Where Creators Create

I have just loved this.

It's pictures and stories of where writers develop their craft.

One day I'll take a picture of where I do my, and where Dave does his, best writing. It's two separate places.

Dave gets the office, which is as a person who works from home all day his own place to be and create. He does it, with such amazing ability, early in the morning.

I, on the other hand, generally sit outside at night where I can smoke and feel as though my thoughts can roam more freely in the air.

We also typically write different things, which means that we need different atmospheres.

A writing household can sometimes be quiet, but in the quietness we find our own type of comfort.

Two souls thinking. All the time.

Thinking about what we could, what we should, and what we will say. More often than not we say it to one another, but some times we keep it to ourselves to put it down elsewhere.

It's a delightful life full of our love for one another, our books, and our distinct desire to put all on paper.

L.

"Don't Flirt With Me...

I'm busy playing a game."






I just love this picture. The kid in the red is one of my nephews. Do I know which one? No. After all, they're twins.

But, really, kids playing tee-ball crack me up. Clearly, one of my sweet innocent nephews was making every effort to use second base as an opportunity to flirt with a girl.


And it blew up in his face. Welcome to life, my dear friend. Girls will do this to you for years.



Just wait until you realize that it usually means they like you.



God help your parents.


L.

Ladybug, Ladybug, Where Are You?

It's possible that my mother made up the song, "Ladybug, Ladybug, where are you?" just so we could sing to ladybugs. In fact, I'm not sure that the song had another line to it, which makes it ever more likely that my mother made it up.

But the poor little, baby ladybug--it really was a baby, it wasn't near the size of a regular ladybug--I saw Friday, oh how my heart just bled for her.

Here I was sitting on my back deck enjoying unseasonably cool weather (and "by unseasonably cool" I mean I could sit outside and smoke without sweating) dialing up a friend on the phone only to look down in my glass of wine and find a baby ladybug floating near the top.

Poor old gal was either drunk as Cooter or long gone for this world.

Maybe that's the way to go--either drunk as the day is long or drowning in a vat of luscious, luscious pinot grigio.

It's probably more of a testament to my life than I realize.
L.


PS--For those of you wondering, I did finish that glass of wine. I would never throw one out just because there was a bug in it. As they say, you can take the girl out of southwest Arkansas, but you can't take the southwest Arkansas out of the girl.

Rap or Rep?

I took this months and months ago in Texarkana. I've been holding onto because I had to have it made into a postcard to send to my friend, Turner, in Costa Rica, and I didn't want her to see it on the blog before she could get it in postcard form.

I told her, and I'll tell you, too. I think God is getting a bad rap in Texarkana.

Question of the day: Is the saying "a bad rep" as in "reputation" or "a bad rap" as in...well, I don't know what.

You never can tell with me, I grew up hearing and saying things in such a deep southern/hick/redneck accent it could very well be "rep" not "rap" and I'd never know it.

If you know the answer, please let me know.

L.

The Final Countdown

15 days until I'm standing in Costa Rica talking, face to face, with one of my dearest, closest friends.

15 days.

It's a bit blurry, but then again, I am taking a picture of myself in a mirror while more than just a bit drunk in an Eureka Springs hotel room.

Blurry, drunk or not, 15 days. Awesome.

L.

The View From My Window

This is what I see almost everyday.

Flat fields of green from my driver's side window. I do love Arkansas. I love the way this state looks in the spring, the summer, but more so in the fall, when the wheat is coming to harvest. It blows so distinctly in the breeze, and the dust gathers so beautifully during the harvest.

Until then. You have this. Flat, green beautiful land. Whatever the crop...waiting for its harvest.

L.

A Better Time Than Most Can Dream

In 18 days I'll see one of my very best friends in the world.

A woman I respect so very much for following a dream that lead her to Costa Rica.

In 18 days, we'll see each other for the first time since January 1, and I can't wait.

I can't wait to, as my dear friend Megan would say, "put my eyes on your face".

I just can't wait another minute. I wish I was flying out tomorrow.

Turner, in 18 days, we'll see one another. We may have to send Dave to the hotel room that first night just so we have a night to drink too much, smoke too much, laugh too much, and generally catch up on the pontificating of life that we've missed for six months.

I have so many new theories to share with you that I can hardly contain my excitement.

I miss you. I love you. And I really will see you so soon. And, as always, we will have a better time than most can dream.

L.

Always

I wrote this five days ago while sitting in a hotel room in Hot Springs.

I wrote it for a post, but being unable to access the Internet and unable to post, I thought I'd end up holding onto it as a moment to myself--as if writing in a journal. Re-reading I've decided otherwise.

L.

Roll Down the Windows and Let The Wind Blow Back Your Hair

Traveling alone is an interesting thing.

If you’re on a plane, you have time to read the preparatory information for the meeting you’re flying to attend.

If you’re in a car, you have time to think about where you’re going, who you’ll see, maybe what you’ll say while you’re there, or you end up singing along to your favorite song over and over again because, as my boss likes to say, “I don’t need preparation. I have my brain”.

No matter the travel situation, there’s always time to think things through.

I’ve been traveling for days—on planes, on trains, and yes, John Candy, in automobiles—with plenty of time to think. I’ve finally arrived in Hot Springs to a hotel room situated directly next to a hospitality suite.

Since I can't sleep, I’ve had even more time to think. And for some reason I’m sitting here thinking about Dad.

He was a delightful man. A man who kept his feelings to himself, but as my aunt once said, “He said little, but when he said something you listened, because it was important.”

I suppose this happens to many children, regardless of age, who lose a parent unexpectedly--I don’t remember the last thing Dad said to me, or the last thing I said to him.

It’s been 11 years. And while I can never be sure of our last words to one another, I’m sure that I wouldn’t remember them now anyway, because he wouldn’t want me to dwell on them.

I must say that there are many days when I’m “down” about Dad. But there are so many more days that I’m happy to have had the time we did.

I watched my father thrive on hot, summer days on the farm looking at me from underneath a combine. As hard as farming life was, he loved it. He loved gazing at us from the top of an irrigation pipe as much as he loved seeing us open gifts on Christmas morning.

He saw us for what we were, what he believed we would become, and what for what we would really end up being. He loved seeing it manifest before his eyes.

He loved seeing us grow from children to teenagers to adults--taking our lives and making them our own. Making mistakes. Doing our best to correct them. And, finally, failing in our eyes, but succeeding in his. He loved it. He loved it, because we were just like him.

Never doing anything exactly right, but never screwing up entirely.

He loved us. Always. Unconditionally.

We may occasionally sit back and think, “Why. Why did you choose to leave us? Why did you choose to go?"

But, those of us who really knew him, those of us who know that while he left us sad for such a long time also know that he was a man who always, always left us smiling.

So when you have a bit too much traveling time and you start to think about the things you normally push so far back in your mind and your heart, never forget that there is always someone in your life, maybe currently, maybe passed and maybe if you’re as lucky as me, one of both, who always leaves you smiling.

Dad nurtured my heart when I needed it. He held it tightly. And, no matter how sad I was, how sad I've been, or how sad I may be in the future, I have love in my life now because I know what love is.

Because I had a father who loved me.

Always.

Larry the Lounge Lizard

This is not my "real post" just a quick note from the post I was developing to say that I am afraid of lizards. In fact, lizards, frogs, snakes. I hate them all.

They're unpredictable and just when you think you're in the clear one sneaks up on you. Ugh. I just can't stand 'em.

The point of this is to say that I'm sitting outside enjoying a somewhat mild summer evening writing a blog post and reading up on those I missed last week. All the while keeping my eye on a lizard basking on a rock to the left of the deck.

Well, I got all caught up reading a blog only to turn around to check said lizard, whom Dave and I named Larry the Lounge Lizard, with the corner of my eye.

He's gone.

Probably on his way to the deck to scare the shit out of me. Those sneaky little bastards.

L.

And, Now, Let's Go to the Phones

Sorry for the lack of posts. I've been out of pocket since last Sunday--traveled to DC Monday, back to Arkansas Wednesday morning, to Hot Springs Wednesday afternoon, and back to Capital City Friday afternoon.

I'm just settling back into things, but hope to conjure up a real post this evening.

That is, of course, if I'm not in bed before the sun goes down. I'm up again tomorrow at 6 a.m. to go to the Delta.

Oh my life. One big travel day.

L.

I've Not Forgotten You

I haven't posted on this yet because I've been trying to figure out exactly what to say.

On June 2 my only living grandparent, my father's mother, turned 92-years-old.

For those of you who know me well you know that she and I have had our ups and downs. Well, mostly downs over the past 15 years.

She never was the "loving grandmother" we all have in our thoughts when we think about grandmothers.

She was the woman who had two boys who were meant to come back home to the farm and women, and girls, were to be tolerated. And tolerated only.

She gave birth to the older of those boys, my uncle, while my grandfather was overseas in World War II. In fact, my grandfather was on an aircraft carrier in the South Pacific when he was given the opportunity to return home. The story has it that he when his commanding officer told him that he could go home, but that "the war" needed him to stay for his mechanical skills he said, "Sir, I have a year old child at home I've never seen." He left the next day.

Two days later the United States bombed Japan. His air craft carrier was on its way there.

My grandmother is a hard woman. She went to college, but not before she moved from her hometown to Memphis after the death of her father to find a job and support her mother and sibling in a one-bedroom apartment.

She met my grandfather and moved to a small farming community in southwest Arkansas, where she remains today.

She worked as a librarian in the public school system--through bad weather, hard times--and put two children through college on what was then meager farm income and what is still meager public school system income.

After college, both of her children moved home to work the farm and brought wives with them.

Between her two children, they had three boys and two girls. The two girls comprised the oldest and youngest (I was the youngest) of the group, and she made it clear that the boys were her favorites. Girls were meant to be tolerated, grow up and have children. While it was never explicitly said, we were never skinny enough, tall enough, or pretty enough for her appreciation.

We were tom boys, and she didn't care for it.

I vividly remember being 17-years-old eating dinner with her one evening when she moved from her side of the table to mine to show me that I wasn't "cutting my meat properly". Never mind that I was left handed. It was wrong, and at 17, it was still to be corrected.

She was a hard woman who lived through hard times. She wasn't going to show any weakness--and to some of us that meant she never showed love either.

When my father died she blamed my mother. I can't be sure she ever really liked my mother, but she made it obviously clear to everyone close to her that any relationship with my mother was to be admonished by the family.

In the beginning it made some sense. She was upset. She was lost. She was grieving for the life of her youngest child--a child she thought would far out live her--and she blamed my mother. Of course, I took my mother's side, and consequently my somewhat tenuous relationship with my grandmother broke entirely.

It stayed that way for 9 years. We hardly spoke, and when we did I always felt accused of something. Had I "finally", and yes, she said it in those terms "finally" lost weight? Was I pulling my hair back from my face, or had I cut it shorter, because shorter hair "can make you look fat".

She was just a hard woman. All the time.

I moved back to Arkansas, and I never really thought, as much as I wanted one, we'd have a relationship. I wanted it because I knew we were more alike than we were different. I'm also hard, tough, and say things when I shouldn't.

But, I moved in with a man to whom I wasn't married. I lied to her about it for months before I realized the lie was useless--she was smarter than that--and finally stood up for myself to say "this is who I am, and it's different from who you are". Luckily, my brother stood up for me, too. Otherwise, I would still be sitting here today wishing I could talk to her.

Finally, three years after Dave and I moved to Arkansas, and three years after we've lived together, she's accepted it. She's finally accepted me for me. And it's a delightful feeling.

I miss the time we missed together, which is most of my life. She and I have both grown older, grown wiser, and while she's now at home at 92-years-old with ovarian cancer, of all things, I wish we'd recognized one another for our real personalities, our real similarities, 15 years ago.

She's hard. She's tough. And while everyone says that I get that side of me from my mother, I say, "No, I get it from my grandmother."

She's the woman still living on the farm, alone, after all these years. At 92-years-old just starting to really love us for who we are.

I hope that I can be as strong as she is, while still holding onto my soft side.

But, I hope that if I live to be her age I still have that side of me.

Because only an old bitch fights untreated cancer at 92-years-old.
L.

Crazytown

While I agree that Bill Clinton is in the running for mayor of Crazytown, I can't agree with Christopher Hitchens:

"The ex-president revealed to a crucial number of people something that many of us already knew: he is a raging psycho. It's very gratifying to see more people catching up to that now."

Going crazy? Maybe. "Raging psycho," however, maybe pushing it a bit far for my Arkansan blood.

Of course, that same Arkansan blood didn't stop me from laughing out loud.
L.

Winds of Change

Yesterday I came home for lunch to meet Dave in the kitchen with a cocktail glass in his hand saying, "You won't believe what I found on the floor this morning."

Seeing a cocktail glass in his hand I thought, "A glass? Really? You found a glass on the floor? That's pretty strange. No matter how drunk either of us might get the night before, we don't just leave glasses sitting on the floor."

It was then that I saw what was in the glass.

A...Dead...Scorpion.

Really. A small, dead scorpion. A scorpion that was in...our...house.

What the hell? Snakes, rabbits, coyotes--I can work my way to handling these things because I love this house, neighborhood, neighbors, and location.

But, scorpions in my house I most certainly cannot handle.

L.

What Would You Say?

This happens to me from time to time. What do you say when you have nothing to say?

I started this blog as a way to keep up with a friend who moved to Costa Rica, but it has turned into an outlet for my feelings. My hopes. My dreams. My need to write.

But, what do I say when nothing immediately comes to mind?

I guess I could write about the rain hitting the roof, sliding down the gutter, while cigarette smoke drifts in front of the computer screen and my eyes. I could discuss the long, in-depth, delightful conversation I had with my mother about the ins and outs of economic development while mosquitoes bit my ankles and thunder raged in the distance.

Or I could just say. Watch Zimbabwe.

Because the shit is going down. One day we'll wake up to find not just Darfur, but Zimbabwe, were the Rwanda's of our time. And we ignored them. We ignored every signal, every notice, every chance we had to make a difference. And people died.

And, I believe one day we, our generation, will be judged on our negligence.

L.

Trust Me

“The destinies of a fast-changing world cannot be shaped effectively by a party traditionally opposed to change and progress.” John F. Kennedy, Senate speech, June 14, 1960

Does it strike anyone strange that Barack Obama speaks to the same things John F. Kennedy spoke to—hopes, dreams, a better future—yet so many Baby Boomers have, and continue to, support Clinton?

It seems odd that Obama says many of the same things about reaching forward, moving ahead, and standing up for change for our generation that JFK said. Yet Baby Boomers have had such had difficult time supporting him.

Is it because they are still holding onto the idea that they, their generation, may change the world. Not ours. Not us. But them. They should have done it.

I mentioned a few days ago that my mother has expressed hope to me that she, and her generation, can still change the future. Again, not ours. Not us. But them.

I believe they still have a chance to make change. Baby Boomers, while annoying to me in their selfishness, do still have the chance to enact change in our lives and future, and they should continue to do all they can.

But it’s also time for them to pass the torch. It’s time to trust us to make differences that don’t break their backs or the backs of our children.

It’s time to realize they’ve reared children who have an invested interest in this country.

Children who are now adults who care as much now about the issues we face as they cared in the 60s and 70s. It’s time for them to realize that we are just as competent as they were when they were our age. And, maybe most importantly, we’re just as hopeful as they were when they were 25, 30, and 35-years-old.

It’s the hope of youth with experience that holds us together as generations—that makes us similar in so many ways.

They had Vietnam to change their view of the government in times of war. We have Iraq.

They had the assassination of Martin Luther King, Jr. and Robert Kennedy to shake their foundations; their core. We have September 11, 2001.

They had Kent State to see how government uses its strength to overpower the powerless. We have Waco.

They had Watergate to see administrations take more than allowed. We have countless executive orders, signing papers, and civil liberties violated by the Bush Administration.

We’re not so different—Baby Boomers and Generations X and Y.

We have the same hope for the future. We have the same belief that we can, and will, change the world for the better.

It’s time to turn it over to us. You reared us. You loved us. You taught us to be rightful, honest citizens.

Now it’s time to trust us with the country, with policies, and with our sustainability as a nation. You reared us to be the best citizens we can be. Now trust us to be exactly what you hoped we’d grow up to be—interested, hopeful, remarkable citizens.

Trust us as a generation.


Or, if you can't do that, just trust me.



L.

Quote of the Day, Part II

I should describe this as a "quote of yesterday" since it's part of Obama's speech from last night.

But, if you know me, you know that I respond more to the written word than I do the spoken. I enjoy re-reading speeches after I've heard them, I prefer to hear a speech on the radio than see it on television, and I respond with a more thoughtful commentary when I'm focused on what's being said than what the guy standing directly to the right of the speaker is wearing.

It's fairly obviously related to my love of writing. A good speech certainly requires a good speaker who can deliver the words in the appropriate tone and moment, but more so it requires a good speechwriter who can pull the words together and know, really know, that he or she will never get the credit.

Maybe it's because I live with a former speechwriter that I feel that way, or maybe it's because I have from time to time written them myself.

So I just sat down to read Obama's speech from last night. And, while it stuck out to me before, never so much as it did by reading it. And reading it out loud.

"America, this is our moment. This is our time. Our time to turn the page on the policies of the past. Our time to bring new energy and new ideas to the challenges we face. Our time to offer a new direction for the country we love.

The journey will be difficult. The road will be long. I face this challenge with profound humility, and knowledge of my own limitations. But I also face it with limitless faith in the capacity of the American people. Because if we are willing to work for it, and fight for it, and believe in it, then I am absolutely certain that generations from now, we will be able to look back and tell our children that this was the moment when we began to provide care for the sick and good jobs to the jobless; this was the moment when the rise of the oceans began to slow and our planet began to heal; this was the moment when we ended a war and secured our nation and restored our image as the last, best hope on earth. This was the moment—this was the time—when we came together to remake this great nation so that it may always reflect our very best selves and our highest ideals."

This is why I like Barack Obama. He moves us to our hopes, not our fears. Our dreams, not our current realities. And, possibly most importantly, our belief that we, as Americans, can enact change and make our country and our world a better place for our children, our nephews, our neices, and all the young people who will come long after we're gone, long after this election.

I don't know about you, but I grew up in a Baby Booming household. My mother loved all the things her generation did for the world, and engrained in me that they'd left it a better place.

I have my critiques of her generation, and I've expressed them to her. And a true dialogue between us brought her admittance that her generation didn't make things better for us, for our children, or our children's children, but that, while making some things easier, in many ways may have made things more difficult.

But it also brought out her undying hope that she could reverse it. That she could work her way from the inside to create real change for us.

It's a little thing called real Hope. Not a place in Arkansas, but real hope for our future, for our respected cultures, and for what we, and the generations before us have always wanted to leave in our wake. Hope. Change. Belief that while it may always be an uphill battle, we're always willing to come to the front lines and fight.

Today marks a new day in American politics. But more importantly, it can, and I hope does, mark a new day for the future of this country.

L.

Quote of the Day

A concession speech is likely on the way. Until then, the linked AP story also provided the quote of the day:

“We pledged to support her to the end,” said Representative Charles B. Rangel, a New York Democrat who has been a patron of Mrs. Clinton since she first ran for the Senate. “Our problem is not being able to determine when the hell the end is.”

Oh man, you've gotta love Charlie Rangel.
L.

Wind, Carry Me Away

I started this blog to keep up with a dear, dear friend who moved to Costa Rica.

Well, Turner, check your email, because we have plane tichets, and we're coming to visit.

I can't wait to hang out, drink Tico beer and smoke Tico cigarettes, but mostly I can't wait to see your face.

So many nights I wish I could call you and talk for hours. In less than a month, we'll be able to do just that--every night for a full seven days.

And it's taking all I have to wait until then.

L.

Pack Up All Your Dishes...

...make note of all good wishes.

It's done, my friends. Obama has the nomination. Finally.

I wish I could sit here and ream his opponent. I can't. She fought the good fight, she may have stayed a bit too long for me, but still the good fight.

Now it's time for us--as the Democratic Party--to come together and support the Democratic ticket. And what a wonderful day to do so.

Of course, I have to put a personal tint to this. In 2o04, I bit my tongue and voted for John Kerry. I didn't so much care for him or how he engaged the youth, i.e. me, in this country. But I stood at my kitchen counter in a 425 square foot apartment in DC and filled in my absentee ballot circle for him.

I then drank myself to sleep and did my best to expunge the memory from my brain.

Not today. I know I can go to the polls in November and be proud of my candidate. He has so much to say, and so much of it is of substance.

Obama has a fight ahead of him. He has many challenges to overcome--Rev. Wright. Leaving his church. John McCain and the amazing Republican machine that is voter turn out.

But Obama also has a fight in his corner--young people engaged in the process. We can finally say goodbye to the politics of the Baby Boomers. We can finally stand up and say that the Iraq War matters, not just for me and my generation--currently fighting--but for our children and our children's children. We can finally, as a young generation enacting change, say that we won't accept the policies and outlook of those who have come before. We must look ahead and think forward for the United States, our citizens, and those who are our future.

I believe that in Barack Obama we have a moment to enact real change. Real change for rural and urban American. Real change for Baby Boomers and Generation X and Y. Real change for America as a whole.

We can now look forward to see where we're going instead of looking behind to see where we've been.

Today is a good day for Democratic politics, but more than that it's a good day for America.

Why? Because, Yes, We Can.

L.

Revival

My apologies for the lack of posts the past few nights.

I was revived this morning at Baptist Medical Center. While unsure of the actual cause of my recent coma, doctors theorize that I was so shocked by paying $52 for a tank of gasoline that my mind just shut down on me.

No worries. I’m back in the game.

L.

Full disclosure: I wasn’t revived at Baptist Medical Center and I have not experienced any health problems since my minor bout with the flu a few weeks ago. I have just been too busy to post lately. However, please stick around. It seems my man might just have all the delegates he needs after tonight. At which point, I might go into a celebratory drinking induced coma.