Written to Delicate by Taylor Swift

Current books I am immersed in:  Walden by Henry David Thoreau, Winesburg, Ohio by Sherwood Anderson, Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince by J.K. Rowling, and Tuck Everlasting by Natalie Babbitt

A caveate:  I will now be including the music I am listening to and/or the book(s) I am reading.  I feel this serves as a mulch for my blogging garden.  

So this week I had the idea to give my small New Monkees’ fan audience a sneak peek of my musings.  This week I introduced Larry Saltis or rather gave fans a glimpse of him.  The man, rather than his image.  This was an opportunity to stretch my wings a bit.  Well, both stretch and restrict as I could only afford a few paragraphs.

Larry came out smoothly since I didn’t give him a second thought.  He is easier to write at the moment. His muse is ready, developed, and eager to speak.

I cast a vote to folks to see who they wanted to hear about next.  Currently it is neck and neck between Marty and Dino.  No doubt because the two of them are part of the fan page.  I am interested to see how the votes will turn out.  The next step will be figuring out how to squeeze huge observations and countless metaphors into just a few paragraphs.  Admittedly, the other 3 men will prove more difficult to narrow down since so many of their distinctive qualities should be set aside for the book.

So I have to reside on a more general description. An “if you could describe Marty, Jared, or Dino in one or two words what would it be?” kind of question. Then go from there.

The cool thing is that folks are getting excited to find out more about these guys and in turn, me.  This is where I build trust in my readers.  This is also where I attempt to pass muster with Dino and Marty.  It is rather surreal to describe someone when that very same someone is reading your every word.  It will be my attempt to introduce them to people,  not just in relation to myself but in relation to their own lives. Will the guys still trust me after this?  We shall see.

(written to Ghost Story by Sting)

The homeschool day has ended and paper, pencils, books, are strewn everywhere. To be honest I am exhausted.  I am teacher, and mother, and wife, and biographer.

I crave a routine I really do.  However, I realize that I just don’t work that way.  Routines bore me quickly.  My mind craves spontaneity and laziness and hours of work, and then nothing.  It is something I need to understand within myself.

I listen to music and cry and write while sobbing.  I do that a lot.  So much of my emotion is built into my words.

I am writing a book and it is not at all like giving birth like they say. No, it isn’t at all.  No, with birth your body takes over and your mind doesn’t have to pay any attention to it.  The cells divide, the hormones are released, and the body grows and changes.  The mind can be left to its own business and worries.  It can happily dream or think about bills or watch a movie or whatever other things that plague the mind.

And the body is delighted with this. The body loves a pregnancy. It knows. It moves things in right directions.  It knows blood types and what goes where and what doesn’t cross over.  There are little slights in the formula from time to time but the process is the same.

A book, however, is the mind’s business, not the body’s and the mind is woefully behind.  The mind carries too much in it already.  Daily living, relationships, loves and losses, arguments, insecurities.  So much mess and involvement.  The mind has this in there.

So me, Amy, one writer, one insecure emotional writer shuts out the world with music but then the music makes her (me) cry and I have to stop.  The mind too will take itself off on tangents and fantasies and thoughts that make no sense.

So then the rational side steps in and reigns me back and puts me back to the screen but the dreamer wanders off again.

Until finally the two can merge together. The dreamer and the doer.   Like a wild horse with a patient rider.  They move fast together and flow.

It is way too easy to get caught up in the romance of writing without actually writing and then your kid comes in and tells you the toilet is clogged (again) and you are sitting in a room that needs cleaning, with unmade bed and dirty clothes.  And you look at the window as the sun goes down.

Writing is such a mess and sometimes not so beautiful.  Sometimes it is just messy and cruel and unforgiving.  The words don’t come and the obligations pile up and you eat an apple and just blog to get it all off your chest.

This book will take me many days and no, it is not like giving birth. Not in the least.  There is no wonderful lovemaking at the start of it and there is no joyful crying at the end of it.  A book just is, and you send it out there, and there it goes.  And it doesn’t grow up like a child. Your words are on the page and they remain there fixed and stagnant.  People like it or not, they read it or not, and you move on with your life, and that is it.

Eugene is quite a unique place I am finding.  She is beautiful and green, always ready to grow.  She is a place that accepts both young and old, rich and poor.  There are people asleep on her streets in the cold, then others who walk up and offer them a blanket.  There are shelters and volunteer organizations. There are conversations over coffee, made by anarchist feminists.  The coffee angry, filled with piss and vinegar but the sweet rolls delightfully yummy and buttery.

Okay, on to my next paragraph where one sentence has to connect to the other.  Eugene is filled with art and organic markets, fast food chains, and small businesses.  Her weather is unpredictable as it should be.  One day she will decide to shine her sun, the other day she will rain, the other day she will snow, but nothing will last for long but simply flow from one thing to the next.

And her people dressed in hiking boots and warm jackets, or dressed in armor, or dressed in black covered in tatoos.  Men puttering around with long bushy bears and notebooks trying to find that exact right phrase.  Women with a message and a dream.  Healthy food rules the day and the ever growing of  nature as the moss creeps up the buildings and the grass breaks through the sidewalk.

Moisture and mold are ever present here and some people accept it, letting their lawns overflow and their old homes sink into the ground.  They decorate their houses with colorful Christmas lights and fill their lawns with old tools and discarded cars. Then the others whose houses are neat and tidy with clean lines and wide open windows.  Perfectly manicured lawns and tidy garages. Then all of those people climb on the bus service and head to destinations unknown.

There are little theatres and beautiful athletic clubs recycled and renewed from something else.  This is a place to just be, to make your stand, or go to bed, to read a book or make a difference.

The library is filled with children and homeless. The smell of sweat and stale alcohol mixed with the smells of baby shampoo and sour milk.  They simply pass through each other.  A homeless man spreading his entire existence on a table on a cold day.  A mother breastfeeding her baby in the children’s section. Everyone moving around with each other like quiet cars on a freeway or ships in the night. Whatever silly metaphor you can put to it.

The teenagers and young adults crowd around at the bus stop spitting on the ground and make plans for the weekend.  The trains run through the station and the whistles sound through the night.  The used art shop opens and sells things for a dime.

And the food is wonderful and filled with love. That is the best thing about this place.  You could get lost in the food and pass the day endulging in it.  There is a Japanese restaurant in a basement where armored men reign and get their own tables and camp out in red lit rooms, drinking sake and tea and talk about the fall of the Roman Empire.

How one man owns an old typewriter and hauls it around because the work of typing and getting the equipment to operate is just as lovely as the work that comes out of it.  All of it a sacred, quiet, and worthwhile act.

This is Eugene in all her glory.  I wonder how Thoreau would have seen her.

I have been to the little quiet and sleepy town of Dunsmuir before.  It was back when my son Sam was first born.  I remember staying at a little hotel by the road.  We packed his playpen and set it up next to us by the bed.

The day before yesterday we returned, and through a writer’s eyes it looks so much different.  There were several small business owners I had never taken notice of before.  Folks that managed hotels, restaurants, and bookstores.  Some lived on site or out of town but still, for me, it was fascinating.

I do not seek small town life and do not wish to seem patronizing in describing this little place off the freeway.  Folks live and survive in this town daily with their businesses and spotless restaurants, and with their day to day lives.  Truthfully, I would probably be labeled a “city girl” or most likely a crazy author slash cultural anthropologist there to observe and note.

I wonder sometimes if people are offended by the concept.  That they are true objects of fascination by others.  I wonder if people feel comfortable being studied and thought over.  Mused over as it were.

I immediately thought of Truman Capote and Harper Lee.  I wondered what Truman felt when he left Hollywood and traveled across country to that small town in Kansas.  I wonder what kind of conversations he and Harper had at the end of interviews.  As they both sat there either drinking or smoking cigarettes, typing up pages, and finding the much needed direction to write these small town folk.

I know, I know.  It is quite the transition from Dunsmuir to a Capote observation on his writings of “In Cold Blood.”  But yes, I do wonder about those conversations.  These two batting around ideas and bringing up nuances that the other may not have noticed.  This was not Harper’s book but she was a fellow writer and social commentator.  I would have loved to be a fly on the wall of those little highway motels they stayed in.

John and I are quite different in the way we move on.  I am finding that now, as I sit here typing. My mouth numb from cavity work, and right about to watch something enjoyable on the laptop.

We have lived in this house for over 7 years.  Our kids grew up here. Friends and family visited.  We hosted numerous dogs here.  We had wonderful times here.

There are boxes all over the place here now.  Boxes to replace bare floors and carpets.  The walls no longer hold our beloved pictures. They too are bare.  All the dust bunnies and crumbs have now arrived. The carpet is covered with them.  This is no longer a “lived in” house but a house in transition.  A house that seems anxious to get us out and bring the next family in.

This matches me exactly.  I am ready to move on to our next adventure. No doubt I am probably in a bit of shock, perhaps a bit numb (along with my mouth!). I know I am shielding myself from emotions.  However, I have done this before.  I know these emotions will come once we are settled in our new place.  Once our mattresses have been laid down and the next garage filled with boxes.  I know that is when the tears will come.  When I will think, “Wow, I miss what I had so much.”

I will think about all the little nooks and crannies in this house.  Our bedroom, the great room downstairs, the bathtubs, the closet under the stairs, and our backyard.

My husband chooses to grieve now.  Make his peace with things.  He plays melancholy music and sits outside to watch sunsets.

I instead choose upbeat music and creature comforts.  No obvious reminders of what we are leaving behind.  To me it is a simple, “On to better things.”  Friends get reminded that, “Hey, we have Facebook!”  My books and journals are my constant companions.  My security blankets that I get to bring along with me.  That provide that grounding that I need that I am not really leaving anything at all.

I guess this has been the way I have always done things.  I have remained stoic during times of immediate stress.  I have remained calm and collected and eventually when the time is right, I cry.

So now it is time to watch some good TV and have a great dinner.

Today was the first day of our garage sale.  A chance to par down par down all the stuff we have.  Needless to say we have a hell of a lot of stuff,  way too much.

The garage floor was filled with old plastic bins, clothes, books, toys, purses, kitchen stuff, scrapbook stuff, stickers, shoes, and ever so much etcetera etcetera.  John and I woke up at 6:30am and by 6:50am  people were already circling outside our house.  We were due to “open” at 7:30am.

We quickly hauled everything out.  Three rows of piles and disorganization on the driveway, and a huge mountain of stuff in the garage.  We didn’t have time to properly organize it before the crowds came.

The people rifled, placed aside, sorted through, bargained, pulled out wads of cash, and hauled it away.  My goodness, it was the best feeling in the world.  Truly, one man’s junk is another man’s treasure.  I sent a little girl off with a Madame Alexander doll with tags.  I sold it to her for 5 bucks with the advice to try selling it on Ebay.  I didn’t care.  That doll sat in a box for ages and now it was time for a little girl to properly enjoy her, or at least get good money for her.

Once we had a few minutes of breathing room, I zoomed off to pick up some doughnuts.  7:30am on a Saturday hosts an entirely different crowd then in the afternoon.  This was breakfast and coffee time.  It was relaxing on a Saturday time.  It was deliciously chilly and I was bundled up in jacket and cap.  When I returned to the house complete with many a doughnut, I headed back in to make us some coffee.

My plan was to set up a little table and chairs for us to nosh at whilst folks meandered.  However, John had already sold our card table so that was out of the question.  I grabbed our little lounge chairs and made camp.

We sold a lot of stuff today.  It felt good.  Selling so many of my books was the best.  I loved to watch people sort through them and grab a big stack.  At a quarter a book, who wouldn’t?

Definitely a fun day.  When the day was done I organized the leftovers into their own boxes for easier shopping tomorrow.

Now to rest, eat, sleep, and do it all over again on Sunday!

Last night I said goodbye to some dear friends as I move on to the next chapter in my life.  As I look over my life thus far I realize that I have done this several times now.  I stay in one place for awhile, sometimes years and years, then decide it is on to the next place.

I have always called my husband and I nomads.  We are.  Perhaps both of us have a touch of the bohemian or the gypsy.  Actually, at the age of 44, I realize that it is not a question of perhaps, it is a known fact.

When I first moved to this area I thought, okay this is where I can really put down roots.  I planned to stay here in southern California for good this time.  However, deep down I knew that although I would plant my seeds in the ground,  I would eventually leave.  I secretly knew that I would see that seed grow into a beautiful and strong oak. Quite capable of taking care of itself.  I knew I would make lifelong friendships, and then it would be time for me to go.

My stay here in Temecula has been pretty amazing.  So many stories and good memories.  So many friendships made.  I am  so grateful to social media  because I can keep and nurture all those friendships still.  They are now another addition in my beautiful patchwork quilt of a life.  Each person unique with their own story that I can look back on and reflect, appreciate, and learn from.

So as I left my friends last night, after our twice yearly sojourn at our local downtown bar, I yelled out for all to hear, “It’s been a great 8 years!  Goodnight and on to better things.”

Goodnight, Temecula, and goodnight my friends. I love you all!  See you on Facebook!

We only have a couple of weeks left before we leave California.  Yesterday was back to school to keep things as routine as possible.  At the end of the month it will be pack up and drive up to Oregon.  Our new home for the next few months.

It was a wonderful day yesterday. There was so much rain.  It felt good to get back on the school routine again.  No more sleeping in but up at 7:40 to bathe, get clothes on, get Frank’s clothes out, lunch making, and breakfast making.  Then that blissful 45 minutes or so to have my breakfast, do my reading and writing, enjoy my coffee, and then homeschooling with Sam.

Yesterday Sam and I learned about Albert Einstein and Isaac Newton.  We read, answered questions, had discussions, and watched informative videos.  All the learning materials, the pencil boxes, the notebooks, the calendars and clipboards, tucked away in our large red laundry basket.

At 3:00 it was time to end the homeschool day and head off to go pick up Frank at school.  It was still pouring.  I passed the time reading The Promise by Chaim Potok, enjoying the warmth and dry of our little old car.

Yup,  a typical school day at the Collen house, at least until the end of the month!

My redefined life does not come without struggles and setbacks. There is so much going on in my life at the moment.  Moving is by far the biggest thing.  I am closing one chapter and beginning a new one.  It is grand and exciting on one hand but that small part of me still yearns to go back and reread the chapter previous.

I run hot water under my hands to refocus me and ground myself.  Last night I dreamt that I was shaping an oval ball of dough into a perfectly round one.  I realized it is a metaphor for my life right now.  My goal is the round ball. The perfect circle.  Not a perfection, no flaws, no mistakes one.  No, rather just a “roll with it” kind of circle.

Yes, I am still an oval.  I imagine an oval tire.  No doubt it would work like a quick and slow, quick and slow movement.  The slow parts hard, the quick parts easy but way too fast.

However, like I said, my dream sent me the image of dough.  That it will eventually be molded into a circle.  I am getting there.

A lot of dead skin around here.  It comes in so many forms.  Things that when purchased were alive and clear to me, they have lived their life.  Now they have died.

I am getting rid of so many things.  Things I found in stores, things that were given to me, things I picked up for a steal at a garage sale.  I just throw them all in a pile.  A useless pile.

It feels good actually.  Yesterday I spent the day in our master closet.  I found myself going through my clothes (again) and weeding them down more and more.  A lot of my clothes, although still my size, don’t seem to fit me right anymore.  They don’t seem to match the ideal I have in my head.

My bold colors, my blacks, dress pants, old dresses, I am just taking all of them out. I have worn them, now I am done.

The pile outside our bedroom gets higher and higher.  While my belongings, that which I still have a connection to, or feel good about, is growing ever smaller.

I found old purses filled with memories from my trip to Boston and New York.  The pilgrimage I made to pursue my artistic dream.  I quickly grabbed all those tickets, receipts, conference passes, and held them to me.  I then shoved all of this into a little bag.  A stitched picture of a young woman is on this tiny bag.  She is sitting at a table drinking a cup of coffee and holding a book.  The inscription below reads, “Book Worm.”

A true book worm is what I am becoming.  Perhaps more of a book butterfly.  Books and writing are defining my life.  This accepted definition will no doubt come with different clothing and different “stuff”.   Soft browns and faded pinks.  Everything slightly weathered and loved.  I see flowers in my hair and worn boots.  A delicate and well worn shabbiness and openness.

I like it.