Cook Locally

Cook locally

We took a little time out last week to play tourist in our new home region. We had a local Visitor's guide, and followed one of the day trips in in. Drove over to Mesilla, the Mission era town on the edge of Las Cruces. Once Mesilla and Las Cruces were separated by the Rio Grande and the border between the US and Mexico. Then the river moved. Mesilla retains a lot of colonial Spanish flavor, with an attractive cathedral on the town plaza, and Mission style architecture around it.

Then we drove down to Stahneman's. They have 180,000 thousand acres of Pecan trees. We had just missed the tasting tour. The drive between the orchards is very gracious, especially where the pecan trees have grown to stretch arching branches across the road, in a fashion I usually expect from elms. Stahneman's has a spacious gift shop -- selling pecan gift tins, specialty foods, candy, ice cream, kitchen accessories and cookbooks. We browsed for some time. Naturally the cookbooks took a fair portion of my attention. Only a few days before, I'd said I wanted local recipes so we could start taking more advantage of the local ingredients. I settled on _The Aficionado's Southwestern Cooking_ by Ronald Johnson. It seems to be a classic, and I liked the way he talked about ways to vary the recipes. No photos, friendly attitude, solid food.

So, last night we followed his recipe to make Green Sauce. This may be the most New Mexican of New Mexican foods. We are only 80 miles from Hatch, the Green Chile capitol of the world. And the state question of New Mexico is 'Red or Green?' -- meaning, which color of chile sauce would you like on your dinner? (Of course you want chile sauce on your dinner, what are you thinking?!) When we crossed the border to New Mexico on our second trip here, and discovered that the convenience store offered green chili for the nachos, Doug said, "Ah! I'm home!" So of course Green sauce is where we started our New Mexico style cooking.

We had found frozen green chile purée at Costco in Albuquerque -- I'm sure they've never carried it in Oregon -- so of course we had to quadruple the recipe to match the volume of chiles. Costco, you know. So we had enough to simmer two and a half pounds of cubed and browned pork, plus some to use as salsa and several more packages to freeze. It was labelled 'Hot' and is it ever! The pork chili verde was excellent! Made a very nice dinner with broccoli and refried beans.

Other local specialties are pecans and honey. We've eaten a lot of pecans since arriving. I'll be looking for recipes for them. And there are lots of fruits and vegetables grown locally.

In fact, there's a farmer's market this morning, and I think I'll go.

Counter Change

Counter Change

Right now, my counter is making me very happy.

We have a beautiful kitchen. The previous owners revamped it. The cupboard doors are hunter green, the counters, edges of the cupboards and door pulls are medium oak. They made a lovely backsplash of small green tiles bordered by oak trim, and covered the wall behind the sink in a pattern of stone tiles exactly to my taste. Mostly squares, a few diagonal seams -- just enough variation for interest without so much as to become gaudy.

One particularly gorgeous feature is the piecing of the oak boards in the corner. The boards run from the edge to the backsplash along all straight sections of counters. There is one corner. They meticulously fanned triangular pieces of oak to create an even and gorgeous transition from one facing of the strips to the next.

Now that Doug has repaired the under the cupboard lights, the whole counter glows in home magazine fashion. It really looks like a designer kitchen, photo-worthy, rich.

Using the kitchen instead of looking at it revealed a few problems. The space allowed at the end of one counter, where the water line to hook to an internal icemaker suggested we should put our refrigerator -- is actually too small to place any standard refrigerator, if you want to actually open the doors wide enough to open the drawers. The dishwasher is an inconvenient three steps distant from the sink. And, most ungracious of all -- the gorgeous wooden countertops were not waterproof! In the time between when we first saw the home, and when we took possession after closing, the area around the sink had darkened and waterspotted. Boards had separated from their neighbors and the gap had been filled with wood putty. The whole counter had aged, in a matter of weeks.

It's amazing how awkward it feels to work in a kitchen where you dare not get water on the counter. Every standard kitchen task becomes more complex.

Three days ago, I refinished a section of the counter. Sand, coat with polyacrylic, wait three hours, repeat. To a total of three coats, with a final sanding.

It's not perfect. I preserved some flaws too deep to be sanded out, and one section of the finish has a little pebbling. Yet that counter glows. I can fill a glass on it, without hyperattention to not spilling any. I can wipe it with a wet cloth, no harm done. I'm free.

So I'm now very happy about being able to do with a counter things that before I moved, I took for granted for counters.

That's the way it goes. We're often more appreciative of an improvement, than of the many blessings we're accustomed to.

I don't know how long I'll continue to be happy every time I wipe the newly refinished counter with a wet cloth. Most likely, in time, I'll forget how wonderful that seems to me now. But do I have to? Could I remember?

May you see one of your current blessings with fresh eyes.

Stuff

Stuff

My last post will have informed the alert reader (Hi, Doug!) that we have arrived in Las Cruces. Yes, we have been here since April 27th, and our stuff arrived in the truck on May 3rd. Time has just been flying. There is so much to do. Unpacking, small home improvements and repairs, learning where all the services of Las Cruces can be found, and adapting to local usages.

I love it here! There's so much more diversity and life than in Bend. Birds sing before and after dawn, there are all these new plants about. We are close to campus, and we've seen many shades of skin, a full spectrum of choices and styles. The food is great, too!

We've made very good progress on adapting this house to our ease, and placing our stuff within it. The spaces are different than our last house, of course. I noticed an awkwardness before we had enough tools about. I missed having writing tools at hand, bookmarks ready to mark my page, my address book -- the little conveniences that let me do the everyday tasks of my life easily. As we started unpacking our boxes, and placing these and similar things about for use, I began to feel more and more powerful. Simple powers -- like the ability to write a grocery list -- add up to a lot of leverage on the world. I've been very happy to regain those abilities.

So, for a while, every box we opened and distributed increased my power.

Then we hit a point where the next box was more likely to be a nuisance than a help. There are a few very useful things in most boxes -- and as we go on, more and more of the stuff seems burdensome and irrelevant. I have to find a place to put it, it doesn't add any new abilities to my life, it may be only very occasionally useful, and it clutters the clean lines of sight throughout the house. We hit the point of diminishing returns.

Of course, we ended up packing more stuff than ideal. At several points, we had helpers in who packed without trimming. And I reached a point where it was easier to pack an item than to make a decision about it. So there was a small amount of stuff that I knew, even in Bend, that I didn't need to bring.

We've discovered more that seems irrelevant to our new life as we learn about the climate and our inclinations here. Some things, like the turtlenecks, are seeming blatantly useless here. Others more subtly so. So, likely more trimming of possessions to come.

I want to remember that point of diminishing returns -- how I felt as unpacking changed from adding to my life to burdening it. Ideally, I'd like my level of stuff to create that maximumly powerful point all the time. Where does stuff stop adding to my abilities and start being a drain on my time and energy? Can I get rid of all the stuff beyond that point? Now there is a good question.

Ideals are meant to be imagined, not reached. I'll move toward this one, as I can, and enjoy where I am anyway. And then there is the organizing of the stuff, for ease and convenience -- and that too works better when there is less stuff to organize.

So on I go.

May you move ever closer to the ideal level of possessions.

New Sand Garden

Today we walked down to get breakfast. Along the way, we wished our neighbors a good morning, admired the blooming cactus -- fruit of Monday's cloudburst.

Great breakfast.

Walking home, Doug stopped to admire a rock wall. The builder of it said we could have what we wanted of the leftover rocks. Back we went, with handtruck and gloves. I chose, and Doug and Mo, his father, loaded one rock onto the handtruck. Mo wheeled it home, and placed it as I wished, patient with my small adjustments until I had it right. Now my sand garden has its three foci. Telephone junction box, birdbath, stone.

Doug and Mo went off to another project, and I had my garden to myself. I took the sand rake -- left by the previous owners -- and smoothed and molded around my foci. The birdbath needed a slight adjustment. I made it, and leveled it again. One side of the rake smooths and moves, the other makes inch-wide furrows and pulls debris out of the sand. First, the smooth side to make good contours. Then the pegged side to remove the fallen leaves. Then the pegged side again, to make pretty patterns in the sand.

I could see where I lost focus. Small wiggles, or gaps in the minifurrows. A little touch-up, and then the acceptance of it, as it is.

Soon I will place a bench, sheltered beside the shed and facing the sand garden. Then I can sit there. Just for me.

Acts of Faith

Acts of Faith

We are about to move 1500 miles. Lightening up is a good idea. There will be no making a second trip to gather the items we couldn't quite fit in the first time.

We have a lot of stuff. Last time, we used U-Haul's largest truck, plus two runs with my stepfather's trailer. We've bought some additional furniture and stuff in the five years since then. Pruning is ongoing.

We trimmed a little more than ten percent of our library. We're pretty much keeping the entire rock collection. We took a few cubic feet out of the games collection. And I'm letting go of twice as much volume from my cloth stash.

The mover's video instructions suggest tossing all cleaning supplies and pantry items. Can I really do that?

I see that I've been using stuff as a safety net. The pantry represents this much margin between me and hunger. The cleaning supplies, a bank of resources to avoid squalor even when broke. More t-shirts than I can wear in a month -- that much insurance against going cold and naked. Unread magazines -- that much barrier between me and boredom -- which is what? The fear that I can't face my own thoughts without distraction?

We once went to a museum in the Welsh countryside that recreated typical homes from pre-literate, medieval, and 1650, 1750, 1850 and 1950 eras. You could see the stuff swell hugely for 1950, kitsch and radio and home decor and utensils of vast variety and color -- enough to choke on. I liked the sparsity of 1750. One table. One chair, one plate, per family member. Of course, this one bed per family arrangement needs to go. And there is a lot to be said for keeping the livestock in a separate building.

The old paradigm -- the old proverb -- 'Waste not, want not' -- dates to that time. And it still has its applications. Still, could they have imagined receiving by post, for free, enough paper each week to light each morning's fires? Would they have recoiled, shouting 'Sin!' at a catalog offering seventy-four different swimsuits? And what would they have done with a collected stack of twenty AOL discs?

Really, this stuff has to go. I need my irreplaceable time and the energy it would take to track and move all this for better things.

And so, into the trash with every frayed towel and stained t-shirt. Send the fresh, durable pantry items to the Food Bank, and let go of the past-its-use-by-date dressing mix. Toss the last half cup of flour. I can do this.

And every discard is an act of faith -- faith that I will have what I need, when I need it. Faith that I have the resources to feed myself and clothe myself and face time without props. Faith that everything will be OK.

May you find your safety in yourself rather than your possessions.

Using Things Up

For a while, I've known we were moving. It becomes more concrete every day. We spent March 12th through 18th driving to Las Cruces, choosing a home and making an offer on it, waiting for the offer's acceptance, and driving home again. We've accepted an offer on our home. It was listed for only 2 weeks.

So, now, if all continues to go well, we close on the home here in Bend on April 24th, drive ourselves and our cats to Las Cruces, and close on the home there on April 27th. Meanwhile, a hired truck brings all our stuff behind us, and we'll be able to unload it directly into the new place. That's just the way I wanted it.

We could still hit some snags. Not for lack of anything I could have done. I've played this hand beautifully, and if the cards end up falling against me later -- that's just the way it goes. Contigencies -- there is always something that can be done.

So, in the meanwhile, there is no point in moving more consumables than we have to. I've been cooking down the pantry. Emptying the freezer of the packages from the whole beef we bought. Making do with fewer than the usual number of shampoos, as one bottle after another goes empty, and is not replaced.

And as we pack things up, we have more space, more room to move. I'm not quite ready to let go of all our stuff. I begin to see, a little, how having less stuff could be a pleasure. Something for one of these days.

Plans and shifts. I'm really looking forward to this move, and I'm enjoying what I'm learning getting ready for it.

May your life bring you exactly what you need.

Anna

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Time for a confession. I'm postmodern.

I spent years not even knowing what postmodern meant. That was pretty postmodern in and of itself. In fact, I still may not know. Well, that's one of the things about it. Not knowing is essential to being postmodern.

It isn't entirely despair. Like we had optimistic and pessimistic existentialists -- assuming I understood them correctly, which may be too much to claim -- there is actually a bright side to postmodernism. When you're willing to take everything apart, you create room for tolerance.

And that's how I really know I'm postmodern. I've taken myself apart. Deconstructed. Looked at the foundations of the foundations, and discovered that's really no there there. I've done it, every so often, all my life.

It's not the most fun part of being postmodern. There's a lot more play in the return of humor to philosophical discourse, self-referentialism, the conscious collaging of separate pieces. However, deconstruction is the heart of postmodernism. Once the foundation reveals itself as emptiness, a huge weight disappears. Of course there is humor -- huge structures from emptiness is funny. Of course we refer to ourselves -- there's nothing more solid to call upon. Of course we gather bits from everywhere, and use them again -- with no foundation to rise from, we must gather sideways instead.

Tomorrow I may reconstruct myself. Regain a sense of self, have faith in something I can put my feet on. Believe that truth is obtainable, put myself in service to a cause, work for the better tomorrow that is the great modern promise. In fact, I'm sure I will. I always have before.

And there is something that chooses -- something that remains, nameless and unknown, yet a seed that recreates. I don't know what it is. Each time, it pulls some me together again.

That, and that, will take me through today. Though now I feel low and lost, eventually -- eventually I will be again.

Mornings

Recently, my sleep pattern has changed. I find I only need six hours. I'm crediting it to the Holosync. It might just be maturity.

This morning, I am at my brother and sister-in-law's home in Winnemucca. They both rose early, went out for coffee. Doug lies abed, getting his beauty sleep -- and it must work, he's very attractive! And I am thinking about early mornings I have known.

My sister rises early too. Genetics, or a legacy of youthful farm labor?

Because, this, to me, was the archetypical farming morning:

Dad would call through the bedroom door, and I'd roll out of bet, dress with jeans, button front shirt, hat and tennis shoes. We'd be out the front door, and into the pickup, ten minutes later. Another ten minutes to drive to the farm, sun rising over the hills, air fresh and moist. Then my sister and I would take Grandpa's pickup out to the out to the fields.

We moved irrigation lines. The wheel lines were easy. Disconnect the four inch diameter hoses from the side line, start the motor in the center of the field with the pull rope, walk behind as the pipes rolled about ten yards beyond the limit of wet soil. Reconnect the hose at the new location. Start the timer. Check that all the sprinklers opened up as they should. Next field.

The intermediate wheatgrass, though, was too tall for the wheel lines. Rolling along would have broken the tops off the stalks, scattered the seed that was the most profitable fruit of the field. So we had hand lines. Again, disconnect from the sideline. We practiced, and we could lift the twenty foot segment from the center, press it toward the next segment, and twist it just so, releasing the catch and freeing it. Then lift the pipe overhead to clear the stalks, and march it to its new location, wet wheatgrass brushing against our clothes in the mosquito-laden dawn.

Reassemble. Reattach. Timer. Check for trouble. At last, drive back to the house.

Where Grandma cooked hamburger patties and toast, cottage cheese and sliced tomatoes. And we could visit until our clothes dried, and it was time to go hoe or hay.

Dangerous Oatmeal

I like to take a few chances.

One is pursuing the perfect bowl of oatmeal at high speed.

Microwave oatmeal is break-dancing on an antenna. First steps involve a lot of falling. A lot of boil-overs and graceless flailing. I looked deep into the heart and oatmeal, and found this is what it needed: a larger bowl.

So, I make my morning oatmeal like this: two teaspoons of sunflower seeds, one slice of candied ginger, diced, this much oatmeal, poured from the bag, and one cup of soy milk. I put it all in a four cup Pyrex measure, set that upon the turntable, and run our 1400 watt microwave for two minutes.

Two minutes is fine. At two minutes, I can walk away, and the oatmeal will seldom boil over. And I'll have a decent bowl of oatmeal, a bit dry in the center of the flakes, perhaps, but perfectly palatable.

Ah, but three minutes! Three minutes yields an excellent bowl of oatmeal. At three minutes, all the flakes are plump and moist, the milk has merged into something greater, and an exquisite edge of carmel has joined the flavor circus. Three minutes is gorgeous.

And three minutes means pushing the edge. Complete attention, as I watch the oatmeal rise through the gridded window. My finger hovers, ready to stop the process, let the foam fall, rescue my carefree breakfast from wasting itself on the surface of the turntable. Each morning, with changes in the atmosphere or whim of oatmeal volume, the process reinvents itself -- no simple formula can capture its living complexity. Just me, completely alive to the moment, watching the rise, hitting the button, looking at the black screen that hides the contents when the power is off, until I feel my moment return, restarting, and repeating. To three minutes. Or maybe a little longer.

And then, if I have danced my dance well, I eat a great bowl of oatmeal.

Or if not, I suffer the agonies of short rations and microwave KP duty.

Or maybe not. Maybe it's only oatmeal.

Or maybe it's something magnificent, because I have invested myself in it.

Here is your day. May you dramatize it or float through it, as suits you best.

Letters

Dear Readers,

So many of you have forgotten about writing personal letters. Is there no place in the world for time spent, writing one person to one person? Here is an art, crafting words for one other's eyes, that is practice for truth, for relationship, for empathy and presence. There is value in the old forms.

Yes, I know you are busy. Phone calls are faster, and hearing a voice is its own pleasure. Casual emails, dropping the formalities, get something said without placing too much weight on it. Barely personalized mass mailings of Christmas cards let you connect with the so many you know and feel for, say hello, I'm still here, I still care and still have time for your life. I thank you for those efforts of connection and care.

And I challenge you -- look at the letter. See, here: the date. Forever marking this expression as belonging to one point in time. Breathing the now of that moment. This is what I said to you then.

And the salutation: oh, how I have constructed and deconstructed the salutation over the years. I was taught, to begin with, that you wrote "Dear ..." as a form. It no longer meant that you held dear the person so saluted, any more than putting the knife on the right of the plate means you are taking special care to notice that the person you are setting the table for is right-handed. All "Dear ..." meant was that you knew and followed the correct form. And then, and then -- oh, the letters we wrote, and how we experimented, brash, wild rebels, with other salutations! "Hello, ..." "Good morning! ..." "Hi, ...". We might try "Dearest ..." in ironicool mode or "Old Chap ..." in Brit-derived semi-casual literary reference mode. We might even write "Beloved ..." in a wild access of self-unveiling and passion. And back to "Dear ...", with full import, yes, it is a form, and yes! it is a truth, you are dear to me, and I show it by taking the time to write, and I create it by trusting and believing and writing to you my truth, my self, these gifts of words. Dear reader.

And then the body. Room for improvisation. Simple, because all we really need is the intent to communicate. Newsy, because we have stories to share. Or want to be known. Stylish, look, isn't this beautiful? Don't I make these words worth the time of reading? Aren't I clever? Heartfelt, to reach you. Tailored, to show I have seen who you are, and I have chosen this for you. Containing gifts of information and appreciation.

Look! for you! this astounding quote I found today: "Through it all, listen to the stirrings of your heart and the calling of your soul. The ultimate purpose of spirituality is to bridge the illusory divide between the self and the Divine. (...) Spirituality is a full-contact sport, and you are called to participate in your own journey on as deep of a level as you can." Jhenah Telyndru.

Isn't that the heart of Christmas? How God sent his son to bridge the gap between Himself and us? And how our part, is to build our own end of the bridge, as best we know how to do it, and come to Him in the middle? And build our own bridges, one to another, recognizing one another as His children, His hands, His workings through this world?

And isn't a letter a bridge? An art, a path, a way? Not just the bridge between person and person. Like all arts, the bridge between who we are now and who we are becoming. Shall we become masters of something? What is your art? Is it reaching for perfection in the shape of a sentence, the color brushes of oil paint, a glory of expression of note, rhythm and passion in song? Is it getting through a day of career and family and home and still being sane at the end? Is it doing your work just a little better than the day before? Is it more self-awareness in that asana, or more devotion in that prayer? A martial art? Friendship? Marriage? And couldn't writing a letter enhance whatever art you practice? Or be its own art, its own ascent to the pinnacle?

Yes, the body.

And then, the closure. The classical form is "Your devoted servant," and who in our democratic present would want that? Who would give themselves to serve another, devotedly, voluntarily, and as a formula? Never mind that the closure would be returned in form again. There's something, in a meeting of modern equals, free men and women, that rebels against declaring oneself a servant. And so, we have, "Your friend," or move to dropping what exactly we are, and write, "Yours," all simply. Yet, that's too plain, does not carry our intent -- so we get "Devotedly yours," "Fraternally yours," "Sincerely yours," oh, yes, but really this whole possession thing is a bother, and it becomes just "Sincerely," for the less intimate letters. And sincerely is the new standard. To say we really meant it, we are giving, if not ourselves, then at least our truth -- a hair-thin distinction, isn't it?

And "Love," is the standard for those we are familiar with -- familiar in the old nearly family, shocked Victorian woman exclaiming with her hand to her chest "You are too familiar, sir!" sense -- for those we can clearly and unironically admit to loving, at least as far as a semi-form closing, 'cause writing "I love you" might just be too much.

And they all mean I care. From "Your devoted servant," to "Yours," to "Sincerely," to "Love," they all express our intention to connect, one to another.

Which is why we have the emerging alternate standard of closing by wishing someone well. "Best wishes," "All the best to you," "May you have your heart's desire," "Merry Christmas," "Blessed Be," "Live long and prosper," and many more. Room for creativity here. If creativity is what you want. Because original or form, the letter still says: Salutation: I care; Body: I care; Closing: I care. And that is the beauty and value of the forms, that even tongue-tied and self-conscious, here we can say and connect, in the tested and beautiful ways.

And so I take letter-writing as one of my arts. Should you choose this art, or should you choose another, may it bring you closer to the Divine and to the ones you love this season.

Devotedly yours,
Anna

Twenty years of bliss

I have a really great marriage. When people fantasize about their ideal marriage, their fantasy is only half of my reality. I mean, look at this:

It's snowing. It snowed all day yesterday. So we need to clean the walks. Doug takes the snow shovel. I take a straw broom and make like a Russian grandmother --

now, why I keep feeling like a Russian grandmother, I don't know. I have no Russian ancestry, as far as I know, mostly Swede/Suomi, German and English -- but this photo I saw once -- or did I dream it -- with this woman, all bundled with her broom, waiting in the doorway for her chance to sweep -- labelled as Russian grandmother, employed as as snowsweeper for pennies a day -- that has stayed with me for years, decades even, and especially now that my waist is more sturdy than slim, and my hair piles on top of my head as the first of many snowballs that shape my silhouette -- I find myself thinking of myself as a Russian grandmother

-- so I make like a Russian grandmother, and together we go clear the snow. And he conscientiously asks if I want the Yak traks, so I won't slip. And just this morning, I was theorizing that my charisma was around 14, with a plus two bonus for nerds, since I speak the language, and he says you're 18/99 to me. Even though I've been his trophy bride for almost 20 years, and have this Russian grandmother vibe going on.

And we have no income, and it's him and me together, happy, anyway. Glad to be together. Taking on the projects, the one day at a time, to get to our next thing. Enjoying having more time together. And there through the ups and downs.

Like that. The real thing. Love.

Motel memories

The earliest memory I have of a motel: we were on our way to Christmas. I don't know why we stopped -- usually we made the trip in a single day. It was late. We checked in, Dad dashing to the office through the rain, and moved into a room. The roof leaked into the center of the second bed. So somehow, we arranged two adults and three -- or was it four? -- children around the relentless drip and splosh.

Nonetheless, I've always liked motels. Some place new, an adventure -- maybe even then I liked rising to the challenge of dealing with the unexpected.

There was a family that came each summer to stay in the small town I grew up in. They took lodging in the Miles Motel, and I peered through the door into their room, as fascinated as if they dwelt in a fairy burrow.

For one family reunion, we stayed in a motel with remarkably low rates. Inside, the rooms had the further surprises of a kitchen, complete with oven, and pink painted stone walls. Only the mosquitos rising off the nearby creek marred my fantasy of settling in there for months to write a novel.

My great origami road trip brought me to motel after motel. The most interesting lay along the old Route 66 -- with staff seemingly all a family, and signs faded, with the tourist flow having diverted along the new freeway. At one, a lone musician in the attached cafe countered my request for Greenback Dollar with a decent rendition of Tom Dooley. In another -- seemingly the last room in town -- the smoke was so thick, I decided a shower the next morning would serve no purpose.

The greatest gift I found was in a room with dingy tub and bars on the windows. The bed had one of those massage devices that shook the frame for a few minutes for a quarter. I had had a rough day -- the travel was beginning to wear on me in aching muscles, twisty stomach and pounding head. I lay on that bed, and dropped my quarter in, reaching again and again into the tarry cavity to retrieve my quarter where it dropped all the way through.

The strange feeling of having your skin off

Over the past couple of weeks, I've had a strange sensation. I'll try to describe it.

It started nearly as intense as pain. I felt as though my skin was off. I was that sensitive to happenings around me, new thoughts and feelings, the presence of other people. It was almost as though "I" extended amoebic feelers into the world, some ways beyond my skin. Not just through space, but to wherever I had my attention. And these feelers could easily be hurt, because they were soft and very open. They weren't hurt, though -- they just poured bright sensation to me, richer more glowing colors than I had ever seen, as if dark glasses I had worn all my life had suddenly dissolved.

It reminded me of the image of the Pierced Shield, new openness to everything, unprotected and yet finding there was nothing to be protected from, it turns out everything I was holding the shield against was nourishment.

Or I felt as though I had come out of a cocoon, all delicate wings and sunlit color, not yet realizing I could fly.

I spent two or three days with that much intensity.

Since then, it's settled a little. Now it's more as if I have removed a layer of clothes, to feel the sun on my skin, than if my skin itself is gone.

This comes after starting a new level of Holosync, an audio-aided meditation program. It also comes as we negotiate changes in our life -- a period of potential and endings. We may soon sell the house. Doug is seeking work. All our usual schedules are loosed. I'm working intensely on creating the mental and physical states I need to play good poker. One of my friendships has ended, others show promise. Dad is better, and still at risk. Many, many uncertainties. Many changes.

And I feel open, and happy, and I'm going easily deeper into yoga postures than I have in a long time, though my practice is light.

Too open, too ongoing to end a post in any neat way.

Holy days

We had a glorious Halloween. Surely this holiday makes us all richer. It's like mental training for entrepreneurs. One day, where we institutionally reward becoming someone else, and demonstrate that abundance is yours for the asking. Just as American as the festival of goods that is the main thrust of Christmas.

Most of the stores around here leapt from Halloween decorations to Christmas on November 1st. I think that is a mistake. Yes, they're eager, in the uncertain economy, to encourage the glow of spending. Dropping the practice of appreciating our abundance -- Thanksgiving -- undercuts the value of all goods. Although Thanksgiving sells relatively few goods, it creates satisfaction with the goods one has. Pushing sales without allowing appreciation makes all goods hollow. Without celebrating what we have, we can too easily reach a point where any possession becomes meaningless. Without Thanksgiving, Christmas will suffer a backlash. So, I'd think, that though it generates few sales, it would pay in the long run to recognize Thanksgiving.

I cooked a turkey and a ham for the members of my Amaranth group last Thursday. I didn't know how many people would show up. First guess, twenty people. Next rumor -- forty at most. I had a twenty pound turkey, everyone was bringing sidedishes. As the day approached, with Auditor Vorthys' admonition of "No artificial scarcities" ringing in my inner ears, the desire to add a ham grew. So, the morning of the roasting, I bought a ham. I chose the most beautiful one, rather than the largest or the cheapest. Rinsed the turkey, brushed it with a mixture of olive oil, salt and paprika, set it in my roasting pan, and the pan in the oven -- and discovered I had no room for the ham. Ah, um, oh -- aha! -- I put it in a stainless steel stew pot with a cover, poured in a half inch of water, and simmered for two hours. It worked wonderfully.

The house smelled incredible. The brush mixture created the most gorgeously russet roasted turkey I've ever seen. One of the members of the group expertly carved and deboned it in the Lodge kitchen. My husband sliced the ham.

Of course everyone brought massive food potluck to the dinner. Of course we had half the turkey and two-thirds of the ham to bring home. I'm contemplating the creation of a turkey meatloaf, and glowing at how well fed and rich we are.

Give thanks, everyone. We live in incredible abundance.

Quixotic quests

Itunes offered a handful of inexpensive audiobooks on sale recently. I picked up _Julie and Julia_, abridged. The author reads it herself. One day, depressed, 29, and feeling like a failure, Julie Powell decided to cook every recipe in _Mastering the Art of French Cooking_. She went into hysterics when meeting difficulties. Eventually, as she blogged about the experience, gained an audience, conquered more recipes, and started getting some perspective on the world, she became happier. She finished her quest and turned it into a book. The end.

I didn't like the book very much. It's nice that she gets better. Still, she spends the first third in a disgusting abyss of self-pity. At one point, she even describes herself as the hysteric woman in _Airplane_ and her husband as all the other passengers, slapping her out of it. Ouch, I hope that was metaphorical.

It's good to set goals and accomplish them. Good food is good for your spirits. And I suppose starting at a low point makes better drama. Still, it was a low point of her own creation. No one has to go into a trance of self loathing because they are a secretary, because they married their high school sweetheart, because they are 29. Not even because their biological clock is ticking.

Ah, well. There's some value to watching her build a better philosophy. And the cooking is interesting. I'll even grant that others might find the things I let myself get blue over to be equally trivial, now and then. And I enjoyed thinking about the value of good food. So the book has something to offer, if you slog through the dreariness.

I was recently reading _No Plot? No Problem!_ by Chris Baty. It's a guide to the glorious quest that is National Novel Writing Month. NaNoWriMo is an online community for writing 50,000 words in the month of November. I'm entering again this year.

_No Plot? No Problem!_ is cheery, daring, celebratory of imperfection. It's practically the antipodes of _Julie and Julia_. It's a handbook for setting aside your mental editor and pumping out gales of fiction. Because, surprisingly, just getting something written often produces delightfully adequate stories. Or in any case, beats putting off writing to meet a higher standard another day that never comes.

In one exercise, Chris Baty has us write lists of what we love in novels and what we hate in novels. It was the first time in a long time I'd given myself permission to follow my own tastes. And you know, I don't really like a lot of the fiction heralded as important literature. I don't like depressed characters barely managing to come to grips with the disappointments of their mediocre lives. I'm not impressed by gritty reality. I want color, adventure, grand plans, and gonzo worlds. I want optimism and humanity and humor. Sure, I want a leavening of truthful observation and problems thorny and substantial. I want continuity, and magic and science that have a price and don't change their rules midstream. I want competent characters, wit and good prose.

I also noticed that I'm a bit more accepting of lit fic in movies than in novels. I didn't mind _Lost in Translation_ so much, and I was fond of _Sideways_. Still -- really -- _Star Trek: First Contact_ really hit the target. Come to think of it, so did _Spiderman_ one and two. (And no, none of Star Wars 1-3 did.)

So now you know. I'm a fan, and we actually have critical targets.

And if my taste sounds like something you would share, check out the reviews button on the left for more.

Kim Chee

I'm making my second batch of kim chee today.

The first batch was last spring. We split the seasoning packet in half -- thinking one quart of kim chee was plenty -- and enjoyed the curious process. The kim chee overflowed when we opened the quart jar to try it. It's a fermented product, like wine or beer, but much faster. Toward the end of the quart, we were a little tired of it. I thought I might not ever make a second batch.

Time goes on. Midsummer, I bought a jar of kim chee. A pint. We finished it quickly. A couple weeks ago, the thought of making another batch began to dwell in my mind. I couldn't find good napa cabbage my first runs to the grocery store. Three days ago, I did.

Yesterday, I started the salt water soak. Today I rinsed the condensed cabbage, mixed it with the seasoning, and stuffed it in an antique blue wire-seal Mason jar. It smelled wonderful, and I can hardly wait for it to be ready tomorrow.

One day to wait for the kim chee alchemy. The pressure of the sealed jar and the heat of the red pepper will transform bland cabbage into something daring and piquant. You have to love yeast, it makes so many good foods out of dull ingredients -- beer, wine, bread, kim chee. Grapes, I suppose, are not dull -- merely sweet and innocent. Wine is headier, more sophisticated.

It stores better, too.

I've been under pressure and heat myself recently. With our reduced income, my father's illness, and the refining edges of my normal charity work and poker beats, it's been quite a time. I'm hoping the work I do on myself will serve as divine yeast, and re-inspire me as something tastier.

As for the kim chee -- to paraphrase Voltaire -- once, an adventuress, twice, an addict.

Spam in comments

Comments on the last post have been turned off. There was only one -- a spam. I'm having trouble with the comment removal function of blogger. Their help files say that you may need to turn off firewall protection to use it. We have hardware running the firewall between our machines and the internet. So, for the moment, I set all comments on that entry to hidden.

It's interesting that the kaleidoscope of business links I offer on the right of this page have plenty of Texas Hold'Em content today. Their official policy is no gambling content (and no reference to the offers) on blogs that use them. Have they decided poker isn't gambling? California law seems to take that stance. I enjoy seeing them, as a puzzle to see what they take as relevant from my very free-form blog, and as a nice bit of contrasting color. That's all the benefit I've had from them. Reality check: not getting rich here. They probably work best from focused and highly marketed websites, rather than sleepy and personal ones like mine.

A quarter's absence

So, it has been a while. Things go on. Doug has changed work situations. Since a change of management at the beginning of the year, he has not been enjoying his work. July 21st, they mutually decided he would leave. He picked up half-time work consulting already, and could increase his hours there. It's not his heart's desire -- so, at half time, he can can continue to pursue his real dream, recover a bit of the wear on his health the last stressful months created, and make sure he's leaning his ladder against the right wall before he climbs it.

Half income is a challenge for me. And that's taking challenge in both positive and negative fullness of connotation. I like having a project, being useful. Yet I miss the freedom of higher income. There's no doubt we can get through six months, even a year of this. Yet at moments I slip toward despair... it's stress. Somehow, the knowlege that we can do this and the fear that we can't coexist in me. Working, working.

Meanwhile, I had several developments in my poker game. I took a local class, met several people. I've now written five articles for Gutshot.co.uk. I've enjoyed that. Also putting in more time on my online game. I purchased a Windows machine. Definitely runs the poker clients better. Macs completely own Windows machines in beauty and elegance.

Amaranth goes along. We handled the fireworks situation about as well as last year. I really enjoyed being able to delegate all the initial scheduling to someone else. The actual work is fine -- I hate calling people to get them to work. I put in more hours and enjoyed them more this year.

Our membership is falling, though. We are only one or two losses away from being unable to continue. I was the only member who managed to attend a conference on how to increase membership. It was disheartening. People are trying to bring the Masonic bodies into greater public awareness and make them more relevant to the twenty-first century. The task group I was in all seemed highly daunted by the task. So I really don't know what will happen with that.

It's quite likely Doug's career search will lead us out of Bend. When we can't quite fill our offices now, and only half a dozen members do eighty percent of the work, things could be grim when I go.

Oh, well. Some things are meant to end. And if the remaining members want the benefits, they'll find a way to make it happen. And if not -- at least it will stop being my problem. There is a real pleasure in releasing responsibility. Shame I'm overage to be a slacker.

So -- lots going on, and I've been writing -- just not here. Do check out the Gutshot articles -- I'm happy with them.

And I wish you all a great summer.

Blank Book

I put in a good day today. I caught up on the dishes, fed myself good food, brought the checkbook up to date, and played about 4 hours of online poker. There's a bonus to clear within a week -- I met one-fifth of the requirements today, so that should go well.

Called Doug -- he's delayed in Durango, as his travelling partner's sister-in-law went into labor this morning. Jay would like to stay to see his new niece or nephew, and who can blame him? So they'll likely remain there through tomorrow, and come home in a marathon session Sunday.

So then, 4:30 and all goals for the day accomplished, I headed for Barnes and Noble. There's something satisfying in wandering among books, skimming here and there. I have dozens of books at home, awaiting my attention. So all I bought was another blank journal. I fly through those at a steady average of three pages a day.

I was interested to see a trend in mysteries featuring literary characters. There are series featuring Jane Austen and Elizabeth Darcy, and both Irene Adler and a young woman named Mary Russell have series spinning off from Sherlock Holmes. These have all reached multiple entries in the series. So I expect people are reading the originals, too. Glad to see it. Certainly I've found the Sherlock Holmes stories and the books of Jane Austen among the most delectable of classics.

If I should find myself around long enough for Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman to have passed into classic status, I could see writing a series of mysteries featuring them as detectives. Terry would have a series of young informants named Kevin, and disarm antagonists with wit, while Neil blended into the seedier edges of rock music and goth culture and generated useful mystic synchronicities -- maybe, but not unequivocally, gaining supernatural aid. A literary riff, not a serious portrayal -- and my apologies to both the still quite living authors.

How would Jane Austen feel about being recast as a proto-feminist detective?

Also found it quite relaxing to write those journal pages without a cat competing for the space on my lap. When you work from home -- it's relaxing to get out now and then.

Lonesome Blues

I'm getting all my work done too quickly.

Doug is on vacation -- on a Ghia cruise with a fellow car enthusiast -- and I've been cleaning house and playing poker and catching up on my reading and finding the days all too long. I think I normally stop to play and rest when he comes home and since he hasn't -- all work makes Anna dreary and restless.

I could take on some new projects, but I don't really have the heart for any of them. I've been eating well, getting enough sleep, even exercising. It's enough to make me want to bang my head.

There have been some interesting events since my last post. I was successfully installed for Amaranth, and my origami decorations went over well.

I caught a cold, with all the drama that entails.

Dad decided to relocate permanently to Yuma, Arizona. I went over Friday to help him with his garage sale. He's done an amazing job of sorting out his possessions -- one part to discard, one part to sell, one part -- only enough to fit in his Jeep -- to take to his new home. Every time we've moved, I've gotten terribly bogged down in that triage. I find it hard to let go.

I also published an article at Gutshot Poker online. They said they were looking to establish longterm relationships with writers, so I intend to send them an article or two every month. Cool -- a column! I've sent a second article, and I'm enjoying writing them.

So Dad was introducing me around Prineville as his published daughter. I was pleased to see that his copy of the manuscript of my second novel made the cut of possessions to take to Yuma.

So, the third novel is a project I could spend some time on. Or finishing the foam project. Or any of a large number of other pieces of work. I have plenty to do.

It's just that none of it is feeling all that worth doing just now.

Celebrate nostril breathing day!

Hurrah! A holiday for me!

I'm all cheery and a bit light-headed -- I've been able to breathe through my nose since last evening, and I'm probably getting more oxygen than I was the last few days. Slightly later recovering than I expected last entry, but still on track. Expect I'll be fine and perky for Installation this weekend.

Thank goodness I didn't have to resort to the dreaded hot foot bath. The nasal irrigation is unpleasant enough. It doesn't take very long, and really relieves sinus pressure, so I discipline myself to it easily enough. Those hot foot baths mean more than an hour of sweating, and several hours too exhausted to do anything but lie there.

Well, this whole subject is disgusting, and I'm glad I'm ending this cold. I picked up some origami bouquets I had made for my Mom over the years from her house today. She's lending them back to me so I can decorate for Installation. They needed dusting and some small repairs. I've finished all but one of them. I'll need to make a couple more. I really enjoy making origami bouquets. The spark of the bright colors, the creative choices to make in combining shapes, patterns, and sizes, the sensual press of fingers against paper, the sheer delight of a stretch move that blooms a flat packet into a three dimensional flower -- it's one pleasure after another.

Strangely, one of the most common comments I get on origami is "That must take a lot of patience." I've even heard that from people who knit!

Just goes to show we don't all enjoy the same things. And that is itself a very good thing.

Soon back in game

Woke up this morning feeling a lot better. Last Saturday, I left home at 6:30 am to go to a day of Amaranth meetings in Portland. Didn't get home until 10 pm. Sunday, I stressed over hosting our book club at our house, and did a bunch of cleaning and worrying. Book club went fine, not sure why I worry so much. We were discussing Wyrd Sisters, by Terry Pratchett, a book I love (check the review blog) and I really enjoyed talking about it. I was pretty tired when it was over.

Monday, just couldn't get rested. Tuesday, dragged around the house. Finished putting 2004's poker results in a database so I could complete my taxes. Haven't sent them yet -- want to check them when my head is clear. We went out for dinner Tuesday night -- I had a coupon at McGrath's for a free appetizer basket. Whoof! Everything breaded and deep fried! Way heavier and richer than I usually eat, and I didn't sleep well. So Wednesday, I have a full on cold.

Thursday, still ill. Went to Amaranth anyway, there was a lot of work I needed to get done there for Installation, only 10 days away. Couldn't get away until 9:30 pm.

Did do some salt water gargling and snorting. Cleared my head a lot. Slept until about 3:30 am, pretty well, sat up and did Holosync from 4:30 to 5:30, got back to sleep and woke about 8:20 after a very restful few hours. So I'm feeling much better today, head not so stuffy, energy better, and _hungry_ -- which is a very good sign, my appetite has been gone since that appetizer platter. I could be symptom free tomorrow -- which will be one of the fastest clearings of a cold I've ever done. My health has been improving. Very nice.

Meanwhile, huge fluffy flakes are falling outside my window. More strange weather this year. So Doug took the car, and I'm home to rest and improve. And tomorrow is Saturday. It's all good.

Kitchen Serendipity

Recently I found myself with 5 croissants past their prime. Result of buying a Costco flat of them for easy breakfasts at a conference. What to do? Why not make bread pudding?

So I tore them in bite sized pieces, and tossed them into a square baking dish. Then I mixed up my usual custard -- quart of soy milk, 4 eggs, cinnamon, vanilla, pumpkin pie spices to taste. Dash of salt. One quarter cup of sugar -- which is light for most folks' taste -- I've been easing my taste for it, since there is a diabetic in the house. I beat that all together well, and poured it over the croissant pieces, and put it in the oven at 350 degrees.

One hour later, I opened the oven door, and wow! The pudding has puffed three inches over the dish, like a beautiful golden souffle! Gorgeous!

I took it to the table, and it gently settled, leaving a thickly risen rim around a flatter center, like a pizza crust or a dutch baby pancake. It tasted quite reminiscent of a dutch baby, too, so I served mine with lemon liqueur. Doug preferred his bit with maple syrup.

A sweet reward for good stewardship of groceries and a willingness to experiment in the kitchen.

What stories would a peaceful world tell?

I'm wondering about the fiction of the future. If we get to the kind of future I'm hoping for and working towards -- one where conflict is resolved through talking, not fighting -- will they still enjoy the stories we write today? Or will our plots and characters strike them as distastefully violent and conflicted, the way the unexamined racism of much 1930's pulp fiction grates on our ears today?

The barest skeleton of plot is: problem, resolution. Our best-selling novels pile one problem on another -- the lead character sets out to solve one problem, and then things get worse. And worse. Until finally everything is resolved, usually quite close together, in the last small portion of the book.

Would this look stilted, tortured, and unnatural to a world of peaceful people? Will they make some breakthrough and look back at us as though we all lived Idiot Plot lives? Future readers might pick up our novels and say, "Hey! This guy's violating the 3rd law of How to Get Along! And there his love interest goes violating the 4th law! And now they're both breaking the first law! Are they both idiots? Man, I just can't relate to this. Why'd anyone read this stuff, anyhow?"

See, maybe the future will be better, because people will learn something that seems simple and obvious to them -- even though we don't know it yet. The way it seems simple to us to wash our hands before eating. Or that the world is round. And then, when they look at how we ignored this glaringly obvious principle, they'll find it hard to empathize with our problems.

And maybe -- since I'm postulating peaceful people -- the whole idea of problem, resolution -- will just not interest them all that much.

You know, I have a belief that my life is not very interesting. To others, anyway. I enjoy many daily small interests -- the weblogs I keep up with, the games I play, my studies in self-improvement and poker, insights I have while writing my other journal by hand. I would never bore you with the two pages I spent considering whether I'd learned anything from discovering I had different expectations of friendship than Catherine. Or with the consideration of how rotating an asymmetrically patterned piece of origami paper can have a different effect when turning it into one of the 170 Fuse boxes I recently made. I don't expect you to want a box by box commentary through 170 boxes.

Did you see Beyonce performing at the Oscars? I found myself thinking -- how many love songs has she sung in her life, and isn't she tired of overemoting basicly the same lyrics again and again? How can any of that expression be meaningful if you apply it to all the songs?

I don't have a defined audience and subject matter. Penny Arcade does -- gamers and games -- and they have been very successful with that. I don't have glamour brought from celebrity in another field -- like Wil Wheaton or Neil Gaiman -- that brings people in to be captured by the excellence of the writing. I don't have the scheduled reliability of Topic or the gonzo iconoclasm of David Brin or J. Perry Barlow. In fact, I may not have the excellent writing to hold you, should you happen to come by.

And yet.

When Wil Wheaton writes about events that in other hands might seem small, I care. So the subject matter I have to offer need not be inherently boring.

And I _can't stop_. Late, infrequent, trivial -- I still find myself wanting to write here. So, read or not, watch out WWW, here I write.

And hey, maybe the excellence will come later. As Marion Zimmer Bradley used to say, every writer has a million bad words to get out of the way before the good ones come.

I've now made public an intent to add comments to this blog. I hope to get to it soon.

First, though -- I'm having a bad day. I received a call reminding me I had work for my charity group to attend. I am really in resistance to this. I hate having my own projects interrupted to attend to the commitments I was pretty much tricked into.

The story goes like this: the leader of the group at the time asked if I could take the Associate Conductress position in our local Amaranth group. I had been a member for a few months. She said, watch what the current AC does, and see if you can do that. It was not too tough. I agreed.

THEN I find out that accepting AC means starting the line -- four years of ever larger commitments within the meetings, AND additional work that goes with the positions outside the meetings. I've done my best. I have one more year to go in the line, and I have gotten some good things done, and supported our excellent cause diabetes research. BUT...

After the call yesterday, I slept badly. Today, my stomach is queasy, and I have lines of pain flaring along my muscles. And this happened the last time I suddenly found myself dealing with extra Amaranth work, too.

All my philosophy, all my apparent goodwill to do the work, to do the best I can for our group, betrayed as not fully what I wish by the clear physical symptoms I develop when I need to do it. There I go. It's just too much. I hurt.

So, anyway. Though I'd like to spend the morning researching how to add comments to this blog, and the afternoon earning money, I will instead be setting tables and serving a meal to 120 people, developing forms to help the other members of the group, and making phone calls to remind members of the meeting Saturday and find the necessary volunteers required by group bylaws. None of which I enjoy, even when I don't feel sick to my stomach and achy all over.

I keep thinking there's some way I can adjust my attitude and do this work without pain. But I haven't been able to find it. And I'm not willing to break the commitment (even though it was given under false pretenses) and blow the whole thing off. So I'm suffering.

The best I can manage is: this too, will pass.

More small improvements to the site this morning. I found a copy of HTML Visual Quickstart Guide at a local used bookstore, and it has really been a lot of help.

Used books are good. I had credit for trading books there, so I paid $4.50 for it. It's always pleasant to get a bargain. And right now, I'm feeling very motivated to live frugally and pay my debts down to Zero. In about fifteen months, my Mom has invited us to share a week in a condo in England. I'd really like, as long as we're crossing the Atlantic, to spend an extra week or two on the continent. Maybe we could get to Italy this time. So, all the money I'm putting to debt, I'd like to throw into savings, and really have a good time. First things first -- pay off that credit.
Then plump up the savings, then La Dolce Vita!

It's the La Dolce Vita part that's motivating. Credit or debt is like plain numbers on a page to me -- I have a certain indifference to it. I can only get excited about things I could do with the money, not the money itself. And that's fine.

So I'm thinking of long, warm evenings drinking wine, surrounded by Roman architecture and women wearing fine Italian shoes. The scent of garlic, and antipasto, pasta, entree, tiramisu parading to my table to savor while having long conversations with Doug. See, that's the kind of reward that's worth a little belt tightening!

Ciao, all.

You wouldn't believe how pleased I am with myself for recent HTML victories on this site. I was able to place my ads just where I wanted them and retrieve my title from under the search bar. I'm really tickled pink.

Well, best not to make any promises about further improvements just now. Best to all, and wish me luck.

Spent a good portion of this morning making barbecue sauce. Surely you've heard that the map is not the territory. More interestingly, the recipe is not the sauce.

I do know cooks who follow recipes very closely. I generally look at them more as inspiration. And in this case, I made up the recipe myself, so it's clearly a work in progress. Nothing to cling to there.

So -- I started a few years back to develop a barbecue sauce recipe. I knew it should have tomatoes and spiciness to it. A bit of vinegar tang. And I more often bake items with a sauce than actually barbecue over smoke. So a little smoke flavor could certainly help.

So one day, I opened a can of chipotles, took a sniff, and thought -- this smells like barbecue! Aha! Now I know how to get the smokiness and the heat into my sauce! Excellent!

I had a look at other barbecue sauce recipes. None had chipotles in them. Tomatoes, vinegar, sometimes mustard -- there's a lot of variation in them. I wanted one with relatively little sweetness -- no added sugar or corn syrup. I wanted one with a complex flavor. And I wanted to make it from ingredients I could keep on hand.

Onion is always good with meat. Many good recipes start: Saute an onion. Seemed like a good place to start. Butter always tastes rich, and I love garlic, but didn't want it to dominate. So, I started by sauteing half an onion and 2 cloves of garlic in 2 T (tablespoons) of butter. That softened them up nicely, the better to spread them on the meat, later.

In my first iteration, I tried adding some tequila here. Plenty of BBQ sauces seem to have bourbon or the like in them, and I prefer tequila. Didn't seem to add enough flavor to be worth the extra time. I dropped that step in the third trial or so.

Next, tomatoes. Since I wanted my sauce to be thick, and I wanted to make it from the pantry, I used canned tomatoes. Quite a few -- these add the most volume to the sauce. One 16 oz can was convenient.

Next, the chipotles. I didn't want fire alarm hot -- just a nice, tongue-tingling spiciness. Two chopped chipotles and two T of sauce from the can seemed about right.

Vinegar -- helps the sauce penetrate as well as adding flavor. Tasting bit by bit, I found 4 T about right.

Taste again. Tangy enough, but not sufficiently complex. Also, too bright a red -- barbecue sauce needs a dark, mysterious look. Taste -- hmm, do need a little sweetness. 2 T of molasses darkens it some, adds interest, and is ample sweetening for my palate. Still a little too bright, too simple.

So, I looked through the recipes some more. A lot of them called for Worcestershire -- something I don't keep on hand. I do have soy sauce -- aha! 1 T of soy, and I've hit it. This sauce will absolutely DO.

In a sudden excess of whimsy, I gave it the name Oregon Pantry Worcestershire we don't need no stinking Worchestershire Oven Barbecue Sauce. Far too long. Mostly goes by Oven Barbecue Sauce now.

Then -- I had to simmer it until all the pieces softened and the sauce thickened. Long periods on my feet, stirring -- has to be a better way. Blend it! But still too thin. So, I doubled everything but the tomatoes, and traded two 16 oz cans of tomatoes for a 28 oz can of tomatoes and a 7 oz can of tomato paste. More success!

But then -- what was I going to do with those leftover chipotles? They're pretty good chopped and scrambled with eggs. But wouldn't it be more elegant to use them all in the sauce recipe?

So, today's iteration -- tripled most ingredients, one extra garlic clove because they smelled better than usual -- two 28 oz cans of tomatoes and two cans of tomato paste, just because -- and the entire contents of the 7 oz can of chipotles, nicely minced.

It smells and tastes wonderful, and I'm giving it its final trial on some beef short ribs this evening. I can hardly wait.

Did I ever make it quite the same twice? Who knows! It's been good every time.

OK, new review here: Paradox World Reviews I started this on the date listed, but only published it today. More to come soon.

Had a sore throat for a couple days. It has been a stressful couple of weeks. Applying the usual remedies.

In my case, the usual remedies include tea, hot wraps on the throat, and gargling with antiseptic. My antiseptic of choice at the moment is Don Crispin fake tequila, mixed half with water. We picked it up a couple years back in a Puerto Vallarta tourist trap. The bottled liquor is harsh, smoky, and although an agave distillate, created in the wrong area of Mexico to be tequila. Seems like the samples they gave us when selling it tasted better. In any case, it's undrinkable, and doesn't make a good Margarita, either. Mixed half with water, though, it still tastes better than Listerine, and seems equally effective on bleeding gums. Why would you want to use a mouthwash you're carefully warned against swallowing?

Doug and I are going to our local book club this afternoon. This month, we're discussing one of the books we presented for the group's consideration. I'm interested to see how they will like it. I didn't care for last month's selection. Rereading Expendable, by James Alan Gardner this month, I liked it even more than the first time. Festina Ramos has a distinctive voice, she starts cynical and becomes more effective, and I'm completely jealous of the idea he had about how a multi-species galactic civilization might work. One simple rule -- murder a sentient being, and if you travel into interstellar space, you will yourself die. Enforced by Arthur C. Clarke axiom means -- that is, it's probably technology, but it's so advanced it looks like magic. It's one hundred percent effective. This is as brilliant a story seed as Asimov's Three Laws of Robotics. Most of the other set-ups for meeting other intelligent species had become a bit tired. The most common is that we're the best, smartest, and fastest out there, or in some other way critical, so that we have an edge. Another is that they are all hostile, so once we get out there, we'll be in one fight after another. It is tricky -- it doesn't seem likely that all other intelligences will be inferior to us. So, if they are vastly more advanced than us, what is to keep them from wiping us out? James Alan Gardner's solution to that conundrum is simple and brilliant. They're civilized, and some of the really advanced ones enforce that civilization on all the rest. There you go -- we can be the new kids on the block, and still have a chance to play.

He's continued the story into a fair number of sequels now. I may just reread the entire series. I had already reread Vigilant. Its vision of a political system that has a system to purge corruption and forsee the consequences of any governmental action felt comforting to return to recently. It's a fast-paced adventure story with Heinleinian social thought in it, too.

I feel some inclination to get the reviews area of this site back in action. I'll link to it here if that inclination becomes reality.

Here is an urgent and meaningful defense of the right to free speech. It seems quite applicable to our own country, though the author is writing from Scotland. I urge you to consider the arguments at The Woolamaloo Gazette.

I recently read Russka -- or the first part of it, anyway -- for a book club. I found the viewpoint of a character who seemed glad to style himself "the slave of the tsar" completely alien. Much weirder than a Klingon, Vulcan or Ferengi. Why would you want to yield your individuality to an autocrat? The tsar in question, Ivan, went on to kill vast numbers of his own people, as Stalin would do later. Which comes first -- being willing to accept a bad leader, or getting one?

Yes, there are situations in which it is right to follow. But how many people who have posted those "Freedom isn't free" bumper stickers have realized that we must equally resist our own government when it is oppressive as fight against other nations who threaten us. The American Revolution _was_ a resistance against our own government at the time. It has taken popular action at personal risk to obtain the civil freedoms we hold dear. And it may require a price for us to continue to enjoy them.

We had been letting Pike out on the second story balcony. It seemed to give him a taste of the outdoors without giving him a chance to get into another cat fight. All good, right?

Guess not. The other night, we let him out, and he went into his defensive posture when Doug opened the door to call him back in. Doug tried to talk him down, but Pike had seen another cat. Pike shot into the yard, squeezing between the rails and stretching down the wall, to land with a yowl and chase the other cat to the fence.

I said, "Bet he got an intimidation bonus for that."

Doug replied, "Initiative, too. Stupid beloved maniac cat."

Just goes to show, Tycho's not the only one framing his life in gaming terms. See this strip from Penny Arcade. Even though I haven't played a live game in years, I still think in gaming metaphors.

And I'm glad about it. Whether you get your initial skills by roll of the dice, as in Advanced Dungeons and Dragons, or by allocating points, as in GURPS or Call of Cthulhu, you learn something useful. Not everyone has the same strengths and weakness, and a party of mixed skills is the best road to success.

And then there's experience and leveling up -- always my favorite part of gaming. As you accept challenges, you gain abilities, becoming stronger and stronger. What a great way to look at life!

Anyway, Pike didn't take any injuries. Maybe the threat of 13 pounds of cat falling from heaven like a meteor will get around the neighborhood and discourage trespassing into our yard. Not that we really need our yard defended, Pike!

And he's not going on the balcony after dark any more.

Last night, I added an episode to my long running dream epic about defending the family home. My real family home was demolished in the late 80's. In my dreams, Dad has built another house there, but the city, motivated by avaricious neighbors, has condemned it. Every couple of weeks, I dream I visit Dad back in the town where I grew up, and find some demolition crew preparing to tear the house down, or actually prying boards off of it, or flattening our fence with a bulldozer, and with derring do or clever rhetoric, I fend off the attack, and delay the demolition -- at least until the next time I dream the whole story again.

At least it's an improvement on the series of "I didn't really graduate from high school" dreams. Attend your graduation ceremony! Reassure your subconscious before it's too late!

The houses are interesting in these dreams. Generally two stories, with rich wood, and slightly slapdash. There's a large dining room near the front where we all have a family dinner once the developers are thwarted for another day. And we can sleep in unfinished bedrooms upstairs.

Nanowrimo has ended, and I produced only about 4000 of the desired 50,000 words. Besieged. Maybe next year. They are interesting words, and I'm happy to have written them. Now, I expect I'll drop back to earlier in my heroine's life, and finish the first book in her series.

Take care all,
Anna

More of my Nanowrimo novel can be seen here: Oh No! Not Again!

Put on some music and immediately felt better today. That's something to remember.

I have an earbug -- the words "Don't have to feel like a refugee" have been reappearing in my mind for multiple days, maybe weeks now. I remember nothing else of the song that line comes from. And if I'm trying to send myself some sort of message, it's garbled. I'm pretty unclear on what application that lyric might have to my life.

Passed the 4000 word mark on my Nanowrimo novel. Wow, one-twelfth done on the halfway time mark. Oh, well. I'm just not able to shut off my internal critic and write large quantities of iffy words. I seem also to be unable to disregard my to do list and place myself in front of the page enough hours a day. These are very important lessons. I intend to keep adding to the novel to the end of the month, regardless of the daunting distance to the finish line. That, also, I want to learn from.

So, on it goes.

May all your projects reach fruition,
Anna

Here's a cause we could surely all agree on: an election system above suspicion. See A Stolen Election? from The Nation for a balanced view of possible voting irregularities.

This site: On The Third Hand : For those in anguish over election results. offers links to both conservative and liberal commenters pleading for more tolerance after this election. Worth reading.

It has been hard to go on. Even my normally sanguine and much-beloved husband has found this election a heavy weight. It doesn't help that there are some irregularities: See this article. Do we find ways to resist? What could we if the system has been stolen?

David Brin, as usual, has some worthwhile advice here.

Meanwhile...

I'm up to what I'm usually up to. Trying to run my small patch of ground for as low an environmental impact as possible, cultivate my own garden, run my relationships with respect and integrity. There's a reason so many turned their attention to local action.

And, I remind myself, we still have progress. Private groups build spaceships now. It's still illegal to deny work on the basis of color. We have the marvelously democratic, flexible and ungovernable internet.

And maybe, just maybe, we will rise to the challenge. We can remember and press for non-partisan virtues. How about integrity -- carrying through on what you say you will do. Accountability and transparency -- allowing the light of public scrutiny to fall on the actions of both government and business. Respect -- the true belief that all people, even one's opponents, act for reasons that are worthwhile to them. And compassion, even compassion -- true action to relieve the suffering of others.

Please, let's find what we can agree on, and act on that. Too long have we pushed our differences instead of our many, human common causes.

Wow! I am getting a lot done!

Too bad so little of it is writing.

My Nanowrimo novel is progressing very slowly. This year, I've decided to "Never give up, never surrender" and not quit until the final day, no matter how bleak my prospects of finishing look. After all, I recently won a 127 entrant online poker tournament when I hit a lucky hand, only 3 away from the blinds, with scarcely enough to cover them. So I may yet prevail.

The election results were frankly depressing. It's hard to believe that more than half the voters think W. is doing a good job. They have what they wanted -- the remainder of us will muddle through as best we can.

Then my cat Pike took a wound in a cat fight. I was very leary of taking him to the vet -- last time, he had a panic attack and developed a heart murmur. He took it a little better in stride this time. We've been engaged in a battle of wits and wills, since he wants to go out and I want him to stay in. It was close for a while -- I controlled the doors and windows, but he was gaining ground on sleep attrition. He's started letting me sleep through the night now, and I think my victory is assured.

The organizational meeting for our book club went well yesterday. We have a small and interesting group of readers. Doug and I sold three of the four books we offered well enough to have them voted into the year's reading list, and the other choices are broad and appealing. We have meeting places chosen for the first 6 months. This will be an adventure.

Also getting lots of housecleaning done. That happens a lot when I have a writing deadline.

Take care, all.
Anna

I'm creating a separate blog in which to write the novel. Like sausage-making, novel writing may be one of those activities best not observed by those who wish to enjoy the end product. However, if you have a strong stomache, you can watch me flail at Oh No! Not Again!.

Suddenly, writing a novel in a month sounds like a really good idea. It's probably temporary insanity. If you'd like to join the madcap fun, point your browser at National Novel Writing Month. And hurry! the follies start tomorrow.

Meanwhile, I've spent most of October feeling overwhelmed. September's 4 fundraising events really took it out of me. Everywhere I look around the house, I see something I haven't done. There's the magazines piled by my bed, the laundry overflowing the baskets, the mail overflowing my in-box, the dishes on the counter ever since I made full press beef broth 13 days ago. But hey, I promised the writer's group I'd have something to read Thursday. My invention muscles need the workout. Why not write a novel in a month?

Hey! I just had an idea about what to write, too! Too cool!

It's far too bleak a prospect to spend all my waking hours on maintenance, and none on creation. I'm overdue for a deadline, time to treat fiction as an urgency. I may write something cool. I may flame out dramatically. Either one sounds a heck of a lot more fun than not even trying.

Time does go slipping by. I ran four fundraisers in September. I hope I never try to do that again. It's really good to have time to myself again.

I really care about this election. I don't really care about John Kerry. There's a good essay by John Perry Barlow about that here. For those of you consulting this site later, it's the Oct. 3, 2004 entry.

Meanwhile....

I keep considering a complete update of this website. A reorganization would do it a lot of good. As the most active page, this should be the homepage. Better indexing, more design. But as I also have small avalanches of reading material to catch up on, that may be long delayed. Priorities, priorities.

Am I fooling myself as I hope that good attention to my daily routine will lead to better health and an hour or two daily of energy for tasks beyond that routine?

Well, it remains to be seen.

I'm currently reading The Progress Paradox. It is in some ways a sloppy book. I'd rather he had only included the strong, well supported arguments, instead of a kitchen sink collection of strong and weak arguments. Still, he has massive data to support his thesis, and a few weak examples do not disprove the rest of the material.

See the excellent review at David Brin's site. David Brin is my favorite futurist. He sees problems, and believes optimism can best take us to the rich, diverse, peaceful and fascinating future we'd like.

In a nutshell, The Progress Paradox argues that things are getting better -- in fact, much better -- and we don't notice it. I was startled at much of the evidence he mustered for improvement in the world. Successes remain unreported. Who knew war, hunger, poverty, crime and pollution were down? Can this be true?

I'll report more when I finish it. Happy world, all.

  
Monday morning, my friend Catherine called to say
her son's apartment burned down.   Could I go to
Portland and help him salvage what they could?   So I
made a couple calls, and freed myself up to go.  

As it turns out, the fire was two stories above them.  
They had smoke damage and water damage, but
nothing in their apartment had burned.   They needed
to move, and we needed to see what we could save.  

Moving is a lot of work.   Moving suddenly, with most
of your stuff soaking wet, covered with soot, or both,
is huge.   Chris and Stephanie had a two bedroom
apartment they'd been living in for two and a half
years.   She's an artist, and he runs a computer based
business from home as well as working in another
location.   They had a lot of stuff.  

Fortunately, a lot of their friends pitched in.   And
Chris and Steff got out safely with their cats.   Most of
Steff's art seemed to have made it.   They were still
waiting on the computers to dry before testing them.  

Catherine and I arrived a little after noon Monday,
and worked until 8:30, packing and moving.  
Tuesday, we finished out emptying the old
apartment.   The complex rented them another unit,
a little ways up the hill.   We moved everything into it.  
Catherine washed the dishes we had to move dirty.  
Their was no water or electricity at the old place.   The
firemen told them to throw away all the food,
because the smoke would be toxic.   So I took Steff to
Costco and Winco to refill their pantry and fridge.  

Then they went to buy a new bedspring and
mattress.  

Then we started on the laundry.   Everything they
owned made of cloth needed washing.   We found a
quiet laundromat, and the owner kindly agreed to
stay open late so we could wash.   We had wet clothes
and blankets and linens all in big black garbage bags,
filling the back of Catherine's van and Chris's X-terra
SUV.   They threw away two bags full as they sorted,
and found another bag of smoky but dry clothes to
send to Goodwill.   We kept 7 washers running, and 8
dryers, for the next five hours, and left the
laundromat about 11:30 pm.  

Doug's parents, Mo and Lois, let us stay with them.  
With everything moved, the house starting to be in
order, and all the laundry done, the worst was over.  
Catherine and I drove back to Bend yesterday.

Last night, Doug and I saw Fahrenheit 9/11. My eloquent and amazing husband has posted his responses over at his site, Learn Something.

I am so fortunate to share my life with a man of such sensitivity and intelligence. His experiences as the son of a service man living overseas add extra relevance to his response. Go read it.

I have discovered the secret.

OK, one secret. A secret. Just a small one, really.

Ahem.

I have discovered the secret to maximizing the beauty of a Crazy Eyeball firework.

And, well, yes, ok, I really should give part of the credit to Doug.

I am the happy codiscoverer of the secret to -- ah, you know.

Oh, yes, what is the secret. I suppose I really should get on to that. Yes, well, it's simple, really...

Set the Crazy Eyeball on the bottom of a tuna can. Choose one of the ones with a slight rim around the edge. Light the fuse, and get away.

Instead of a sputtering, not-quite-spin, or an off and on spin, you get a beautiful, fast, even spin, a glorious wheel of light around the center. It keeps the firework neatly in one place, too.

Doesn't work on Crazy Groundhogs. They're too energetic to be contained by the mild restraint of an inverted tuna can.

Do use an empty tuna can, too.

And now you know.

Painted the door to the garage. Katie and I put on two coats yesterday, and one today. Funny how a little thing like that can make you feel better.

Of course, the previous occupants left the door a completely hideous mustard yellow, with cottage stencils in red and green, and the word welcome. Hmm.... welcome to our garage? Well, ok.

That door was a continuous small irritant. Now it's a dark brown, a neutral, pleasant color to me. Maybe one day, the next occupants will find it totally unbearable, but hey, it's my house. I expect to be here a while. So for a few years, anyway, it might as well reflect my taste.

Beginning to get things back in order after our vacation. Next Wednesday, the Amaranth fireworks sale begins, and it's already claiming planning time. It's our main fundraiser, letting us pay rent for our meetings, make donations to diabetes research, and otherwise continue our existence. It's my favorite of our fundraisers, too -- I enjoy working at the stand. It's well shaded and airy, and people who buy fireworks are happy and excited. We have a good time.

This year, I'm responsible for organizing it. I keep thinking of more details I need to attend to. It's coming along.

So, in my own way, I go on, cultivating my own garden, doing what good I can locally.

It's possible someone might interpret the previous entry as saying I'd argue with Wil Wheaton's politics if I had the energy. Not so. As further clarification, I offer the following, written back when I had the energy.

A sparrow trilled at sunrise you had gone to spank the sea
Gone to force your praises from the wild and foaming sea
Fooling half the people made you king from sea to sea
But you’ll never pull false praises from the wide unblinking sea
You let more filth into the air -- don’t we breathe the same as you?
Two million lost their jobs, but that’s no concern to you
While our soldiers die in Baghdad for stories told by you
America is strong enough to go alone, says you
For the smoke and the ashes are the price of being free
While your friends get tax breaks to drive SUVs for free
The Patriot Act steals rights away -- a strange way to be free
It’s becoming ever clearer, it’s from you I would be free
For the piper is totalling the price of what you do
And there’s none but you to pay it when the final check comes due.

Catching up on some blogs this morning. I feel like such a poser. A lame inconsistent low energy irresponsible slacking poser.

And there I go, breaking my resolution to be kinder to myself, too.

Listened to one of Wil Wheaton's audio blogs today. His voice has changed much more than his face since ST:TNG. I wouldn't have recognized it. Followed the link to the interview here, where he expresses so much political passion that the web mag put a disclaimer on it. I can't summon enough energy to make an argument out of it. Just drowning in -- what is it, anyway? Fatigue? Politesse? Despair? Not quite apathy. A complete disbelief that I can make any difference. Maybe tomorrow.

Or maybe it's work I'm drowning in. Massive housework, Amaranth drudge, stacks and stacks of papers and reading material that sounded like a good idea in some petrified past, the complete impossibility of exercise and good food and getting enough sleep.

Generally not good. So.

Another day, another day, another day.

Here is a Neil Gaiman essay about cities. It's lovely.

It seems strangely topical. Grandma died on Sunday. I imagine her, like a patient and suddenly mobile city, deciding to take a walk, and leaving us on a bereft, blank plain. She gave shelter to my life. She was there with a kind word, a listening ear, and time -- always time to be with me. I will miss her.

One garbage day, I woke to the sound of the truck in our cul-de-sac, and the illuminating realization that the crab shells sitting in the garage were getting pretty ripe. I threw on a sweat shirt, a pair of pants, and my shoes, dashed to the garage, twisted closed the can liner, hit the garage door opener, and wheeled the can out the door, still a little stunned from the fumes of crab and cat litter.

Too late. The truck had already departed our block.

The air outside was a fresh antidote to the previous olfactory assault. The sun lightened the sky from behind the horizon, leaving the world still crisp and new. I heard the truck in the distance.

I wheeled the roll can down to the end of our block, around the corner and up the street with a quick step. Good fortune! None of my neighbors were up to see I still had my hair in the sloppy topknot I sleep in. And I spotted the truck at the end of the next cul de sac.

I crossed the street, and stood with my garbage in the brightening day. The east began to turn pink. The truck made its way toward me, its mechanical arm seizing each can in turn and emptying it into the back as the top of the cargo area opened like a ladybug spreading her wings.

What engineering marvels these new garbage trucks are! No longer do men have to hop from the truck at each stop, exposing themselves to stink and dirt. We do make progress.

I stepped away from the can, to give the mechanical arm plenty of room to work. As the driver came by, I called, "I was too late this morning. I live on the next street."

He leaned out and said, "You could have just called! You didn't have to chase me down!"

I smiled.

The mechanical arm lifted and emptied my trash can. I rolled it home, and put out the recycling. That's always collected later. Mission accomplished. The sunrise bloomed magnificently, and I admired it.

Any day that starts like that is going to be a good day.

Today, I'm working on a spread sheet to add up my total poker wins, losses, and net win. The IRS apparently wants wins and losses totalled separately. The good news is, I won more than I thought I did. The bad news is, I've spent 8 hours entering session data and I still have three months of 2003 to go. Whew!

Meanwhile, this article gives good clues as to why poker players gain weight. There have already been studies that show that a poker loss reduces endorphins and other pleasurable brain chemistry. So it's no wonder a poker player who has just suffered a loss feels particularly attracted to eating something sweet and greasy. Add the stimulant effect of caffeine, and chocolate is practically a specific remedy for poker loss.

I put on some weight after the car accident mentioned at the beginning of this blog. Haven't been able to put it off again, but haven't gained more either. So it looks like I'm managing my poker related medical calories well enough.

Back to data entry. Take care, all.

Suppose you need to make a sandwich of balloon bread and lunch meat. Say, you're temporarily short of French bread and paté de foie gras. Or, maybe you're on one of those survival shows, and have to get by on what you can buy at 7-11. Here's the way to make the best of a grim situation.

Start by toasting the bread. Then coat each slice with a thin layer of mayonnaise. Add mustard to taste. Layer on the lunch meat, and cheese if you care to. Then assemble the sandwich. Take the assembled sandwich and press it. I like to lay it between two small cutting boards and lean into it, but the palm of your hand will do. Flatten that puppy out. Then slice into quarters and eat.

A sandwich like this improves remarkably over the untoasted, unpressed variety. I had several people at our poker party last Saturday asking if there was a secret ingredient or something. Very simple secrets like this should be spread as far as possible.

I'm hand-writing three pages a day in a journal for that class I'm currently taking. It takes a little wind out of my sails as far as blogging goes. When you've already written three pages of personal non-fiction, there's often not much more to say. In fact, I sometimes find myself writing nonsense syllables to fill a paragraph. It all works.

And now I need another sandwich.

Here's the snow we didn't get for Christmas. Several inches, so Pike looked like he was wading chest high, and still coming down thick. I can see 4 inches on parts of the tree branches. I'm going to skip going out to measure.

We had a great Christmas. Family around, nice lodgings at Eagle Crest, where someone else fights dwelling entropy, good food, good times. Our one-gift-from-each-to-each limit keeps the gifts manageable to transport. I know, I know, that's one of the most luxurious problems anyone could have.

Our stockings of anonymous gifts get more overflown each year. Each one has not just what will fit inside it, but also a pile below and around it, probably more than doubling the volume. This year, for example, I had three trade paperbacks and a package of windowpane textured towels "in my stocking". Loot! Definitely made out like a bandit.

Scored some successes with our gift giving. Those I've heard from appreciated their art books -- especially Dad, whose taste for Hispanic glamour was well met by a book on the tourist art from the days when Havana was a kind of more exotic Hawaii, and a calendar of Mexican art. A good score in matching gift to recipient really satisfies me.

I hope you all enjoyed your holidays. One more to come! Happy New Year!

I expect it's been a while since I wrote here. Things have been busy. Failed at Nanowrimo. Had a good family Thanksgiving here. Failed my poker goal, but still made $300. I don't think I get along well with goals. Might have written all this already, failing my goal of writing interesting blogs.

Went to Doug's parents's house for three days shopping in the big city. That was cool. I'm pretty sure Portland gets all their produce, meats, and fish a day fresher than we do. It's quite noticeable if you have sushi or go to the supermarket. I enjoy shopping. The crowds were at the pleasant, friendly stage, instead of the jostling so tight I can barely breathe stage. A few of the lines ran 6 people long or so -- not bad when they move quickly. All in all, a good shopping experience.

Class has improved. The sniping has dropped to negligable levels, and recent artistic exercises have been fun. Still feel out of synch with Julia Cameron, though.

That's about it. Happy holidays, all.

First day in a while I haven't had to go out and sweep snow. We've had steady dustings. Everyone travelled well.

We did our family Thanksgiving Saturday, so today is a day of rest for me. Doug is at work. I played a couple 7 card stud tourneys, one a freeroll, one with a five dollar buy in. Didn't cash in either one, but I did finish 4th of 650 in the freeroll and 13th of 28 in the other. Can't complain about that.

I'm not getting as much out of the Creative Process class as I hoped to. It's free, a work in progress, I expect, for the facilitator. So perhaps my expectations were too high. Another part is that I don't think I'm terribly compatible with Julia Cameron, the author of our text, The Artist's Way. It's a program that has done well for lots of people. It keeps feeling like a bit of a mismatch for me, though.

So I could probably get as much out of working through the book on my own as I am from this class. Since I might not discipline myself to actually do the work without the class, I'm getting that much benefit from it. But not much more. It seems that for every good insight some other class member comes up with, someone makes a catty remark I could just as well do without. Amazing amount of competitiveness, careless or unaware unkindness. Since I work under the principle that the more creativity there is in the world, the better it is for everyone, I'm a little surprised to find that some of my classmates seem to resent other people's success.

Well, so it goes. It's neither horrible nor great, and I get out of it what I put into it. So, what's new?

Meanwhile, having failed both my poker goal and the Nanowrimo challenge, I'm reminded that goals are not my strong point. A game plan suits me better.

And so it goes. Happy Thanksgiving, all. I'll be back in touch.

I give up. I'm just not going to manage NaNoWriMo this year. I went into it with too many simultaneous calls on my time and too little prep work.

It has been an amazing relief to stop. I suddenly had all this energy. I cooked and cleaned and made cat food. I felt much more enthusiastic about my other goals. I told Doug maybe I should over-schedule myself more often, just for the freedom I feel when I reduce my schedule. He said that was like the cowboy who wore too tight boots just so he could enjoy taking them off. It's a good point -- better not to get into the overscheduled situation in the first place. Still, I am really appreciating having breathing room again. So, I won't try to get myself into this situation again.

Hope I can remember the lesson, and continue to appreciate the space in my schedule. It's all too easy to start taking those moments of ease for granted, and stop appreciating them. I'll do what I can to enjoy the freedom to rest between tasks.