Across from me on a faded blue green armchair, a very realistic toy gecko by the name of Message waits for The Girl’s return. Left here by mistake in her eagerness to pack up and go see Daddy, she will squeal with joy when she spots him sitting patiently in the chair. Off they’ll go for a bath in the bathroom sink and she’ll bathe him several times on Monday, not because he’s dirty, but because she’s learned to turn the water on and (mostly) off and can reach the sink all by herself when she uses her step stool. She drags the step stool around as well using it to stand on while she points and names things on her science charts.

I think the gecko is named Message because of a misunderstanding about how the brain sends messages to parts of the body through the nervous system. She can identify the major parts of the nervous system, but now that I’m thinking about, I’m not sure she actually understands what a “message” is. She knows people leave messages on her Momma’s cellphone. She knows the brain uses them. This is the problem with having a kid who absorbs everything faster than you can look it up. You end up with a blanket called DNA, a gecko named Message, and a kid who thinks that everyone should know their elements. The element chart is one of her favorites and she points at each of her favorite elements calling out their atomic number and asking what happens if you mix two random elements together (and since I didn’t study chemistry- ever- and never learned my elements, I scramble for answers and check out elements books from the Library after Wednesday Story Time).

There’s something unique about this child- something almost scary at how others react to her. It’s very rare that people who come in contact with her don’t leave happier and more at peace with themselves. They go out of their way to talk to her or give her something. There’s no way we can teach her not to talk to strangers because since she was tiny strangers have approached her. This summer when we were at the shore, we (seven adults) took her to the amusement park. While she was carrying two stuffed toys, a man leaped from his booth and ran to give her a teddy bear. The rest of the workers applauded his actions while we (the seven adults with the one kid) were totally puzzled. The child wasn’t sad, neglected, or being ignored. She was happily walking with adults who know and love her when this random act of kindness happened. This kind of thing happens ALL the TIME when you are with The Girl! The end result of this kind of behavior can be crippling. We could end up with a child who expects people to give her things for no logical reason or who thinks that she’s special and wants to be treated that way. Most of the time, she’s just a happy kid who is thrilled to talk to you and loves whatever you hand her. Once in a while, she is a cranky brat but that usually means nap time is coming up quickly.

The child is brilliant. She has a memory for people, places, events, and things that go back farther than a two- almost three year old should remember. She can tell you who gave her what when and why (if there is a why). She loves science currently. It’s replaced her love of Spiderman and Batman. She’s not into dolls, though lately, the Purple Guy (a small cotton purple guy) has been part of the things she wants with her at all times. She loves tiny things- things so small no child that young should be allowed to have- but she doesn’t put them in her mouth. She can count to five in English, Chinese, Spanish, and Japanese. Her Chinese tones impress native Chinese speakers. I’m not sure how many signs she knows since she only uses them with people who use sign language. She knows all the major Impressionistic painters and their works and can identify them when she sees them on the wall at the doctor’s office. I think she can read, but I can’t prove it. She thinks that books are for information and while she enjoys a good story, she’ll spend hours pouring over some non-fiction book way too old for her. She can retell a story and explain why a character did something. She knows all her letter sounds and has known her shapes (including the hard ones) for a year or longer. She loves big words. Her current favorite is “paleontologist”.

But she struggles with pedaling her tricycle and with doing simple puzzles. Learning to string beads was difficult. We work on fine motor skills every day and spend as much time as possible outside running around.

We have this on-going debate- is she a prodigy or does she simple work at learning things she loves and has people in her life who will indulge her every curious thought? I’m not sure there’s an easy answer. The child has a serious work ethic that she was born with. When we work in the yard, she won’t stop until the job is complete so I’ve learned to pick small tasks that can be accomplished. When she was learning to speak, she wanted to sit on your lap and have you name things in a book over and over until you were sick of the page. She tends not to answer or attempt something new until she masters it to her own satisfaction. People try to coax her through a task, but she resists, wanting to hear/see it repeatedly first. The first place she goes for knowledge is video- do you have a video of a kid singing in Chinese, NiNi? Where’s the video of the kid singing Chinese? Can we watch the video of the kid singing Chinese… and then… she’s singing in Chinese- tone for tone. My son says that because she doesn’t just “know” stuff, she’s not a prodigy. But how does anyone “know” stuff? Are prodigies born “knowing” stuff? I wonder… in the meantime, we all work at raising a “normal, happy child who just happens to love learning stuff”… and that’s not as easy as it sounds. You end up with things like geckos named Message watching you write- even if he startles you once in a while!

Found this when some ugly little spammer left a spamming comment on it and while I respect his right to do business, I wish he’d do it somewhere besides on my space…

The ugliness of this election is wearing on me more than most and I find myself grieving for the spirit of our people when we can say and do anything just to get the vote. Is this election important? Sure, but more important than being civil, trying to find an acceptable compromise, being a moderate, acting as a person of moral courage, and… in the end, we have to have a government that takes care of all of us. This election is being very costly- not just financially (which is obsene), but in the issues not discussed and the anger that can’t be unsaid. No matter who wins, we all lose at this point. And that makes me very sad… so don’t tell me why your guy should win… tell me it’s ok for your guy and his supporters to be so ugly…..

From November ’04…

My mother was a woman of fiery passion and it was a brave soul who dared challenge her. One of the things she was completely passionate about was her politics. Voting wasn’t a right or privilege, but an opportunity to prove her point.

I remember being left in the car to watch the younger ones while she “ran” in to vote on Election Day. It took forever. One time, furious at the wait, I waited until she was driving the gravel country road home before saying, “When I grow up, I’m never voting!” I ducked to miss the backhand, but she got me anyway.

Seeing the bruise on my face at supper, my father asked, “What’d you do?”

“She’s not voting when she grows up,” my still angry mother exploded.

I gauged the distance from her reach and myself and wondered if I should drop it. The odds were her favor.

“It’s useless and a waste of time,” I replied hotly, still angry about being slapped. Apparently, my self preservation streak wasn’t well-developed. She threw the thing closest to her hand, but I ducked under the table as the baby’s bottle hit the wall behind me and shattered. My brother started crying and I got the mop.

Side by side, we cleaned up the mess. More rational, she began to explain and explain and explain her views of voting.

It wasn’t that I didn’t know them. I have been taken to political rallies before I could walk and was one of those babies the campaigners kissed. I had met many politicians before I started kindergarten. Evening life centered around the news during the fall elections and my parents quit talking about who to vote for with each other by the time I was five.

Election Day was another holiday at our house, with a red, white, and blue theme (meaning the mashed potatoes were a sickly blue and dessert was red jello and whipped cream). She didn’t put us to bed on Election Night, leaving that task to us for a change. She didn’t want to leave the TV set until the results were in, and as long as you were watching the election results, you could stay up late.

My mother apologized for her outburst and I accepted her apology, and then she said, “Some people said that you don’t discuss two things with people- religion or politics, but I say, those are the only two things worth discussing at all. What people believe about religion and politics shows you their heart.”

TODAY … so while I’ll vote again this year, I wonder if this election is really showing us each other’s hearts, and it’s not a pleasant sight!

The Catalyst… the event near the beginning of the story that triggers the rest of the story. Life changing. Critical. If this doesn’t happen, there is no story… so… ok… I have a gem of a killer of an idea for a new young adult story. The “what-if’s” are firmly established. The characters are beginning to show themselves- their true selves. But I can’t figure out what triggers the story. Part of it is because I can’t figure out exactly what kind of story it will be. If it’s a fantasy, then all kinds of major events can be triggers. But if I want a contemporary fiction, then it has to be more realistic. It’s ok that I don’t have the trigger yet because this story is so new that it’s more of a faded dream than a story currently. But, as I begin to do the back story work, if I can’t figure out the catalyst, then there is no story.

All this makes me look at real life. You hear so many stories. Everyone has one to tell… I got sick, I lost my job, I had a miscarriage, I failed at school or love, I…. something happened that changed the direction of my life. It’s only when you look back that you can see what a profound impact an event had on your life. The decisions you made, the feelings, the work, and yet… you survived…. hmmmm…. still thinking…. *wanders away lost in thought!*

Last week was an unusual week since I had the Girl Wed, Thurs, Friday overnight before returning her to her Momma, and then Monday and Tuesday this week. Today is the first day that it’s been just me and the cat and while I had a ton of things I wanted to work on- the new Romance novel is begging for time, the new YA novel wants development time, and it would be very NICE if someone (anyone) would do MORE than sweep and run the cleaner (which wasn’t highly productive since the Girl needed her own broom so she could walk in my dirt and spread it out and wanted to use my vacuum cleaner since hers was upstairs) so I guess it would be nice if even those tasks were redone, I’ve been distracted. The electricity guys were in my back yard again (but they’ve been there so often this summer, it’s not a surprise to see them anymore.) The sun was shining. The cat threw up in front of the patio door when I wouldn’t let him out. I needed caffeine. And then I realized… it was too quiet. No one singing in the background. No one talking about science or toys or where something is. No one wanting a snack, a drink, or needing to go potty. I’ve become acclimated to life with a two year old. Today was story time at the Library, but I didn’t have a reason to attend since the Girl was with her momma at the Pumpkin Show. The good news is that I have two more days of quiet this week so maybe I’ll actually get some work done this week after all. In the meantime, I’m off to create a dish that uses butternut squash and scallops.

I’ve not been here in forever. I think about coming here, but get distracted and forget, but I hadn’t realized that it had been almost a year…. hmmm…. so what I have been doing over the last year? Well, I have the two year old granddaughter three days a week so we color, fingerpaint, count, go to storytime at the library, working on riding a tricycle (why is steering so hard?), and play play play. I’m teaching writing one morning a week to a group of Homeschoolers and that hour is one of my favorite hours of the week. And… of course, I’ve been writing…. sooooo…. how about you? What’s new?

The knock came in the night, the knock she knew was coming but couldn’t figure out how to avoid, the knock that would change her life and take her only child’s life as well. In comparison, the expensive, irreplaceable, museum quality pieces that were smashed beyond repair were minor. They took everything she had worked for and they destroyed most of it- the books, the music, the china, her home. It was a sin to own things of beauty from past times. It was a sin to have so much when so many have so little. It was a sin to live in such a large house that her grandfather had worked his whole life to pay for. It was a sin to be a thinker, a rational human being who knew that people had different gifts and talents and that you needed to study to be a good doctor. You needed to study to even administer first aid safely, but all logic was gone- a thing of the past, like her priceless belongings and her only child- murdered in a disciplining action for the wealth of her mother that went too far. They took Nien Cheng to be shamed and imprisoned for her wealth, for her comfort, for her work history. She was evil and a sinner, and she never knew when they’d quit playing with her and kill her like they did so many before her. “I’m innocent,” she proclaimed repeatedly. “I have taken care of the poor all my life. I have fed those around me who were hungry. I have treated everyone with respect.”

But they didn’t care. She had more than they did and that was wrong. She must have done something wrong to accumulate so much. Nien Cheng tells of her imprisonment, of how they took her to see a doctor when she was sick, but he was a peasant boy playing doctor, because everyone was equal- with peasants being more equal than others. Everyone can do anyone else’s job, Mao preached, and the untrained peasant trembled as he pretended to treat her. He knew that he wasn’t a doctor and he made up a treatment based on illnesses he’d seen in his village as a boy. But he couldn’t study the medical books he needed to be a real doctor. They were gone, burned. You didn’t need knowledge in his world. You just needed to be a poor peasant from a poor village.

The Cultural War didn’t begin as a movement to destroy knowledge, learning, talent, or beauty. Its roots go much deeper than that. Before the communists took power in China, corruption and inflation ran rampant as the country was plundered by a leadership who wanted things their own way. The needs of the people and the country were secondary at all times, and the people fell deeper in debt, deeper in sorrow until they became to believe the promises made by those who said things had to change- and things changed. Their world was turned upside down. Right was wrong, wrong was right, smart was stupid, stupid was smart, beauty was ugly, ugly was beautiful, and rich were poor and the poor stayed poor- because some things never change. The new leadership, however, became wealthy, proving again that some things never change.

The causes of a devastating movement like The Cultural Revolution weren’t obvious and simplistic while the consequences were far reaching and crippling. I see some of those roots in the anger burning in America today-  dividing us by class, rhetoric, things, and knowledge. We can reject the experiences of a civil rights leader who lead confrontations where he was fire hosed, attacked by police dogs, and beaten until even the men doing the beating became ashamed of themselves, because he isn’t one of us. He can teach us nothing. We can gather on someone else’s private property without their permission because they shouldn’t own it, they shouldn’t be allowed to have more than four rooms in their house, they are evil because they have worked all their life for the things they have. We can’t feed the homeless, though, because they are taking from us without giving something in return- they aren’t part of us.

I hear the anger and I worry. We talk about the 1%, but when the 1% is gone- their businesses destroyed, their families ruined, and they’ve fled for safer place, who’s next? The man who has an RV in his driveway or the woman driving a Hummer? They both use more than their share of our valuable resources. They are evil too. And then… who? Where do you draw the lines when the mob is being ruled by mob think? When it’s more important to take a stand even when it means that innocent people can’t work and won’t have a needed paycheck with money they counted on to pay their bills? When the real issues of poverty and joblessness aren’t dealt with since it is easier to point fingers at people we think have more than their fair share, and it’s cool to take a leave of absence from school and go protest. Protest what, I ask? What do you stand for? What do you want to accomplish? Where is your heart and your belief system? What do you want? And I fear the answer is… we want what you have so give it to me. I have a right to it and you don’t. And there is the root of the class warfare that is beginning in our own land. We are becoming a nation of people who feel entitled, not a country of people in charge of their own destiny. There is a lot wrong here, and a ton of things need fixing, but we have a method that kind of works. How about we use that? Otherwise, the knock on the door will come to all who own anything of value and we will find ourselves lost in our own cultural revolution.

And if you think I’m overstating it, it’s time to read the story of one woman who survived the cultural war with very little of importance- except an important reminder to all of us… read Nien Cheng’s story, “Life and Death in Shanghai”. We have to learn from the recent history around us or we may lose it all.

One of my Xangas has been being spammed a lot lately- with people who have made xanga accounts just so they could leave spam on my Xanga- much to my disgust. The one they’ve been hitting all week is one I’ve not used in a couple of years and I logged on tonight to shut it down, but I couldn’t bring myself to do so- even though I’ve moved most of the content to another xanga awhile ago. Finally decided to change the security settings so only friends can leave comments on it- not that anyone has in years- and began thinking about how hard it is to shut down something I don’t even use anymore. I guess moving on isn’t something I do well. Not sure that’s a bad thing, it just is what it is…

Does it surprise anyone that I have more than one xanga (six- maybe seven, I think- some I used during a real emo period and haven’t looked at since and some are just for my Asian media obsession (which hasn’t gone away- I just have less time to feed it lately). I have other blogs in other places as well, but I tend to return here.

Why so many Xangas and blogs? I’m not sure. I remember going through a time before I started writing full time where I had so much to say that one blog wouldn’t hold it all. Now that I’m writing fulltime, I have less to say and even less time to say it. Look at this space. I’ve not been here forever. I’ve been writing a blog in my mind for weeks though (this isn’t it- I’m sure it’ll show up soon.)

When I look at some of the other blogs, the emotions and memories they evoke are fresh and real. I remember writing that, thinking that, doing that… when was that? Holy Cow! That was a long time ago! Where did time go? I read the blog tonight where I first thought about writing a screenplay for Van Ness- it was barely a germ of an idea back then, and the idea is one I rejected early in the process, but the five things I said it had to include are in the current version of the screenplay nobody will read. Over five years– and back then it was a simple “what if”. Since then, I’ve written two more and am working on #4. I’ve spent hours learning how to write a screenplay, watching movies, and talking to other screenwriters. Now I’m learning how to write all the marketing tools that accompany a screenplay. Plus, I’ve rewritten, retitled, reworked Van Ness’ at least four times and it’s much better now- much stronger. And the crazy thing is that I wrote a TV pilot for the first idea I rejected- now there’s something I should revisit someday.

Anyway… can’t promise I’ll visit here as often as I did in the past, but I know I’ll be back… frequently. That’s just the way I am… live with it!

What I’m learning recently…

1. It’s easier to go potty if you go naked all the time
2. It’s really hard to learn to pull underwear up and down… so just go naked
3. The older you get, the harder it is to do everything
4. Conflict is like a rollercoaster, with ups and downs
5. If everyone is nice, that’s nice, but it makes a boring movie
6. I can remember what movies some obscure Asian American actor has been in (and have seen them), but I have NO clue about his co-actor
7. The idea is often better than reality, and making reality match the idea takes skill and talent, and sometimes I have neither
8. We didn’t used to worry about Hurricanes so much before Katrina- they were a fact of life in the fall… now, we all go a bit crazy
9. I hate painting ceilings- actually, I already knew that, but painting my parents’ new house reminded me
10. I still jump when my father calls my name- irregardless of what I’m doing- and then I find myself holding an end of something, climbing a ladder, stuff I’ve not done since I was a kid
11. If you have the beginning and the end of a screenplay, the middle doesn’t write itself
12. I hate gardening– why does the outdoors have so many bugs?
13. The more I learn, the more I don’t know
14. Character drives conflict so move your character to place where there’s more people and watch the conflict level rise- get your character out in public- he/she’ll hate it as much as you do
15. Just when I think I’ve learned HOW to do something, I discover the missing piece… and I have to learn HOW to do that too!
16. People I admire are often hated by others in the same field for no apparent reason
17. Losing sucks… even if it does make you a better writer and a stronger person
18. So does accumulating rejection slips
19. Xanga is always here. People talk about it dying and going away, but it never does
20. If you say “help”, people will quit talking and pay attention to you, but while it works for a 21 month old, it’s a bad strategy for adults- even though some adults use it way too often
21. It’s nice when you can clean out your basement and garage by taking boxes to your parents, but you hope that they don’t save them for your next move because you’re a little sick of moving right now
22. Cars always require a bit more $$ than you have at the time
23. Cars pretend to be cheaper than flying, but they lie
24. Bug spray is the required perfume in the summer in Ohio
25. Just because your lawn mowing kid went away to college doesn’t mean the lawn will mow itself now!

You? What’s new?

A row of trolls with wild colored hair stand guard on the
window sill, watching over the room, giving all who enter the evil eye. In the
corner is a rack carefully holding well-worn baseball caps. On the dresser is a
row of family pictures and next to that a storage container holds a stack of
magazines and VHS tapes. The small TV is blaring loudly. A poster, a “Go Cubs
Go!” sticker, some get well cards decorate the walls. Old Velcro sneakers are
abandoned in a wheelchair. He’ll never use either again. Four bottles of RC
wait near the bed, but they’ll not be opened by their owner. He no longer
drinks.

He coughs and coughs and moans slightly. When he opens his
eyes, it’s for a brief moment, and you can’t understand his guttural sounds.
The Parkinson’s took most of his speech months ago and he’s too tired to blink
once for yes or twice for no.

When my husband was growing up, he learned to play sports
from his Uncle Dan’ll. In front of the small farmhouse, in the weedy yard, Dan’ll
taught him to play baseball. Danny’s bat connected to the
ball and it went deep into the pasture regularly. While you feverishly searched
for the ball, Danny loped around the bases, taunting jeers and threatening the
loser with a trip to the quicksand down the road. The basketball hoop nailed to
the tree hummed with the sound of the ball hitting the rim and swooshing
through it. For the geeky kid whose father was too exhausted to play catch,
Daniel was a lifesaver and I’m not sure when my brilliant husband realized
there was “something different about Danny”, but it never mattered to him.
Danny was this big kid who told bad jokes, loved to tease, and accepted him
unconditionally. Danny was his best friend and big brother all wrapped up in
one body and nothing else mattered.

Danny graduated from high school and went off to college in
the nearby city, but came home shortly after, not quite the same. No one talked
about what happened, but Danny settled into life at the farm- studying modern
farming methods that would never be used on the land his mother owned, raising
a few cows, doing chores. We rarely saw him once we moved out East. Trips back
to Illinois were brief- once or twice a year- and as Grandma B got older, we
had to make a special effort to go out to the farm to see her and Danny since
it was too difficult for her to make the drive to my In-Laws.

But Danny was always thrilled to see us. He wanted to hear
what my husband was up to, and even when the science was beyond him, he
listened carefully. He talked about his cows and price of beef, the weather, if
the Cubs had a chance that year, and how the car was running.

I thought about all those too-short visits as we made one
last visit yesterday. As his sleeping becomes deeper, and it’s harder to roust
him to consciousness. When my husband tries to wake him, he doesn’t open his
eyes, as if he’s dreaming we’re visiting like old times- back when he could
still play ball and tell bad puns. His eyes open briefly when his sister
arrives and he seems to recognize my husband, but his hands shake badly and his
sounds have no semblance of communication.

 As we leave, we wake him one more
time and say our good-byes. I can’t listen to my husband’s words without tears
forming in my eyes. We walk out of the nursing home. The next time we see Dan’ll,
he’ll be dressed in his best clothes, his hair neatly combed, resting easily in
a silk lined coffin, his soul long gone. It’s a hard visit. There is a sense
that we should have made the trip earlier- when he would have enjoyed sitting
in the sun and shooting the breeze, but we were here to say good-bye, and I don’t
regret one minute of the long drive.

“Go home, soon, Dan’ll,” I think on the drive back. “Don’t
linger here. There is nothing here but pain. Go home. Duke is waiting for you,
his tail wagging. You have a new and perfect body waiting for you there. Go
home.”

The phone call came this morning, seven hours after we
arrived home from our eighteen hour day. Daniel, friend, brother, uncle, age
63, left his imperfect body behind July 18^th, 7am CST as the trolls
watched him take his last breath and go to a better place.

**Edit: Duke is Aunt Martha’s dog. There were countless dogs on Uncle Danny’s farm tho! Sorry for the confusion!

What’s new? Well, our ABQ house is going to be like new in 4-6 months as we recover from massive fire damage- new roof, new rafters, new drywall, new insulation, new tile, new carpet, new windows, new window treatments, new deck, new fence, new tree, new appliances, new bricks, new … new… new…

We got the call about 9:15 am (our time) on the second- shortly after the UPS guy woke up our neighbors to tell them that flames were coming out of the house next door and they needed to get out of their own houses. He also called the fire department. Forgetting the time difference, I called my ABQ friends to go check on the house and tell me how bad the damages were. One was out of town (and gracious about being woke up around 6:30 in the morning), and the other got the message later that morning and took a camera to the house. We were on the phone with our insurance company before the fire was out and found out that our renter was safely out of town, and then… we began the waiting process. We’re still waiting for reports and have finally been able to ask a couple of contractors to give us some estimates.

Doing this long distance means spending a lot of phone time (and bugging your friends for favors and hoping they won’t get sick of you by the end of the process). We will go out- but we’re waiting until it will do the most good. Just when that will be is anyone’s guess.

There was (is) some grieving over the loss, but then you realize that it’s just a house and it was insured and that no one was hurt. Rebuilding it will take time and it will go back on the market as soon as that’s done- and they promise me you won’t smell a hint of fire when they’re done.

They don’t know what caused the fire- maybe fireworks, maybe a dead plant on the deck exploded into flames, maybe aliens? We just don’t know. The swamp cooler was left on though and it pumped smoke throughout the entire house during the fire causing extensive smoke damage.

Our renter had renter’s insurance and her stuff is already out of the house. She won’t be back so we’re finishing up with her- trying to be fair and honest about it. She has some major expenses from the fire and has lost a lot of her belongings to smoke damage. We are focusing on the good and letting go of the bad as we try to not stress out about things we have no control over from so far away.

Anyway… I’m still around- kind of… working on a new screenplay and learning the ins and outs of writing a rom-com (which means watching lots of rom-coms!). Rom-coms are very different now than they were 10 years ago. They aren’t the classic romantic comedies, more of the raunchy sexy comedies. Love seems to be a lot more brutal in the 2000′s… more cynical and bitter.