dreams

1001 Questions of Mamaing

Happy Saturday, Fringelings!

It’s been an exhausting week for me, lots of ups and downs, how about you? Two highlights. One, Nerd Child is home for the summer, hooray! It was a seventeen hour day yesterday, much of it spent driving in torrential rains that seemed to call for an ark, but he’s home.

What’s the other highlight? SnapinTime, from The Voice from the Backseat very generously donated her limited time to watermarking some of my photos of Flower Child’s artwork, so I could share it here. Thank you, Snapin!

I love looking at art, and so does Flower Child. We’ve spent quite a bit of time in museums together. My sweetie has a real talent. It’s newly discovered, or perhaps it would be better stated to say newly unlocked. I can’t say why, for sure, but it emerged after receiving an iPad to use for schoolwork. Is it the preservation of energy (a precious and finite resource)? Excessive fatigue is one of the most, if not the most, debilitating features of her struggles. I don’t know, but as a mama who watches her struggle with so much–yet she always holds on to the positive–and as a person who is hard pressed to draw a stick figure, this work makes me weep, literally.

: angel

: truncated tree, with color

: dog and bird on a branch

: tree

: woman sleeping

: branch and moon

: Nerd Child

: woman with dreds

Flower Child is indeed, special. Her thoughts take twists and turns that can be difficult to follow, and clarity is connected to how she’s feeling physically. The drawing of the dog and bird looks like it was done by a different person, no? This was a work she produced last weekend, when she was unwell and “crashing,” as we call it, for lack of a better word. Not completely crashed, because then she’s hard pressed to hold a pencil. After several hours of rest, sleep, and her evening meds, she produced “woman with dreds.”

I’m hoping to figure out a way to get her art lessons this summer. We need someone who will be flexible and ok with these inconsistencies, and sympathetic to the &*$#% budget.

Starry Nights and Street Fairs

English: Pleiades Star Cluster (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Trite as it sounds, sometimes as a parent you have to make hard decisions. Husband and I had to make one of those last week. Flower Child’s school has an annual overnight camping trip. After much discussion, asking questions about the plans for trip, student teacher ratio, and watching how she’s been doing and feeling, we felt we had to say no. It was the right decision, but it sucked to come to it anyway. I got a phone call from one of her teachers after the decision was made, one I don’t speak with regularly. He asked if there was any information he could offer to help us to feel better about the trip, etc. I absolutely believe he was coming from a good place, but it sure made that voice in my head–the one that whispers about how unfair things can be–a whole lot louder.

Yesterday I planned to go to the craft store with Flower Child so she could pick out a small pad of sketch paper. Hopefully we’re going to get to the park today so she can find a tree she likes and sketch it. The pad she had at home is too large and heavy for her to carry or manipulate in the middle of the park. She has always loved art. She loves to draw, and has been doing a lot of it recently. Since getting the iPad for schoolwork, it seems like she has enough energy and strength left at the end of the day to put more into it and enjoy it. Watching her have fun and progress with this is a particular pleasure I can’t put into words.

When we left the apartment, we saw there was a nearby street fair, first of the season for us. No reason we were in a hurry, so we walked the fair for a bit. Most of the fairs run for about 10 blocks.

This is from a couple of years ago, they’re $5 a pop now.

Really, there’s only three blocks worth of booths. Two blocks of wares that keep repeating, and every so often something different thrown in. Still, on a nice day, and before you’ve had 5 straight weekends of traffic being messed up from them, it’s a nice thing to do. We went past a booth of inexpensive art prints, Flower Child spent some time looking at the Van Goghs (she loves his work). As I looked at the Starry Night print, I thought of how much Flower Child would enjoy being somewhere she could see the stars at night. Cuppa guilt, anyone? I splurged on a couple of arepas (delicious for about 45 seconds, after you’ve burned your mouth on the first few bits but before you’re eating cold sweet corn grease) and went on to the craft store after strolling for four blocks.

The craft store was having a sale on sketch books. Score! Got two small sketch pads and a pad of tan paper so she can figure out how to use her white pastels. Then we were just looking at the different art materials. They had Bob Ross kits. At this point, she isn’t into painting, but I was telling her about him when a man walked by and we ended up chatting about art. He turned out to be an art teacher, made a couple of recommendations for paper for Flower Child, I added a large pad of newsprint paper to our pile. Who needs groceries? I took his contact info. Nice guy, maybe we can figure out a way to get her lessons.

We were out for a little under two hours, and I was feeling great. A beautiful sunny day, relaxing, no pressure-no rush strolling, got Flower Child what she wanted plus some, a nice New York moment in the craft store. When we got to our corner, I told her we had to take the dogs out for a quick walk. “Right now? Can we rest for five minutes first?” Pop goes my bubble. She was out of energy, literally exhausted from the couple of hours out and walking around. Oh yeah, this was why the plan was to buy the sketch pad one day, and go to the park the next. And this was why saying no to the trip was the right call, much as we wish it was different.

4 “vine” charcoal sticks and 4 compressed charcoal sticks. Drawing materials. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Is the Boogeyman Getting Bigger?

Return of the Boogeyman (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

It’s a funny thing. I find as I get older, certain things that used to bother me, don’t. You really do reach a level of understanding, this too shall pass. In other ways, though, those fears take hold and get more firmly rooted. Like, say, fear of the unknown.

I’m at a point where I’m ready to make changes. Not quite sure about what they’ll encompass, but I’m ready. Except, what about that other old adage? You know the one, “the devil you know…”

Fatigue and I were talking about fears the other evening. Not wanting to live our lives dictated by fear. We were talking about our young adulthood, before we knew each other. I realized I used to be brave. Ok, maybe not brave, but braver than I am now. I took chances. Some worked out, some not so much. Yanno, life. It’s a lot harder to take those risks when the fallout of a miscalculated risk involves more than me and a cat. Yes, once upon a time, Mrs Fringe had a cat.

I dream about moving to “the country.” What if we did it? Would it be an easier life, living somewhere the budget would stretch farther? I have blissful visions of a kitchen where I can’t touch both walls while standing in the middle. A dishwasher. Not living with people literally on top and below me. Privacy! A garden. A spot to let the beasts out so I don’t have to always walk them no matter what at least three times a day.

There’s nowhere we could go where our money will magically stretch for a fantastic area, HGTV worthy house, or a house on the beach. A lot of factors have to be weighed in. Cost of living, school system, special ed services, doctors/hospitals, work, somewhat reasonable distance to get to Mother In Law. Let’s not forget political factors. Not every area would be happy to welcome us. I don’t need to be somewhere where everyone has the same political beliefs, but I also don’t want to be somewhere I’d be afraid to state my beliefs, know what I mean? And Husband, who would be very happy if I would forget all about this fantasy and continue to trip over each other in the apartment, choke on the budget, and keep waving as I trudge out with the dogs to walk them for the eleventy billionth time.

If I keep huffing and puffing and moaning, and swear it will all be fabulous and I will wake up and skip through the daisies every day, maybe we’ll go. Eventually. But that isn’t how I want to walk into a big change. My crystal ball is looking a little milky these days. I don’t know if this type of move would work out. If we’d end up in the perfect area, if it would provide enough stress and financial relief to enjoy those daisies. We all face decisions, we all try to stack the odds in our favor. But at the end of the day, big decisions are a leap of faith. A calculated risk, but a risk nonetheless.

None of this obsessing is getting me any closer to the revisions I should be working on.

For the moment, I’ll continue to watch the real estate porn on HGTV while I wonder if I’m being ruled by my fears or being practical. Sensible. Oh gawd, am I supposed to toss my stilettos and buy orthopedic lace-ups now?

And in the meantime, Flower Child and I keep watching our little seeds sprout, pretending we’ve got a real garden. And I trimmed and bathed Little Incredibly Dumb Dog. Productivity, sorta.

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Farmer Fringe

Clematis, New York Botanical Garden (Photo credit: Kristine Paulus)

Flower Child likes the idea of growing things. I like the idea of growing things. We don’t know what we’re doing, but little by little, we’re trying to figure it out, in pots on the terrace. We aren’t successful enough yet to call it container gardening.

Last year we did pretty well, using little plants from the local plant shop. We had a couple of pots with flowers, one with mint, one with basil, a couple of window box type things hanging off of the terrace railing filled with herbs. We learned that dill will attract the birds with the red chests. Never had one of those come to my terrace before, apparently they think dill is comfy for nesting. We learned pigeons enjoy basil, not to keep it in the boxes on the ledge. We learned tomatoes need to be pollinated, and bees don’t come up as high as we live. I’d like to try that one again, after reading some more about how to self pollinate.

Yesterday was a beautiful spring day, so this morning, FC and I decided today was the day to work on our terrace. Yanno it’s still sunny but freezing today. We went back to the plant store and bought seeds this time. Much less expensive, we can try more things.

to be planted next week

We were going to plant these tomorrow, but neither one of us remember which of the two identical planters is the one we already put seeds into. So we’ll wait a week, and see which one sprouts something.

to be planted tomorrow. I hope.

Turns out, some seeds have to be soaked for twenty four hours before planting.

veggie seeds planted

tea?

Flower Child digging

Window boxes on terrace railing

See? We’re ready for rural life.

Green Acres

Mrs Fringe Learns to Internetz

Not really. It’s magically working again, much the way it magically stopped working. And then started. And then stopped.

Internet (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Come to think of it, this is just like the early spring we’re not having. Someone find me that damned ~~woodchuck~~ groundhog, Imma make a stew.

I’ve been dreaming about moving to the country. Husband thinks I’m kidding, but I decided I need a dream that could possibly eventually happen, not just the fantasy of a beach house. This would mean going north, colder but less expensive. I feel the past weeks have been training for a rural life. Internet out, multiple snowfalls in March…yup, I’m ready.

Since we started to have spring, the critters are here. But now it’s cold again, and they’re more pissed than I am. Even the rats are confused, I’ve seen at least three smooshed rats on my block over the past couple of days. They’re usually pretty good at avoiding cars. Let’s be honest, though, better a smooshed rat than a live one.

In the park, lots of screaming birds. I assume they’re protesting the lack of soft earth and worms. But maybe not. Maybe they’re screaming in fear. We seem to have a new predator bird in the neighborhood. (And when I say a new one, I mean new to me, they could well have lived here for fifty years without my noticing. I also don’t know if there’s one or a dozen). In any case, the other afternoon I was walking a dog along a path in Central Park when something whooshed overhead. It was the coolest freaking bird I’ve ever seen outside of the colorful ones that live on people’s shoulders. Cool enough for me to forget to be afraid. I only saw it from underneath, beige, tan, and brown with an awesome, almost diamond pattern across its feathers. Sort of the colors of the piebald pigeons, only not ugly. The wingspan had to have been five feet across. In between the internet being down, I googled, trying to figure out what this bird is. Almost a falcon, but no.

Another sign that it should be spring, Nerd Child is home for Spring Break! Yay!!!!!! I’m thrilled, Flower Child is thrilled, we miss the boys when they’re away.

What to do with your first day of spring break when you’re *almost* fifteen, home from boarding school and just finished finals? Get up early, meet the priest who runs the middle school you attended, and go to the St Patrick’s Day parade, of course.

Green Bagel! (Photo credit: pirate johnny)

Nothing a Latino teen likes better than corned beef and green bagels. My mother in law will take care of the obligatory flan this evening. Why yes, flan is a necessary component to St Patrick’s Day. Ask Nerd Child, he’ll happily explain flan is a necessary component to any and every celebration.

Apparently, while chatting, the priest mentioned ospreys have been taking out pigeons by the church. Nerd Child came home and told me this, and I looked up ospreys. YES!!! That’s exactly the bird I saw in the park. Already super impressive, and now I find out they eat pigeons? Mrs Fringe has a new favorite critter. I wonder if I can keep one on my terrace?

Osprey (Photo credit: Gregory Jordan)

And the Winner Is…

Bingo! (Photo credit: jadensmommy)

Hey Artist, Got a Dollar?

Submitted to the Reader’s Choice blog 5 minutes ago. Thanks to all who played along and cast a vote! I have wonderful friends, both online and off.

It’s 7PM on Friday of a three day weekend, woo hoo! I’m getting ready to meet Fatigue for Friday Night Madness in a little while, and I am more than ready. Ready to go be a grown up for an hour, and ready to happydance. Don’t worry, kids! I’ll limit my dance to a squirm in my seat, it’s so upsetting to the 20 somethings when they see a middle aged woman get excited. I’m lowering my cholesterol through exercise–and then I’ll raise it back up with an order of nachos. I know there’s a pint of beer waiting for me, I hope it doesn’t go flat before I get there. I’m certain it won’t be warm, because it’s about 2 degrees here in New York tonight.

Why am I happy? Because today, for the first time in a long time, I felt my rhythm while I was writing. Not just tweaking, editing, revising, not just forcing my butt to stay still and write, but really felt it. This WIP is a romance, but the setting was one I originally conceived of a few years back for a magic(al) realism short story. I’m going to try to graft the two seeds, growing them into something new for me. Will it work? I’m really not sure, but I’m very, very excited, in that way that only a woman who likes to play with characters inside her head can be.

WTF? (Photo credit: mayhem)

Disconnected

Telephone operators, 1952 (Photo credit: Seattle Municipal Archives)

Time heals all wounds, time is money, time is the longest distance between two places, time is a great teacher, but unfortunately it kills all its pupils. Huh. Google quotes about time, and the pages go on and on. Everyone has something to say about time. Don’t waste it! Use it wisely! It’s relative! It’s a nebulous concept, distorting our already biased perceptions.

I’ve been poking around the writers’ forum. The other day, I tripped over my old username, which I hadn’t been able to remember when I rejoined, so I had created a new one. In keeping with the interests of procrastination, once I found it I ran a search for posts by the old name. The internetz, no such thing as gone for good.

Found a thread discussing looking for an agent, I had posted about receiving a request for a “full” based on a partial manuscript sent, the following day I posted about having received a request for a partial based on pages sent with a query. If you’re reading and you aren’t a writer of fiction, let me tell you, that’s a wild with joy and nerves skip around the apartment until you notice the kids are in a frightened huddle in the corner worthy couple of days. Another member posted on the thread saying I was someone to watch. Quite a compliment. The funny part? Not only don’t I remember posting any of that, I don’t remember the compliment, or the happy dance I’m sure I stomped out for at least a week.

If I had come across the post in some other way without noticing the username, I would have stopped and studied the signature, following any links to see if this person was now published, with a novel(s) available on the market. Talk about a disconnect.

I don’t wish I could go back to that time period, there were many other crappy things happening in my life that I don’t care to relive. Hey, you don’t achieve this trajectory of downward mobility if you’re skipping through the daisies each day. But I do wish I could sift the sands of that time period, find the grains that represent the writing me, and just put those grains in my pockets, so when I’m frustrated I could touch them, roll them between my fingers and against my cheek, to remind myself of the possibilities.

Lakota storyteller: painting. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Cuddling With that Late Night Booty Call: Want

Deutsch: Irische Hard Shoes, auch Hornpipe Shoes oder Jig Shoes genannt. Jig Shoes. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

*Warning: Defensive post ahead.

Yesterday afternoon, I walked past a favorite shoe store, recently renovated so the ambiance matches the price points. In the window was an absolute wantwantwant Pas de Rouge shoe. So much so, I took a picture with a phone, posted it to my personal Facebook wall, and had fun with friends dreaming about $400 shoes. (for some reason I can’t transfer pics from my phone to this blog, sorry) Fun? Yes. Silly? Absolutely. But there’s something about a sole full of awesomeness that some roundheels like myself can’t deny. Resist, sure, but not deny.

But here’s what I’m thinking about today. We’re expected to deny our wants. As women, certainly as women with children, we’re supposed to forget about our pesky little wants, dreams, and desires, at least until all children our grown and gone. I’m not talking about ridiculously expensive shoes, but the other stuff. Like writing, or painting, or photography (except of our children), or going back to school, or a vacation that isn’t educational. Even hobbies are relegated to after the kids are asleep. You know what? After the kids are grown and gone is a long, long time. Add in a special needs child and multiply this by eleventy billion.

A newborn child crying. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

It doesn’t seem so long at first, when they’re babies, toddlers, and young children, and your days meld together with feeding and changing, soothing and crooning. Hell, just looking at this photo makes my boobs tingle, preparing for a non existent milk letdown, and it’s been years since I nursed.

My belief that children come first is strong. Most of us deny ourselves a lot of wants, put off needs, because the kids come first. It’s what our biology and our society dictates; in my opinion this is as it should be. I know it isn’t just women who put certain wants off until the kids are grown, most of us, male and female, are on limited budgets, and many of us have to either give up or put dreams aside until the immediate responsibilities are fewer. Being last is okay, as long as I’m still in the race.

But since I began blogging about my newly rediscovered determination to get back to a regular writing and submitting schedule, more than a couple of my female followers have made reference (both on and off the blog) to wanting to do X, and waiting to do X until the kids are gone. Feel free to jump in and tell me you’ve heard otherwise, I’ve never heard a man say he’s waiting to investigate and pursue a hobby until the kids are gone. When I read the stories of writers who have been successful after having children, but before the kids are gone, they’re a little different. Both male and female showed tremendous drive, dedication, and passion. The men talk about coming home from their day jobs, locking themselves in whatever little nook they can carve out for themselves in their home, and writing. Women talk about coming home from their day jobs, supervising homework, making dinner, doing the bedtime thing, and then going to whatever nook they’ve carved out for themselves. Or, if they were SAHMs, writing during naps and loads of laundry. And of course, eating all those bon bons. Who needs sleep, right?

I don’t know about you, but when I sleep and dream, it isn’t about juicy younger men or my formerly perky parts. It’s about space and time for myself that isn’t shrouded in guilt.

English: A photograph of an engraving in The Writings of Charles Dickens volume 4, Oliver Twist, titled “Oliver at Mrs. Maylie’s Door”. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I think it’s valid, sensible, and important to recognize the difference between wants and needs, and then further breakdown to prioritize these needs and wants. What I don’t get is why this is supposed to equal no wants or dreams. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, I recognize that I live in this spoiled American society and I am a spoiled American. I don’t have a McMansion and don’t want one. I also don’t want to live in a hut, with just enough grains of rice to keep me going, foraged Pepsi bottles strapped to my feet with woven grass. I hear those are terrible for dog walking.

It Makes Me Wonder

stairway to heaven (Photo credit: Cromo)

Last night, when Husband got home from work, we watched the clip of Heart performing Stairway to Heaven at the Kennedy Center. It was an amazing performance, Ann Wilson’s voice strong and pure; I can’t imagine a finer arrangement to play homage to Led Zeppelin. And let’s be honest, tell me it didn’t/doesn’t make you smile to see Michelle Obama grooving in her seat.

It brought me back. The hours and hours spent listening to them. I never saw Led Zeppelin live, though I did see the Honeydrippers, and Robert Plant again on a solo tour. I don’t remember where either concert was held, but I have a clear picture of being so far from the stage at Plant’s show that I was glad one of the friend who were with me smiled and chatted with the guys next to us, so we could share their binoculars. I can’t remember if Husband and I saw him together, and neither could he, but I suspect not. Somehow Husband always got decent, if not excellent, seats.

A mesh of memories were triggered, not just the concerts. Like being wrapped in a worn quilt with an old and stinky lobster trap over it. The overriding memory was of sitting on the edges of a Brooklyn park at night, a few friends and a guitar. We used to do that a lot, get a bunch of kids together in a park or on the beach, and remove ourselves from the world and the city with music. I was never a musician or a singer, but I always wrote, and like every other angst filled teen saw myself as the next Sylvia Plath. So sometimes there’d be a real effort, a real plan (ha!) to the night, one of the more talented guitarists would sit with me, and he or she would throw some chords together while I and whatever other writers were there would come up with lyrics. All terrible, I’m sure, all forgotten by morning. There’s a certain amount of noise that goes with living in the city at night, and the level considered acceptable was a lot more in those days than now. I grew up across the street from one of those parks, which really weren’t parks at all, but concrete playgrounds and yards attached to elementary schools. You could tell the time by the sounds you heard. Little ones shrieking, before 4 pm, basketballs thumping, “foul!” “fuck you, go home if you don’t like it!” 3-8 or 9pm, thwok-“shit!” were the handball players, between 7 and midnight, music, shouts, firecrackers, and “shut the fuck up, man!” between 10pm and 2am, waking to the thwop-thwak of the paddleball players at 7am.

This one night was perfect, magical to my teenaged self. I can’t remember who I was with, not names or faces, just the shadows next to me, the splintered wood of the bench under my butt, acrid smell and bitter taste of the luke warm, green bottle of Heineken, and a sweet female voice singing Stairway to Heaven. I wasn’t where I wanted to be, no clue how to get there, or even where there was, but I believed I could.

handball (Photo credit: gt8073a)

Jumped the Gun or Getting a Head Start?

Skizze zur Radierung „Sprint“ (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I saw Fatigue last night for Friday Night Madness, and we both talked about renewed efforts to pursue our respective arts. We talked about being flexible. Sort of, we talked about me being flexible. I think I can be, fiction, short fiction, romance, essays, blogging–though I’ve got limits. I cannot write erotica. Really, I tried, it didn’t flow. Or moan, or anything else it should do. Fatigue suggested writing reviews as a potential money maker. I’m not sure how that would work, with me never going to the movies, or the theater, and usually reading books looong after their original copyright dates, but I’m not opposed to the idea.

I woke up at 5 am today, and spent the next 6 hours researching e-publishing vs self publishing. Again. I’ve done this many times before. Once Man Child and Nerd Child were awake and in the living room, I forced them to listen to me debate which path to try first. I’m pretty sure Nerd Child slipped his ear buds back in halfway through, but he appeared attentive at appropriate intervals.

And then, I did it. Please, dear Fringelings, don’t think I knocked off query and synopsis inside of an hour, both were already long written, edited, re-written and re-edited, waiting in my files. I submitted my short contemporary romance to an e-publisher, including query, synopsis, and pseudonym, following submission guidelines.

For this first stab at e-publishing, I went with the e-division of one of the big houses. I know, I know, this means less likely acceptance, but it’s a shot.

Do any of you have experience with submitting to/ publishing with any of the e-publishers? Words of wisdom? Voices of experience? Cautionary tales?

I am determined to get back on track with my writing and submitting this year, and take control of whatever I can.