Memoirous

Tiny House updates are bit like watching silicon dry--which, by the way, is another box ticked. On a do-do list 2 pages long. Then there is the one step forward and two steps back syndrome. Mostly though we have been thinking outside the tiny house box. What had seemed like an all day and at least $200 investment to expand electrical and bring some of it up to counter height in the end was perhaps $35. The scattered two-outlet boxes on the 4 walls of the house have been helped by surge protector bars. Same with running power up to the sleeping loft. We bought a slender power surge bar that neatly rests at the top lip of the counter (hiding the holes we needlessly drilled trying to install the bar brackets). While at the hardware store buying the power strips, I found an apartment style fridge and asked the clerk about it. It was the last one on the floor and she could sell me the display model $70 off. Yes, please. They plastic-wrapped it and met us at the front register. Buying

Every night before I go to bed I look over the check list for the Tiny House. Because we’re getting late in the season we’ve simply lopped things off—or because the cost was prohibitive. I’m definitely making do. But one thing I really need, as certain things are coming into focus, is a ladder to my sleeping loft. I didn’t imagine it was going to be this hard. The simple measurement is about 90 inches, but then there is the ladder angle—roughly 4 to 1 or a foot out for every 4 feet—or 15 degrees. Then there is the angle of the tread. The math involved is a bit complicated. I also want the treads notched in, not simply screwed onto the side rails. I’d also prefer a hardwood such as oak. Where I used to live there was a graveyard of abandoned loft ladders in the basement, as folks aged out of the loft and went to a bed on the floor. Oh—to have access to those lonely ladders and find one the right height. All the listmaking and scheming isn’t going to bring things into existence—or

These tired dark mornings remind me that summer is passing so, too, the leaves, scattered on sidewalks brushed up against the house, pooled under trees something tells me, hurry. I join the deer and squirrels in their frenzy store up summer’s bounty, the sky’s colors the contrail clouds, and all the bits and pieces of forever, before it stops being forever. This a.m. I awoke tired and sore. I painted the ceiling of the fabled Tiny House. I also bought a gallon of Arrowhead Lake, an icy blue color, for an accent wall. I’m taking cues from my son-in-law. Let me tell you how close I was to signing a contract for excavating to start a build-out for the bathroom. I had already taken a picture of the contract and was about to push the button to SEND, when my son-in-law said: Let’s think for a second. And what we came up with sounded a lot like the idea I had back in April. In fact, the VERY SAME. But, I understand. We pursued avenues that we came to find were not open to us. I can’t take

Though things have been somewhat sparser here at the blog in the way of frequent postings, I nevertheless, have about 35 tab open and in WORD several “pages” open on the desktop. Though open doesn’t always equate progress. Which means, I’m making stabs at everything, while not much is getting done. The universal dilemma: Where do I go next? When my agent dropped my creative nonfiction project I switched to putting together a short story collection. I realized I had A LOT of good material and have managed to group an exciting array of stories around a theme of empowering women my age to keep moving, keep searching, To start again. Apropos. Also, in keeping with a fresh start, signed up for classes at OCWW, Off Campus Writers Workshop, the longest-running writing workshop in the US, and am “attending” via Zoom the recorded sessions. Fred Shafer is an excellent way to jumpstart my writing and revision process. There are few writers and speakers for that matter who can convey the a

The days are growing shorter. Now when I go for a walk in the evening the sun is nearly gone by 7:30. The squirrels are in hyperdrive—thus, more of them flattened in the road. The deer, too, are out. I see family groups grazing in an out of the way couple of streets across from Cornell Woods Elementary. In the mornings the air is crisper, a bit of a tingle to the nose and when I start off there’s always the question: Should I put on gloves? as I ride up an incline to get out of my complex. Once on my way, there are dead leaves, brown from the summer, not quite the autumnal turn, but plenty of them on the path leading down to Dobie Road. More than all this, there is a sense that summer is winding down, a frantic hurry to get things done: bike rides, swims, rafting trips. And, as always, the self-doubt—Did I do enough? Did I squeeze the season for everything of worth? Did I live my life the best I could? There is certainly no going back, no re-arrangement, only a perseverance to live

 I have a new piece up at Random Sample Review. These latest acceptances have been vital to keeping me writing--since the break up with my agent and rejection of my nonfiction manuscript. Rejection--how it feels, these days. Anyway! I'll live n the moment with Starting Over https://randomsamplereview.com/2022/07/28/starting-over/ Photo by  Eileen Pan

  I have an essay in Still Point Quarterly in a special theme issue on books and book lovers! The digital edition is FREE. The print edition is full of beautiful illustrations--the price for a PRINT issue is $14.50 plus $3.95 shipping. Go here to download: https://www.shantiarts.co/landing_SPAQ.html “The world doesn’t have to be like this. Things can be different. —Neil Gaiman, "Why our future depends on libraries, reading and daydreaming," The Guardian, October 13, 2013

 I’d forgotten how much I love Lydia Davis’s work until I came across this poem posted on Facebook. I know, I know only old people are on Facebook now and hardly anybody I really know uses it, but it has lately been a source of algorithm-producing content that has exactly fit my mood—somewhat melancholy and existential since my agent dropped me, leaving me questioning how much my work matters and where can I go from here? Not sure of anything anymore. Then across the Facebook transom comes The Dog Hair The dog is gone. We miss him. When the doorbell rings, no one barks. When we come home late, there is no one waiting for us. We still find his white hairs here and there around the house and on our clothes. We pick them up. We should throw them away. But they are all we have left of him. We don’t throw them away. We have a wild hope--if only we collect enough of them, we will be able to put the dog back together again. Davis, Lydia. Can't and Won't: Stories. New Yor

I remember those hot summer days out on my bike. I can’t stay in the house another moment, I just have to get outside. August, you know the end is near, school will start soon, and unstructured time will come to a close. So do everything. There is a tension between the lazy staying up and sleeping late and the hurry-up of waking early to get it all in. I hop on my bike when the dew is still on the ground and the sky is just brightening. The morning and landscape spread out before me as I iron the hills beneath my tires, as the ribbon of roadway unfurls before me. A fox crosses the blacktop and scitters into a crack in a stone wall, I turn a corner and there stands a deer, flicking its tail, its eyes glued on me until it too bounds away. Suddenly the sun is beating down directly above and there are no bicycle shadows. Heat waves shimmer upward from the asphalt like eye tricks. And, I realize I have little water, no snacks and no money. I have gone further than I intended to and no