Between the grand jury’s decision not to indict in the Eric Garner case, Art Child being sick, looking at a half written short story with no new words coming to me, and debating whether or not to participate in #pitmad on Twitter today, I’m having a hard time gathering coherent thoughts. While I try to do so, I’m staring into the tank, and figured I’d share some photos. Invertebrates–not the prettiest, but some of the most fascinating creatures that live on reefs.
Blood red fire shrimp
Nassarius snail. These guys live in the sand, popping up when they smell food.
Conch buried in the sand, proboscis and eye stalks making sure he isn’t missing anything.
Did someone mention food? Emerald crab.
Spiny star astraea, working hard to clean the glass.
Conch cruising along, eating diatom algae off the sandbed
Red legged hermit, lived through the cycle
Emerald again, searching for bubble algae to eat
Conch and another nassarius, working to clean the same patch of sand.
Buddhist proverb. I don’t think that’s a direct quote from Buddha, but it fits where my head is/has been nicely. I’m trying. Trying to make peace, find my peace with where I am right now. I’m getting there. Part of getting there for me involved taking a step back from querying and writing fiction. Both things that bring me most of my highest highs and lowest lows, but not a whole lot of serenity. “This sentence is perfect–I’m ready for my O. Henry award.” “I’m never, ever going to get through this scene, all the words are poop smears.” “OMG! Agent SoandSo requested the manuscript, whee!!!!” “Oh, the despair! Agent MucketyMuck never responded to the requested manuscript. Not even a response to a nudge…I’m, I’m…not even worthy of a fuck-off, you suck.” (For those writing friends who want to remind me rejections are for the work, not the author, I’m not referring to rejections, or agents who take a long time to respond. I’m referring to agents who never respond, to material they requested.)
When your natural state involves letting your imagination run with “what ifs” for stories and characters and worrying about what tomorrow will bring in life, forcing yourself into the here and now isn’t so easy. Sometimes though, it’s necessary.
This is step 1.
6:30am, yesterday morning
And of course, getting the tank together.
No really, the rituals of making RO/DI water, mixing salt, very soothing.
Powder room is just a euphemism for fish room, isn’t it? Of course you can still use the bathroom, honey. Just don’t touch anything.
By today I should have my Thanksgiving menu completely planned, and begun shopping. Not a clue what I’m making yet. I intended to look through my cookbooks and start a shopping list this morning, but when I woke up, I saw this.
Fuzzy, but it’s one snail cleaning the shell of another.
It’ll be a small table this year, I’ll figure it out. Tuesday, when I remember the holiday is two days away and I haven’t so much as bought cranberries.
Massage is over, back to work.
I’m working on it, this finding my peace. Feeling withered, sure–but there may be some blooms to come.
Let’s be honest. Good or bad, day to day life is mostly about the little things. Hitting on the right sentence, facing the overflowing laundry basket, kiddo feeling wobbly-wobbly, it’s all those small moments. See the teapot above? I love that thing, the little ritual of spooning out my favorite tea, pouring the water in and letting it steep. Now that we’re in a bigger space, I feel like I can breathe better and enjoy those moments more frequently. Let’s be honest, the dishwasher plays a big role in all of this. Oh, the joys of planning a snack or meal and not stopping to calculate how many dishes/pots/pans it will create.
And the tank. All the little things I get to watch in the tank now–and this is well before I purchase any livestock.
Full tank shot–now with live rock to jump start the cycle!
I got just a few pieces of live rock the other day, brought them home and put them in the tank, and surprise! The first hitchhikers. A patch of bubble algae–nuisance, though you can all snicker imagining me chasing these little green pimples through the water, a small patch of zoas (zoanthid, a type of soft polyped coral that looks like little flowers)–unlikely to survive the cycle–most living critters can’t tolerate the spikes in ammonia, nitrite, and nitrate that are an integral part of a new tank’s cycle, but still made me smile, a mushroom (corallimorpharian), and two red legged hermit crabs. Hmm.
Many people consider them a necessary and valuable part of the “clean up crew” in a reef tank. I don’t like hermit crabs. They’re cute and interesting to watch, until they spot the shell they like better than the one they’re wearing, and murder the snail inside to appropriate it. And then they decide switching shells and killing snails was great fun, and they go on a killing spree, ripping snails from their needed shells even when it’s a shell that wouldn’t cover their beady little eyes. But, they could survive the cycle, and in the meantime I have no snails. It’s nice to see a little life behind the glass. Couldn’t get a shot of them yet, sorry. One went half under a rock, the other is hiding at the back of the tank.
Poor tightly closed zoas, soon to melt away.
Most of the color on the live rock is coralline algae, a “good” algae that gives a nice purple color to the tank and ideally uses up the nutrients that would otherwise promote the growth of nuisance algae.
Left side
Right side
One of these days I’m going to find the tripod, still packed away somewhere. It makes a big difference in the quality of the pics I can take through the glass.
It’s Friday, Fringelings. I’m looking forward to Friday Night Madness with Fatigue and enjoying the little things. Excuse me while I go test the tank for ammonia levels. Let the cycle move forward! But no, you shouldn’t pee in the tank.
Everyone knows Mrs Fringe is a salt fiend. Salty food, salty snacks, salty water and salty details in fiction. Nothing like a little blood or snot to have you immersed in a story.
The tank is now mostly filled, leaving room for displacement from rock and sand. This means it’s time to add the salt. I ordered it, remembered to order a pump for mixing, heater, and thermometer. By yesterday morning I had finished leak testing the tank (all good, yay!) and was ready to begin turning my super duper pure RO/DI water into saltwater. Here comes the confession.
I’m not enjoying this part. I’ve always had used systems in the past, which meant things were all pretty much put together, and there was little to purchase at one time. But this time, I need just about everything, and these things don’t come assembled. I opened the box containing the pump for mixing the water.
What. the. fuck.
You could say with reef keeping I’m playing at being an underwater gardener, chemist or a marine biologist, you could even say I’m playing God, trying to recreate the ocean in a glass box. I’ll be honest, each of these hold their appeal. What I’m not interested in being is an electrical engineer. Sure I know the equipment I need and want, know what each thing is called, why each piece is necessary or beneficial, and what role it’s mimicking from nature. What I don’t know is how to put this crap together. Not intuitive for me. Not even looking at the diagrams on the instruction sheet. It’s like being faced with the 8000 piece Lego kits Man Child would ask me to build with him. Umm, I kept him company while he did it himself. Sort of. For about 5 minutes until I got bored and dizzy looking at the little pieces and went to make dinner.
Luckily Husband is a good sport, and put the pump together for me this morning. I wouldn’t say this is a hobby we share, and despite the fact that he enjoys when the tanks are up and running and looking beautiful, he’d be just as happy (maybe happier) if we had no creatures outside of two legged ones in the apartment. But we’re all interested in doing this safely, not having an 80 gallon saltwater tidal wave in the living room or electrical fire from equipment not installed or placed properly. That’s almost the same as sharing the hobby, no?
I will be relaxed and happy once I have everything I need, the tank is completely filled and salted, rock and sand in place. Then I can and will spend hours watching the tank–which is amazing long before the first fish goes in or the first coral is placed. Checking parameters, seeing evidence of bacteria thriving as the water cycles and rock becomes “live,” those first pods and bristle worms are honestly thrilling–“look, LIFE!” But right now? Kinda like new puppies, adorable for 10 minutes, but by the time they’ve peed on the floor for the 12th time in 5 hours and nipped the hand of every person who reached to pet them, I’m fantasizing about how much I’m going to love them when they’re finished being puppies.
*Not true for me with babies, by the way. Ohhh, those new new babies, nothing better. Until they’re teenagers, because yes, I’m just that kind of weird, and as a parent I enjoy the teenage years. I wonder what the equivalent of a 15 year old is in reef time?
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.
For those of you who aren’t reefers, the backbone of most reef tanks is live rock. Sounds crazy, I know. Live rock (and sand) serves as the biological filter in a tank, it’s what coral reefs are formed from–basically the skeletons of long dead corals. The rock itself isn’t live, but the beneficial bacteria and microscopic organisms that live in it are. It’s also very expensive. For this tank, I chose to go with reef rock that isn’t live, but “dry.” All those nooks and crannies in the rock are helpful, providing more surface area for the bacteria to colonize. It will take longer for the tank to cycle and be ready for livestock, but it’s a much more budget friendly option, and I will “seed” the dry rock with just a few pounds of live rock and many pounds of live sand.
I ordered 50 pounds of this rock, expected it to arrive today. Surprise! It came a day early. My intercom phone rang yesterday, the guard telling me I should come get my package. Of course this happened after my back was humming from doing a few loads of laundry, and right before I had to leave to pick the girl up from school. The gloom and rain of the day just added that extra something. I assumed it was a small package, yanno, the two ounce heater, maybe the hose for siphoning water. This guard is getting up there in years, and tends to get a little ummm, stressed, if you don’t come and take your packages right. now. I thought my back was humming after laundry? Bwahahaha! I couldn’t even look at the fucking box to open it until this morning. But now I have, and I had to immediately begin taking pictures because I’m a geek.
I spent last night and this morning thinking about the tank build and my writing. Both are intense, bring me peace and joy and angst and tears. Both endeavors I can and do lose hours in, often walking away feeling upside down and inside out. And I wondered, should I not have started this tank? I have people who seem to genuinely love my writing, several of whom have encouraged me to self publish. I could have put the money I’m putting into the tank into self pubbing Astonishing. Except it wouldn’t be enough. I write, and I self-edit what I write, but I’m no editor. I’m also not a graphic artist, able to design a book cover. Nor a computer savvy gal, able to convert the file into something readable on Kindle or Nook. Nor a marketing expert, able to get it out there. All things that need to happen if you’re going to self publish. If I’m ever published, trade or self, I want it done well.
It’s funny. Astonishing is magical realism, not a genre that’s popular or clearly defined in the adult market. Seems like many have their own definition and expectations for it. Maybe I should define it as written surrealism, instead of magical realism. Or hyperrealism, based on responses I get in regards to my characters, based on those ordinary people we walk past every day, who are extraordinary in the impact they have on each of us, shaping our lives. That’s what I love, whether I’m writing, reading, or reefing. Those small moments, how every creature–regardless of how many celled–affects every other around them, causing growth or a crash, it almost doesn’t matter.
Recuperating, settling in, where do the days go? Happy Friday, Fringelings!
Welcome to my future beach house in a glass box. Remember that spot I said I was planning for a new tank? Fatigue came over last week, looked at it, and dubbed it the interrogation corner. He could have a point.
Where were you, on the night of the 25th?!
I will admit to being amused by the double take done by every person who’s walked into the apartment. I made a game of guessing a) if they would stop and stare or keep glancing at it, and b) how long before they broke down and asked. Hard to tell from this angle, but the tiled area is 4′ x 5′. Alas, I don’t get much company so the game lost its charm after a week.
Allow me to present the new future fringie reef.
Eventually this will be 80 gallons of sexy reefing goodness.
Even better, it’s in a prime viewing spot, easily watched from the couch and I can see it from my desk–though not so close as to be distracting when I’m trying to write. Assuming, of course, the rest of life settles down enough for me to write again. My desk. Have I mentioned that 100 times yet? It may not be a room of my own, but it feels pretty close.
A desk that isn’t my lap!
From this point on it will be slow going, for budgetary reasons and in the interests of good husbandry. The first commandment of reefing, “Nothing good happens fast in a reef tank.”
In case you’re wondering, poor Little Incredibly Stupid Dog hasn’t quite settled in yet. She’s still nervous, afraid of every new sound. Just breaks my heart, seeing how anxious she is.
I’d like to share her level of anxiety. Oh, and don’t tell Husband she’s on the couch.
That’s what it feels like, this preparing to move and trying to find workers we can afford. I needed one thing to go smoothly, and this was it. We walked into the floor store, and I asked the guy to show me the least expensive hardwoods he had in stock. Excellent. Next day delivery, whee! The delivery guys even called when they said they would, and showed up on time. And that’s where the smoothness ended. Turns out the wood was in the wrong type of boxes, not packed correctly, or something. Because as they unloaded their truck onto the elevator, boxes were splitting and planks were spilling out. Off the elevator, more planks hitting the floor. Hi, new neighbors! No really, we’re quiet people, try not to hate us yet. Needless to say, lots of boards were damaged. This did make it easy for me to take some of the planks that didn’t have a box anymore and play puzzle on the floor.
And Art Child saw the piece. The perfect piece. She took it and placed it on the floor in what will be her room. Sure, the linoleum tiles currently in there are an excellent example of late ’60’s decor, but I don’t think we’ll miss them too much.
In the interest of budget and productivity, Husband took the wallpaper off of the bedroom walls. You never know what you’ll find behind wallpaper. You could find a hidden fortune, or maybe
just this.
I would pissercize my anxiety away, but I re-injured my back pulling old nails and hooks out of the walls. Ohhmmmm. I’ll just meditate on my future new tank. I’ve got the perfect spot all picked out.
Reef wall
Husband and I went to get little sample cans of paint colors this morning, and as I was hyperventilating, thinking of the work and cost ahead, this song came on the radio. I don’t think I’ve even heard it in twenty-five or thirty years. Not a soothing song, but I was soothed. Maybe it just threw me back all those years, to the many moves I’ve made, and how it’s always worked out. Besides, it’s Friday, and that’s always good.
If she could, she’d be dressing herself in black from head to tail.
And spent a couple of days looking at this view
Pool!
Ok, maybe it’s true that an overnight in the suburbs with Art Child isn’t exactly what I had in mind when I imagined a vacation this summer, but I take what I can get. I needed to get out of the city, away from the waiting and waiting to hear about the apartment, because I’m a peasant. And apparently peasants aren’t worthy of timely responses, regardless of how much money is involved. And a couple of days of laughter with friends are always a good thing. Besides, look what I got to snack on while poolside
Blackberries!
once I valiantly fought off this guy
Ok, I waited for him to finish and fly away, but I was still brave.
I floated in the pool, felt my freckles multiply, and watched Art Child turn blue having a great time
Don’t be silly, I don’t sub skate, but it makes an excellent flotation device.
Mr and Mrs Smitholini and I had dinner outside, and had a visit from a neighboring family.
Mr and Mrs Tick dropped by
with their children, Lyme and Disease
The four legged members of the household were particularly happy for the company.
She let the guests know exactly where they should go
while he watched her
and he wished they would both stfu and let him enjoy his massage.
Later in the evening, Mr. Chic–artist and model extraordinaire, third born of the Smitholinis, about to return to his art college– gave Art Child a trim. Her bangs are now perfect, she is beyond thrilled, and all is right with the world.
The following morning, I tried to snap photos of the bluejays chasing each other from tree to tree, but they were too damned fast. On the way home, we stopped in a new to us fish store, where Mrs Smitholini and I drooled over the gorgeous and healthy fish and coral. They even had frag tanks with very reasonably priced pieces (“frags” are fragments of coral reef colonies, a more budget friendly option than buying entire colonies for your tank, not to mention the thrill of watching a tiny frag thrive and grow into a colony in your very own slice of the ocean). I had a long chat with the manager about the latest in LED fixtures for the best coral growth, and then, in the back, I found they had the tank of my dreams. THE tank. 80 gallons of shallow reef goodness. I inspected the glass, the silicone, inspected the cabinet under the tank, climbed a ladder and peered into the back chambers. Mrs Smitholini stopped me from actually climbing into the tank. She’s always been my voice of reason.
This is my morning. Every morning. I begin each day on the terrace with my coffee and my phone for a morning email check in with a friend–“ready?”– who lives many states away. Whichever of us is awake first sends the first email and cybercup.
But there’s a new and important difference to this little tableau. Can you guess what it is? Until yesterday morning, I didn’t have a real grown up sized chair, or this cute table. That’s right, for the past seven years I have woken up anywhere between four and six AM, gone onto the terrace, and sat down with my coffee and phone, pretty much on the floor, no table.
What do I mean by pretty much on the floor? This.
See the difference?
Yes, I’d been using the low-slung reject beach chair–rejected for the beach because the back can’t be adjusted/reclined. Why, Mrs Fringe, wasn’t your butt cold sitting on that in the winter months? Yes, yes it was. Mrs Fringe, didn’t that aggravate your back over the past year, when you’ve been dealing with the back pain from Satan? Yes, yes it did. When I first moved into this apartment, a little patio set went on the list. But yanno, the list is long, and things like a real outside chair for myself fall way down to the bottom of the list of needs and wants that never stops growing. We’re still waiting for an official *go* on the larger apartment, but it seems like it is going to come through, and this would push a patio set that much further down the list. Because budget.
Initially, I didn’t really mind. First of all, how could I complain when I actually had an apartment with a terrace? And you all know how much I love the beach, so I would sit in my little chair, close my eyes, and pretend I was on a beautiful beach somewhere else.
When Mr Smitholini first saw this, years ago, he laughed and told me he was going to bring me the sandbox from when his kids were younger, so I could really live the dream. Not a bad thought, really. It became a running joke, every time I spoke with Mrs Smitholini on the phone, every time they came to visit. They don’t come very often. Let’s face it, driving and parking in the city sucks, we are 8000 people and creatures in a two bedroom apartment, and their family of seven squished around the dining room table in addition to my family of five creates an, ummm, cozy dinner. They have a spacious and beautiful home in the suburbs, so it’s more frequent that we go to visit at their house.
Until about two weeks ago, it had been a couple of years since they were here. Life, work, twelve people’s schedules…not so easy to coordinate. But then they were here, in dress clothes because they came over after a family function. Mr Smitholini wanted to sit on the terrace to have his cigar, and I, the hostess with the mostest, offered him the beach chair. He was a good sport about it, Mrs Smitholini and I sat on the ground, but, ummm, suit + beach chair + middle aged bodies + middle of Manhattan = not so fun. We went to visit them two days ago, and Mrs Smitholini had this present for me.
A real, grown-up patio set. Two (matching!) chairs and a table. One of her kiddos even put it together for me before we got there. Squee! It isn’t just the furniture that’s a gift, the past two mornings have been a gift to my back, as I settled with my coffee and phone, watching the sun rise.
I don’t consider myself an outdoorsy gal, but I need to start my days like this. Sun, rain, or snow, I have to be outside. My beach house will remain a fantasy, but I figure out what I can to get my imagination there with the pesky reality of my body being here in the city. Time on the terrace, forever friends, and soon I hope, another little slice of the ocean in a glass box.
So here I sit, on a grown-up chair, like a real person on the terrace. My laptop even fits comfortably on the table, coffee cup to the side. Are you ready for coffee?
mrsfringe 