Cass.

I spoke with my sister tonight. Not the youngest, Jackie, who I talk to daily, but the middle sister, Cassie - the one in white on the far left. 

I am so blessed. So enveloped by love, so taken care of, so protected. 

To my dear Sister, Mrs. C. P. on her Nuptial 

by Katherine Philips

We will not like those men our offerings pay
Who crown the cup, then think they crown the day.
We make no garlands, nor an altar build,
Which help not Joy, but Ostentation yield.
Where mirth is justly grounded these wild toyes
Are but a troublesome, and empty noise.

2.
But these shall be my great Solemnities,
Orinda's wishes for Cassandra's bliss.
May her Content be as unmix'd and pure
As my Affection, and like that endure;
And that strong Happiness may she still find
Not owing to her Fortune, but her Mind.

3.
May her Content and Duty be the same,
And may she know no Grief but in the name.
May his and her Pleasure and Love be so
Involv'd and growing, that we may not know
Who most Affection or most Peace engrost;
Whose Love is strongest, or whose Bliss is most.

4.
May nothing accidental e're appear
But what shall with new bonds their Souls endear;
And may they count the hours as they pass,
By their own Joys, and not by Sun or Glass:
While every day like this may Sacred prove
To Friendship, Gratitude, and Strictest Love.

I wish you all sisters, in this life or the next.

And how are the most beautiful women in Manhattan?...

...Miranda: if we see them, I'll ask.

I went with this lady to see Sex and the City.

sublimely mediocre, as was expected.

a talent is formed in stillness.

Writing Exercise: write 6 stanza poem in under 5 minutes. this is what I came up with:

6. 

the salt 

of skin 

lemon rind. 

5.

I wink 

hello!

you're here.

4. 

faith? 

pay my 

fee. 

3.

fog: 

a cat

pounces.

2.

silk, 

night. 

1. 

one. 

Suggestions for Living a Disciplined Writing Life, from Pat Schneider's Writing Alone and with Others. 

1. Belief, not discipline.

2. Accepting yourself as an artist.

3. Meeting your needs as a writer.

4. Making your writing time a reward, not a duty.

5. Confronting the hard times head on.

6. Putting your writing first.

7. Never underestimate the power of sleep.

8. Dealing with your envy.

9. Do not judge your work.

10. Writing has its seasons.

11. When all else fails: make a deadline for yourself.

budding

::::

artist's way

So true, Ms. Cameron, so true.

When the student is ready, the teacher will appear.

An example, unedited, also my "exercise" for today:

My first year of college. Freshman year. I decided to visit my family in Florida for spring break. I had a head the size of a planet - I thought I was smarter, better, funnier, cooler, hotter than anybody or anything. This lasted for…. a minute? A prelude to alcoholism and “outside” issues.

In my self-induced orgiastic state, sustained by a rocker boyfriend and the “hipster” scene, I grabbed my little sister and took her to the beach, for a “talk” from the older and wiser.

The ocean was purplish black fringed with yellow, like a bad bruise healing from the outside in. The wind whipped our legs with sand. Typical hurricane's a'coming weather.

We were talking about something or another, and she mentioned feeling self conscious, uncomfortable in her skin, ugly compared to the girls in her grade.

I looked at her. And looked at her. Jackie is, has always been, a startling beauty. Her charm transcends the physical, and although I can’t pin it to any one quality, my gut tells me the beauty is linked to grace and kindness, tenacity and strength.

I gave her a lecture on exactly that, and followed it up with a demonstration of “fake it until you make it,” my (then) personal credo. In true Mac-girl dramatic fashion, I strutted in front of her, shoulders out, eyes bright, smiling – thinking I am beautiful, I am great, I am ridiculously-good-looking. And then I would do “ugly”: hunch my shoulders, pout, squint at the ground. I am ugly, I am shit, I am the scum on the bottom of your shoe. Then I made her do it.

I, of course, had no idea what I was talking about, and I don’t know if she still remembers the day. But somehow, so many years later, I recall that windy beach when I hear the word "affirmation." I remember realizing how important it is to build yourself up, to be loving and kind and generous with compliments. To love yourself, even if you hate yourself.

Cameron suggests countering any “blurts,” or negative thoughts, with positive affirmations, and seeing as I have signed on to do this thing, I best follow her orders.

She makes a valid point, writing, “You will be amazed at the rotten things your subconscious will blurt out. Write them down. These blurts flag your personal negative core beliefs. They hold the key to your freedom in their ugly little claws.”

So off to write my list of "blurts" and corresponding counter praise.

Do any of you use affirmations? Or have you in the past? I would love to hear about it : )

Garry Winogrand.

A supposed male chauvinist pig, but he did publish Women Are Beautiful, in his own defense.

I personally like the Morroco Series featuring a sophisticated socialite in one photo, and a vampirish animal in the next. 

Reminds me of some of the girls I grew up with! clad in 1950's attire. 

buenas

I spoke with Evan tonight. He is in Medellín, Colombia.

Evan is... well, he was my boyfriend, for a very long time… and now? he is my good friend. Good friend? He is something complicated, unable to be explained, a unique presence for which I am grateful.

So we got to talking, about his life and my life, good things and bad. And I brought up the writer’s block, and the possibility that at 18 I was better than I am now. I told him for awhile I lost hope, especially during the college dark ages… (sound the violins).

And the cheeky bastard, what did he say? he denied it. Said I never lost hope, said that I used to say no matter what, no matter what the situation, I could always pull something out.

I smiled.

thousands of miles away and he still knows me well enough to surprise myself with myself.

: )

a drop of ink and a million think.

Today I gave myself a break from writing and allowed myself to read the work of others.

303

The Soul selects her own Society—
Then—shuts the Door—
To her divine Majority—
Present no more—

Unmoved—she notes the Chariots—pausing—
At her low Gate—
Unmoved—an Emperor be kneeling
Upon her Mat—

I've known her—from an ample nation—
Choose One—
Then—close the Valves of her attention—
Like Stone—

Emily Dickinson

I like to believe she was speaking of her art, the solitude and isolation necessary to create. And the "society" of encouraging people you must surround yourself with...

We are all born in captivity. That is no disgrace, for there is no other place in which to be born… But unlike other animals, whose original endownment is also their ultimate endowment, we can be born, as it were, in one world, and come at last to live in quite another.

Richard Mitchell

tomorrow is another day! goodnight, everyone : )

frustration. fear. fun.

needing some advice, thought I would turn to all of you lovely ladies (with the right dash of boys). I am frustrated with my artistic process. With the artistic process. I feel as though I was a better writer at 18 than I am at 23. Writing, unfortunately, does not follow a linear progression - more like chaos theory. 

What do you do when you feel as though you are slipping back, instead of charging forward? 

You are:

Welcome back to me! It's been awhile since I've posted, but I was in Palm Springs for the weekend, and the internet cost $1mil per minute.

Today I am posting pictures of myself and my family. I don't LIKE these photos, but when I look at them I feel a knot - and as fellow Canadian Margaret Atwood says: "Good writing begins where there is a knot."

So let the kneading (needing?)begin:

You are Katherine Hepburn, you are Marilyn Monroe, you are Meg Ryan and Cindy Crawford. You perch in a windowsill, awaiting your cue. You watch Cassie recite her line, and bow to the audience (your mom, your dad, and your aunt sandy). A bug lamp sways from a stray branch, and you wonder if it’s working.

You are readying yourself for high school and all that it entails.

You watch Cassie drag her paintbrush across the page, and with her lip held between her teeth she creates something beautiful, something stunning. Amanda paints like she thinks, and makes a watercolor resembling a photograph.

But then there’s you, attempting the impossible, trying to paint abstract notions of love and justice, sorrow and magic – and you are 16, what do you know?

Runny patches of primary colors bloom on your page, and the whole image cries long, sodden, lachrymose tears.


The person taking the picture is about to leave, and with your squinting eyes you press them through the door. Your sister sits beside you, pushed up in her chair, happy to be playing cards.

You want to laugh with out thinking: am I too young for this, am I too old for this?

You smile BIG for the camera. Your sister poses with her spoon as a prop.

Behind you Lake Simcoe’s surface shakes, dips and peaks like a shaken out blanket.

The day is fading, leaving only memories and farmer's tans testifying to its isness.

You are leaving for a foreign country, and your friends are there to see you off. You are only seventeen, (echo: only seventeen? sevenTEEN? SEVENTEEN?)

You will your heart to stop frenzily beating, you will your pulse to slow down - because if it doesn’t stop soon you know the courage will leak from you like air escaping from a balloon.

“See you in a year!”

To everyone: where are your knots? What memories make you cringe (with a smile)?

Faults are thin when love is thick.

A+ + + + +

that's me, on the right. rocking the big blue glasses. what a BABE i was! :)

C+ student.

I tutor a third grader in the craft of writing. I teach him how to describe (use all your senses), I teach him how to persuade (Please and Thank You), I teach him how to narrate (word-movie). 

But today, for the first time, I had him teach me. 

I wrote an essay about an evil LegoMan named Bob. Bob found a digging machine and accidentally dug himself to China. He ate some rice and drove a ford. Then he dug himself home. The end. 

My third grader gave me a C+.