Archive for the ‘writing’ Category

Blogging while bathing

Wednesday, March 16th, 2005

Sounds dangerous, doesn’t it? Someone searched on ‘hot whores in Florida’ and hit my site today. I don’t think Ed counts as a hot whore. He is in Florida, though. In Panama City. I was emailing him today catching him up on little tidbits of information and it just hit me that he’s only been gone for one full week. Seems like an eternity though.

I had my regular gynecological exam yesterday — the only outstanding element of this visit (wait, other than the longest breast exam of my life) was the change of venue — I change doctors very reluctantly. I considered doing what I’ve done with my eye doctor — make a long ass trip once a year for that exam just so I won’t have to switch doctors, but I’ve recently decided that that’s absurd. No more southern California trips to get my yearly eye exam or to have my taxes done, and no trips to San Francisco for my pap smears. So I got a recommendation and checked out the new place. Too large for my taste, but everyone was real nice so I think I’ll stay.

The weather has been so amazingly nice — warm and sunny and it feels like summer. And I sit right next to a very large window and I get so antsy! I want to get up and go outside, but I can’t think of anything to do out there that would make me feel productive. I can’t work outside cause my eyes are too sensitive to light and I’d just be so distracted. I like watching volleyball when it’s on. I can’t wait for them to open the pools so I can go swimming in the middle of the day and at least enjoy the sun a bit that way…

Passive blogging

Monday, March 14th, 2005

I’ve been a terrible blogger. I think reading Ed’s travel blog, with his multiple updates in one day is making me feel a) an itch to go to new places and b) like a lazy writer. The last few months I’ve held a lot of things in — like I’ve been holding my breath or something. I’m not even writing at home on paper. There’s been so much going on the last couple of months — enough to make me feel overwhelmed, and I’ve shared little of it here. Everyday I walk around with a running commentary in my head about the things I want to point out to you and share with you — things I don’t want to forget, things that seem immediately important but then less so as the day goes on and I’ve run out of time or energy to stay up for another half hour or so to sit and write something for myself.

And even now as I’m sitting here typing in front of the fire, I’m trying to recall all the thoughts I’ve had recently — those ones I didn’t want to forget…and I guess it’s ok if I don’t remember them all because this is just a warmer up exercise.

Writing for myself

Tuesday, July 20th, 2004

I’ve been reading One Hundred Years of Solitude by Gabriel Garcia Marquez. It’s a beautiful book. Latin American writers that I’ve read and enjoyed have this uncanny ability to create these dreamy, magical worlds where even the supernatural doesn’t seem out of place or unrealistic.

And I got to ruminating about how sometimes we like to catalog the events in our lives like we expect them to have some significance for someone other than ourselves. One Hundred Years is a work of fiction, but it’s about the lives of all the members of one family. Strong, emotional women capable of amazing feats of self deprivation. Hedonistic men with a penchant for political battles. And these short sentences don’t do the characters the justice they deserve because they’re all so rich and interesting in a way far greater than we imagine ourselves to be.

His writing is so imaginative and beautiful. And reading beautiful writing always makes me feel a little like I’m missing something. I was putting away all my binders this weekend for the housewarming party (pictures here), and I keep a lot of my own fiction writing in binders. But I haven’t written fiction in at least a year. My online journals have been my writing outlet for a long time now. I don’t know how I got out of the habit of writing things completely made up in my own head except that I started to realize I didn’t have any skill or talent at it and gave up. But in doing that, I gave up a great pleasure, too.

And I wonder how much of what I write means anything to anyone. Like this blog. I read other people’s blogs and I enjoy it, and sometimes they make me think. And sometimes they are just chatter sifted through with the rest of the chatter in the world — the emails, the news, the links, the pictures. And sometimes the things I write are just chatter even to myself. What is it about making that noise that makes me feel so good?

The crap that sis reads

Wednesday, April 28th, 2004

My sister and I don’t communicate extensively via email so our notes to each other are short and informative — like about flight times and the status of our mother and / or father. Every now and again, one of us sends the other a more personal note through email — she sent me the cutest email today. It was about this blog — she doesn’t read it daily, but checks up on it every now and again. And she said that when she read it she felt like she was just reading some writer’s blog, and not her sister’s blog. It was the sweetest damned thing. And she said reading it made her squirt water out her nose (actually, she just spit it out her mouth, but it makes so much a better image to think of water spraying out her nose)


Tuesday, February 24th, 2004

Today is Shrove Tuesday (aka Mardi Gras or Fat Tuesday) — the last day of feasting before Ash Wednesday and the start of the forty days of Lent. Which you all probably know, but did you know the etymology of the word Carnival? It comes from two Latin words caro, carnis and vale — farewell to meat (Lent is supposed to be 40 days of penitence and fasting).