Blogging

Downturn on the Upswing

Lucky day.

Yesterday I woke up and smiled. 43°F felt like spring compared to the single digits I’ve been waking up to. I was exfoliating my pits trying to scrape the last bits of deodorant on, when I remembered I had a brand new stick in the closet. The sun made an appearance and stayed out all day. I walked a dog through Central Park, and enough ice had melted so the paths were wet but relatively clear. We learned that Art Child was accepted to a high school she feels good about, as do we.

This morning when I woke, it didn’t feel as warm. Sunrise came and left behind a gray sky. Disappointing, but still not bad. The mounds of snow at curbs and corners are disgustingly black and slick, but they’re melting. I took Art Child to school, and I slipped. Luckily, I broke the fall with my face.

Oh yes. I went down hard and fast, didn’t have a chance to try to break the fall with my hands. See the black chunks that look like slabs of asphalt? That’s snow in Manhattan after a couple of weeks, and I slipped on a very similar looking mound. My entire left side was covered in black muck and who knows what else. I could just cry thinking about how I’m going to get this crap out of my beautiful sheepskin fingerless gloves. I opted to go home and shower before heading to the urgent care place for X-rays. A good thing, because it also gave me a chance to stop shaking.

My face is bruised and hurts, but not broken. My arm is sore and swollen, but probably not broken. The urgent care didn’t have the right machine (?) to X-ray my pelvis, if my lower half gets significantly worse I’m supposed to head to the ER for more X-rays.

After loading up on ibuprofen and acetaminophen, I figured I’d blog about my little adventure. Turns out I’ve used up all the storage available with a free domain. Upgrade time, we’re now at mrsfringe.com instead of mrsfringe.wordpress.com–this should also mean if you saw ads before, you won’t now, and you should automatically be redirected if you’re visiting from a link or bookmark.

I think this is now me.

Fuck spring, I want summer.

Subjective

Conch

I think he’s beautiful, in all his lumbering majesty. Husband disagrees. In fact, I’m pretty sure Husband often thinks my eyestalks also veer in different directions, when the subject of beauty comes up. I don’t know what it is that makes me think someone, or something, is beautiful, but whatever it is, I have different parameters than Husband. Discussion a couple of weeks ago:

Me, “Remember that woman we met the other day? Isn’t she stunning?”

Him, “What, who?”

Me, “You know, that one with the black shirt on and the smile.”

Him, “Oh, I know the one. Wait, what? Beautiful? If you say so.”

and then he gives me the sidelong hairy eyeball, and checks to see if I’m feverish again.

We don’t always disagree on what and who is beautiful (we agree about our children), just usually.

I mean, I look at this little face and smile, what’s not to love about a cartoon character come to life?

Blenny

It’s all subjective, right? Yah. That’s what they tell me. People, sea critters, fiction. I’m a quirky old gal, no doubt. Those quirks color what appeals, and I guess for me, beautiful equals interesting. But different people find different things interesting.

I’ve been feeling frustrated these past few days. Mostly due to nothing happening with the writing, blah, blah, blah. Every so often, a well meaning someone will ever-so-gently suggest I try writing something else. This usually involves an awkward, pregnant pause, and then the phrase, “mainstream.” Or for the bold, “marketable.” I have nothing against mainstream. I read and enjoy quite a bit of popular fiction. But it isn’t the way my mind works. And when and if I’m indulging my fantasies of earning a dollar from my writing, what the hell–I’m going all the way with what’s beautiful and interesting to me.

This morning I was in the shower, thinking about wanting to feel other than crappy, and I thought well, I can post another story here on the blog. I may not have representation or a publishing contract but I have Fringelings, some of whom like my stories. And I’ve got this one I particularly like, where I believe I got it right. I thought so when I wrote it, and of those who have read it, more than a couple agreed. I wondered, why haven’t I posted it before? Then I remembered I had planned to sub it to lit mags, in hopes of publication. This thought was immediately followed by visions of a slew of new rejection letters, because obviously a gal can never have too many of those. So then I thought hey, I can start my own lit mag!

Between my lack of credentials, lack of contacts, lack of funds, and skewed vision of beauty, it’d be a guaranteed success, no? After all, there are at least 2, 3 other people in this world of seven billion who share my tastes. Sigh. I need a new plan.

I’m watching and re-watching this video, loving the way she presents herself here.

And for those who might enjoy a more “mainstream” beautiful tank photo,

Clowns pairing

Ain’t All That

Happy 2015! My immune system seems to be taking the year off. A very snuffly and low key couple of weeks. I did leave the neighborhood a couple of times with Art Child and Nerd Child, found a few bits of my old remembered New York through the new glass and steel skyscrapers that continue to pop up everywhere.

What have I been doing in between blowing my nose and thinking about blogging? Catching up on reading. The other day I finished a novel that stunned me with its beauty.

In contrast, I also found myself at *gasp* a shopping mall a couple of weeks ago. I hate having to go to malls, I swear the air is a toxic mix of plastic and tranquilizer dust. But I suppose it was worth it, because I now have two pairs of jeans that fit and don’t have holes, and when we walked through the parking lot I saw this.

I wonder if he felt the same sense of being in the wrong place.

Which made me think of this song, an old favorite:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LBGqGZ9GWzE

French Toast and Friends

Soaking

I hope all the Fringelings and anyone visiting Fringeland is having a lovely holiday season.

I think many of us have that tradition. That one tradition that doesn’t have anything to do with gifts or how good the year was or wasn’t, it just symbolizes how you and yours see the holidays. In our house it’s Christmas French Toast. I make the custard and slice the bread on Christmas Eve, set it all to soak overnight in the fridge, to be popped into the oven and baked while we open gifts in the morning. Regardless of individual tastes, allergies, dietary restrictions, we all eat it, we all like it, and no matter what else I include for breakfast I make enough to feed a battalion. Something about is the perfect blend of comfort food and special occasion. Some years we have several visitors in the early part of the day and it all goes, other years we have leftovers for the next couple of days.

Over the past couple of weeks I’ve been thinking a lot about last year at this time. I was still finishing up Astonishing. I made New Year’s resolutions. I was hopeful. I spend a lot of time–and have posted about it several times– thinking about hope vs acceptance. I don’t think the two can be separated, they’re a pair, they balance each other. This year, today, I’m more about acceptance. Continuing to work on finding peace within balance.

I began Mrs Fringe from hope. Hope of connecting, hope of writing regularly. Over the past year, I’ve expanded the blog to include some of my fiction (links to pages above). Still hope, but also acceptance of this is where I am, and where, for now, I have readers. Thank you.

I’ve also been indulging in my other pre-New Years tradition. Panic. This was an expensive year, moving to the larger apartment. I am grateful, every day, that we were able to do this, that we have more space, that I’m sitting and writing this at my own desk! and of course, the unnatural love and appreciation I have for the dishwasher. But the money seemed to fly off the balcony, chasing the blue jay who pops over to the balcony each morning for a quick hello. He’s yet to stay long enough for me to snap a photo. I turn back with the camera, and am left swearing he was just there. Much like looking into my empty wallet.

Christmas morning I was awake early. I’d say too early, but it wasn’t because it gave me an hour to sit with these.

Don’t come to Fringeland expecting marble countertops. 1960’s formica all the way!

Yessssss

The book and the mug were gifted by friends (both of whom I met online) who’ve spent time with my family and in my home, who know me well enough to give me this peaceful hour of feeling acceptance is a fine place to be. A gift I received from another wonderful friend the day before Christmas Eve: hope. And faith. By choice or by circumstance, I know many who live and live well without relatives, but I don’t know any who live well without friends.

And because my glass box is my ultimate symbol of hope, Husband and Art Child braved the traffic and got me a few new underwater friends.

orange plate coral, isn’t he beautiful?

montipora capricornus frag

blue acropora frag

I’ll be home on New Year’s Eve. Too many drunk people roaming the streets and cheering make me nervous. That isn’t to say it won’t be an exciting evening. Husband has the day/evening off from work, Man Child will be returning from his holiday travels–stepping off a thirty hour train ride–Nerd Child will be recovering from oral surgery, and Art Child will be thrilled to have both of her brothers home at once, even if they’re snoring the evening away. Sounds perfect to me.

So no resolutions for me this year, other than to continue trying to find that balance.

I’m wishing all of you peace for the New Year.

What Do I Know?

Blank page

Anyone who reads Mrs Fringe or knows me in any other role knows I’m opinionated. If you know me well or agree with a lot of my thoughts, you might say I’m passionate. If you don’t, you might think ugh, that Mrs Fringe is such a bitch, I wish she would shut up already. But the quote I used for my high school yearbook said something like, “It often shows a fine command of the English language to say nothing.” I’m certain there were quite a few classmates surprised by that one, because I never shut up back then. I had to get kicked in the the teeth by life a few dozen more times before I really learned it. While I believe in the truth of that quote even more than I did back then, I still believe in the power of words. Of having an informed opinion and not being afraid to share it, while understanding opinion is not the same as fact.

Obvious, right? I mean, I’m a blogger ferchristssake. I think. Can I call myself a blogger if I don’t earn any money from it? Maybe it’s more like my fiction, where until and unless I’m published I prefer to say I write than I’m a writer. Fine. I blog.

Do I still opine too much? Probably. I’m not special, an expert in anything, or even formally educated. Who am I for anyone to take my opinions seriously? I’ve even been quiet on the writers’ forum. I’m not a grammar whiz (my unholy love of commas is well documented) and if I knew what made for publishable writing I’d be published.

In my little corner of Fringeland these days, most people I know are having opinions and sharing them; talking about racism, police, Eric Garner, Ferguson, protests and riots and what’s going on in our world right now. Yes, our world. Not just our city, our state, or even our country. This is our humanity. Some aren’t talking. Some are too genuinely busy with more personal crises, and some don’t think it’s appropriate to discuss these issues, some can’t because of their employers. Some are tired of talking about it and seeing it on the TV. I stand by what I said when I blogged about Ferguson–I think we need to talk about this. The grand jury’s decision in the Eric Garner case coming so closely on the heels of Ferguson is a clear illustration.

I’ll be the first one to say I don’t understand what happened with the Eric Garner case, don’t understand how anyone can see that video and say well, it’s a shame but that’s what happens when you resist arrest. Or he shouldn’t have been selling loosies. He wasn’t violent, not an immediate threat to anyone. I don’t understand how I’m seeing people argue that he didn’t die as a direct result of the chokehold placed on him. Every report I’ve seen says the medical examiner declared his death a homicide. Yes, his other medical issues were contributing factors, but not the cause. If any of my readers can cite a reputable source disputing this, please share a link.

Not all police are corrupt, or overzealous, or poorly trained. That doesn’t mean none are. Not all people are racist. That doesn’t mean none are. These things don’t balance each other out. Because police officers A and B came to the aid of persons of color C and D doesn’t mean police officer E didn’t harass person of color F. Or in too many cases, worse. And any number of these cases is too many. Police are human, yes. They deserve to be and keep themselves safe, absolutely. But something has gone wrong if they don’t feel confident they can peacefully defuse a situation and arrest someone who is unarmed and outnumbered.

I also don’t understand when I see people quote Martin Luther King while complaining about the protests occurring. Not talking about looters or violence, protestors. Just a little disconnect.

We have a problem, not “just” one rogue incident. The very fact that we have clear videotape of Eric Garner’s arrest and I’m still seeing such polarized responses shows our problem. But shelving the discussion? Being afraid to take a stand, have an opinion, because it might be uncomfortable? Because we’re tired of it? Because we don’t want to believe racism still exists in this country? That isn’t a fine command of the language.

I care, and I like knowing the other people in my world care, too. Our words do have power. And our opinions matter.

Comfort and Screw Ups

Fire shrimp

New tank occupant, I’ll call her Celia because I like that name. Shy and nervous, she spends her days upside down behind a rock. I asked her to make room for me this morning, but she ignored me, didn’t so much as wave her antennae in my direction.

In my mind, I’ve been working on a blog post about Ferguson, the need to keep this conversation going. I thought I would sit and write it today, but then this morning I went over my files for Astonishing, to see if there’s anything/one I should be following up with. Yah. Don’t know if I mentioned it here, but in a moment of I have to try something, I sent a query to a small press a few months ago. This small press promises a fast response, I hadn’t heard anything, so I pulled up my original email/query to them and found…

…a request for a full from the editor. In my “junk” folder. From a month ago.

“You screwed it up, Bobby Terry!” Does anyone else have random quotes from novels that have stayed with them forever? That one is from Stephen King’s The Stand, right before Bobby Terry is flayed and flambeed by Randall Flagg– the Dark Man.

Get a grip, Mrs Fringe. No evil being is waiting to fly across the desert and eat me because I missed an email that was caught in my spam filter. If any one of my writer friends came to me melting down about this, I’d reassure them that it happens, in the world of publishing a month’s lapse is not even a blink, any editor/agent/professional will understand. This is nothing in the days of being a wannabe. This is less than nothing in the face of Ferguson, what the verdict represents and the false focus of so much of our media.

Still, I decided comfort food was in order. How about if I make grilled cheese for dinner, kiddos? This, of course, meant I went to Whole Foods on Sunday afternoon of a holiday weekend. Clearly I was punishing myself for not checking that fucking junk mail folder regularly enough. And why buy 10 items when you can buy 11 and stand on the slower line?

I will be drowning my whining in chocolate pudding this evening. Care to join me?

What Was I Saying?

Sunrise

I had something specific in mind for today’s post, but I seem to have lost it. By the time I took this photo, I had already been awake for an hour, and this was five hours ago. Actually, I first woke at 4am, when my phone gave a little brrrring to let me know I had a message from WordPress. After my alarm went off and I had a cup of coffee in hand, I checked the message, thinking someone from a different time zone had left a new comment. Nope, it was just a notice letting me know Mrs Fringe had had a spike of views and activity. Not earth shattering, but more than usual. Ok, thank you! Now I see I’ve had quite a few more hits than usual over the last several hours, and can’t figure out why. I had a brief moment of oh! maybe I’ve been Freshly Pressed again! Nope. My stats aren’t showing that someone linked a post, no new comments, I have no clues.

And I’ve been busy. Very busy playing with my rocks

Turns out using mortar to hold rock together isn’t as easy as it looks.

And making water. S-l-o-w-l-y. Water has to be specially filtered for a reef tank, so as not to kill the (future) corals and invertebrates. That super-duper make reverse osmosis deionized water is an agonizing process. Most of the water runs right back down the drain, and the RO/DI water pretty much dribbles out. I’d have to have another tank to test my theory, but I’m fairly certain I could spit and fill the tank at the same speed.

The evaporation rate may cancel out the fill rate.

Most of my writing buddies are gearing up for NaNoWriMo now. I don’t do NaNo, it just isn’t how I write. I guess I’m like that filter, spits and spurts rather than a steady stream. Unless it’s an agent or editor lurking and viewing my old posts, in which case, rest assured I will produce at whatever pace is requested, because I’m trampy that way.

I’ll leave you with a song that was playing in the grocery store this morning, that I hadn’t heard in way too long.

Fail

Oh, the laundry basket

I should be doing laundry today. The plan was to do laundry today. Dragged Husband to the store yesterday for laundry detergent so I could do laundry today. The store didn’t have the brand/type I like, I told myself not to be an idiot and chose something else. And yet, see my basket, perched on top of the full hamper, filled with…not laundry. Behind it, my file cabinet, filled with school stuff from the kids, medical info, and old bits of manuscripts, printouts of agent info, ancient rejection letters.

The good part of this move was that it kept me too busy to think for a bit. And by think, I mean obsessing about the lack of agent responses on my manuscript. I told myself if I hadn’t heard anything by the time we were moved in, it was okay. I’m still in a bigger better space, I still have a brand new dishwasher I’m infatuated with, I still have my own, personal workspace with a desk, I still wrote a novel I’m proud of. If I don’t receive any offers, so be it, right? This end is out of my control. So what if I never make a dollar from my writing? I’m sure as hell not alone in that. I will not sit at my new desk and wonder what the point of having it is. I’ll focus on my new space, I’ll continue to fix it up, I’ll keep blogging, I’ll continue planning my tank, I’ll stay on top of the laundry.

Ahem.

Just before sunrise.

Cross The Line

and hit the wall.

Because I’m more than a bit out of focus. I think about lines a lot. Don’t cross this line, don’t cross that line, balance on that one over there. Sometimes I feel like the lines shift, but do they really, or is it my perception–and oh! is that line on a fucking hill?

The line I’m thinking about this morning is, of course, writing and publishing. There’s a small group I’ve been spending some online time with. All talented and writing varied genres, all filled with optimism and hope. Different stages of pursuing publication, a couple who are self pubbing with thought and intention. Needless to say angst and self-doubts are part and parcel of writing, querying, and submitting, everyone takes turns pumping up whoever needs it most on any given day. Most of the members of this group are young, those who aren’t young are relatively new to the process. I don’t mean new as in still learning basic storytelling, but new as in less than 5 years of seriously pursuing publication.

I’m not young. Or new. At the moment I’m not writing or submitting. I still have several requested fulls out, but at this point any responses that come from them will be unexpected.

Am I the fly about to be captured, the trap that can only wait for food, or the blackened trap that needs to be removed before fungus sets in?

I don’t want any pep talks. I’m not angsting, thinking my words and stories truly suck. They don’t.

To me, worse than limping along to the battle cry of “I coulda been a contender” is the nonagenarian still waiting for their big break. Yes, I see/hear it. New York. Not that I’m ninety, or qualify for the senior discounted Metrocard, but still. I have to figure out if I’ve crossed the line from being patient and persistent to delusional.

There’s a part of my brain that will always be taking notes for future characters, will see that one moment, hear that one phrase that begins a story in my head. I will probably always write. I love blogging, I’ve enjoyed the experience of posting a couple of stories here on the blog, and suspect I will continue doing so every so often. But full length novels? Querying? Submitting? There’s a phrase I’ve heard a lot over the past ten years or so, maybe it was always there and didn’t come across my radar before, I don’t know–return on investment. Writing full length manuscripts, querying, submitting to the paying lit mags, these are things that require a lot of time, energy, work, and focus. I can’t help but wonder at this point if it’s a poor use of limited resources.

Happy Anniversary: Carpe Diem

Mrs Fringe is 2 years old. I could write a fun post, a retrospective of the highlights, discuss how very much this blog and all of my followers mean to me, but in true fractured Fringeland style, I’m not going to do any of those today. No silliness, no photos. Instead, I’m writing a PSA post, asking you all to please read and remember.

I’ve written epilepsy awareness posts before, I usually post one in November, but I’m writing another one today.

On the train this morning I got a phone call from Man Child telling me he was on his way to the ER, and when I arrived at the beach it was raining. Ok, life.

After the rain stopped and the clouds moved off, someone several towels down had a tonic clonic seizure. Tonic clinics are what used to be called grand mal seizures. I went over, as did several other people. Really nice to see so many willing to get involved and see if they could help, lifeguards were hailed, police were flagged down, 911 was called.

I was umm, happy? I don’t think happy is the right word, to see the person was on their side, and they were on a towel on the sand, away from the water, nothing to be injured on. This is probably the safest scenario for a seizure when someone is alone and outside.

But I was quickly upset, and I’m still upset now.

The problem. One woman pushed through, trying to turn the person onto their back, saying they needed to be held down. NO. There is no reason to restrain someone having a seizure, and doing so risks injuring them. No less than two people stepped forward ready to grab the jaw and force the mouth open, yelling that they were going to choke on their tongue. NO. NEVER, EVER PUT ANYTHING IN THE MOUTH OF SOMEONE HAVING A SEIZURE. It is physically impossible for someone to choke on their tongue. It is, however, possible for the tongue to block the airway, which is why lying on their side is the safest position for someone having a seizure. One woman tried to hold their head, saying she was going to put her finger in their mouth to swipe away the saliva. NO. Nothing in the mouth includes fingers, it’s a good way to a) have your finger injured, possibly bitten off, b) break the jaw of the person having the seizure, c) trying to force anything into the mouth when someone is seizing can result in chipping their teeth.

Yes, I spoke up.

But, why, oh why, is there not more seizure awareness? Seizures aren’t rare. 1 in 100 people can expect to have a seizure in their lifetime. Anyone can have a seizure. Epilepsy is generally defined as 2 or more unprovoked seizures. Epilepsy can develop in any person at any time. It is the fourth most common neurological disorder.

So how come, as the person was coming out of the seizure, the only question asked was if they had taken anything or been drinking? These are valid, important, sensible questions. But they weren’t asked if they had epilepsy.

Most seizures are self limiting, — end on their own. Without anything else going on (injury, illness) they are usually not considered medical emergencies. But they can be. People can and do die– from SUDEP (Sudden Unexplained Death in Epilepsy), status epilepticus (prolonged seizures), and injuries sustained during seizures (head injury, drowning, etc). These events are not common, but they can and do happen.

Please. Know what to do in case someone around you has a seizure (and tonic clinics are just one of many types).