you have the few-seconds delay because of the satellite uplink or whatever. Still, it is pretty close to being instantaneous.

Anyhoo, the U.S. Open starts tomorrow, and now there is a special on Billie Jean King coming on, and I refuse to watch it.

Yeah, yeah, BJK, big radical feminist, huge impact on women’s rights, blah blah blah ... and yet, when we saw Billie Jean last summer, at a fucking World Team Tennis event in St. Louis, which is to “serious” tennis what the WWF is to actual wrestling, only without all the hype and costumes and play-violence, she acted as if she were “too busy” to take the time to say hello or acknowledge a compliment or, God forbid, give a fucking autograph to my friend Jody, who had just had the first of 3, count ’em, 3 foot surgeries and yet had somehow hobbled her way through the tennis facility at Forest Park and had stood there, waiting patiently, to get her picture taken with Billie Jean King. One of her “idols.”

So, yeah, I am unimpressed with BJK here in her later years. Her attitude whilst attending a very public event, at which she should have fully expected to have been recognized by tennis fans, seemed rather ungracious, to me.

(I do have a photograph of Jody and Billie Jean, but it is in a collage frame in my bedroom, and I am not about to take it out and scan it and post it. Of course, the original shot is somewhere in lock-up, i.e. the currently crashed laptop. What has it been now, a year? Hell, I am never getting that thing fixed. Let’s be honest, shall we?)

It was awfully damn hot/humid midday yesterday at the freshman football game. (I normally would not have gone, but a co-worker [not the one I promised the S&G mix to] has twin boys playing on the team and she asked me to go, and I said I would, if I were up on time ... and I was.)

The smart people at the game had umbrellas.

And then, later, it rained and cooled off nicely last evening/night, but sadly, I was unable to see the nearly full moon.

And today, again, it’s cloudy.

: )

Waking the Dead

I don’t wanna cause you any pain
I just wanna love you
I don’t wanna fuck up anything
I just wanna love you

(From “Snow Come Down” by Lori Carson)

OK, so I watched Waking the Dead tonight, in its entirety for the 2nd time ever. And I have had the DVD for, like, years and could not bring myself to watch it again, just because ... well, yeah. And: Yeah.

And this is the kind of movie that tears you up inside as you watch it. And yeah, partly because yes, I do like sad, glad, romantic movies in which you see The Perfectly Imperfect Couple, and you know that they belong together, and yet you know that there is absolutely no way that they ever really will be together. Or maybe, as in this movie, when the characters are together, they are so imperfectly perfect that you know they have to affect one another ... make their mark on each other ... before either one will be complete.

Someone told me, recently, that the subconscious mind forgets nothing. Everything and everyone you have ever encountered, every thought, every feeling: It’s always there, all of it, somewhere in your mind. That’s where the subconscious is, right? Or maybe ... does it reside somewhere in your heart?

Anyway, there are scenes in this movie that rip me apart, in no small part because I relate so much to Fielding. And that feeling of knowing she is gone, and she is not coming back. And when he answers the phone and hears her voice and tells her, “I don’t think you’d like me anymore,” and he’s sobbing ... whoa. And when he breaks down at the table, and tells his family he’s not sure what’s wrong, and that he needs their help ... again, whoa.

And when Sarah shows up at his door, and she’s crying, and they both have so much to say but all she wants is for him to hold her ... I may not be watching this one again for a while.

Or maybe I’ll watch it again right now.

Call me crazy ...

... but I simply cannot imagine stealing anything from an online journal that belonged to anyone else. Or any other Web site/home page/what ever.

OK, so maybe I can see how some of my kick-ass photos would look good almost anywhere, but if anyone were to do so without giving credit? And perhaps a little moolah to go with it?

That is simplyunforgivable.

And I am a person who believes in forgiveness. Relies on it, in fact; I would not be where I am at this moment without it.

I should write more, as it is a nearly perfect, rainy night, but I am in sort of a funk. And I want to rant but really should not ... not that I have anything bad to say about anyone, actually; I just want to feel sorry for myself, and there is really no reason. I should be thanking my lucky STARS ... yet it is raining ... so I cannot see any stars.

So it is a moot point. Or a mute point. Is there really any difference?

: )

I built a chair today. OK, I did not actually build it; I assembled it. And it is comfortable.

(My butt feels goooooooood.)

All right. That is more than I should ever have revealed out loud.

: )

Is it Friday yet?

Samwiches

Peanut butter and honey sandwiches never taste as good as I remember them, when I eat them now. Which is one of many reasons I hardly ever eat them, now.

But PB & J just did not appeal to me.

Bobby used to make them for us, PB & H. And sometimes we would make our own toasted baloney-and-cheese samwiches, but not really: We would just put the bread in the toaster, and then slap on the baloney and American cheese and mustard.

: )

Tonight I watched a gorgeous, exhausting film, Touching the Void. Kind of a docudrama, I guess, as it featured a couple of guys who attempted to scale Shula Grande in Peru back in the mid-1980s, but also contained sort of a re-enactment of what they went through. Awesome film.

And midway through, I glanced through my curtains and could see the pink shadows (??) of the sun on the houses, and I had thought earlier in the evening that this might be a good night for a sunset because it was raining and clouds were swirling, so I looked toward the west, and sure enough, pure orange. So I grabbed the camera and went ... but I had missed the actual sunset by a few minutes.

But there was orange, still. And corn tassels.



And to the east, a rainbow. Too dark to photograph, but still. Both ends, too.

A Little Splash of Color

My hibiscus is resting; still, occasionally, she blooms big.

: )



And in an unrelated frame of mind, this is the lyric running through my brain ... even though I have Smashing Pumpkins semi-blaring on the stereo, just now:

Today is the greatest
Day I’ve ever known
Can’t live for tomorrow
Tomorrow’s blah-de-blah
(OK, I have NO idea exactly what Billy sings right there)

: )

Besides, the lyric I have in mind is this one:

I found a picture of you
Oh oh oh oh
What hijacked my world that night
To a place in the past we've been cast out of
Oh oh oh oh
Now we’re back in the fight
We’re back on the train, hey
Aaaah
Back on the chain gang

Mainly for the picture part.

Oh. Ah! “Landslide” is on now, and I love it. Adore it. By the Pumpkins or the Dixie Chicks or Stevie. Mostly Stevie.

And it rained today, some. And according to The Weather Channel, every day this week: Gray clouds with a lil’ lightning bolt streaking down from it. And RAIN! EVERY DAY! Can you even imagine a full week of rain? Thunderstorms?

Wow.

: )

I nearly died yesterday. Or I nearly would have died, had I arrived at the exact same spot on the interstate as the semi behind me just a split-second or two earlier, instead of right when I did. Which, I am quite certain, undoubtedly earned me a very special place in the semi driver’s ... uhm, heart, after I basically pulled out or in or whatever, RIGHT in front of him (or I guess it could’ve been a her, who knows, I wasn’t even looking, which is the very reason I nearly died).

It’s so strange when you totally fuck up, driving-wise, but somehow emerge unscathed. Here I am, feeling happy and a little tired and what-not after leaving the birthday party — where Little John and I won the croquet tournament AND the water-balloon toss, which, in my estimation, were the two most difficult competitions of the entire event (not counting the 3-legged race, which hurt my ankle severely) — and looking all kinds of forward to seeing Garden State, which I have determined I can make it to JUST in time, if I drive relatively quickly.

So I take the exit onto I-57, and I swear to God I looked to my left as I was merging, but it is quite possible I was talking, too, and probably lost in thought as well (when am I not, really?), so I did not see anything (I guess?) and as I get onto the interstate, I glance up into my rearview mirror and see that it is completely filled with the image of the white semi RIGHT behind me. And I guess my arm jerked or something because The Lovely thought I was having some kind of SEIZURE (a.k.a. Caesar), but instead, I am like, “No, not a seizure; I am simply trying to get us killed.”

Then I floored the gas pedal to get as far away from the undoubtedly irate semi driver as possible.

: (

And I wanted to like Garden State more than I did, and I think that perhaps I shall, once I have had some time to think about it more. I mean, what the heck, I wasn’t all that crazy about Stealing Home the first time I saw it, either, and now I have to classify it as one of my all-time faves, so who knows?

I think, had I seen GS about 10 years ago, maybe 15, I would have appreciated it more. Which pains me to say because the underlying message is that I somehow feel too old for this movie, somehow.

I mean, I have been through that feeling of numbness, that detachment, that awareness that I really had no clue what I wanted to do or be or whatever whenever I grew up ... albeit almost entirely without any kind of medication (except for all the alcohol) ... so that part sort of flew right by me.

Although, had I seen this movie two years ago, it might have prompted me to slit my throat.

Come Saturday Morning

Sounds of Saturday:

1. Two telemarketing calls before 10 a.m. (one of them could be one of my credit card companies, heh, but damn, maybe I should have joined the do-not-call list)

2. Crickets and cicadas and ____ (flies? oh MY!)

3. Cars wooshing past

4. Lawn mower rumbling and moving. (I live 2 houses down from a lawn mower shop; in fact, I wrote a story about the business a few months ago, and thus have earned the eternal gratitude of Ben, the owner. He tells me he sold his 43rd lawn mower on Thursday [his goal was 40], thanks in no small part to the story I wrote.)

Am I not something! (Self, do NOT answer that!)

: )

I paid off a huge stack of bills last night. There is something oddly satisfying about that, and yet, I wonder if I will ever find a job that pays me what I am worth. Is anyone really paid what she or he is worth? Is it possible to put a monetary value on talent (market value, perhaps) and effort and importance and attitude? Does salary = worth, in any realm or galaxy?

I usually do not think so, except when I am way late on a bill and the company calls me before 10 a.m. on a Saturday. Then it all seems to matter, somehow.

Even then, why-oh-why do I have certain statements running through my head? (I would name the movie, but the No. 1 rule is that I cannot talk about it. Heh.)

You are not your job.
You are not how much you have in the bank.
You are not the contents of your wallet.
You are not your fucking khakis.

Long live Tyler Durden!

Hopeful Thinking

Here is the thought/prayer/meditation that kept racing through my brain before sleep last night:

IHOPEITRAINSIHOPEITRAINSIHOPEITRAINSI
HOPEITRAINSIHOPEITRAINSIHOPEITRAINSIH
OPEITRAINSIHOPEITRAINSIHOPEITRAINSIHO
PEITRAINSIHOPEITRAINSIHOPEITRAINSIHOP
EITRAINSIHOPEITRAINSIHOPEITRAINSIHOPE
ITRAINSIHOPEITRAINSIHOPEITRAINSIHOPEI
TRAINSIHOPEITRAINSIHOPEITRAINSIHOPEIT
RAINSIHOPEITRAINSIHOPEITRAINSIHOPEITR
AINSIHOPEITRAINSIHOPEITRAINSIHOPEITRA
INSIHOPEITRAINSIHOPEITRAINSIHOPEITRAI
NSIHOPEITRAINSIHOPEITRAINSIHOPEITRAIN
SIHOPEITRAINSIHOPEITRAINSIHOPESHECALLS

(It was raining when I awoke.)

Midnight at the Oasis

Send your camel to bed ...

OK, it’s not midnight here, but it’s not all that far off.

And it’s almost Friday, which is the best part, and I am awake enough to want to write. Plus, you never know whom you might encounter, late at night. Especially late-late at night.

But then, you actually know better than to hope so. Or to look, even.

I watched The Year of Living Dangerously tonight. Courtesy of Netflix. And oh, I am enjoying that, yes, I am: You fill your queue; you receive your movies; you watch your movies; you send your movies back. All by mail. Postage paid. Most importantly: NO LATE FEES. Plus, the fact that new movies get sent out from your Q once your movies have been sent back keeps the pressure on to get the movie watched and get it back. Gotta love that.

: )

Anyway, regarding tonight’s movie: Damn, I love it. I think, I think, that I first watched this one at my dad’s house, probably on HBO. He liked it very much, if memory serves me correctly. I’ve said it before, but it bears repeating: Mel Gibson has never looked better than he does in this film. And as for Sig ... damn, damn, damn. So plain, really, but damn. Something about her ... yeah.

And in the shout-outs department: Linda Hunt is amazing. The character of Billy Kwan is magnificent, and her portrayal is simplysuperb. (I also found myself appreciating Bembol Roco, the actor who plays Kumar, very much during this viewing.)

Yesterday, I watched Lost in Translation. Several very good moments in that one. Very slow. I love the way Charlotte looks at Bob whenever they are together ... and I love the embrace at the very end. And the elephants walking across the screen.

(Does everything have to remind me ...?)

Yes. Yes, it does.

: )

Back to Dangerously: I love how Guy leaves the tape player on the counter at the airport, there at the very end. No job is better or bigger than love. I mean, come on! Plus, that’s Sig waiting for him, just inside the jet!

: )

What I Learned Today (So Far)

I have known for many years now that there is such a thing as red velvet cake; it is wonderfully sweet and colorful and ... complete, somehow. I love it, but I have never attempted to bake it. (Sherry did. It resembled a Frisbee. She suspects she may have used baking powder instead of baking soda ... or vice-versa.) Anyhoo, what I learned today is that there also are such things as red velvet ants. However, they are not ants, really; they are wingless wasps. Which is kinda fun to say: Wingless wasps. Wingless wasps. Wingless wasps. Feels almost as if your mouth is getting some kind of physical workout ... as if that would ever be a concern, really.

: )

I also learnt (heh) that although this new-fangled Blogger upload system is WAY easier than it was before (no more FTP-ing!), it is not foolproof. Took me 4 tries to get that top photo loaded.

Like I said: NOT foolproof.

: )

I am not into the Olympics as much as I thought I would be. Found it kinda cool that Greece won the gold medal in synchronized diving (like I can tell a perfect dive from a belly-buster, times 2!), and just now I was watching the kayak slalom.

I still say having a kayak would be fun. What is it about paddling that appeals to me? As IF I have ever even done it, except for those canoe trips and the whitewater rafting expedition a few years back. Sometime about the solitude, maybe?

Yeah, like I need more alone time. I spend enough time inside this head of mine, thank you very kindly.

Hmmm. The fact that my phone is ringing tells me that the dialup connection is no longer intact ... despite the fact that I appear to be online, still. How nice.

No Apparent Reason

For no apparent reason — and in spite of the fact that I actually have the Indigo Girls singing, right now — still, I have this song running through my head. The “Na-na Na-na” song. Apparently, it was sung by a group (duo?) called Mouth and MacNeal.

Here is a snippet (I should include a link to the site that had a WAV version of it, God KNOWS I do adore my “Dancing in the Moonlight” WAV!):

How do you do?
Mm mm
I thought
Wa-na na-na na-na
Just me and you
And then we can
Na-na na-na
Just like before
And you will say
Na-na na-na
Please give me more
And you will think
Na-na na-na
Hey, that’s what I’m living for!

: )

Nearly got out of Target with only some monthly supplies and a bottle of 8-hour Tylenol, but then, after going to my car and listening to most of “The World Can Wait” — including this line: “I want to feel and then some / I have five senses / I need thousands more at least / every day a page of paper / every night a photograph / a moveable feast” — I suddenly found myself thinking about City of Angels and a scene in the library in which they are talking about the book by Hemingway, A Moveable Feast, and then another scene where Seth tells Maggie, “You felt me. You can feel me,” and then I was remembering MY list of Movies That Count, and of course this one is on it yet I do not own my own copy, so I decided to run in and get it, along with another “keeper” according to The Girl Whose Opinions on Movies (and Music) I Trust Most, Cold Mountain. And I made myself a deal that I would only get the latter movie tonight if the former movie were there, also, but it was not.

Then, as I was turning to leave the entertainment section, I saw the newest k.d. lang CD, hymns of the 49th parallel, and decided I must have it. And now I do.

di's candy drawer

Thank GOD (and Ben & Jerry, too, I suppose) that this splendiferous (I have no idea what this word means, but it sounds appropriate) flavor of ice cream is far too sweet/rich to eat more than a few bites of — each one of them at least 100 calories, prolly. Otherwise, I would no doubt be passed out on the bed or the couch or the floor, even, instead of perched here, on my spinny office chair, candles burning all around me (though I just blew out the banana bread candle ... not because it doesn’t smell good, but because the rest are vanilla and I don’t want to waste it when its smell is virtually being drowned out ... or, as they say, “drownded,” as if you can actually drown out a smell, anyway). Regarding the ice cream, however: I love the name. And the fact that there are chunks of stuff in it. Plus it is a limited batch, which hopefully means it will sell out at the local Wal-Jack SOON and I will NOT be tempted to buy it next trip out there. (The Lovely bought this pint.)

: )

The Olympics have started. I am watching the Opening Ceremony even though I know it is on tape, and the part of me that prefers LIVE sports ANYTHING over taped is rather irate, yet I know that had it been shown live — and perhaps it was, on one of the umpteen NBC stations devoted to covering the 2004 Summer Games — I would have surely missed it.

And in walks the team from Greece, right now, and I adore that the Olympics are in Greece, and I curse the powers-that-be who decided that our lil’ 3,500-circulation newspaper did not quite qualify for a media pass (heh — though I DID try to get one!), but I can deal.

I am a huge fan of the Olympics. The Olympics turn me into a weepy, patriotic mess at the most unexpected moments; they give me chills and fill me with wonder, still, because I really cannot imagine anything greater than representing your country in some kind of athletic event. I mean, I would think anyone who has ever swung a baseball bat or a tennis racket, or jogged or sprinted or raced, or thrown or kicked or shot a ball of any kind, or ridden a bicycle, or paddled, or ANYTHING sports-related, at one time or another, would have imagined, for a second or two or a lifetime, perhaps, winning an Olympic medal.

My first utterly outlandish dream was winning Wimbledon. My second, of course, was standing on the podium, having a medal draped around my neck.

Perhaps I will cover the Olympics someday. That would be mighty cool.

Not Afraid to Cry

I am not a person who cries all that easily.

Well, OK, not counting almost all of 2002, during which I cried for at least a portion of nearly every day, in-between sadness and regret and numbness and just plain feeling bad for everything that I had done. Yeah, that year, I cried easily.

And I do not mind crying, except for the fact that when you cry and people are around, seems like they always want to know, “What’s wrong?” ... when in reality, sometimes there actually really is nothing “wrong,” it is simply that something got to you, in some way, and given the subconscious (or is it unconscious? I never really totally understood the difference between those 2 words) choice between the two reactions that (to me, anyway) seem most “normal,” laughing and crying:

You cried.

I watched a movie tonight called Lea, and in certain parts, it made me cry. For example, when Strehloh hands Lea the wild roses, and she struggles so mightily to say, “Dank,” because she does not speak, really ... it is simply heartbreaking.

Earlier today, though, I was doing a little photo editing, and I called up a picture that had been sent to me earlier this week by our freelancer from a trip to Haiti by her son and daughter-in-law. I had not looked at the photo prior to today, and then, there it was, on my screen, and all I could do was cry.

And I thought about posting it in here, but I did not shoot the photo, and although I doubt the photographer would mind, I made a rule whilst writing “Freewheelin’ Di” that I was not going to post photos by others from elsewhere on the Internet. I could always link to them, I reasoned ... and besides, this is MY place. MY lil’ corner of the Web. So only photos BY me ... or, on the rare occasion that I might want to post a photograph OF me, or something me-related ... or, maybe an occasional photo from the archives, say, a family member when she or he was younger, perhaps before I was even a glint ...

After all, it really IS all about me ... right?

Right.

So I will describe the photograph that still, right now, as I look at it, fills my eyes with tears and makes me want to embrace, totally, all that there is in this life, beyond the ME-ness that I can sometimes submerge myself in. (And suddenly, I wish this were Friday because at this moment, I feel as if I could write and write and write forever.)

The photo:

Gray walls with a brown wooden doorframe in the middle ... a brown door opens from the left ... beyond the door, wispy white material (part of a hammock, perhaps?), and beyond that, an off-white beam, and past that, palms and other green foliage ... in front of the wispy material, low, a white fan (the blades are not moving) ... standing in the doorway, a woman about my age, maybe a little younger, with an oval face, fair complexion, smiling so her teeth, even and white, are showing, strong cheekbones, three smile lines along each side of her face, greenish eyes that shine and look straight ahead ... she has light brown hair, pulled back, and a ringlet of blonde curls falls along the right side of her face ... she is wearing small silver hoop earrings and a thin silver or white gold necklace, and a white T-shirt ... her arms, slender and tan, are crossed, with the fingers of her left hand near her right elbow ... her right arm angles upward, her hand cradling the head of a baby girl, her right thumb slightly covering the baby’s left ear ... the baby has darker skin and light, small patches of brown hair on her head ... her dark brown eyes look to the left, and her tiny hands are balled into fists, the left one tighter than the right, both near her face, the left fist right in front of her slightly downturned lips ... her knees are bent and her legs are as thin as her thin arms, which also are bent ... the baby is wearing a white onesie, and her pink-soled feet rest in the bend of the woman’s right arm ... the woman holds the heel of the baby’s left foot in the tips of her thumb, index and middle fingers.

What is missing from this description is the fact that the baby is 6 months old and weighs not much more than a newborn, so her arms and legs look too long for her body, and I can see that she is malnourished. Yet her eyes are bright, and with her fists clenched like they are, I get the feeling that she will, indeed, be a fighter.

And that makes me cry and gives me hope.

These eyes ...

Shot this yesterday for a thread in The Orchard.

Kinda freaky, huh, looking right into someone’s eyes ... especially when they are your own! And it’s not exactly like looking in the mirror, either, ’cause that’s a reflection.

I remember a time, not so long ago, though sometimes, it seems ages, when I could not look myself in the eyes, in the mirror or otherwise.

Those days, though ... those days are long gone.

Posting vs. Non-posting

I have just decided, upon reading my entry from yesterday evening, that posting song lyrics is a little like not posting at all.

Kind of like posting an Up & Coming for the Community page is not exactly writing a news story. But then again, I am the editor. I am supposed to be editing, not writing.

Yeah, right.

[Random thought: Why is it that I just pushed the MUTE button on my remote control twice, and it did not mute? I mean, it’s not as if I haven’t seen this episode of Nip/Tuck 2 times already!]

[There. Now it’s muted.]

I am at a standstill.

I keep thinking of all these projects. First there was the spare bedroom/studio project. Almost finished, but actually on hold. For 2 months now. Then there was the “transfering of files from the laptop to the desktop computer” project, which I actually have no clue how to do; hence, it continues to go undone.

[Random song in my head: “She’s Come Undone” by Duran Duran.]

Now there is the “save all the photos on my current desktop to CD” project, which I actually have zero interest in doing but know that I need to.

Then, the other day, at this place called Stevens, where The Lovely was checking out some Vera Bradley items — which, I admit, I had no use for, really (I am not really a purse kinda gal; gimme a backpack, baby!), in fact I had barely given her VB billfold a glance, primarily because it is pink (I am equally not a pink kinda gal, either ... though I did like Pink’s Mizzundahstood album, or however you spell it).

Anyhoo, there I am, in Stevens, venturing off toward the picture frames (I AM a frames kinda gal), and I find myself in the middle of the scrapbooking section.

Yes, scrapbooking. Apparently, it has now become a hobby; in fact, my pal KJ has been doing something scrapbooking-related for years, and I am so bad at keeping in touch that I really do not know what brand or company or whatever, but apparently, it is quite popular.

Unlike when I was in high school, and come the start of every school year/tennis season, I would *attempt* to make a scrapbook of my various adventures. Cuttin’ out all the newspaper articles, pastin’ ’em in a scrapbook.

It’d usually last about a week. I would have a whole week’s worth of articles, and then the rest of the book would be blank.

(That is pretty much how I have been at every kind of “real” journal I have ever kept. Not saying this here thing is not real, just that I cannot fold it up with my Pilot G-2 07, blue ink, left inside on the page I just finished writing. And in just about a year and half, I have already done more journaling in here than I ever did “out there”

* Pointing to the world around me, then holding my arms out wide, palms up *

but I have already proven that even this one ebbs and flows ... much like a chatroom, as Troy pointed out just last night.)

[Random observation: Ah, last night ... only 2 nights after I had declared to myself that in spite of all of the conversations I have had with random strangers who eventually became my friends, or fleeting memories, or a girl I cannot seem to forget, and all the fun I have had cruising down and around and all over this Information Superhighway, sometimes I find that it is, indeed, very lonely “in here”

* Pointing to the computer screen, and then to my own clean-cut noggin *

only 2 nights after this declaration/realization, I spent part of Sunday playing online, and a portion of today, and while yeah, it does seem kinda lonely here, there and everywhere, it is all good, mostly.]

: )

So, anyway, the last thing I need to do is take up another project or hobby — not a big fan of that word, “hobby,” reminds me a little of my short-lived stamp-collecting hobby that now consists of occasionally buying blocks of stamps (i.e. James Dean, mainly because I suddenly decided he was NOT overrated, the way I still regard Frank Sinatra and Liz Taylor and, to some degree, even, Barbra Streisand, except that I cannot really think of her that way, not as long as I love her renditions of “Send in the Clowns” and “Memory” ... OK, OK, I take it back, Barbra is most definitely NOT overrated, how could I have even considered it for a nanosecond??!) — and yet, when I found myself in the middle of all these scrapbooking supplies, I could suddenly visualize myself putting together The Perfect Scrapbook.

There were all kinds of papers and stickers and tools (!!) and actual scrapbooks, in all kinds of sizes and textures and what-nots.

Hell, there was even a scrapbooking class going on! And while I am sure you were supposed to have signed up for it, I am equally sure that, with my newfound enthusiasm for the art (? — or would it technically be considered a craft?), they would have most certainly let me take part in the class. Without registering.

Fortunately, right about then I realized I was hungry. I found The Lovely — still wandering around the VB discount display (I must admit, I do like the Villa Red, Americana Red and Emily colors/styles, and the Chocolat and Sherbet styles are nice and flashy ... and if they ever come out with a style titled Diana, I will be forced to give it careful consideration, every last piece of it) — and we headed off to Walt’s for what proved to be the best pizza I’ve ever tasted ... though I could’ve done without the sausage.

Out of the Blue

This song crept up on me a coupla days ago and then started going through my mind, again, tonight, for altogether different reasons.

Iris
By the Goo Goo Dolls

And I'd give up forever to touch you
’Cause I know that you feel me somehow
You’re the closest to heaven that I’ll ever be
And I don’t want to go home right now

And all I can taste is this moment
And all I can breathe is your life
’Cause sooner or later it’s over
I just don’t want to miss you tonight

And I don’t want the world to see me
’Cause I don't think that they’d understand
When everything’s made to be broken
I just want you to know who I am

And you can’t fight the tears that ain’t coming
Or the moment of truth in your lies
When everything feels like the movies
Yeah, you bleed just to know you’re alive

And I don’t want the world to see me
’Cause I don’t think that they’d understand
When everything’s made to be broken
I just want you to know who I am

And I don’t want the world to see me
’Cause I don’t think that they’d understand
When everything’s made to be broken
I just want you to know who I am

And I don’t want the world to see me
’Cause I don’t think that they’d understand
When everything’s made to be broken
I just want you to know who I am
I just want you to know who I am
I just want you to know who I am
I just want you to know who I am

(That’s all I’ve ever wanted, really.)

Up Relatively Early on a Saturday

One of the all-time best wake-you-up-on-a-Saturday-morning/blast-this-song-as-loud (loudly?)-as-you-can-whilst-driving songs is “Go Your Own Way” by Fleetwood Mac.

(I also have a bit of a thing for that “Sera” song. Or “Sara.”)

: )

Odds & Ends

For the past few weeks, or maybe months, who knows, I cannot remember how long, really, I have been running a little group of stories each day called “Odds & Ends.” Stuff that is a little bit out of the ordinary. Funny, usually, or quirky.

I don’t really have any funny, quirky things to write about, though. Not tonight. Just some bits & pieces; perhaps that is what I should have titled the thread. Or maybe I already did that on an earlier post.

Maybe I should just start numbering them. No, wait: Too late. And I am not ABOUT to go back and re-title my posts ... though I could see me going through and correcting all the quotation marks and apostrophes, simply so they curve the correct way. (Get ahold of yourself, Di.)

: )

Spent a few minutes in the ER tonight. With a boy who has swollen tonsils. Turns out all he needed was some amoxycillin ... which, if I remember correctly, tastes pretty good. The pink stuff ... and NOT Pepto-Bismol.

“It’s almost always better if you are NOT bleeding when you enter the emergency room,” I told the boy as we were heading in.

He smiled. He was in remarkably good humor, considering his tonsils were nearly swollen shut. (That has always made me rather grumpy.)

: )

I activated the comments thingie. Mostly for Matt, but also because whenever I am reading a blog ... er, online journal ... I sometimes am compelled to make a comment. And I will sometimes take the initiative to e-mail the writer, but usually that is just a little more effort than I want to make. Though there is something very cool, still, about receiving e-mail. However, if I can leave a comment and I am so inclined, I will do it ... so I am thinking, if anything I write prompts any kind of reaction from anyone who stumbles upon this place, why not provide a place for it?

(And then there is the bitter truth of the matter: I realized that I do not have my e-mail address listed anywhere on my template like I did previously. And given the choice between editing my template/figuring out where to put it and how to do the coding, or activating the comments thingie, the latter seemed like the obviously easier option.)

: )

Speaking of e-mail, though: I received a note from a ticket broker who wants to advertise on my site.

For a second or two, I was interested ... and then I went to the Web site. And while it certainly appears to be a legitimate site, I was reminded of why I really am not all that fond of ticket brokers: All those times I attempted to dial-in or log-in to purchase tickets for any kind of event, I was greeted by a busy signal or sent to a “virtual waiting room” (that was my fate last year whilst attempting to purchase Cubs playoffs tickets). Only to be denied tickets because they were all sold out once I FINALLY got through or in.

I have to think ticket brokers were directly responsible for my failure.

And while I can appreciate the fact that if you are willing to pay the price, you can get a ticket to anything, I still detest the fact that a supposedly fair process does not always seem to be. And maybe I am wrong, but I do place some of the blame on ticket brokers.

On the other hand, if this place could get me some primo tickets to a Cubs game or the Sarah McLachlan concert, I just *might* consider it.

(Hey, I am definitely not cheap ... but sometimes, I can be very, very easy.)

: )

And still, I wonder:

When you have dreamt something, have you experienced it?

(Because when I awake, it sure feels like I have.)

Full Moon, Minus 1 Day

I was not going to attempt this. I considered it last night, but then decided I could not take a shot of the then-full moon and do it justice.

And then, tonight, there it was, around 10 p.m., peeking up over the house catty-corner across the street ... and I thought, hmmm, I will give it a few minutes and then try.



Full moon tonight.
Where are you?

: )

Yesterday afternoon, I napped. And it was one of those naps that totally pulls you in, and as I slept, I dreamt of a girl. Two girls, actually, and I liked them both. And they both liked me. One of them LIKE liked me, and she was passionate about it, and next thing I knew, we were kissing. Passionately. Publicly. And then she was off ... somewhere ... and I found myself conversing with the other girl. And this girl liked me, too, but she knew the other girl LIKE liked me, so she was keeping her distance ... but I LIKE liked this girl. In a different way than I liked the other girl, who then was sitting onstage, playing a guitar and singing.

The dream was more sensual than sexual, but I awoke with these intense feelings, as if the dream were real. And oddly, strangely (to me), often times when I have dreams that are even the least bit sensual/sexual, they involve a boy rather than a girl. Which, all things considered about my life, seems to go against my true nature.

And, of course, prompt all kinds of analyzations by my pal Tee-Hee.

Regardless, the whole dream thing makes me wonder: Are our dreams part of our collective experience? Are dreams real? Once we have had them, are they a part of us? Do they “count”?

And, as I have sometimes wondered: When I dream about someone real, is it possible that she or he or they are dreaming about me, at the same time?

Dreams
By Stevie Nicks/Fleetwood Mac

Now there you go again
You say you want your freedom
Well, who am I to keep you down?
It’s only right that you should
Play the way you feel it
But listen carefully to the sound
Of your loneliness
Like a heartbeat, drives you mad
In the stillness of remembering what you had
And what you lost
And what you had
And what you lost

Thunder only happens when it’s raining
Players only love you when they’re playing
Say women, they will come and they will go
When the rain washes you clean, you'll know

Now here I go again,
I see the crystal visions
I keep my visions to myself
It’s only me
Who wants to wrap around your dreams and
Have you any dreams you'd like to sell?
Dreams of loneliness
Like a heartbeat drives you mad
In the stillness of remembering what you had
And what you lost
What you had
And what you lost

Thunder only happens when it’s raining
Players only love you when they're playing
Say women, they will come and they will go
When the rain washes you clean, you'll know

I adore Stevie. And Fleetwood Mac.

This morning, I played the entire August & Everything After CD by Counting Crows. Seemed appropriate, somehow, month-wise. Although I was not really paying close attention, so it didn’t “get” to me the way it usually does. Which is just as well.

: )