Yes, I'm a sci-fi fan

I've recently gotten hooked on the TV show, Fringe. I date my taste for science fiction and horror back to The Twilight Zone and Alfred Hitchcock Presents when I was a child. Star Trek solidified this preference. By the time I reached middle school, this taste was cemented with Ray Bradbury's books, particularly Something Wicked This Way Comes. The fascination developed even further when I saw Frank Langella as Dracula when I was in college and finally got the sex appeal of vampires. The first Star Wars movies made science fiction enjoyment socially acceptable for awhile. Then I grew up.

As an adult, I came to regard both science fiction and horror as a secret vice. It wasn't something that I could discuss with my book loving friends. My enjoyment of Stephen King just didn't fit in with my book discussion group that spent two months on discussing Eliot's The Wasteland. (Two months on one poem was one reason that particular group disbanded.) I love Capital L Literature. I'm currently re-reading Sense and Sensibility. I crack out the Shakespeare fairly often, but I've finally embraced that the monsters, robots, vampires, and wizards deserve their place of honor with me as well. The wild imaginative creations and nightmares of science fiction and horror are just the fun part. What I love about these genres is how they reveal human nature by pitting it against an extreme that couldn't, just couldn't, or my mind would explode, happen. It was Bradbury who first showed this to me, and Fringe has reaffirmed it.

One of the main characters is Walter Bishop, a scientist who once worked in fringe science research (undefined but involving a good bit of quantum physics and genetics) at Harvard. After the death of a lab assistant, Walter is committed to a hospital for the mentally ill for nearly two decades. He is released into the protective custody of his shady son and a tough, attractive female FBI agent (yes, this show owes a debt to The X-Files) when his expertise is needed in a bizarre case. Political correctness aside, Bishop is a mad scientist. He alternates autopsies done with the enthusiasm of a kid with a new toy with taking self concocted hallucinogens while listening to his old collection of rock albums from the seventies. Aware of his precarious mental state, he combines joy at being part of the unlocked world again, a monster sized intelligence that revels at working in science, and regret over the outcome of some his work with the confusion, memory lapses and bizarre behavior of someone who has needed mental health care. John Nobles, who plays Bishop, also brings a good bit of charm and a weird but undeniable sex appeal, to the character.

I knew I was completely hooked on this show when Peter Bishop told Agent Dunham that he had always seen his father's illness as something that Walter had done to his family and only now could see it as something that happened to his father. He thought how hard it must be to always be second guessing the workings of one's own mind. Until then, I'd enjoyed stuff like the creepy parasite that surrounded one victim's exposed beating heart and the genetically mutated monster larvae that were growing in another agent's bloodstream. In that conversation, they hit upon a truth.

My own experiences with depression drove this moment home. We all have an inner critic, but when depression has its grips on me hard, the inner dialogue telling me just what a loser I always have been and always will be is nearly incessant. It's taken more discipline to recognize these thoughts as the voice of an illness than I can explain. It is a matter of second guessing, of discerning what is a valid self acknowledgement of weakness that can help me grow from the confusion and distortion of thought that depression causes. It is hard sometimes to tell the difference. It can be exhausting, and I can only imagine how much more difficult it must be with more serious illnesses. Yet a simple TV show, silly science fiction at that, showed it clearly. Good writing at its heart is about telling a truth. That transcends any genre.

It's all in the palm of your hand

I've been asked to play the role of fortune teller and palm reader at a Halloween party. My answer is still up in the air for a few days because social gatherings are still somewhat difficult for me. An honest response to the small talk question of "How have you been?" means admitting a decreasing ability to put on my oh so well trained happy face.

I like a good scare at Halloween, but being the one to send people running isn't what I want to experience.

I enjoy Halloween though, and it would probably do me good to get out. I'm considering it. I do, after all, own a crystal ball and recently picked up a box of books through Freecycle that included a paperback on palm reading. Thinking over the offer, I started flipping through the book. These are a few things my right palm is supposed to say about me.

I have an enthusiastic character that moves people to me. I have compassion for the underdog and take on personal challenging situations to help others. I have to continuously replenish my spirits to keep up my enthusiasm and try to be the leader in all relationships.

I am fond of reading, writing, sitting and imagining. The sitting is dangerous for a person of my age. I'm afraid to really go after the dreams I imagine, but proving my ability to make a dream come true could mean a very different life for me.

I have foresight about practical matters. I'm aware of my intelligence, good memory and ability to visualize. I constantly try to improve myself and feel I should be constantly learning something new.

I'm able to see both sides of an issue before passing judgment, am both practical and creative, comfortable in a theatrical setting, with the potential to be a comedian. Humor and laughter make life worth living, unless the joke's on me because I'm so sensitive.

Sometimes my practical judgment suffers because of my idealism.

I work in a well rounded way to attain harmony in love and am dependable in my affections once I let myself really go and love someone. My close friends see a calm and deep nature. I have the type of warmth, kindliness and serenity that holds families together.

That was taking a quick look at what three lines in my hand said about me, and with minor paraphrasing comes straight from a book. I read a little more about patterns that weren't in my own hand, but no matter how much I read, nothing said, "This indicates that you can be a real asshole." Maybe that's the art of being a palm reader or a fortune teller. Just pour on the sugar.
With my southern lady upbringing, I might just be wonderful at this.

Best quote I've read in ages

I can no more keep my bathroom clean than I can achieve world peace.
~Lisa

This is war

I like to think of myself as a peace loving person, someone who tries to tread gently in this world. I'm nice to people. I recycle even though my city doesn't offer that in its garbage collection options. I don't litter. I'm kind to animals, even the crawly ones that I'd prefer to not share my living space. However, I do have my limits.

The recent rains have brought bugs out in force. The flies I can handle, but there is a spider who's made my list. The other day as I was trying to leave my carport, there was a huge web that ran from ceiling to floor and covered half of the opening. Covered with morning dew, it was gorgeous. Thinking of Charlotte's Web, I almost hated sweeping it away.

The next day the web was back and fell victim to my broom again.

Day three, it was there again and even larger. I got out my broom and the spider, deciding it was time for a stand-off, came out to stare me down. My "Charlotte" was the largest brown recluse spider I've ever seen. I think it was a pregnant female because the body while bearing the distinctive fiddle back markings was very round and the size of a nickel. Most brown recluse spiders fall into the long and lean category of arachnids. The leg span had to be an additional three inches. I had the willies from my scalp down to my toes. Brown recluse spider bites while relatively painless are extremely toxic and actually eat away the tissue around the bite. They leave gaping wounds. I went to town with my broom again, but the spider got away.

Today was day four. This morning, I tried to head out my front door, and there in front of me was another web that reached from my gutters to the railings by my front steps. I think it's trying to conduct a siege. It's very persistent.

I'm grateful I'm bigger.

Grinning

Found at Pundit Kitchen.

Losing my words

A little over a week ago my PC got a virus which resulted in my system crashing. Off to the tech guru it went with my hopes for a miracle. The good news is that I'll be getting it back in a few days. The bad news is that I lost everything on it. Since I do back up, I wasn't that devastated.
I got the daughter's laptop replaced and have been using it for the last couple of days until I can get it to her. The other night I pulled out The CD, the one that had the backup copy of the book I've been working on for four years. It held 246 pages of well, I can't really say. The CD was blank. I went through all of my CDs. The book was just simply no longer there.

Simply, this bites. It chomped down hard -- pit bull hard.

After shocking the cats and possibly scaring the neighbors with a few choice words at exquisite volume, I just had to cry.

I've been working to let it go since then. I have my handwritten notes, and one day when I have the heart for it, I may go back to it again. The main thing is that I've still picked up my pen and written something every day. I've got an idea brewing for a different book, possibly just a long short story, but it keeps getting more and more complicated. The ideas behind it also scare me, and that can be a good sign when I'm trying to write.

So here, I am, trying to con myself again with the bullshit that all things happen for a reason, but I simply refuse to give up. Some one with good intentions but little tact recently tried to prod me into new endeavors by asking how I could call myself a writer when I haven't been published (not counting grants and marketing stuff) in years (okay, decades). Her intention was to motivate me into finding paying work that aligned with my identity, a good and noble goal as well as one of my aspirations.

Being a little offended and more comfortable with my anger than I have been in ages, I didn't answer her well. I still can't, except for this. Writing is more than something I do. It's part of who I am and how I process the world. I'm not a successful writer. I have so much to learn about the business of writing that it intimidates me sometimes. I may not even be a good writer, but I am a writer.

Hey, let's celebrate

Looking for harvest

Behind my house and across the street from it are farmer's fields. This year, as the state widens the road on which I live, these fields are fallow. Whether it's because of the annoying construction or just because it's time, I don't know. Rotating crops and letting fields rest is just good farming. After all these years in a small town, I'm still a city girl (as my neighbors will attest), but even I know that much about farming. Just like the people it supports, the earth needs time to rest as well.

Without corn behind my house, not only am I missing a few sneaked suppers, but my sense of time. I prefer time as shown by the fields rather than the hands of my watch. I miss the surprising changes, how I see something every day and then one day it's different. Seedlings become stalks that are taller than me. It keeps me aware that growth is always going on even when unobserved.

That, of course, is my hope for myself. Despite all this seemingly endless muddling about, I am becoming what I'm supposed to be and will eventually produce what I'm supposed to produce. That sounds so fatalistic, yet I know I have a hand in what's growing. My choices have determined what's been planted as well as the events of my past or some thread spinning Fate.

I guess the real question, for me, is what have I planted?

Color My World

When you work in a boutique whose merchandise is almost evenly split between extremely colorful fancy dresses and all white, even fancier dresses, you find yourself frequently attired in neutrals. Black, grays, browns, and the occasional small pops of color dominate the wardrobes of my co-workers and myself. It's not policy. It just happens. Of course, dressing in neutrals is economical. It's easier to mix and match, and working in the low paid world of retail fashion requires dressing both well and inexpensively.

I think part of this could just be sales instinct. When two people are side by side, and one is in dark neutrals, the person in a color or decoration embellished white, who happens to be the one paying, will stand out. I've read where designers Coco Chanel and Pierre Balmain required the sales and alterations staff at their salons to dress solely in black and grey.

Black clothing can be elegant, sexy, mysterious or authoritative. The song just wouldn't be the same if it were "the long, cool woman in the yellow dress." Black can be sophisticated and minimalist. It can be retro beatnik chic. The downside is that it can also be frumpy, self-delusional, fat lady black or the color of widow's weeds. I just had to google that phrase, and weeds once referred to clothing that indicated a person's occupation or station in life. Black is the color we (in the west) most often see on women wearing burqas. Black clothing allows the wearer to fade, like a ninja, into the shadows. It can be the color of sadness, danger or oppression. Moving from the metaphorical to the literal, black is the absence of color and light.

Black has dominated my wardrobe since long before my stint in wedding world though, and I'm beginning to wonder why. I used to be a (no 80's movie reference intended) a pretty in pink girl. I glow in cool jewel tones and simply kick butt in red. So why does my closet look like it still needs a light bulb when the switch is on? It's not really practical. Four of my five cats are mostly white, and I go through pet hair rollers with amazing speed. I live in the hot and humid south, and black absorbs heat.

My wardrobe and my indecision about being invisible or being seen won't change immediately, but tonight, I'm painting my nails bright red.

Anger

Sometimes I wonder if the battle to stay positive is just worth it. This comes at the end of an exceptionally frustrating week.

On Monday, the womanchild found out she wouldn't receive the financial aid she had been told she had for this semester of college. This comes after a rigorous round of providing more and more paperwork to her intended college's financial aid office when we were told that she would receive both grants and loans. Then she received word that because of her freshman year GPA, her applications would be reviewed with consideration of special circumstances. Those circumstances included scheduling too many hours, illness, family difficulties, the death of a family member or exceptional circumstances occurring at her previous college.

C. dropped out of college in the middle of her second semester because she knew she just couldn't handle it then. Two weeks before graduating from high school as class valedictorian, she found her father literally in mid death rattle. For months afterward, she went through PTSD and severe depression. If this wasn't enough trauma for a 17 year old girl, her room-mate attempted suicide twice while they were living together. Both times, my daughter was the one to get her to the emergency room before her parents withdrew her from college. I wonder how many kids would come through their freshman year with stellar grades after these experiences.

After dropping out, C. worked hard though. She got a job, decided that she would get back into school and accepted that until she proved her seriousness about succeeding in college, the financial responsibility would be hers. She planned on moving to another city, found a nice place to live and good roommates. She saved up enough money for three months rent and expenses. She arranged for a transfer with her job. She stayed on top of all the college paperwork requirements with minimal assistance from me. To access her tuition fund (which I don't manage) again, all she had to do was earn decent grades and turn in all receipts for this one semester.

Last week we heard that her financial aid had to be reviewed and we gathered all the paperwork requested about extenuating circumstances -- another copy of her father's death certificate, a letter from her psychologist, a letter from me. The people at her former college were completely unresponsive. They wouldn't return a single call. Now that we're no longer feeding them tens of thousands of dollars, why should they care?

On Monday her appeal to receive financial aid was denied because of her grades. The circumstances affecting her performance weren't deemed serious enough to have had a serious effect. In fact she was told that her grades were the only criteria considered because her father's death occurred three and a half months before she began classes. She is devastated and scared for her future. She's job hunting for something that will pay better and is seriously considering Americorps.

I've been trying so hard to encourage her to look at this as just a temporary setback, to stay up beat and focus on the future. At the same time, I'm angry. Angry at that stupid review board that seems to neither know nor care anything about young people or how grief and trauma affect them. I'm angry at myself for letting her down again. I'm angry about my own circumstances for not being able to be more help to her. I'm angry at her dad for contributing to this situation, and being angry at someone who's dead just sucks.

Today, C. asked me how I can believe in a personally engaged, loving God. I started talking about how God is not here to make our lives easier, but it just dwindled out. I really couldn't give her a good answer.

Respect, love and remembrance

The greatest gift that blogging has brought to me is friendship. I didn't expect that. I have come to know and love people only through their blogs, and there have been times when these friendships have been a primary mainstay for me.

Today is a difficult day for a woman I love. Gannet Girl's son died this day last year.

Birthdays, anniversaries, holidays are exceptionally painful after a loss. The anniversary of the death itself is particularly so. In her blog on grief, Gannet Girl asked her readers to let her know if they lit a candle tonight for him.

For Josh and his family, you can light a candle here.