another late night. . . . writing

I'd forgotten how much I hate late night command performances in front of a blank word.doc screen with only the prospect of having nothing to say to those expecting to hear a presentation of your paper to goad you on.

I sit and jiggle my legs.

I get more tea.

I check email.

I wrestle three more sentences onto the screen.

Inevitably I remember Annie Lamott's Bird by Bird and her command to write a "shitty first draft" and then hope you don't get run over by a bus before you can get to it the next day and revise it before other people read it and think "what a crapola writer she was, after all!"

I write something here and wonder if I should look for a picture to ease the nakedness of the words.

I stretch my neck and back muscles - looking upwards - and notice that the chandelier has cobwebs in between the candelabra lights. The feather duster is 7 steps away tucked into the bookshelves. Maybe I could dust it real quick and then take a look outside to see if Jupiter and Venus are still visibly aligned. The cold air would revive me.

Crap.

The house alarm is on. Setting and unsetting it makes loud beeps which will wake up the king, who's asleep.

And I want to be asleep!

Okay. So push "PUBLISH POST" and return to pulling words out of hiding and push-pinning them onto paper. 22 hundred of them so far - a little more than half the amount that proved too much for the last academic conference I attended not too long ago. That was a real academic presentation, though. The thing tomorrow is supposed to just be an informal 'work-in-progress' discussion among colleagues. What's more, the head of department has already edited the blurb describing my work to cut out the more academic references. "Don't want to scare anybody off before they get there!"

Great.

For this, I'm still up at midnight, agonizing.

I'm considering forgoing the ubiquitous powerpoint presentation as a mute protest. Thinking is not about entertainment, it's about thinking.

"Physician, heal theyself?" Philosopher, think thyself! Stop looking for rest and entertainment.

Then, maybe I can get some sleep.

Tuesday already

I don't know where the time goes. I really don't.

I couldn't tell you what I did yesterday. . . . well now, I guess I can, now that I stop to think about it. We started early. The king's chariot is troubled and had to go to the chariot-fixer. A new fixer of chariots, since the chariot dealer has been found wanting. Wanting way too much money and apparently incapable of fixing the problem.

The problem? The mysterious disappearance of coolant liquid.

The solution? According to the new fixer of chariots: a new radiator cap.

So that was the morning. Well, the car drop off and back home, where the king worked out of his home office.

You know what that means.

Upstairs to where I'm trying to get things done every half hour, at least.

What'cha doing?

I was trying to write. . . .

Ah. . . . well, um, when you get a minute. . . .

And so it would go. One rabbit trail involved the search for the ruler I admittedly took from his desk drawer and which then apparently fell down a rabbit hole, never to be seen again. I have looked everywhere for it, to no avail. The king decided to look in my studio for it.

You don't mind, do you?

No. Of course not.

Whereupon all mental work ceased while he stood in the middle of the room and made periodic forays to lift things up and look underneath.

What you should know to properly understand this picture is the utter futility of his hoping to find his ruler in my studio, given the current disarray of that space. There are stacks of books, papers, and Christmas wrapping paraphernalia everywhere. In the near corner you may find kitchen counter samples, supply catalogs and ripped-out pages from magazines of pictures I like of kitchens, baths, brick walls, castles, gardens - you name it!

In the far corner lives the art supplies and sewing boxes (two) and assorted to-go bags I've assembled for various projects in assorted ziplock baggies of varying sizes.

Knitting is [mostly] in the armoir, but a couple of projects have taken up residence in an overstuffed chair (along with the knitting needle case - a very cool orange Veuve Cliquot zipped carryall we got with the champagne we bought to replace the broken bottle of Dom Perignon the king brought along for our first trip to Puerto Rico together, but that's another story. Still, you can see a picture of where we went, here).

As you can see, just walking into this room is a very dangerous thing for a "creative" like me, not to mention an "excursive" like me! I get caught up by things that reach out and grab me, and get lost in knitting, or remembering, or imagining possibilities, or - like I did yesterday - in sorting through, discarding, filing, and organizing. (and trying to picture what our house-under-construction might actually look like. . .)

Then there was the try-to-get-an-actual-number out of two different kitchen suppliers - meaning an actual number for each thing, rather than one very large number for the whole project and then spend months trying to figure out just what it is that costs so much so that I can choose another option. Whenever I volunteer to give up something, though, it's always met with "Well, that's really not all that much."

Today, for example, after months of hearing how expensive the finishing package I had chosen was, I finally got the additional cost for the "distressing" I like. It is negligible. Seeded glass - on the other hand - I discovered is responsible for something like an extra $100 per pane! Clear glass they practically give away. I guess I'll learn to live without the little bubbles. . . .

But that's my job for today. An already it's after 11, and I've talked to my actual best friend who leaves tomorrow for St. Maartens (she usually comes with us to Puerto Rico, but I'm not in Puerto Rico, remember? sigh. . . .

But there's good news. I put in the application for a further research and teaching fellowship and I have been overwhelmed with the letters of recommendation I've gotten. You should see what Magda wrote! Man. I wrote her back to thank her and said that I would hire me, and I know better!

Then there's my buddy who I've known since he went to the Basic School at Quantico. He's a Lt. Colonel now and who (unbeknownst to me) is in the middle of some special operation in the middle East and took the time to do this for me. From the copy of the acknowledgment email I got, that alone spoke volumes to the person in charge of making the selection. . . .

You know what? If I don't even get an interview - I don't care. Not at this point.

at loose ends

I don't know what to do with myself.

What a strange feeling!

Yes, there are lots of things to do. Laundry. Food shopping. Put all books away - or, rather, back on my shelf/box/library system - so I can re-negotiate my studio space. Start thinking through Thanksgiving, December birthdays, and Christmas issues. Start re-connecting with neglected friends. Resume knitting. Think up Christmas gift projects. Email new friend from Florida. I could go on and on.

But no. Instead, I sit here, in front of my computer, because that's been my life for the last however many months. Years really! Truth be told.

(Ah. Also: take computer to Mac-store for repairs. . . . Maybe THAT will get me away from the computer.

I also need to re-focus on the 'what's-next' bit of my life. Yes, stay up with the dissertation (meaning to prepare for the viva voce) but also be prepared to take the next step. WHICH IS???

That's the question.

Meanwhile, the king is crazed because work is frazzled, the house stake-out is delayed because our architect apparently didn't include all the relevant dimensions on the plan to suit the surveyor (even though the county seemed to find it acceptable and don't talk to me about the county requirements. . . .), oh - and the engineers bill arrived, speaking of ridiculous county requirements.

I think my job is to pursue peace. Yeah. I was going to say more, but realized that that was it.

Pursue peace. ["full stop", as they say in Ireland. Which took me some years to realize was meant to refer to punctuation, namely: "period"]

Off I go, then!

recalculating countdown. . . . standby

You know how I love details - but I'll spare you the thought process of realizing I have a COUPLE EXTRA DAYS here! So it's not actually minus five today. . . . . more's the pity. It's more like minus 7 - unless you count the handoff day as a day, in which case it's minus eight. And do you count today as one of the days?

Why am I like this?!

Anyway - I'm not going to worry about it now. It's the recalculating day, and perhaps I'll have worked out the math by tomorrow, if I get another 6 hours sleep in between now and then.

I know where this picture is from, although I didn't take it. I know this because I have one similiar to it, but without the bird. And this was handier than scrolling through my pictures of Paris - because that's where this was from - and the Paris pictures would take too long to go through because I'd be drooling over them. And maybe crying. Good crying. . . .

Oh, remember when, indeed. . . .

I was there for a conference; the king joined me after a week or so. We spent two weeks in student lodgings in a walled city chateau. Le Foyer We lived in the clocktower - clock right above our bedroom window. Bath down the hall. Wine and baguettes every night overlooking the courtyard. The menu made a big impression on us - it's still a staple part of our diet!

Walks through the Jardin du Luxembourg every day. . . . boules. . . . the little boys and their toy sailboats on the lake. . . . the flowers. . . .

OK - stop it!

Back to work.

sigh.

Two things before I start today: one, I told the king about the prophet. . . . two, I'm thinking through freedom versus obligation.

It's so funny how these things play out in my life, so that I can actually SEE what it is that I mean! Einstein is supposed to have said that "coincidence is God's way of remaining anonymous".

So I told the king last night that I'd been writing here. He took it well, I think, perhaps taken aback by the 'secret' aspect of not having told him this. He also - as suspected - brought up the problematic of writing non-work stuff when I have so much work stuff to do. This is a major difference between us. He's a get-it-done-first-then-relax sort of person; I'm an enjoy-it-while-you-can sort of one. Also a I-can't-work-all-the-time sort, and as the dissertation would take up every waking hour, there has been a grave necessity to allow for some pleasurable distractions along the way. Of which I count him my major pleasure - and distraction - but there's other stuff as well. My garden. The occasional knitting or sewing. God - I've given up so much already. . . . I haven't played music in 2 years. I haven't sung. I haven't started a new quilt. I haven't sewn a dress since my wedding dress. I've felt guilty reading anything but law or philsophy.

But the thing is - life is built on freedom. For me, anyway.

It's not unlimited freedom - if you don't work, it won't get done! Yet there is also freedom in the working. I don't work well under the weight of duty, or the"ought". It robs me of the freedom to work joyously. And this is why I think I have needed also to write just for fun. Saying what I like, with no foundational requirements, no format requirements, and no judging looming over me second-guessing what I perhaps should have been doing, instead. It's like saying that anything short of a masterpiece isn't worth working on as an artist, let's say. So forget those sketches; those little cartoons. Don't take that walk or stop in that cafe for a hot whiskey. Keep your eyes on your work.

Big sigh.

This is a big piece for me. This IS my work! I'm still learning how to call the shots in my own life. It's not about what the king says - or even thinks - this really is about my own motivation. What I think, and why. NOT in an it's-all-about-me mode, but in the how-I-live-life mode! And is it free? Is it authentic? Or is it in response to what I perceive others want, without them even asking? Which was always my default.

The good thing is that this has nothing to do with how others respond, or whether others allow me this kind of freedom. I have it. The question is, will I live in it? The king has really helped me here. He expects he married an autonomous grown-up. SURPRISE! grin. . . .

But here's how this fits: I've been looking at assertions of "human rights" as arguments in disputed moral issues. I've always been a bit leery of human rights as 'sources' for entitlements because they don't deal with who provides all these things, to whom, and who gets the bill. So perhaps you have the right to control the autonomy of your body, for example, in connection with terminating pregnancy - but if we term it AS a right, does that not imply that someone will have the obligation to provide the means by which to do so?

In other words, what good is a "right" to exercise control over one's body if there is no viable means provided of doing so?

As a lawyer, I don't like to hear talk of rights unless there's talk of corresponding means - the enabling legislation that puts a shape on the other side of rights: who provides them, to whom, how, and at what cost to whom.

As a person, however, I don't particularly like being importuned on the obligation side. I prefer the free and easy gift, without thought of the underlying side of duty. I don't like to do things because it's my duty - I want to do them because it's my delight.

I love this quote from Onora O'Neill:

I was once publicly admonished for asking who holds the obligations that correspond to an alleged right to health (not merely to a right to health care!) on the grounds that health is too important to human beings not to be the object of a right.

God is still anonymous, eh? Maybe that's how we can work in the idea of prayer.

minus 8

and again, I don't really want to talk about set-backs or hell-week or month, but. . . .

I'm not well.

It makes a big difference.

So I don't really want to talk about being 'behind the 8-ball', but. . . . Not much got done yesterday from the perspective of getting re-writes done, although I did find all sorts of NEW MATERIAL, which I'm imagining I will have to stop considering, at some point.

In bed by midnight last night; rough night; but I got to spend the morning with the king, who pampered me a bit, and reminded me that I would be better after a while, so not to worry. "Feeling puny" - he calls it. That's it, precisely. Feeling puny. (and now that word just looks wrong. I've looked at it too long.)

Well, the minutiae of my last few days of dissertation ditherings: we had a home-made pot pie last night, which did wonders for my sense of well-being! There wasn't really enough of the mushroom, steak, potato, veg soup for another meal, and we still had some roast chicken left over from having company over this weekend and some Pepperidge Farm frozen puff pastry dough in the freezer. . . . So I cut up the chicken, rolled out the dough and lined a casserole with it, put in chicken, ladled in the now-very-thick soup/stew, grated chipotle cheddar on top, and then topped the casserole with the other piece of the pastry dough & crimped the edges and pricked the top of the pie. Into a 400 degree oven for about 40 minutes and it was gorgeous! And yummy. . . . With a lovely Beaujolais.

The other half is in our future for this evening.

The building permit is probably going to issue today. The king has really been having to go around and around to get this done, and it's finally almost there. . . . In which case next up is actually signing a contract with the builder and they have to clear part of the forest. I'm going to hate that part of this. . . . I know it's necessary, but I don't have to like it.

Well, I don't seem to have anything to say here today, so I might as well go say nothing in front of the chapter 1 re-write screen. . . . At least I'll feel like I'm trying to work.

I haven't heard back from Magda on the last chapter and the proposed title. Undoubtedly it's a good thing. I still have plenty to do, and it usually takes me a day or two to recover from her 'ministrations'. . . . Although if I were going to be shot down, today would be the day to do it. I don't feel well anyway, might as well get both things behind me at the same time! I really feel like getting back under the covers and not coming out. All. Day. Long.

I've said it before - and I know it's true (however much it doesn't feel like it just now): This, too, shall pass.

k 1, * yo, sl 1 wyib, K2 tog, rep from *, end k 1

I want to be knitting. I want to make this "Scholar's Collar" that I found over at brooklyntweed - a guy knitter!

I "frogged" a vest I started a year ago that was going nowhere and am devising a scholar's collar in a twist-stich brioche (same pattern on both sides like garter stitch which is shown, but I've never liked garter stitch) but in red. It's getting colder and after 5 years in Ireland, I cover my neck whenever the temperature falls below 65 degrees. It's a habit.

Oh - and for those of you who - like me - didn't know what 'frogging' is, I looked it up: yes, it's to rip out an old sweater, but it comes from "rip-it! rip-it!" that sounds like a frog. Here's another one for you: to unknit stiches one by one, working back to a mistake earlier in the row, for example, is to "tink" - "knit" spelled backwards. . . . There you have it!

the unkindness of ravens

They have taken up roost in the trees around my porch and call insults to one another. At least that's what it sounds like to me. It could very well be something else entirely:

"Hey - good move on that landing, buddy! Your tail feathers look good in that configuration."

"And you!!! The way you found that bug was nothing short of amazing. I can't believe you shared. Ravey, you rock!"

"Guys? Let's not forget old Sage over here. He's the one who's been finding the best conference roost trees since before we were hatchlings. I say Caw! Caw! Cawraw to him!

I wonder why we have 'murders' of crows and an 'unkindness' of ravens?

There are more questions today than answers. Why can't I soar above and get a raven's-eye-view over where I've been and write about it? I don't know. But I finally gave up, for now, anyway. We're back on the ground, digging in the dirt, looking for edible bugs. Once I get the last chapter at least drafted, I hope I'll be able to see just where it is I've been.

In the meantime, I'm trying to take all of Magda's comments as kindnesses, no matter what it sounds like. It's a postmodern thing, I know, but for today I chose to make my own meaning. Whatever works for me. . . . after all. Here's hoping that it does work!

In the meantime, a sketch from yesterday. The ants have just about emptied the hummer feeder. And I'm off to get a big gulp of whatever it is I can find to carry back to the dissertation today. I'll drop it there, and go back for more. I've got one month and 4 days. The countdown to hell is about to start. Actually, I think it just started. . . .

backwards, as usual

Why is it so easy to write here, when each word of the dissertation is like pulling teeth?

And actually it's not so easy today. I'm feeling antsy and icky - there's a term of art for you: "Icky". sigh.

The good news is that I realized (writing a friend) that there's LOTS of stuff I could be doing that's a whole lot worse than my current allotment of what I should be doing.

Writing my dissertation, for instance, is a whole lot better than:

1. Being shot at in a foreign land. (or in one's homeland, either, for that matter). Ok, so: Being shot at.
2. Being in prison.
3. Having nothing to do.
4. Having grueling labor to do, in hard circumstances, with little reward.
5. Cleaning feces.
6. Make-work in retail - "Look busy!"
7. Spending the day with the 'difficult' person (whether they bore you to tears or drive you up the wall).

I'm sure there's more I could think of, but it's better that I think of ethics and its proper relationship with the law. Because that's where I'm spending my day, and grateful I am, not to be shot at.

Not yet, anyway.

I think that might come later. The viva voce. . . .

Anyway - here's a bit of Clannad. Can you believe I never knew that was Bono singing, too? I always liked the voice. . . . good to see a bit of Ireland. I could use a bit of sideways rain and a steaming pub. The king and I remarked just this last Friday that you know you've been away from Ireland too long when the Guinness outside of Ireland starts to taste good. Our Guinness at the local Irish pub-lookalike was tasting pretty good. . . .

lavender green - reprise

ok - ok - I know! I'm supposed to be writing. . . .

I have the first word, though! It's: "The". Whaddaya think? Good, huh?

In the meantime, having found so much fun stuff lately on YouTube, I went to look for a lavender blue/lavender green rendition. I found this really cool band, above. Never heard of 'em before. Maybe I can check them out after I've written my second word. . . .

current circumstance summary

Having gotten the 'religious bit' out of my hair regarding the proper view of circumstances (see WARNING: explicit religious content) my current circumstances stack up as follows:

I love my king. He's just brought me tortilla chips & black bean/corn salsa AND a cheesey dip that I don't even like to think about what it might do to my arteries. . . . . this, to make up for the fact that I have to stay upstairs and work and not be downstairs with him and Emancipated Son #1 and wife of same, watching football and drinking beer.

Block party last night was great fun - although I spent the entire time talking about the dissertation. (People kept asking!) I also got two offers of help re: the 'next-step' I have in mind, A.D. (after-dissertation).

I read all I could about writing an introduction - including several examples I happen to have on hand - but have yet to actually write the first word of MY introduction. . . .

hold on a sec. . . .

No. That didn't work. I thought I might be able to knock off the first sentence (just to get it over with), so I went over to the word.doc that's supposed to be my Introduction and stared at it for about 10 minutes while I finished off my chips and the cheesey stuff. Which leads to the next current circumstance: I've gained 4 pounds.

No - really. I've gained 4 pounds. A reliable 4 pounds heavier on average for a week now. Gotta stop with the tortilla chips.

My brother is back from an undisclosed mountainous region in a time zone 9 and a half(?!!) hours different from Washington D.C. time, and it was really good to talk to him. I feel bad because I don't really understand his wife - or maybe it's that she doesn't understand me (but anyway there's not a whole lot of understanding going on) - and I know he wishes we were better friends. Me and his wife, that is. He and I are famous friends. Anyway, I know he wishes I talked more to her while he's gone, but we just don't. . . .

And now I have work to do. The king is doing the laundry (and he does this well) and is preparing food for the day and will be in charge of the meet/greet when the emancipated offspring arrive.

All I have to do is. sit. here. and. write. the. first. sentence.

How hard could that be? And how does how I get through it fit me for either heaven or hell? And does 'hell' - now - fit me for 'heaven' later?

I have so many questions. . . . .


funny. . . . I thought of the Supertramp song that asks so many questions, but searched under 'Question Song' rather than 'Logical Song' and came up with another old one from Moody Blues which is pretty damn appropriate, under the circumstances. . . .

thinking. . . .

I remember early days of dissertation research, saying "You haven't even begun to have fun until you've thought about thinking. That'll get you crazy!"

The 'who is it that's actually thinking', the 'how is it that we know what we know' and its close relative: 'how do you know you know what you think you know?!'

Right.

I lay awake last night, and the thought came that the dissertation process is like utilizing a good search engine. I value Google to the extent that it gives me access to what I want, without requiring me to dig through all sorts of other stuff first. I realized that I was in danger of piling on information, rather than discriminating the results.

This has been helpful, because even though the stuff I'm worried about not including in my writing is relevant (in that it talks about what I talk about) it is not the best example of what it is I want to talk about. Going back to the Google analogy, it would be on page 4 or 5, and there was really good stuff on page 1. Ergo: no need to go through all that!

The king has been saying this all along. This morning, he was kind enough not to say "I told you so." He said "I'm glad you've come to that realization for yourself." There's a difference, I'm sure.

I just can't put my finger on it. . . .

chapter 5 due

OK - enough with the distractions. Bikinis and whatever you could call the get-up from yesterday. . . .

What I finally thought was: "This is what these people chose to put on, knowing they would be photographed." It's not like someone snuck into their backyard and caught them watering their flowers before they changed out of their loungewear.

I think that is what is amazing to me.

What else is amazing to me are the lengths to which I will go to avoid finishing this dissertation. As I mentioned in this is dangerous, I have a horrible tendency to need the pressure cooker of time constraints to squeeze required words out. Never has this been more the case than this week. I have dillied. I have dallied. I have squandered words on Britney, Courtney, and you just barely missed Paris.

OK - I can't resist - here's the description of Paris' latest fragrance, Heiress:

Paris Hilton Heiress is a fruity floral — no surprise there — and the notes include passion fruit, orange, peach granita, champagne mimosa, star jasmine, tiare flower, ylang ylang, honeysuckle, dewberry blossom, grenadine, violet leaf, vetiver, tonka bean and blonde woods.

Amazing.

What - the quote? The fragrance?

No. . . . my ability not to get down to writing. (although the descriptive list of that 'parfum' concoction is rather astonishing. blonde woods?! tonka beans. . . .)

Well, since most of my writers seem silent these last few days, I think I might try and take some time off too, and knock out chapter 5. It's due Monday.

Ha!

later. . . .

I could live here. . . .

Does that say anything about me - I wonder?

imaginary friends

I used to sing a cappella. Maybe I will again. Post-dissertation.

My singing mates at the time heard a lot about my "best" friend, M. They never saw her, though. One day one of the guys said: "I don't think M even exists. I think she's your imaginary friend" and he started talking with his index finger wiggling up and down next to his face, as if that were M - my imaginary friend.

They had a great time with M, my imaginary friend. Years later, one of the guys actually met M, and reported to the rest that she did - in fact - exist. Without face time, though, she was soon forgotten, and remained my imaginary friend, as far as the guys were concerned.

Funny thing: she eventually became more and more imaginary because we never saw each other. We didn't have the same interests. I didn't have to deal with it until I finally got married, when I had to decide whether to ask M - the official best friend - or C, the actual best friend to be my best maid.

Yesterday, online, there were several articles about how Facebook costs employers well over a hundred million dollars a day and the phenomenon of virtual friends - and whether they were real. Isn't it strange that we're right back where we started from in first grade? Wanting friends, and making them up, if necessary. I play my part here, posting my bit daily, and checking in on N, S, LA, C, J, M, A, V. . . and hoping to hear from them, too.

It's a way of coping, I guess. Still, I worry about the seduction of pseudo-relationships. They're a lot easier on my mind. After all, I'm in charge! Sort of. . . . But that's not how life goes. Certainly it's not how friendships go. Ah well. Back to Chapter 5.

Intermission over.

this is dangerous

For a writer, nothing is more dangerous than: "You have another week to finish that _________[fill-in-the-blank for whatever it is]."

At least for this writer. Maybe there are other writers out there whose writing does not expand to fit the expanded timeframe. Maybe they actually finish early and go to the beach! Or get their nails done. . . .

Then again, maybe not.

This one doesn't. This one feels the lift of pressure and somehow finds a corresponding lack of words. A reduction in the pull of gravity to the chair in front of the table on which sits the computer and the feeling of: I. Can't. Sit. Here. Any. Longer. (and I have another whole week before the last chapter could even be read by my tutor - so la, la, la-la, la, la! maybe I'll go to the beach!)

Crap.

This will take some serious self-deception.

another day; another. . . ah. . . what was that?

OK. So today I started with the thought that I'd get right to work and it's after noon already and where did the morning go?!

It snuck past me, somehow, in between the Chicago Manual or MLA Handbook discussions ( and it now appears I'm to do Chicago style - not MLA - and this is a good thing, I think, because I really don't like all those parentheses and oh! I hope Chicago uses footnotes like sensible humans) - and the other writer consults on such diverse topics as Mean Girls, soup recipes, lesbian parenting and switch-overs to a Mac (which is computer-related and not in any way meant to be gender preferential, so don't give me a hard time!). Then there was the realization that I like the Bigelow Plantation Mint tea rather than the Bigelow Mint Medley - and that took some time to work through. And why would one company want to make two different kinds of mint tea? I don't know.

Well I am writing, and this is good, but I'm writing here and I need to be writing on the dissertation, and that is bad. But it's OK, because when I'm done here, I'll get back to there and hopefully things will move along rather rapidly.

We're mostly done with chapter 4 - and I'm in negotiations as to whether or not I really need a chapter 5. Or whether I can call it a day, write the CONCLUSION and then start RE-writing what I've already written.

And putting it into proper Chicago-style. (once I figure out what that is.)

I'm a little schizophrenic these days. Reading my 'writers' - and I found a really splendid one on a site called woulda coulda shoulda (sorry, no time to figure out how to do the link thing. . . . maybe later. Gotta write, remember?!) - and then reading my academics. . . . There's a really big difference in 'voice'. The academics generally have none. They have a lotta words, and the challenge is getting to know them all and how to negotiate the paragraph-long sentences and come up with a meaning at the end of it all. My academic supervisor keeps writing things like tone and too poetic in my margins. But I'm getting better at the faceless, personality-less voice. And even the king admitted last night that I was fully the master of the long, convoluted, distinction-drawing and nuance-suggesting sentence. Containing words that are NOT IN THE DICTIONARY. (let alone on spell-check).

www.dictionary.com helps sometimes - it had 'aporia', but not 'originary' or 'phronesis'. For that, you need google and I'm amazed at what is on wikipedia these days! Amazing.

Just today, for example, I learned about the 'flying spaghetti monster' - I think it was. Complete with the little fish-shaped car emblem it seeks to spoof. Actually, I think it started out spoofing 'intelligent design' teaching, and demanded that the schools institute a teaching on the flying spaghetti monster and it took off from there. (and OK - I took the time to get out the HTML HOW-TO to look up "links". . . . Lucky you! So while I'm at it, here's the woulda coulda shoulda link).

Anyway, point being: there's a lot of junk out there.

Enough to keep me busy enough to not notice an entire morning slip out the back door.

Some of the writing is laughable and inane. Some makes me think I'll never be a writer - a real writer - myself. The best makes me want to sit and think. And then write.

That's the kind of writer I'D like to be.

. . . and can somebody tell me

what logical connection there might be between "Patchouli" and the songs "Incense Peppermint" and "Crimson & Clover"?

Cause they're linked indelibly in my mind.

There are other songs I know that feature growing things that don't come to mind. . . . and clover isn't aromatic, altho I guess incense & peppermint are.

Maybe it's just a 60's/70's thing.

Don't ask.

No, it isn't finished.

No, it's not even close to finished, thank you very much!

No. I don't know what happened.

Last night, not sleeping because I was worrying, I decided maybe I'd write chapter 5 before 4, since 4 seems to be so troublesome. Or maybe it was the 4 - or was it 5? - glasses of wine I had at the country club. I couldn't say.

So don't ask.

month two

in which our favorite friend shuts his mouth and waits for inspiration.

Shocking, I know!

All my writer friends are silent. The king is encouraging, but can't figure out why I just don't finish the last two chapters. I keep taking deep breaths and nothing comes out.

Back to writing even though I don't feel like it.

It's a beautiful, cool, fall day. The little boy down the street whizzes back and forth on his bike. (question: if peripatetic is the adjective for "back and forth" - like Aristotle, did you know? - anyway. . . . if that's the adjective, is there a verb? To peripatate, perhaps? Or peripate? And if not, why not?!) Anyway: the gold finch are momentarily in the ascendancy on the thistle feeder, having vanguished the house finches. MoFo is in place on the highwire holding off all comers to the hummingbird feeder. The squirrels are elsewhere - can't figure it - but I haven't seen them all morning. And the locusts are in full swing - at full voice. How could anyone write with this kind of racket going on?!

Ah - Labor Day Weekend. Next door, the set up begins for the cookout. We're going to the 'country club' - if you can imagine! I'm quite thrilled at the prospect. If only as a time not to be writing. A time I'm not even expected to think about writing!

off with its head!

Chapter 3 is done and sent. Chapter 4 is decapitated.

The main point seems WAY too simple now, having made the mistake of doing just a little more literature review and finding more. Stuff that's not exactly on point, but talks about similar issues and some of the same writers. . . . Stuff that would take me months longer to get through in order to deal with. Months I simply don't have.

OK.

Can you say: "This is distinguishable?!"

There now. That wasn't so hard, was it?