When Pigs Fly!

Courtesy of Deviant Art.

I blame it on the pigs.

Last week I got some sort of nasty bug. I’d like to be melodramatic and say it was the swine flu, but I don’t think it was. But I had something close to it. And I had just come back from a week’s vacation too when I had to call in sick the latter days of the week and I can’t tell you how uncomfortable I felt about that; but, such is life, and when you can’t move, you can barely get out of bed, and barely talk because that in itself feels like too much work then, yeah, maybe it’s not such a good idea for you to go and spread your lovely germs around.

And speaking of coming back from vacation I always get a nice welcome back but this year more than ever because I have this sweet, new cellmate who has tethered herself to me quite tightly. This was her when I got in: "OMG, Rebecca, I’m so glad you’re back! It was so quiet here without you! Big B and J couldn’t figure out what was wrong Monday until they realized you weren’t in! They missed you! We missed you! I missed you! Come on, I wanna give you a hug!" Isn’t that a nice welcome? She made my day. And Big B made my day too because he had this big grin on his face when he saw me and said it was just too quiet without me. My boss, who’s going on 12 years of trying to handle my animated spurts of joy and hugfests, facetiously said, "Oh, boy, quiet time is over, Trouble’s back," and comes over and hugs me, "Hi baby, I’ve missed you, welcome back."

I’m a hugger; I’m a big-time hugger with boundary issues but the people I hug never seem to mind. My daughter never leaves without giving me a big hug. I got her boyfriend who is very reserved now doing this as well. This weekend when they came over for a barbeque I was surprised when he came over to me and hugged me tight before I got the chance to hug him first; yes, he’s learning my tribal ways. My husband is spoiled rotten – that’s a given; my siblings, especially my brother, loves to hug me like he hasn't seen me in awhile even though we get together at least twice a month for dinner and movies; my coworkers, my boss, my teachers, you name it – hugs, hugs, hugs all around. And they love it and they’re used to it and they expect it. I've spoiled them.

So I blame it on the pigs.

This is my boss yelling out to me today from her office: "Rebecca, I’m reading here that because of the swine flu you cannot hug and kiss anybody for now, so no hugging! I forbid you! You cannot get sick on me now with Commencement coming up! Hug after that!"

What? Leave me alone!

She must have read my mind because she then proceeds to tell everyone in the office there will be no hugfests until after Commencement and since she can't trust me to follow her orders, she's putting the responsibility on them. Smart woman.

I got nominated for an award last week by my POD and I hugged him in my excitement. He didn’t know what to do or how to react but got over it quickly and hugged me back. It was like Superman had been given a major dose of kryptonite; the man weakened. And this is good! Now he treats me very, very sweet. Hm? How a little sugar weakens the toughest of men, no?

I went to see my cardiologist today for my six-month visit and what does he do? What he always does; he extends his hand to shake my hand but then takes me into a big hug. Yea, got him doing it too. He tells me today he’s spoiled me because I seem to find fault with all the other doctors and I tell him he’s absolutely correct. He's just terrific and I love him. I always tell my husband that if I ever decide to divorce him I’m going to start batting my eyelashes at my doc because I just love him to death. He tells me, " Rebecca, leave him alone. He’s married and has five girls. He has enough problems already." *sigh* Girl can't seem to have any fun anymore.

So I blame it on the pigs.

Because of the pigs I am now banned from hugging and sprinkling my joy around. I'd like to say that I will stop doing so when pigs fly, but then again, that wouldn't be too smart, would it? So, for now, this is all I can do....((hugs))

Shaheen Jafargholi - What a voice!

Susan Boyle has competition.

What an incredible voice! And, thanks to Simon, who had the foresight to stop his original song selection and inform him that it was all wrong, we got to see the true power of this young man's voice and talent. He reminds me of young Christina Aguilera. Christina, at his age, had the same powerful vocals.



Britain's Got Talent Week 2: Shaheen Jafargholi - video powered by Metacafe

Introducing Susan Boyle

Ladies and Gentlemen, introducing Ms. Susan Boyle.

Susan Boyle on Britain's Got Talent
by dwarthy

I saw this video yesterday and it made me cry. I saw it again today. Again, I cried. She touched me so. This talented and beautiful woman warmed my heart in such a way that it is hard to describe. To see her, so happy and sure of herself despite the laughs and mockery, brought forth the tears because isn't that just the way we are? We prejudge people by how they look and sometimes act. Yet, she stood there, not being affected and gave it her best! God bless her.

And she sung. What an angel. She could not have chosen a better song with better lyrics. Beautiful. Just magnificent. She surprised and humbled every single person there. And, for once, I believe we did not mind being proven wrong and feeling ashamed of ourselves for our thoughts because we were happy that the truth smacked us hard in the face; we deserved it and we welcomed it. This is one time we were happy to have learned a very humbling lesson: that that which is beautiful and magnificent does not always come wrapped up in pretty little packages.

She's never been kissed? Well, Ms. Boyle, I doubt now you will die without your Prince Charming coming to knock on your door and slip on that glass slipper because dear lady, dear beautiful heart, all of your dreams are about to come true and we could not be happier for you.

Courage And Disclosure

Courtesy of Deviant Art

Last night in class we reviewed a student's submission which was in the form of a memoir. There are a few writers in class who've chosen this genre as their project for the semester. These writers are young - in their 20s - and are pretty uncensored when it comes to writing about very personal details of their lives. It is a courageous act to wear one's heart on one's sleeve for caws to peck at, as my favorite writer, Tennessee Williams was so fond of saying. To revisit one's darkest days and write about it knowing that it will be read in a public forum is an exercise that will ask much of you and is not for the faint of heart. No, this takes courage.

This writer's submission gave pause to another writer who asked whether it was non-fiction or fiction because he found her story very hard to believe. In reading I found it all to be very dark; there was no light to balance the story. When I mentioned this to her afterwards she laughed and said her friend, who read the story, told her it was too much, "Christ A, didn't you ever have one f*cking good day in your life?" Yeah, those were my silent words exactly.

We are to critique each other's work and my comments/suggestions to her were that she balance her story with some light. Was there any? As a reader, I wanted to know if she learned anything from these terrible and traumatic experiences. I'd like to know that it was all not for naught. To write how it changed her. Was it for the better? Did she feel she grew and how? Because everything in this life, good and bad, teaches us something and that something that you learned is also as important to pass on as the experience itself. It is not enough to pen your dramatic and traumatizing life on paper; you need to balance that with the lessons learned and wisdom gathered along the way.

But, what I really wanted to do was tell her that her words defined her and how she felt and all I read were words of sadness and anger and resentment and fear and hate. But what got to me the most was one word that she used to identify herself that made me want to get up from my chair and hug her and tell her, "no, sweetheart, this is not the way." If we want to raise ourselves out of the muck that our lives have led us into, then look up and work your way out instead of looking down and sinking deeper still. Oh, my darling girl, this is just not the way. I could feel the chambers of my heart constrict for her pain and wished she would in time learn another more softer and loving language towards the self because words define us and affect us.

After class we walked slowly together to our cars and we spoke. I commended her on her courage to write about these very private details of her life and commented that it could not have been easy. She said far from it. It was the hardest thing she's ever had to write but there was still much more to come. She confided in me between silent tears the stuff that she left out but was debating whether to include it or not but, knowing her, she was going to go all the way. Her life was built on secrets and she hated it. She wanted to live her life as an open book and wanted to write this for her future child so he or she would know where she came from. If I, as an adult and not connected emotionally to her, found this very difficult to read, I cannot imagine what it would do to a son or daughter. We talked awhile and then parted ways. I wished her luck this week in writing the remainder of her story but suggested she might want to think about taking at least a few days off from writing and thinking about it and give her mind a rest because I could see it was affecting her physically and emotionally. She looked very, very tired. She said writing it had resurfaced so many things and she was finding it difficult to sleep again. I finally gave her that hug that I wanted to give her in class and held her in my arms for a good while. I think she needed that; I know I did.

I needed it because I knew exactly how she felt; the ugliness and harshness of life spares no one. I found her fearless in using a public forum to exorcise those feelings and was in awe of her young, brave heart. I could never do that. I am reserved to a fault. But I know her pain. I've been where she's been; we all have. I've used the pen to open old wounds and heal them once and for all; swollen and tender wounds that would not cease to hurt until I finally sliced them open and they bled. But I quilled privately. I journaled. My journal was my forum of choice. And I journaled for years until the dark finally gave way to light. And, this was done privately because this is where I felt safe. I am reserved. To a fault. And so each of us chooses the way that is right for us.

And so, the tall, red-headed girl who smokes too much and always has a kind word or two for you is in my thoughts this week. The young woman who between smokes opened up her heart to me and allowed me to see her tears and witness her pain has, in her candor, left an indelible mark in my heart and has won my admiration and respect. The cross that she bears is quite heavy. And, on this journey she is now taking where she will learn of herself, I wish her peace of heart, love, and much strength. But I will not wish her courage because that, thankfully, she has more than enough. Because on this hard road that she has had to navigate, courage is the passenger that she picked up along the way.

MAD WORLD - two great versions, one great song

Last week I saw the following video for MAD WORLD for the first time on Leni's site. An updated version from a Tears for Fears original. I thought Gary Jules' version to be a million times better. It is sung the way I think should be sung. The lyrics to this song are beautiful and the musical composition that accompanies Jules' version is much better. Now, I'm not a fan of Tears for Fears and I much prefer the way this song is sung by Jules and Adam Lambert. I pulled up the Tears for Fears version of it and hated it so, no, you will not see it posted here! (And thank you Leni for that important bit of information as to who the original artist was).



And then this week this. On Idol, the young man who is stealing the hearts of all that listen to his voice and his original way of making old songs new, sang the same song. Phenomenal. I just love this kid. What a super-talent. This was the best video I could find as I could not access a full performance as done by Mama Hen . Visit her blog for the real live version. It's worth a watch.



I just love this song and love both interpretations. Both artists and their own unique versions are very good in their own right. Enjoy.

A Horse By Any Other Name

So I’m at 7-11 on a bright, beautiful morning last week, being a good citizen and doing my share in stimulating the economy by buying my morning cup of jo'.

I’m at the checkout counter paying for my purchase and an elderly man, very elderly man, comes in line behind me.

"Nice earrings," he says. He had a warm smile and looked like the type that could talk to anyone without a problem.

Hm, that’s a strange comment coming from a man. Methinks anyway. I smile back and thank him. How cute is he?

"So you like southwestern jewelry," he asks.

"Yeah, I do."

"Those earrings are really nice. Stunning. Did you buy them here in New York or Arizona or some place like that?"

Wow! Friendly, little bugger, isn't he? "Nope. Right here in New York! Macy’s, as a matter of fact."

"Really?," he seems astounded. "Wow! I thought you bought them at X store in X town that specializes in that kind of stuff."

"Nope. Macy’s!" Dummy me humors his conversation. "I didn’t know they had a southwestern store in X town?"

"Oh yeah," and he goes ahead and gives me the name of store and the street it’s on.

Hm? Pretty informative little man. How nice is he?

"Yeah," he continues, "You, know, I’m a southwestern type of guy myself."

"Oh, yeah?"

"Yeah, I got horses and all."

"Oh, how wonderful! I love horses! They’re such beautiful creatures." Can you say woman without a clue?

"Well," he says, seizing his opportunity, "do you want to play hooky and come with me and ride my horse?"

The 7-11 guy gives him a dirty look and seems disgusted by him. Methinks he just didn't like him.

"Oh, no, thanks. I have to go to work," I smile and walk away.

"Okay, well, maybe next time!"

Yeah. I laugh. How cute.

I get to work and tell the ladies I believe a little old man was flirting with me and heard the best pick-up line ever. But, "this is the best I can do?" A couple of decades younger, I wouldn't have minded, but one-foot-in-the-grave old? *sigh* I'm still cute, what's going on here?!

I tell my husband later on that night.

"He’s not cute, Rebecca. He’s a little pervert. I don’t think you understood the meaning of the word horse."

Huh? I was shocked. Fifty years old and I still don’t know what the day of the week it is. It was all a ploy and I hadn't a clue. This is just too sad for words.

But, hey, on the upside, at least this one was walking upright and without a walker. That’s a step up from a few years ago when a son was pimping his decrepit old father at the parking lot of Macy's onto me. He could barely walk (he was on a walker) and could barely breathe (he was on an oxygen tank) but was hitting on me. Seriously, dude? Seriously? *sigh* My life's over.


Picture, courtesy of Deviant Art.

Zafalon ReViced

After a weekend filled with one revision after another, I finally handed in my second draft of Zafalon to The POD this morning. He wrote back: "Novel. Do it." That's it. Three words, two periods. Bu that says it all, doesn't it?

Truth be told, last week's first draft I felt was rubbish, but The POD saw potential in it. I was grasping at straws and was actually bored reading my own material which can be unusual as writers are usually such a narcisstic bunch that they have the tremendous flaw of falling in love with their own work, regardless of how bad it is. Word to the wise: this sort of thinking can be poisonous to any good writer out there. Let your words go, you don't own them. Put on your big boy/big girl pants on and get on with it and stop your whining and bitching and moaning.

But not this writer. I am the Queen of Revision. BLAH! EEK! WTF? What the Hell where you thinking? Garbage! Merde! I can destroy a day's hard work in a few minutes without blinking an eye or resorting to crying. Entire paragraphs will come out; entire pages, if need be; beautiful or clever words that the ego wants to keep but that the egoless clearly states, sweetheart, it's just not working, let it go.. Yep. That was me this past weekend.

I went to the library. I needed to channel the creepy and the scary if I was going to move this story forward and the little freak, Zafalon, was going to have life on paper. I put away Coelho's Alchemist because reading that right now will not help me one iota. Dark and light cannot occupy the same space at the same time. I haven't been to the library in over three years? I walked in and you would think I was new in town. Wow! This is nice! Yeah, they upgraded the town library and this chick that likes to read had no clue because she obviously has so much money that she buys her books and has no need to peruse the information that is sent to her home every quarter to let her know what's going on in her town. Shameful, isn't it?

So I walk up to the Help Desk and ask to be directed to the horror/sci-fi section because now I'm lost as everything has been changed around. I like horror. I love horror. My reading staple growing up was horror. But sci-fi, eh, I usually leave that to the visual outings at the movies or tv. I choose 3 books. Inspire, I tell them. Inspire, or I'll never take another one of you out again! I walk up to the check-out line and hand the libraby maven my little green library card. She starts laughing. "Oh, honey, you really haven't been here in awhile, have you?" she says. "This is expired. We have library cards now that have pictures and everything!" *sigh* Yeah. We talk, we become BFFs while she's making me a new card. I leave. I vow to return because now I'm digging this new, improved place. It's cool.

I go home and begin reading Mister B. Gone by Clive Barker. I didn't know this was the same guy that wrote the Hellraiser series. So the book is about a little demon that speaks directly to the reader and it's supposed to scare you out of your wits. *yawn* I've had dreams scarier than this, dude, trust me. It's not scary; it's revolting, more along the lines of Kafka revolting, but not scary. And it's pretty creative, I'll give him that too. The book is interesting and keeps the reader engaged if you're into this sort of thing. My husband asks me what the book is about. I tell him. He puts up his hand, "Stop. No more." You see, the Beloved is scared of the Devil. I tell him, "Dude, he doesn't exist. Come on. Grow a pair and stop being such a pansy."

"I.DON'T.WANT.TO.KNOW," he says.

"Dude, what kind of bedtime stories did your mother read to you growing up," I ask.

He walks out of the room because I won't stop talking and the only way to end the conversation is if he leaves. He shakes his head not being able to understand how I can read something like this. "Hey, it's interesting and I'm doing research here because I need to channel dark! D.A.R.K. DARK!"

The book is about 250 pages or so. By the end of the day I'm 100 pages in. Easy read, engaging, interesting, creative. Okay, so the little bugger is amusing. I don't think that was Barker's intention, but, hey, he's amusing to me. He's funny in his own sadistic, creepy way. But, this little guy? I'm just not scared of him yet. I feel for him because he had such a bad childhood and is so misunderstood. I think this is not what Barker intended, but, hey, that's me. The little monster sparks a thought.

I spend Sunday rewriting, revising, cutting, cutting, cutting. Out come the words previously written. I drink my coffee, look at the screen filled with words that right now I'm not digging, listen to some music, look out the window, think, think, think. Finally. The fingers begin their dance. They move fluidly. Yep, I can see it. Zafalon is beginning to morph into a character I'm beginning to understand. Yeah, kid, I think I'm finally getting ya! I stop writing, go eat lunch, go outside and help the Beloved with the leaves, and play with the dogs. I come back two hours later. More ideas, more writing, Oh, yeah, I'm in the groove now. A few hours later I stop and start dinner, sit and talk with the Beloved for awhile, and return to work. Last few pages in. A full day's work and the scenes are solid and have potential. I turn off the computer, turn out the lights and go to bed.

I hand in my second draft this morning. "Novel. Do it," is all he writes. I had an appointment to see him today to discuss my submission. The POD is happy. Do you know how hard it is to make the POD happy?

"Congratulations," he says. He has a big smile on his face.

I blush. He tells me I did it. It's a novel now, no turning back. And he is committed to helping me move it forward. First and foremost, he says, join a Writer's Group. He gives me the names of several places that offer this and informs me of the benefits of joining a group of creatives and being surrounded by them. He can't stop smiling. I can't stop blushing. He's excited; I'm excited. We spend the half hour throwing ideas around and he has some fantastic ones but holds back too; it's my novel and he won't tell me how to write it. "Zafalon is so complex and the story is so rich with possibilities. There is so much there to be told," he says. He's still smiling! I'm still blushing!

I leave his Space of Grace. "Congratulations," he says again. He's still smiling. I'm still blushing.