A Hike, The Ocean and Not Dying Today - NaBloPoMo Day 2

Yesterday I wrote about figurative risk.

Today?

Literal - as in, I almost died kind of risk.

O.k., not really. But, I could have died...if you consider that death can happen at any time, especially when it is super inconvenient and it would have been TOTALLY inconvenient today...especially for me. 

I went hiking with Hubbypants today.

Historically, hiking has been a risky event when we do it together...because, we don't seem to speak the same language when it comes to things like distance and difficulty.

He'll say, "It isn't that hard and there's only, like, one medium(ish) difficulty hill." What he neglects to say is that he considers "medium" a mountain that takes us from sea level, through the troposphere and onward to tickling the bottommost level of the stratosphere. (Dude, I got an A+ in my college geography class, I know this shit).

O.k., not really - the part about Hubbypants (he isn't that extreme), but I totally DID get that A+ in geography.

However, Hubbypants' idea of difficult and my idea of difficult really are beings from different solar systems.

Hubbypants is training to hike Mount Whitney this summer, which...knowing him, he likely considers a medium hike. When he isn't doing training hikes with his buddies, he likes to hike the local trails with me. I've been walking lots of hills, so they don't scare me as much as they used to, especially when I already know the terrain of our hike. When I don't? I get a little nervous and contact 911 in advance so they can start warming up the 911 chopper to airlift me out.

But today? Today I took a risk and agreed to a hike because 1) it involved the ocean and 2) I'm insane and I love Hubbypants and he makes me like doing stuff with him, despite my efforts not to. I think he's slipping something into my coffee.

Well, it totally worked in my favor and was a fabulous hike. We traipsed over 7 miles with NO HILLS. I know! Fucking awesome!!! Although, I do want to go on record saying that I was totally willing to walk some hills, because they've proven to be ass shrinkers and...well...mine still needs some shrinking.

I'm so glad I took the risk and put myself out there, willing to face whatever incline lay in my path...and potential certain death. Let's not forget how close y'all came to losing me today - those cliffs TOTALLY could have given way, sweeping me out to sea to become a hearty snack for Jaws.

But, I'm a survivor, I am.

I'll leave you with these images of our day - commence with the jealousy...

 And so it begins...

It looks as if the cliffs are thirsty and swallowing the sea!

I sent Hubbypants in first, 'cause I'm not an idiot.

I know I can't outrun the Kracken, unless its busy eating someone other than me.

Sometimes, sacrifices have to be made.

I love you, Hubbypants and I would have totally missed you!

He survived, I guess the Kracken wasn't hungry. Whew....close call...

Rugged California coast

Poor wittle rock...all alone on the beach, no one to play with.

Anyone else see the squat little face wearing a top hat as it rises from the sea?

No?

No one sees that?

Not even just a little, like if you squint your eyes and look at it sideways?

What if you do all of the above AFTER a shot or 3 of tequila?

Still no?

Yeah...um...I don't see it either.

As soon as Hubbypants was done hogging the view,

I went out there to look. 

Which, when you have a touch of vertigo, can be just downright stupid.

See, taking risks and living to tell the tale. 

Risk

Where will it lead you?

Risk Schmisk - Diving into NaBloPoMo

I am the worlds best ignorer. I can ignore things on an epic level.

Clutter? Where? I don't see any clutter.

The cat puked...again...? I don't see anything. 

Oh, you mean THOSE dirty dishes? Where'd they come from?

Then, something comes along that disrupts the force of my superpower and makes me pay attention, like this month's NaBloPoMo. NaBloPoMo is National Blog Posting Month, and the idea is to write a daily blog post for the entire month. On BlogHer, NaBloPoMo is perpetual, like...every month is National Blog Posting Month. Everyone seems to be o.k. with this, despite the fact that BlogHer is also INTERnational.  I totally vote we update the wording on this.

But, I digress....

THIS month's NaBloPoMo theme is RISK.

I was going to post the definition of RISK according to dictionary.com, but damn...someone was having a bad day when they wrote the definitions and was being a total Debbie Downer: risk of war, risk of injury, risk of death. Sheesh, it's like a black hole opened up and sucked out all the happy!

So, I'll define it myself:

Risk - doing something which scares the pants off of you. 

See, Dictionary.com - this is NOT depressing. Terrifying, yes...but NOT a total downer.

I am a huge fan of taking risks. That doesn't always mean I do it myself. I often like reading about risks OTHER people take, especially when they are successful. I don't like reading about risks that end tragically. However, a risk that falls flat on its face, but ends well despite the crash? Yeah, I'm o.k. with those as well.

Are you with me so far?

All of my references to RISK are not physical. When I talk of RISK, I talk about the theoretical - where you remove the barbed wire that prevents you from stepping out of your comfort zone. Once you do, there are perimeter risks. Most of us are comfortable with small risks, posting a blog update daily is one of them. Once you move past that mine field, there are more topics to explore with riskier results - what will my readers think of me if I reveal more of myself? I don't me me, literally...I mean the community of bloggers who write about life in general.

Being genuine is a risk. Telling someone you keep a blog is a risk. Writing about a deep place inside ourselves is a huge risk. Exposing ourselves is a risk (this is one of those risks that is also literal - exposing unmentionable body parts to people on the street is against the law, so think before you  flash).

I attempt to do all of the above with some regularity, except the physical exposure...which I'm sure hubbypants will feel compelled to comment on.

I don't usually  tell people I have a blog. I have my blog link as an automatic signature on my email, but I often erase it when sending email to people I don't know (sometimes, even to people I do know).

I don't know why. It's fear, I suppose. Fear of being thought of as ridiculous, despite my love of all things ridiculous. While I love being wacky, I don't REALLY want people to think I'm a complete wackadoodle. Quirky and randomly whimsical - yes. Bat shit crazy - no.

Of all the risky things I've done in my life, revealing to a stranger that I write a blog shouldn't even be on my RISKY radar. But it is. And, because of this month's NaBloPoMo theme, I've decided to call myself out and face my fear.

I'm taking on the blogging challenge this month - 31 days of blog posts. I'm challenging myself to be less reluctant to share myself with people I don't know. I'll have to RISK being thought of as weird and awkward to some. Perhaps others will think of me as doing the back stroke in a pool of awesome sauce.

NaBloPoMo...here I come!

When Words are like Ninjas

I recently lamented, to anyone that still listens to me, about my having pieces of a story I was unable to make whole.

It happens frequently, an idea slams my brain leaving me unable to focus on the task of living, instead filling my thoughts with potential beginnings and endings. I'm good at that - bookend thoughts, without any real filling.

It also started me thinking about how I create what I call a story. It begins as a glimmer, something fluttering in on tiny fragile wings, hoping to take a breath and become flesh. I've written a number of things I call super short stories, which in reality are likely just drafts of a story - words flung onto paper because they were just too fidgety for me to keep inside my head until they matured. They aren't really stories yet, they could just linger in this stage forever. Well, actually, only until I wake up the next morning and forget everything. So, these ideas do, apparently, have a shelf life. 

Beginnings are my specialty, I start things like a boss. It is the follow through, in depth thought and completion where I falter...so, like all of it really. This brain fog that settles in, refusing to evaporate, doesn't help. I feel as if the completion to my ideas is forever out of my grasp.

But I still try, because I cannot escape the words, those little ninja acrobats that bounce around in my head, and I've come to think of myself as a Story Starter. Maybe I'm someone who writes a draftory (draft + story = draftory...it's brilliant, I'm a genius) and offers it up to the world, sparking a story idea in someone who isn't bound and gagged by their soggy brain. Someone who can actually put a story together. Do people pay for this sort of thing, draftories?


The creating part is so frustrating, especially for someone like me who is so UN-trained in  the art. The idea spills forward like a flood, I edit all the misspelled words, glaring grammar errors (while ignoring those that I deem cute) and then hit 'publish'. That's it. What results is whatever people perceive it to be.

However, it's really just a draft. It needs fermentation, to bubble and toil and be made just right. I have little patience (or skill) for that. And, besides...it is the danger zone. I've hastily written down great story ideas and then let them sit to contemplate. I edit - and wait. I edit some more, because I've done some thinking - ALWAYS a bad idea - and then edited some more. Now, my story resembles nothing of its former self - it has now become Frankenprose, a monster story that I don't like anymore.

It could be I've been impatient, yet again. Maybe I'm not giving my edits enough time, I'm not fermenting the changes long enough to evolve from a tart, juicy thought to a smooth finish. Perhaps.

I feel as if I'm bound within a glass box, where I see the end - but can only dream of it. My stories deserve a writer who can pump oxygen into them. Not all of my ideas are good, but some of them are. Alas, we may never know.

I'll leave you with the latest idea that's been plaguing my brain. It is still a draft, a story in its infancy. We'll see if it grows up some day.

Stairs

Every day after school this is where Gracie stops, the 6th stair. One foot tentatively touching the 7th, one foot up, one foot down - straddled between what is and what may be.

Every day she hesitates, steadying her breath, going over the plan: who to call first? Her best friend or 911? To call a friend means a comforting hand when the paramedics arrive. The one friend who knows everything, who knows how hard it is for mom to make it through some days. The one friend who was there for Gracie through each attempt. The one friend who knew Gracie's pain from Mom begging her not to tell anyone about what she tried to do, explaining them away as accidents, the mishaps of a klutz. Mom could be so persuasive, pleading like a heartbroken child. She was, really, so very heartbroken. Something was so wrongly shattered in Mom that no amount of love or good grades Gracie showered upon her would bring light to her eyes - only shadows lurked there.

One more step and a turn of the knob. One more step to know if fates will be changed forever and whether two people will finally be set free. A turn of the knob and quiet shout, "Hi mom. I'm home. Was today a good day?"

Wordless Wednesday 13: Hitting The Pavement

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The Stream of Consciousness that Wasn't

There is a day of the week when Bloggers unleash a stream of consciousness upon their keyboards - coming up with really brilliant, entertaining and read-worthy stuff.

Today isn't that day and this isn't that blog.

But, I've got nothing else to write about (despite having 26 - TWENTY SIX - drafts of mumbo jumbo saved), so I decide to see what happens when I just type and type and not really give too much thought and credit to what comes out.

Possibly one of the worst things I could ever attempt to do.

I might even publish this unedited, in all its raw rawness (and not like rah rah sis boom bah).

Or not.

It all might come crashing down now that I had to stop writing to pick up a deposit that missed its target - in other words, the cat missed the litter box. As in I had to pick up poop. Off the floor. Right next to the cat box. The cat? Yeah, she was scratching THE WALL to cover up the poop ON THE FLOOR. Don't ask.

And when I sat back down to write some more, I noticed the big pile of kitty puke and undigested cat food. Upon the floor. Next to where I sit.



And now? I'm half way through the page and running out of stuff to say.

My stream of consciousness is more of a trickle, like that leaky faucet in the bathroom that just drips, drips, drips insanity into your head until you take a sledge hammer to that infernal noise.

There are oodles of thoughts coursing through my head, yammering & vying to be first in print. It's possible I might have had too much caffeine today.

Oh, as for the caffeine vs. decaf conundrum, I've decided that adding MORE Bailey's to my coffee is a better option that switching to decaf.  The flavor of decaf is too weak. If my coffee isn't scratching and clawing its way out of the cup, then it isn't coffee.

I'm going to need another can of whipped cream as well.

Because apparently I'm including my grocery list in this stream of conscious writing. And the whole idea of whether this is conscious might need to be looked at, because I'm not so sure. Mostly it's random. And mostly all this typing means that my coffee is getting cold and my whipped cream is melting and SOMEONE really needs a shower and to do something more productive than sit here typing useless ramblings.

Are you rolling your eyes and thinking "WTF?" yet?

 Perhaps I'll try this stream thingy again when I'm less weird more coherent.


p.s.
And really, you didn't expect that I'd publish without at least a spell check.

p.p.s.
Did ya?

p.p.p.s.
I'd really like to find that recipe for Toasted Marshmallow Martinis.

p.p.p.p.s.
And yes, that was plural on the martini, on purpose. Come on...it's toasted marshmallow, duh!

p.p.p.p.p.s.
I'm not usually like this, I do hope you'll come back.

p.p.p.p.p.p.s.
Yes, I am. Come back anyway.

p.p.p.p.p.p.p.s.
NaBloPoMo Day #3 - by the hairs on my chinny-chin-chin...whew.

p.p.p.p.p.p.p.p.s.
Now, where are my tweezers.

The Sea, NaBloPoMo and a Story??

February arrives tomorrow and I'm fully convinced it is a self-centered-attention-hog sort of month. I swear it bullied January into passing as quickly as possible. Wasn't January 1st just last week? What happened to this month???

 When February arrives tomorrow, pushing and shoving no doubt, it will bring with it yet another NaBloPoMo opportunity. I participated in the writing-every-day challenge back in November - the anniversary month of NaBloPoMo. It was fun, interesting, hard, frustrating and I'm so glad I did it. NaBloPoMo introduced me to some incredible writers to which I feel very connected.

The more a person writes, the better they become at coaxing the thoughts from their brain to have them travel down their arms and through their fingers to race along the keyboard *tippitytappity* - depositing those ideas onto a blank screen.

It is oodles of fun. Until it isn't.

There is always an, "until"...in everything we do, isn't there?

So, right now I'm trying to entice the story that is in my head to live in my computer instead. These things tend to relentlessly occupy my thoughts! While I'm doing that, I am also contemplating another run at NaBloPoMo. Maybe.

While I write, I am resisting the ever present urge to flee to the ocean. It has my number, the sea, and it keeps calling me. There is only so much nagging I can take before I cave in and give it what it wants. It misses me...I think.  So it should come as no surprise that my little story (??is this really a story??) has everything to do with the sea.

The Story

She fashioned herself a crown - not of rubies and pearls, but of bottle caps and sea glass.

With it She sat upon the shore commanding the waves to greet her feet with a caressing curtsy. She would then cast them away with her gnarled driftwood wand, only to watch their devoted return - the waves couldn't keep away, so devoted they were to her. She bid the seahorses to gather the diamonds that bobbed upon the swells, glittering in the sunlight, which She would then feed to the sharks - keeping their teeth strong and plentiful, should She ever need to declare war upon the destroyers of her realm. People pass by, with headphones and cellphones and chatting partners, blissfully unaware of her. They might imagine seeing a girl seated upon the sand, gazing toward the horizon. 

Did they see the diamonds? What about the chorus of turtles, or the jellyfish ballet?  No, they didn't. Her Queendom performing for her eyes only. When it came time to leave and do things that are required, expected and necessary, She knew the sea would pine away for her. "Fear not," she says, "for you belong to me and I to you."  And so it waits for her return.

Happy One More Day Closer To The Weekend, my peeps.