One-Book Wonder

Writing used to be sitting down at a typewriter, not a "keyboard", having an idea and putting it down to paper. The idea, time and determination sometimes led to a publisher taking up your "book" via an agent and publishing it. These days that is but a dream. In the first place, it's all too easy to be a "writer". I know because I am among the lost souls with manuscripts piling up. Where does one find an agent and then a publisher? In Dream Land, unless you have something written about a far-away desert  fraught with political strife, a lot of guns and narrow escapes. Exceptions are genre mavens who do romance, mystery or chicken soup. Weird diets, recipe books and how-tos come next. The latter two groups are not what I would call writing but I am no expert. Writing comes from the heart and creative mind, not hey-what's-popular-that-will-sell penners. So you bend over your keyboard and write it out anyway knowing that it is a for-my-eyes-only kind of project. It satisfies and as the pages pile up or the file fills on the desk top, you know that one day it will all disappear into cyberspace and who cares. At least you have purged. But, and these are mostly always big buts, there is the odd true writer who is discovered and who makes it onto the market. As a friend of mine, slightly more cynical than I, once remarked, when it sells to all of the relatives and friends, that's the end of the book. It's true unless the book "catches on". Who can predict the market? No one. It is a fickle thing that market. Only those who have become well known make money at the writing game, so don't quit your day job. Not true? Add up the hours one puts in on a book and even at the latest dead-end job rate, it doesn't pay. But it does make writers happy and gives us all something to talk about over a glass of wine or cup of non-black tea or mugged coffee. The conversation runs to authors who are well-known and quite awful but get away with having a name, thus selling. There is one dreadful writer, not King who is a superior writer but onagain offagain, but another best seller whose writing is obviously done by more than one. He has a plot and gurgles it down on paper and has his "ghost" fill in the descriptive passages. The gambit is obvious. And annoying. The two styles are vastly different, but he sells. He is genre. No one wants to read about an escape from the clutches of a killer through a woodland area to suffer through a lengthy page or two about what kinds of trees there are in the scene and their botanical history.  Get on with the chase and never mind that you don't have your nice five hundred pages of book to sell at a big ticket price. Ahhh, what happened to the books tossed out there that were mostly bad but a few were accidentally exciting to discover. The audience chose them, not some publisher whose palm was gold-laced with big star names to emblazon on covers of their latest grocery market Best Sellers shelf. Keep on hammering away on your keyboards, darlings, you never know. You may not become a billionaire, but you could  be the next One-Book Wonder.

Sleeping Amazons

Once I stood before a garden stairway flanked by two stone lions. In this far-away place and this garden where the fates of the world were decided, Churchill  stood long ago. He was powerful and his wife, largely unknown, tended to his will. She made him strong in her apparent weakness while he went about the business of his calling. The lion lay sleeping, its great head upon its paw. Looking peaceful and harmless we all patted its silent head and took pictures. We went away to our homes and lives. How many women are sleeping beside lions that when awakened are lethal? These women are sleeping amazons. They have power  that no male can match. Their awesome strength is not brawn but tolerance and love and caring beyond what their men deserve. I spoke to a woman not long ago who endured over twenty years as caregiver to a brutish man, albeit ridden with a frustrating illness but who unreasonably took his anger out on her. She is old now after his ultimate death and few other men are willing to want a woman of her age but still attractive and resourceful yet beaten by years, one who is no longer young, smooth and malleable. And again, what woman knowing the dark side of men, would want to take on yet another burden of being handmaid to him who sits about fork and knife in hand, wanting his dinner on time or else?  It is not to say that all men are like this, but sadly and truly, most are to some degree. Mothers make them so in their kindness. And not all women are saints, but most are. It begs the question, why do women who are sleeping amazons persist in being abused by men who are bullies and demanding boors? It appears to be  woman's nature to endure and tolerate and remain faithful to those who make their lives miserable all of their lives. Until it is too late. I remember the sweet man who made my life a beautiful land in which to walk and grow and love. I pity other women whose men who don't know how to give their love freely and appreciate their women, the sleeping amazons.

Genealogy Gurus

Used to be a lot of pressure, albeit subliminally, on the male child to carry on the family name. These days of women in marriage, retaining their nees, most of that is over. Still, there lingers, the unspoken obligation on males to recognize the huge responsibility. Most of this burden is due to the game of genealogy  that many ascribe to, for some peculiar reason. There are so many of us flawed human beings around,  a few lost to oblivion might be a good thing. Most people, as I, other than the Family Name seekers, are content to simply "be". Then there are others who delight in learning, albeit rather unreliably, that they are somewhere back there, royalty and delight in telling us. Ad nauseam. And tales, being what on-line genealogy sellers pander to, are that: mere tales and conjecture. The serious religious genealogy  fanatics have a deeper purpose for wanting to delve into their personal pasts. They believe you are going to be recycled after your demise and your origins have a lot to do with the quality of future generations. According to them. I don't know if that sect has  a way to cleanse bad genes, but they must have figured that one out explicably, somehow. Then there are those relatives you run into and wish you hadn't, who quibble over manifestos on immigrant ships and certificates of death and birth proofs tirelessly. They ask you for lists of birthdays and records, lawyer-like for proof.  I can barely remember my own birthday let alone my grandmother's. They hover over your shoulder as you try and pressure you to scout these out. Some even travel afar, to search out  familial ground, the place where those who wish to "sleep in peace" have their graves trod upon and their ancient church records delved up out of the dust of some old crate in an attic. And what does it all add up to? Ego. We all want to learn that we are unique and hopefully walking royalty. Why the latter, is a mystery to me since so many royals are inbred, quirky and filthy rich which might be the reason for their continued existence at all. Not that we can readily access our ancient family coinage. It is always a wonder to me that those who have researched (to death, literally) their heritage, don't seem to find the nut cases or the drunks or the worthless derelicts that must linger  in every family. All of the genealogical babblers, without exception, that I have been bored with, brag about a history "that goes back to the Fifteenth Century my dear", and is absolutely pristine. Only a few pirates, illustrious ones of course, and the odd Genghis Khan, are mentioned. There must be a whole car load of reprobates out there, waiting sadly to be found, and added to the mix.

Scent Sense

Perfume is one of my favorite daily experiences. I love it. I use perfume in moderation and enjoy the scents that others use. I was taken aback one day when during a lecture, a young woman next to me began to huff and chuff and wave her hands about in the air. When I turned to see her odd behaviour, I learned that she was "allergic" to perfume. To the perfume I was wearing. The room was partly to blame in that the ventilation system was faulty. When I spoke with the young lady after the talk, she told me about the symptoms she suffers from breathing in perfumes. I suggested we sit apart  so that neither of us would be bothered. Later, it set me thinking about scent in an entirely different way. I had seen the little elephant signs on mirrors in washrooms and other places warning people to avoid wearing perfume.  From what I understand, certain kinds of perfumes, even the most expensive ones, have ingredients that cause a few individuals to have unpleasant reactions such as headache, feverish symptoms and shortness of breath. For those of us who enjoy perfume, it is difficult because it is a freedom that we have and don't want to be denied. On the other hand, for those with allergies either real or imagined, it is a complex matter. Just as all allergies and sensitivities, there has to be fair play. I can see that if one wears perfume, it should not be so heavy that it can be smelled by anyone a yard away. Perfume used correctly is something that is private and personal, an accessory that is used sparingly and only noticed by those very close, hugging close, is my best description of how intimate perfume ought to be. The matter of banning perfume entirely is offensive to me, therefore, I feel the onus must be on the person with the allergy much like the peanut allergy folk who check out their environment themselves or put out a warning of some kind for others. I have seen  people who walk in pine forests and rose gardens with no trouble at all but feign fainting spells when someone who wears perfume walks by. Perfume makers themselves also must take some responsibility. They should not use in their products, substances that are harmful. And there are circumstances in which absolutely no perfume should be worn by anyone. These would be in medical treatment areas. But even then, some of the smells in hospitals of chemical germicidals etc, are heady matters in themselves. What is mysterious is that in recent years, there is talk of hordes of people suddenly developing allergies of all sorts. I will always remember my aunt Bess, whose dressing table held a pretty blue glass bottle. On it was a label: Evening In Paris. When I was treated by Aunt Bess, to a dab of Evening In Paris, I felt I was no longer a bony six year old, but an elegant lady off to a ball.  That  perfume epiphany, convinced me that scent, like music, can transport someone into an imagined world of magic and wonder and today, causes me to think:  long live perfume!

People Say

People say, you should... and you shouldn't do this or that. They can see all the things that are wrong about what you do or think or feel but they are not "doing" it. They may be right ideally but you are in a place that is all your own and you are there for your reasons alone. And  while you dearly appreciate their good will in giving you just advice, you know that you are where you are for yourself, your needs and your goals. They may be impossible for others to understand or approve of, but here you are continuing on your own path knowing that if they wait patiently, one day, they will get it. They will see what you see and why you did what you did.  Where your destiny leads is perfectly clear to all the advisors, and you know there are right but it is the travel down that pathway to that end that matters to you. You will end up in the right place or perhaps the wrong one, but getting there is your choice. It is your way and even if it turns out badly, you have tried it. This is all very intrinsic sounding but applied to a real situation, it applies! So what can you say to those telling you that you should or shouldn't make that choice? I guess, telling them, yes, they are right but that you have to choose your own route toward achieving that end but that you hope that they will remain supportive as you set out on that journey that may or may not turn out well. They have to know that you want to take that chance, step off that edge to test yourself. If you don't, you will never know if it could be achieved, if happiness could be found. If things turn out for the worse, at least you know that it was not to be. You learned another direction to go on, another choice to make, another turn in the road to follow.  Be it a young person striking out on their own, a couple fighting the odds in their relationship, a job matter or a personal one, my advice is that once you know what you want and have thought how you want to get there, take your chances.  Regret is not something honorable to live with.

Age Stage

Aging begins the moment we are born. People don't think of it that way, but it is a truth. The business of being elderly is but another notch in life's time frame. For some, departing from life is earlier than the norm and for others, they move on to a new phase, their last lap. Death is as sure as birth and a hugely eventful time that we shall all certainly experience somehow. The inevitability of death needs no explanation but the matter of being elderly does. Some people are elderly before they need to be while others fight it all the way. I champion the latter. Growing old gracefully does not mean donning droopy pants or sagging hem gowns, it means acceptance. It has nothing to do with style or appearance. It has to do with not being depressed by limitations but making adjustments to meet them. It means not descending into the role of a complaining, cranky old tart. It means continuing to do what you can with a mind to safety and to contributing to society by simply being elderly. Someone else will take your place for certain. We can move on knowing that the world continues and does so without missing a beat. We wouldn't be where we are without others picking up the reins and driving on.  Giving up a driver's license, for example, is hard and many aged people drive far too long. It is giving up the independence that driving offers. But it is also a responsibility that you have to your society.  Old age means that at any moment the body can give up one of its functions and if you are driving, it could turn into a very bad accident that may kill innocent people. Giving up one's home is also a wrenching matter. Suddenly you can no longer meet all the demands of home maintenance. You are forced to live in a smaller, more convenient place but you must also live with the fact that the "family home" is no more. What you have to remember is that you are the "family home",  not a pile of lumber and concrete. Aging is not giving up, it is changing to meet new demands. And you can use the same drive and talent that you once had to understand this challenge.  The same talent you had to make to get what you worked for all your life,  is inherent in having the satisfaction of having achieved it and knowing that it takes the courage to dust off your hands and move on. It sounds easy and it can be. You can do it and the more gracious you are about acceptance, the more your family will remember you and honour you. It is their turn to take up the baton and continue on as man has done for way less than a million years. There were and there are no dinosaurs to defeat.

Where Is Happiness

What most people want is happiness. It doesn't matter who, what or how they are, it's all they want. It is all they need. I believe that happiness begins not far away. Happiness is about where the rest of the world ends and you begin. It's inside you and waiting to be found. It is you.   I hear it said: I would be happy if only ... and the parade of wishes are recounted.  Most of the them  are impossible  and if so, would take a long time to achieve. I want to be young. I want to be beautiful. I want to be rich. I want to be famous.  All of these, while fine ambitions, may not be realistic. This is not to say that we can't have ambitions and do our best to achieve those goals. But the elements we need to get to our goals, lay inside us. Everone has talent of some kind. I know a mentally ill man who loves plants and is a superior gardener. His customers admire his work. He knows his talent and uses it to the best of his ability. Money is not his primary concern, satisfaction is his happiness. Another person I know, does have money as his objective. He earns it not only for himself but also for his clients. He is honest in finding the best investments for them. He is a happy man. Another is a nurse who does one of the most difficult jobs in that field. Each of her patients feels the love she brings to her ward. When she hugs someone, it is real, not a professional requirement. She is a happy woman and it shows. The job of finding oneself in order to be happy is to "clean house". Take out the hidden baggage and trash it. There isn't time to constantly mull over past ills. I know that therapists love to spend time with you raking through the bad memories in order to get rid of them but that takes too long. Chuck the bad and get on with the good.  Happiness is impatient. Find out what you love to do and can do well and do it. Simple. You don't have to set the world on fire, you just have to be happy doing what you do best. You're not trying to vie with anyone but yourself. The more you do what you do best, the better you will be at it. You are on the road to happiness and it will show in your smile.

Shhhut Up

I know, I know. It's the age of technology and anyone who doesn't walk about with a wireless bit in their hands is "out of the loop". A loop in my book, is not what most people want to be in, but some, like the old 8mm loops, go cheerfully round and round, pretty much repeating the same old same old endlessly. I imagine if I peeped over the shoulder of a BB or an i-bearing human, I would find a  series of mis-spellings, bad usage and useless nonsense. "Wht UR doin? Nil. LOL Wht U? Nil 2." That sort of non -verbal, non-communicative drivel. If you ask the owner of the small device why they are texting, their answer would be a look, THE look. Okay, I get it. Out of the loop. When I encounter a young person, I also encounter their device that "does everything". What it does do, seems wondrous. One can bank, read a book, balance accounts, buy junk, talk to others, watch movies and sports, play games, take photos, send just about anything and do business without getting off the bus. What the thing can't do, is "relate". In the old days, relating to someone else mattered. You looked into their eyes, you spoke to them mano a mano and you shook hands or hugged or merely patted a shoulder. You felt them.  In a movie of a few years ago, entitled, "Avatar", the Avatars said " I see you" and that meant, they saw into you and learned what you were made of, your psyche. When using an electronic bit of plastic in your hand while shopping, at dinner, at school, you are not seeing anyone, you are reading. In words on a screen, there is no expression, no feeling, no seeing. It's part of the reason why some people who trust in these little devices are deceived. All they see are idiotic words and sometimes faked photos and they believe all of it. I hasten to say that I am an owner of too many of these electronics myself, but I continue to walk in reality. I hope. I like turning pages of a book, I enjoy smiles of my friends and kin when I speak to them, I understand their angry tones and those that are loving. I want to go into a store and handle the object I might buy. I want to use my senses: touch, sight, hearing, smell. I trust with the disappearance of the penny, we won't become automatons without expression, without looking deeply into one's eyes, feeling the warmth of their hands and experiencing their natural aromas. I don't mind their flaws, their talents, their successes and their real selves without editing. You can't text that, and for goodness sake when you come through my door put that idiot device away until you leave! I do not like someone invading my domain carrying a piece of electronic rudeness.

Writer's Curse

Once you become a writer, and a published friend of mine of long ago, told me that IF you write, you ARE a writer, but if you are, as I say, you enter into a mine-field of controversy. Your pen starts to take on a life that, while of your creative bent, is either more or less, you. It begins to take over and in spite of attempts to quell it, like the hand that moves independently and not always for the good,  it does just that. It moves and writes. An idea comes into your head during those moments that for me are around three or four in the morning and you rise up and sit in the cold, letting the idea run through your fingertips and onto the screen. Sometimes they roll off your hands as though they are the thoughts of another person, but always they insist on being given life. They must be born and borne. Sounds insane? Perhaps. But writers who write whether published or not, know of what I speak. When you have finished your piece and leave the chair on wheels, to get a cup of coffee laced with whatever comfort you habituate, you feel satisfaction and relief. There! The thought lives and has being. It is no longer your property but that of Erato and her company of muses. Life goes on but all that you see, and whom you see, become "material". No one escapes. The world around you is all "material" and it revolves and mixes like a palette gone mad. The colours mix and blend and rise or flatten or swirl or dry, but they are all parts of what you see and hear and feel. They are what ends up on a page of text. You find yourself outside the group, listening, watching all the subtle motions, the choices of words, the eating and drinking, the play, the looks, the conditions, the comings and goings. The faces become over laid on others and the eyes become pools of mystery into which you plunge hoping to find truth hidden there in the depths. While you are there, you are not. You are the observer, the listener, the gatherer of yes, "material". And when you sit in front of your keyboard, the words become the ingredients that form the bread and wine of your next story, your next blog, your next new novel. The pile of manuscripts grows tall and each one in its cardboard shell, needs not to be "published", it is happy simply to exist. Your increasing children in their paper lives, smile and await their siblings to come and join the song that calls you daily to write and live and give them birth.