Friday, November 21, 2014

imagination and writing

I took my dogs out last night just like I always do, but this time as I stepped further into the yard (I like to get out in the yard with them so I can see more of the starlit sky), I heard movement over to my left near the trees. Middy stood with a serious watch, Tink and Beefy were barking at whatever it was, and I was trying to get my eyes to focus in the dark. 

I'm sure it was a squirrel, or maybe a deer, but as the line of trees started to come a little clearer into focus, my imagination came in loud and clear, too. I leaned into the darkness and strained my eyes some more. And I actually freaked myself out for a minute. 

There were people standing in the rows of trees. Moving slowly closer without notice until I could almost make out their faces. They were looming and dangerous and they weren't really people. They were things. People things. Not zombies. Something. Something evil. 

We went back inside, and I forgot about it until now. I never saw what exactly it was, but I do know that all of the words that I've put into the writing of a book that I have no idea how to write, or at least the amount of thought I've put into it, is sticking in my head. I think I have really got to write this thing, if only to release it out of my imagination so that the trees will just be trees. 


Thursday, November 20, 2014

varmints and charms and secrets

So I was doing what I do, walking around the woods. It is the most calming thing. It keeps me from curling up in a sobbing heap of a fetal position, waiting for varmints to come pick my flesh to the bones, that they probably would make into chimes. I imagine I would be pretty tasty, though. I would be an excellent energy source due to the caffeine consumption. That is, if they can get through the layers of clothing I have on. I could guarantee three of them a good shirt a piece. 

So I walk and talk to myself. I look up and see this thing. What the fuck? Even if it's not something major or startling or surprising, most of my sentences start with - What the fuck?, especially if I'm by myself, which is a lot. And especially if I'm not by myself, which is seldom. 

It's undoubtedly something Grandaddy had in place. Tied to a tree to hold it straight? Tied to a tower? Just suspending in air so that when the leaves fell away I would see it? 

I asked Middy Girl if she had ever noticed it hanging there. She sniffed the dirt beside the tree and said No, she didn't know what the fuck it was either. 

This place continues to show me little secrets and charms here and there, and I'm all alone and all in good company and all What the fuck?


Wednesday, November 19, 2014

cumber and pickle

Ahh... Cumber and Pickle. Aren't they cute? We recycle bags around here for different uses and this is our latest. They play and nap and take turns in there. They are lots of fun to watch. They take a running leap to get inside and then slide a few feet across the floor. Then when we all go to bed, they take a curled perch somewhere mostly out of sight. But sometime in the night, oh... let's say... 2:30 am, Cumber is in my face. She's in my hair, on my neck, in my eyes and mouth. Last night after I moved her away from me off and on for over an hour, in my desperate attempt for sleep, she finally parked it across my head, but her freight train purring ruptured my ear drum. Today, both cats could park it in the bags I have under my eyes. 


Tuesday, November 18, 2014

record breaking

I love to see a weed, a flower, a living thing find its way where there would seem to be no way. I found this pic stored up in a folder from this past summer. Ahh Summer. Where impossibilities are possible. It's 14 degrees outside now. FOURTEEN. !! 

For our area the record low temps in 55 years, from back in 1959, were broken overnight when the temperature was evidently 12 degrees. 

I'm going to break my own record by putting on the most layers of clothing ever. Three pairs of thick wool socks stuffed into tennis shoes? Oh, I'm on it. I want all the flannel. I want hats on my head stacked to the sun. I want a scarf that will pat me on the back and tell me it's going to be okay. (It's possible) And all of this is just for when I'm in the truck! Fourteen, you guys. We're just getting started. 


Monday, November 17, 2014

bare booties

Parked on a tree branch in the woods next to the yard there were vultures. I happened to see one drift from one tree to the next. I really like that there are things in the woods that I can see, that I normally might not see when the branches are fully dressed in green. Trees are the opposite of humans in their seasonal attire. When it's hot out they are dressed to the nines; layered up even. Vines, leaves, blooms. When it's cold they strip bare. Nothing. They freeze to dormant death. And then I can see the vultures. 

You can't see them in this picture. The vultures flew off before I could get my camera. Once I spotted the vultures I couldn't spot Pickle, and I was only looking for him and not a camera. After a few minutes, and a growing pit, he came bouncing out of a slumber from the wood pile. The vultures gone. The kitties by my side. The hawks and the owls are the normal around here. And the vultures are too, I suppose, but not usually right in the back yard. Or maybe they are, and I'm just now seeing them since the woods are are showing their bare booties. . 


Sunday, November 16, 2014

white snow worries

Last night we had sleet. It's only mid November. Tonight they're giving the call for our first snowfall in the forecast. It's just suppose to be a couple of inches, but here in Western Kentucky we don't usually get much snow. The people around here always make a mass run to the store for bread, milk and eggs; clearing the shelves like it's apocalyptic. We're just not used to having snow. I'm only worried that I don't have vanilla in case we get to make snow cream. And I'm worried that White Kitty will be standing right in front of me, blending in with the coming scenery, while I call and call for her in the white snow.


Friday, November 14, 2014

black magic fuckery - NaBloPoMo

So I'm blogging something every day for the month of November, because it's National Blog Posting Month.

Everything's been going fine. I can usually write about anything. Anything. I've started seeing where others that are in on this deal are starting to break. They're running out of ideas. They're blocked. They've hit a wall. Their fingers frozen over the keyboard. Man, that sucks, I think to myself as I keep typing away on whatever. 

But then it started working my mind a little. Everyday, Ang. You gotta turn something out every day, I thought to myself. Pressure.

Last night I let the kitties in, because it's Antarctica outside, and sometime during the night I could hear them running around the house, and I was in and out of sleep. 

I dreamed that the cats gave me the puurrfect thing to write about. It was going to be smart and funny and wise. I woke up, because one of them was all in my face, and I felt excited about what I was going to write. Then I fell back asleep and I don't remember what the idea was. But...

One of these furry, brilliant-idea-infusing little motherfuckers left me something to go on. They left a bit of black magic fuckery in the air. Gave me the gift of scribbling this morning. 

Walking through the kitchen. Fumbling in the dark... I smell... something. 
I squint and see nothing on the floor.
I smell vomit. Human vomit. 
I switch the light. 
And there and behold...
Shit. Like, man sized shit.
My eyes zoomed in and away. My face a wince. 
I did that trick breathing thing, where if you breathe kind of short, shallow, half-held breaths you think you won't have to actually smell anything.

Are you fucking kidding me right now.

No, I'm not kidding. I'm writing about cats that brought genius ideas to my dreams (which I really wish I would've written that down so I could remember), and shit in my sink in my nightmares/reality.

Just goes to show that you can write about anything. Anything. 


Thursday, November 13, 2014

shack pantry - before and after

One after shot of this lovely pantry nestled in a corner of our kitchen. Several during. One before.

We dusted, cleaned, primed and painted. And then painted some more. 

It holds nick-nack-paddy-whacks. Books. Photos. Tea. Pasta. Chocolates. Good memories. 

And it all started with this. 

My sweet mom doing work. I'm thinking this was day one in the shack. A good day. 


Wednesday, November 12, 2014

published means more than meets the eye

Life is full of all sorts of firsts. 

First, I had a baby boy. A son. The amount of love that was and is there is almost soul-crushing. In the best way. Then I had a baby girl. A daughter. And the equal amount of soul-crushing love there did me in. I'm mush. 

At first, I didn't know much about being a momma. I grew and grow with them as a momma. I get better at it. Sometimes I mess up, but as a whole I learn all the time and get better with the daily, umm... kind of practice. I've gotten pretty good at it. 

At first when I started blogging, I didn't know much, if anything, about it. I did it for myself when I had some major, doctor ordered, down-time in life. (A heart thing. It's pretty good now.) But I wrote on this blog of mine, and when I look back on some of it, I think I'll delete this post or that post, because they were terribly written. But I'm keeping them. They show growth. I've gotten pretty good at it. 

I remember the first follower. The first comment. The first hater comment. 

I remember sharing all of these firsts with my kids. The first of freelance jobs. The first time I told them that a story I had written was going to be published. The first check I earned from my writing. And now, the first time I was published in a magazine. 

At first I took this writing gig as something of my own, like, just for me. But it turns out, it's good for my kids, too. It's good for people that read what I'm writing. And that is all good for me. It all seems to keep me in a state of amazement and it keeps me digging for better things.

The kids looked at me the other day and asked... So... when people ask us what your job is - we can tell them you're a writer? 

It made me very proud to say yes. I am a writer. It doesn't pay the bills. YET. But it's something that I love and enjoy and I make time for. And they see that. And what's even better than me being proud of me, is the fact that my kids are proud of me. I actually, just now writing this, had to take a deep breath over that sentence. It's huge, man. 

Thank you, Mamalode, for seeing my words here, for publishing my words, and for having me in your magazine. It's an honor, and it means so much more than meets the eye. 

Here's the link if you would like to check it out online, or perhaps buy a copy. The whole thing is really beautiful.


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