The Meaning of Gold

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Well…this is it. Five days left for me in California and needless to say the packing up, the trashing, the shredding, the giving away of possessions that I would have preferred to keep but couldn’t because of lack of space in my daughter’s apartment, has been both a nightmare and mournful passage.

I’m not big on things. I don’t own a theatre-size plasma TV or wall-to-wall designer furniture. Lovely as they are, they are luxuries, pretty possessions that merely take up space and I know will be harder to pack the next time around. A time for me which is now and a time which does seems to be cropping up more and more these days.

Which was okay when I was younger. I certainly had more stamina back then and the aches and pains would eventually fade away after a few hours. Now…they just stay.

It’s all good though because I’ve pretty much whittled this whole uprooting thing down to a science. I’m an efficient machine my mother can’t understand how I do what I do.
How I so easily pick myself up and just go. I let her think what she wants because I couldn’t bear her worrying about me. At 86 with an already failing memory, one that can’t sustain any real conversation of thought, sadly I say very little these days.

Not once have I surrendered to her how tough it really is. Transplanting one self goes far beyond the physical exertion. It bottoms down to a home is more than just four walls. It’s what you fill each of those rooms with. The gaps of spaces that comprise a life. The people you choose to bring in. For me it were those tiny nuggets of gold, the handful of women I somehow fortunately found—or should I say they found me—who enriched my day-to-day world with shoulders of steel, with laughs, with tears, and with lots of beers and martinis that might otherwise have been a humdrum of meaningless hours strung together and often times walked alone.

I cannot say how differently this chapter of my life would have turned out if I hadn’t meet them. But as I once again turn the page I’m realizing something I’ve thought about a lot these days: that over time and distance there are some things in life you can easily adjust yourself to and eventually learn to live with. Then there are other things, you never will.

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Sundays in my house

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Dee-Lish

Top of the morning to ya! Aahhhh . . . (yes, that’s me, exhaling a happy sound, coffee in one hand, cupcake in the other, stretching my legs out in front of the computer and the window, watching the sun ascend over the San Fernando Valley).

Sundays are such great days, aren’t they? I love its sluggish pace, its gentle breezes, and the way it stills the noisy chatter of the world to this peaceful quiet that I can hear the rush of my breath as it whumps in and out. Double aahhhh . . .

Yes, this is the one day when the universe and I are one. And no matter where I’m standing, it will always signify the end of one week, the beginning of another while looking outwardly from that pinnacle crossroads at all I’ve yet to accomplish, at all I hope I will.

While I’ve come to realize that at the end of the day it doesn’t matter much, for any of us, that who we aspired to be, didn’t happen. Because ultimately that person in the mirror staring back, is the person you’re supposed to be. You are the results of all those cataclysmic experiences—good, bad or indifferent. Anything more … well, those things will have to go back into the bucket list for Monday. Or perhaps that rainy day. Whichever comes first.

So there you have it. My thoughts and my for-whatever-the-hell-it’s-worth grandmotherly advice on this beautiful Sunday. Eat that piece of cake lovey! Live a little!

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Maybe this blog thing isn’t such a great idea

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Maybe I shouldn’t be blurting out whatever’s in my head for all the world to read. Hell, I don’t know if anyone will even be reading this. But for what it’s worth here it is—the uncensored thoughts, my thoughts on life, love and trying to be a novelist somewhere in between.

It’s hard. It’s brutal. Sometimes even frightening to the point ending it all seems the perfect solution. The only solution. But then I stop. I take a breath, I look around at all I have to lose, then slug on.

One day at a time.

I’ve always believed if I fill my life with the things I’m passionate about, I’d be happy. And for the most part it’s been true.

Right now I’m working on my first novel and so far it’s been a difficult birth. Long nights, weekends I labor, I agonize over these characters whose journey is as much mine as it is theirs. Yes, it’s been a long birth. Six years if we’re counting!

I know…

A bloody lifetime. And on one, fucking book no less! When I started this little project I had no clue, none, zip, what I was getting myself into. But now I do.

And in case you’re asking yourself: why then do it? Well…because I love it! Love it all, every second, every moment. And I couldn’t imagine myself doing anything else at this wonderful stage of my life. Besides, what’s a few years here and there if the damn thing turns into something great? Something that people would actually pay good money for and signify to my children that their mother wasn’t a total screw-up after all.

The way I figure it, time is just a ticking of the clock. A reminder when we look in the mirror that it stops for no one. Not even me.

So on that note, here’s my thought for the day:

When our hopes and dreams fall by the wayside we can’t mourn what isn’t. Not forever. That’s wallowing of the worst kind. The solitary thing keeping us crippled and unable to pick ourselves back up. So go find that window. Open it. Take in that breath of fresh air and remember: I can do anything!

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