a white room

This ever present cold-bug has turned me into an herbal tea junkie. Yesterday I drank lots of something called Shanti Ayurvedic Blend. I found it at the co-op and bought it 1.) because it had the would "shanti" in it (which means "peace") and 2.) because the jar it was in had a label on it that said it possesses healing powers for the immune system as well as the ability to bring balance into one's life. Hell yeah...totally worth the $3.46 that I spent on it, if you ask me. And it tasted good, too.

Today my drink of choice is another herbal tea that my sister bought for me called Breath Deep. It's got a picture of a saddhu meditating on the box and is full of goodies like licorice root, basil, eucalyptus, ginger root, cinnamon, thyme, peppermint, cardamom, mullein leaf...yeah, you get the point...it's packed full of flavor and warm comfort. Not to mention, it's making me feel rather spiritual...yes, it's that good. ha! ;)

In other news, there is still not a speck of snow on the ground and the thin layer of ice that was briefly on the lakes have already started to thaw. If I hear one more person remark that they love global warming I'm gonna have to smack 'em. They say it with such chipperness, such happiness. I just can't help but think, "my god, people, what's wrong with you?!" I don't mean to be over-serious but every time I hear people say they love global warming, a blaring image of a brown crispy-fried planet creeps into my head. Well, to each their own...I guess. I'll just keep drinking my tea and hope for snow sometime soon.

In the meantime, I'm looking forward to going home for Christmas. I've been finding myself daydreaming of tromping around in the woods with Anu (off of her leash) a lot lately. Yeah, I have woods here...but I miss the kind of woods that stretch out for miles and miles and miles. I miss the kind of woods where you can't hear the constant hum of traffic in the background...instead, only sweet silence. I'm glad I moved away...but, my god, I'm looking forward to a long awaited road-trip north. There are two places that my body and soul have felt the most at home. One is in the woods of northern Minnesota and the other in India. Maybe someday I'll be able to travel between the two...but, for now, I'm grateful for the nature I have out my front door and for the mega-nature I will soon be going home to enjoy (never enough) of.

I live in the city now--and I love it. But it's funny how we create balance in our life. I like the way life ebbs and flows in the way that it does. These past months have been strange for me as I attempt to make sense of where I'm at and where I want to go. There has been a constant sense of shifting...an impermanence...a feeling of relevance. Every once in awhile there are days that feel little more than futile...but, more often, I feel like this is all just part of my path towards whatever comes next.

These days I'm reading a book by Twyla Tharp called The Creative Habit. I got it for my birthday and when I opened it up, the first sentence read: "I walk into a large white room." For some reason, this sentence "spoke" to me on a very deep level. I love the idea of a white room, a blank page, a white canvas. Despite my fears, there is so much POTENTIAL in that empty space. This is my year of "empty space." Then again, every year contains a little bit of empty space...every moment contains room for creation. Later in the chapter, Tharp writes: "Bottom line: Filling this empty space constitutes my identity."

Recently, Sophie wrote a question on her blog. "What is your metaphor?" I keep returning to this thought; it rolls into my head at odd times--when I'm walking or doing the dishes or shelving books at work or watering the plants or taking a shower. And so I'm sitting here right now wondering: if I were to walk into a large white room and fill it with a metaphor of myself, what would it look like?

And the first thing that comes to mind is huge, dark, saturated wild iris. But it doesn't end there. You see, there's an entire room to fill and I'm constantly discovering new things about myself--new colors, new ideas, new passions. In every moment I am creating myself.

Empty space. An empty white room. What do I want to fill it with? What do you want to fill it with?

I can't help but love the prospects.

Worst birthday ever turned good.

"It is never too late to be what you might have been." ~George Eliot.

Today is part 2 of my birthday. I'm not sure if that's legal, but my real birthday (yesterday) was the worst one I've ever had and well...I decided to give it a second chance. After all, there's something about this year that feels important--and I want it to start out the right way.

Yesterday had great potential except that I woke up sicker than a dog and, to make matters worse, had to work all day at the garden shop. I had originally looked forward to it, but instead I spent the day being miserable and tired and weepy. I survived it. But I might have been better off never leaving my bed. Last night I sat down at my computer to write about it and let's just say that when I woke up this morning I was glad I hadn't. Maybe some things are just better left unsaid.

I do, however, want to tell you what was good about yesterday... and one of those those things goes by the name of "Saturnalia"...which is our neighborhood holiday celebration hosted, in part, by our garden shop.

They blocked off the street and celebrated by filling everybody up with freshly roasted chestnuts (which brought be straight back to the streets of Italy--taste bud heaven!), hot chocolate and cider, cookies, smores and hot dogs. We built several bon-fires on the sidewalks and in the street; there were face-painters and hay-rides; Santa climbed DOWN the coffee shop's chimney; there were puppets on stilts and dancing snowmen; the air was filled with wood smoke and the steady beat of the Women's Drum Corp; there was dancing in the street; people brought their dogs and kids. It was really quite incredible and made me feel the stirrings of love for my new neighborhood and their pagan-esque celebrations. And even though I felt like hell there was a part of me that thoroughly enjoyed it. The drumming, the dancing, the weather, the general happiness...it was pretty cool.

See...when I write about it in this way, it makes it sound like a good day. Never mind the rest because...what it boils down to is that it's all a matter of perspective, isn't it. Maybe I feel better about yesterday because I'm looking at these photos or because of the really incredible sleep I got last night. I don't know...but today I feel much better--which is why I've self-proclaimed today as my birthday also. hey--why not? Yesterday I let myself get knocked over by my own personal tidal wave of shitness and today I decided to stand myself up again. Today...well, today has been better than yesterday by a million miles.

Some of the best things about turning 32:

• an e-mail from bee
• birthday wishes from ruby
  
• an e-card from my fellow sagettarian jamie
• loralee's voice singing me happy birthday on the phone
• waking up to find presents from my husband sitting on my desk
• reading his wonderful card
  
• phone calls from family
• going out for spicy hot indian cuisine (soul food for sniffles!)
  
• good conversation and mochas with mardougrrl...and a bag full of really perfect presents (i'm spoiled!) ;)
• coming face to face with the biggest buck i've ever seen--in my front yard!! (yes, my life is surreal like this, but i'm serious)
• blog comments
  
• much needed sleep
  
• 
• neighbors coming to visit me at the garden shop--yes, people actually came just to see me! (it made me feel loved)
• going music shopping with my husband (the rest of his gift to me...i should write more about this later)
• pancakes
• dog kisses
• husband hugs
  
• nice clean fluffy fleece sheets and the best sleep ever!
• dreaming about dogs
• sunny weather
• a long walk
• frozen lakes
  
• going sweater shopping and finding something cozy that i liked!
• an incredibly patient husband who survived my day of moods and still loves me anyway
• russian tea cakes
• champaign
• a new candle
• good coffee
  

Hell yeah...I guess it was a pretty damn good birthday...despite false starts.

i just want to send a little message out into the world to say that i've been busy. i haven't been able to visit your blogs or respond to e-mails in the past couple days...but i miss you and i'm thinking about you. just know that.

love,
j.

Came home from work last night and was sick...again. Ate supper, wrote a tiny bit, then fell asleep on the couch. I woke up in the middle of the night, still feeling like hell, worried that I'd still be sick today. And, as luck would have it, I am...but fighting it hard because, damnit(!), I get to meet Loralee today!!

I'm oddly excited to meet this girl from Utah. She makes me laugh--even on the phone! Unfortunately, I have to go to work right now. Damn. Precious time--wasted.

For my 32nd year...

The eye is meant to see things.
The soul is here for its own joy.
~Rumi

Yesterday, while browsing in a book store, I found this card. I went back to look at it several times and finally decided to buy it. I justified my purchase by making it an early birthday present to myself--a reminder to trust what is inside of me. The words and the paint brush she holds in her hand speak to me in a special way. Too often I lose trust in the creative power that I hold within me. I start looking on the outside for what can only be found on the inside.

On Saturday I will begin a new year of my life; and this year, more than any other, I feel the accumulation of a lifetime worth of triumphs and failures, bravery and fear. I want to trust the woman I've become. Because it's all inside of me. Everything. My soul is here for its own joy...

all I need to do is trust.

shared thoughts.

Ok, so I've been messing around in Photoshop. Don't ask me why except for that I took a picture of myself with my new journal. And I don't know why I did that either, but hey...I felt inspired.

It was a busy (but fun) day. It's been a day OFF...and even better: a day off WITH a car. Ah, sweet heaven. Usually V. needs the car for work but, because I have been unwilling to bike my sorry ass around in this cold weather, I opted to get up at the crack of dawn and give him a ride all the way across the city just so I could have transportation for the rest of the day. It was worth it.

I got a spontaneous haircut, bummed around uptown, thought about my blogging friends, went out for coffee with a rather large pile of books, hung out in a few bookstores (yes, I go to bookstores on my days off from the bookstore--I'm a geek), looked for a new sweater (although everything I liked was ridiculously expensive), did a little grocery shopping (where I stopped to smell bunches of peonies--*deep breath* ahhhh...), drove my wolfie with me everywhere, found a little gift for Loralee and (for the highlight of the day) bought a new journal!

In my opinion, there is nothing better than a virgin journal. It's like getting new socks and underwear....but better. Yesterday morning I finished the very beautiful handmade journal that Tara Dawn sent me a couple months ago. And today I set out with the intention of finding a simple spiral bound notebook due to inspiration from Dancing Willow and Natalie Goldberg.

Doing a post every day in November for NaBloPoMo primed the pump for more writing. It felt good to write everyday, even when I sometimes didn't have the energy for it. Granted, I missed 1 or 2 days, but I'll forgive myself. November is over and I intend to continue posting on a (nearly) daily basis. But I also have noticed that, lately, I allow myself to be a lot more raw in my handwritten journal. Right now I like rawness...or, at least, I think a little rawness would do me good. I need to swear every other word and complain and cry and not worry about how stupid I sound. Ok, so I do a lot of that here anyway, but...

Like Dancing Willow is doing, I like the idea of filling up 1 spiral bound notebook a month. However, in the process of today's bumming around, I found an extra cheap and very fat journal that felt so smooth and wonderful in my hands (that's what I get for picking it up in the first place!). It fell right open (in just the right way) and was filled with page after page after page of white graphing paper. I couldn't help myself, and abandoned my spiral notebook intentions in exchange for the big fatty.

I don't even know how many pages are in it, except to say that there's too many to count. Generally, I don't like big journals because I get sick of myself before I get to the end. Well, this time around, I thought I'd try out my staying-power. If it comes down to it, I'll write one word per page until I get to the end. Whatever's necessary. It only cost 8 bucks and will last me the better part of the winter. Not to mention, it's the kind of journal that will almost certainly inspire some serious drawing as well...and, for this, I've decided to start carrying ink and colored pencils with me in my already over-loaded purse.

Like always, I'm ready for a new beginning. I've been thinking about my creative habits a lot lately. Actually, I live my life around those habits. Today was just a little celebration of the little things that make life colorful.

snow.

I've been sitting here for the past hour and a half trying to write about waking up to snow and how this is my favorite day of the year. But I'm so tired all I can do is stare out the window and watch the sky turn a dozen shades of blue light and a single page from a newspaper being tossed around by swirls of wind in the parking lot across the street. These whirlwinds cause minature blizzards, dusting the naked limbs of trees that line the street...trees that appear to be held together by nothing more than christmas tree lights. People walk by looking cold and tired and happy. I like watching the snow that sticks to the bottoms of their shoes. I like watching the way people move...because snow makes them move differently.

I write and delete and stare out the window and then write a little more. I sit in the coffee shop by a window that blankets me in a solid layer of cold. Too tired to think...just glad for snow.

Sunday Scribblings: "In the last hour..." {portrait of a drunk, 3 cops, and a girl waiting for the bus}

It's cold outside. And in certain corners of the house, it's cold inside, too. There is sandalwood incense burning, a cat at my feet, one at the heat vent, and a cup of coffee in front of me. The incense and the light from a candle give the illusion of warmth even though I'm cold from somewhere down deep in my bones.

***
(note to reader: this didn't happen in the last hour, but it is what happened in the hour before I read this week's prompt.)

The day before yesterday, I walked to my bus stop to find a man sprawled out on the downtown concrete. He had a gash on his head from falling and the only sign of life was the slight but occasional movement of his ribcage. The guy was in a bad state. The temperatures were in the single digits. For a minute I just stand there looking from him to the glint of skyscrapers until a cop drives by and I wave him over.

We talk about the weather and cold concrete and how they find that guy drunk with blood on his head every week and how he should have been dead a long time ago. I am, shortly after, joined by 2 more cops who agree.

Eventually, they get him into a sitting position. One of his arms doesn't work. Maybe it's fallen asleep. He's crying and drooling. Something between a whimper and a wail escapes from his open mouth--it comes from his core--no words, just the sound of truly a lost thing.

After declining an offer to wait for my bus in the squad car (no way, thank you very much), the youngest officer tells me I should stand inside the bus shelter, out of the wind where it's warmer (where the drunk guy is). I do, but immediately regret my decision. I wait off to the side, in wafts of the man's alcohol stench and hollow howls. The cops spend the time chumming with me and, when my bus finally comes, one of them pulls out a hand full of paper from the pocket of his crisp, blue shirt and hands me some free metro tickets. Oh, good idea, they all clamor. Gentlemen to the nth degree. They are flirting with me. Competing for my attention? It's been a long day and all I want is to get home. 2 days later, I keep thinking about all those jokes and laughter and slow dying.

And, I'’m sorry; I have nothing profound to offer with these words..words that are nothing except an observation of the ways that we end up in places we don't belong. The sort of places where living and dying collide--—places where we tell jokes or withdraw or drink ourselves senseless. The ways in which we do little more than just try to get by.

walking and writing. walking and reading.

I've had many interesting thoughts today. Maybe because it's finally cold outside...I mean really cold. I walked with Anu in the woods and, for some reason, a crystal clear monologue just sort of tumbled out of my mind and mouth. I wished I had a tape recorder because I knew I wouldn't be able to keep up with myself any other way. But, instead, my words slipped into the sky and frost and frozen leaves...

***

Later, as I walked to work I read A Natural History of the Senses by Diane Ackerman. I found it in a used bookstore a few days after Sunday Scribblings used her quote for their prompt. On the back of the book there's a review by the Chicago Tribune that goes like this:

"An aphrodisiac for the sense receptors. Read a chapter, then step outside and voila: The sky is a deeper blue, the birds sing a sweeter song. How could the world seem otherwise, after feasting on voluptuous prose like this?"

Ok...now imagine reading voluptuous prose like this WHILE outside. Oh my god, I wish it wasn't so late. I wish I didn't need to get up so early. Because I want to tell you about it and I don't want to leave out even a single detail. But I need sleep and, instead, I can only leave you with this (because otherwise I would never stop writing)...from "A Map of Smell":

"Breaths come in pairs, except at two times in our lives--the beginning and the end. At birth, we inhale for the first time; at death, we exhale for the last. In between, through all the lather of one's life, each breath passes air over our olfactory sites. Each day, we breathe about 23,040 times and move around 438 cubic feet of air. It takes us about five seconds to breathe--two seconds to inhale and three seconds to exhale--and, that time, molecules of odor flood through our systems. Inhaling and exhaling, we smell odors. Smells coat us, swirl around us, enter our bodies, emanate from us. We live in a constant wash of them. Still, when we try to describe a smell, words fail us like the fabrications they are. Words are small shapes in the gorgeous chaos of the world. But they are shapes, they bring the world into focus, they corral ideas, they hone thoughts, they paint watercolors of perception" (6-7).

Oh, and that's just the beginning. "Words are small shapes in the gorgeous chaos of the world. But they are shapes, they bring the world into focus, they corral ideas, they hone thoughts, they paint watercolors of perception"...I let those words roll around in my mouth and mind...and it was the best walk that I've had in quite awhile.

And for a thought to fall asleep with:
"Try it now. Describe the smell of your lover, your child, your parent" (8).

it's not so easy as you think.

Public Service Announcement: Loralee Extravaganza!!!

Hey you Bemidji people...Loralee is going to be in Minneapolis on Wednesday and Thursday, December 6-7. She wants to chop down trees and feast on hot dish...AND YOU'RE INVITED!!

ok...maybe we won't chop down trees and eat hot dish, but...

You ARE invited!

(dinner, cocktails, and coffee? maybe we could eat venison and drink cheap beer??)

(Thinking of making the pilgrimage from Bemidji or California or Wherever-You-Are?? Come on...you know you want to! Send me an e-mail so I can give you the details.)

weather.

i keep reading blogs about being snowed in. snow, snow, snow. i'm jealous.

i live in minnesota and all i woke up to this morning is the strangeness of thunder and lightening. lots of rain, but no snow. it's nearly december and there's a very large part of me that keeps thinking: please snow, please snow, please snow....

because all this brown is starting to get depressing. i don't even enjoy the crunch of leaves anymore. and not having snow makes me miss home. i don't want to miss home. so i guess it's a good thing that there isn't snow yet there either because, if there was, i would want to move back. there are things i miss about bemidji immensely. but i'm also glad i'm gone. i needed to move away--my life there was beginning to feel steeped in too much pain. i needed a chance to start over.

but a winter without snow? i can't even stand the thought of such seasonal monotony.

in bemidji, i hear the small lakes have frozen over and the big ones will soon. i can't explain this affinity i have with ice and snow and cold weather. maybe it is because i was born a winter baby. maybe it's because it gives me room to breath. maybe it's because that is what my molecules are made of.

all i do know is that i hope that big cloud of snow keeps moving east and doesn't stop until it gets here...because i want to wake up tomorrow morning, look out the window, and see change. i want to see something that i can call home.

One word. No explanation.

1. Yourself: determined.
2. Your partner: loving.
3. Your hair: wavy.
4. Your mother: sensitive.
5. Your father: lost.
6. Your favorite item: journal.
7. Your dream last night: bemidji.
8. Your favorite drink: coffee.
9. Your dream car: unattainable.
10. The room you are in: writing.
11. Your ex: crazy.
12. Your fear: thesis.
13. What you want to be in 10 years: everything.
14. Who you hung out with last night: family.
15. What you're not: normal.
16. Muffins: scone.
17: One of your wish list items: music.
18: Time: fleeting.
19. The last thing you did: e-mail.
20. What you are wearing: slacks.
21. Your favorite weather: blizzard.
22. Your favorite book: impossible.
23. The last thing you ate: pretzel.
24. Your life: full.
25. Your mood: hopeful.
26. Your best friend: far-away.
27. What you're thinking about right now: poetry.
28. Your car: covet.
29. What you are doing at the moment: introspective.
30. Your summer: stressful.
31. Your relationship status: solid.
32. What is on your TV: broken.
33. What is the weather like: snowless.
34. When was the last time you laughed: morning.

I was tagged by Mardougrrl.
And now I'm tagging:
bee, ruby, tara dawn, thea, swampgrrl, sophie, susannah, and vinny (ok, this list could go on for a long time and i've already gone overboard...i'm holding myself back here!!)... if you feel like it that is--and anyone else too!

My Sunday in Three Parts:

Part I: Oh, Christmas Tree.

After waking up much too early, Vinny and I went out for breakfast at our favorite greasy spoon. It seems as though it's becoming our new Sunday morning tradition. I guess the eggs benedict and coffee served in thick white mugs fueled us up enough to go out and get a tree--which we did...and then spent half the day listening to Elvis and Louis Armstrong Christmas music while decorating it in jewel tones and childhood ornaments. I'm impressed--I mean, it's only November! And the best part is that at night our house looks like a brothel!!

Part II: The Studio.

After finishing the tree and vacuuming up the broken bulb (oops!) Vinny headed for the couch for a nap and I headed to the basement for some uninterrupted studio time. I didn't have enough time to actually paint, but I did some sketches, prepped a canvas, and generally putzed around.


This is the 4 ft. x 4 ft. canvas that's been waiting patiently for me to paint something on it since we moved. The red chair has been flirting for my attention a lot lately. I think it's time.

And this, smaller, 24" x 24" canvas has been whispering to me, too. I'm imagining something in fuscia and deep reds with small amounts of purple-blue...something warm and and vibrant and that I want to fall into...


Because of odd jobs at the bookstore I've been spending a lot more time at my workbench lately. I was sad to leave my old studio because, whenever I was there, I always felt so incredibly relaxed. Turns out, that feeling followed me into the studio I've created here also. I don't even need to actually be making art. Something about just being surrounded by tubes of paint, stacks of canvases, aluminum cans filled with brushes, stashes of pastels and pencils, and mildly toxic studio odors...well, it has a way of putting me at ease in a way that nothing else can.

And Viscosa...she'll follow me just about anywhere. She's an art cat.

Part III: The Birthday Party.

Last, but not least...since today is my brother-in-law's 39th birthday, a little celebration was in order! This is the crown that A. (my 5 year old niece) and I made. Unfortunately, glue dripped down onto the birthday boy's forehead during dinner. He might be wearing patches of pink construction paper to class tomorrow morning, but I'm sure his college students would love it.


Not only did I help make a crown, but W. (my 7 year old nephew) instructed me on the subtle arts of making spring rolls.

...and, dang, they were good (uuh--I think I ate too many).

After making plate-fulls of spring rolls, my sister gave her kids a geography lesson of Spain. According to her, even wine makes for a good learning opportunity. ha! I can't help but agree. The wine tasted good, too.

Sunday Plans:

Besides helping my brother-in-law celebrate his birthday and maybe even going to get a Christmas tree (?), I have big plans to update my blogroll. I'm writing this here as a reminder to myself because it has been a very, very long time since I last updated it. I've been missing out on some great blog-reading because of my slowness in getting around to it.

ooh...maybe I'll even paint, too. I need a break from work. I need a break from my miiiiind.

The Doodle Cure.

Meet my new doodle notebook...


...it cures bouts of over-seriousness.

Yesterday's post is gone.

Where did it go? Oh well. It said that I am thankful. And I am.

My Own Private Coffee Shop.

For some strange reason, I have the day off. But you won't hear me complaining about that.

I've made a promise to myself to write for 3 solid hours today...no matter what kind of garbage it produces. I've already squandered the morning away by taking Anu for a walk, taking an extra long shower, reading a few pages of yet another book, falling asleep for a half hour in the process, and then taking Anu for another walk and playing catch with her in the backyard to wake my tired brain from its slumber.

My latest plan was to go to a coffee shop where there are less distractions and more caffeine to keep me focused on the task at hand. But, for the life of me, I don't feel like biking my lazy ass all the way there. Anyway, it would take at least 20 minutes each way--wasted time, if you ask me. Or maybe that's just an excuse, but whatever...

The solution?
I've moved my laptop to another corner of the house where I don't usually write. Then I went in the kitchen and made myself a latte. Of course, I had to pretend that I ordered it and someone else made it for me. I made it a little extra frothy and sprinkled cinnamon on top for added effect...and alas, I have my latte, my computer, and 3 hours of writing ahead of me. I'll duct tape myself to this chair if necessary. Distractions be damned!

Freytag Mountain.

These days, I'm reading so many books all at once that I think I've lost track of what exactly it is I'm reading. It's always a bad sign when life gets haphazard in this way. So what do I do? I pick up another book. Mostly, I do this when I write...or, more specifically, when I'm trying to write. I start looking towards outside sources for insight and inspiration...and it rarely works.

I've spent a large portion of the day staring at my computer screen and thinking of my former fiction professor, Will Weaver. Actually, I haven't so much been thinking about him as I've been thinking about him drawing story form diagrams on the chalk board--over and over and over. In hindsight, I appreciate the repetition of his simple lesson. Had he not drawn that line a hundred times I might not remember it now. I can't help but wonder how many times he drew it, the long upward sloping line towards the climax of the story and then the sharp fall of the resolution, in the course of his teaching career. His diagrams were based on the Freytag pyramid of conflict, rising action, crisis, falling action, and resolution; but Will had a way of making rising action look like the longest, windiest hill in the whole universe. I used to sit in class staring at the chalkboard and imagine myself trudging up a forever grassy incline, pulling the oversized red-wagon of my story behind me. I imagined that I could not rest for fear that my precarious load might roll back down to the bottom of the hill without me. Conflict, conflict, conflict, CLIMAX, resolution. It all felt so futile and difficult and depressing. My imaginings rarely made it to the top of the hill before mental fatigue would set in and I was forced to park my thoughts mid-hill with rocks wedged under the wheels while I waited for better weather or a tow truck that never came.

Because I was never able to successfully pull off the basic dramatic structure of fiction I, somewhere along the lines, simply decided that I'm not a fiction writer. Ok, good enough. I'm not a fiction writer. I write creative nonfiction and poetry. Well, ok...in all honesty, these days, I only write nonfiction. Fine. But the problem, I'm realizing, is that I STILL don't know how to climb the hill (or mountain!) successfully, enjoy a decent climax, and then smoke a cigarette afterwards.

My point is: in terms of narrative structure, the needs of creative nonfiction are not necessarily ANY different than fiction. Sure, there's lots of room for creative leeway (in any genre), but at this moment I'm standing at the bottom of the hill wondering which direction I should go.

I'm feeling stupid and amazed by how much I still have to learn about writing. And I know there will never be an end to it, but...

damn.

How does it work?

Meet "Sully," salamander extraordinaire!

This is "Sully."

I give gkgirl credit for his name since it was her suggestion (it fits perfectly, what can I say?!). But since the rest of the animal kingdom that inhabits the book store is named after literary characters, I've decided that Sully should be able to bask in the sun of literary achievement as well.

And so it shall be...this humble little salamander has hereby been dubbed "Sully" after the French poet, Rene Francois Armond Prudhomme (aka "Sully Prudhomme"), winner of the first Nobel Prize in Literature in 1901 "in special recognition of his poetic composition, which gives evidence of lofty idealism, artistic perfection and a rare combination of the qualities of both heart and intellect."...sounds like our kind of guy!

But maybe I'm not telling you enough. You see, what this little salamander represents is the making of a dream. Every year the bookstore gives out free books to their customers during the christmas season. This year we are giving out The Salamander Room because, in a way, it is the story of this particular children's bookstore. It started as a wee little vision and, little by little, grew and grew into what it is now. It is a bookstore with charm and character and an extremely large dose of originality.

What I've experienced working at the bookstore is that it is a place that is loved...by many. I mean, people travel half way across the country just stop in because they have fond memories of visiting when they were young--and I don't blame them! Dang, this is starting to read like an infomertial. I should get a raise for writing this stuff! But it's true. The Wild Rumpus started out as a dream and grew into something with a heart. And that's what Sully the Salamander is meant to represent.

But, you know, it's funny what happens in the process of art making...the way a connection forms between myself and the object I'm creating because...I must say: I've grown quite fond of little Sully.

He makes me feel like anything is possible.

lately, i've been making a lot of artwork for the bookstore. and i'll admit, i'm enjoying it profusely.

yesterday i drew a poster for c.'s story hour...except that i inadvertantly did a self-portrait! oops. i swear, i didn't mean to. big nose, fat eyebrows, blue eyes...yeah, it's pretty much me, with red hair. v.'s been teasing me ever since and tried to get me to buy red hair dye. actually, it might not be such a bad idea. what do you think? heh.

if nothing else, i am working in new mediums and not only loving it, but learning a lot. for this piece i used pastels, colored pencils, and acyrlic paints. i've never really used pastels and colored pencils very much in the past...but i really like the way the combination works together and how it allows for both soft and saturated effects. it's interesting how these little projects have the potential to influence my personal artwork in big ways. i love getting paid to do these things...and i love that i'm learning something in the process. who knew?

* * *

ok...but today's artwork ranks up there as some of the strangest i've ever done:

i'm sculpting a salamander
huh? yes, a salamander.

and when i'm done, he's going to live in the front window display with copies of The Salamander Room. and although he's still a work in progress...

this is him in the oven:

and this is him after the oven

i've never sculpted (let alone baked!) a salamander before! we'll see. he's already suffering from a few minor cracks. hopefully he'll survive. when he cools off i'll paint him orange with brown dots and add a nice shallacking of varnish to make him look wet. oh, and my not-so-small salamander needs a name. i'll have to think on that one...because i'm already growing fond of the little guy. awwww.....

this is, quite likely, the weirdest, most interesting job i have ever had. thank god.