This is a writer's brain. . . it's exhausting.

I want to write a book. Like actually complete a book. I doubt I can, but I want to try.

*writes book that takes years. quickly discounts accomplishment*

I just want to get an agent. If I could only get an agent . . .

*after years of rejection gets agent*

I just want to sell this manuscript.

*after years of revision and rejection sells manuscript*

I just want decent critical reviews and a handful of readers.

*gets those. quickly discounts same.*

I just want more readers and to sell another book.

*does so. quickly discounts same. lather, rinse, repeat. Often multiple times.*

I just want a starred review.

(*fuck off. still waiting*)

I just want to win an award.

*gets a few. quickly discounts same.*

I just want to win a "real" award. The kind that comes with a sticker on the book.

(*again, fuck off. Who asked you? And see what I mean about discounting same. . . ?*)

I just want to write a book that matters.

*What does that even mean? And anyway, hard to tell. But let's just, for argument's sake, say that a handful of readers' notes could make one believe that maybe possibly they have done so. quickly discounts same.*

I just want to write the kind of book that's unique, that's different, that's never been done, that takes someone's breath away. . .

* . . . *

(I just needed to write that out so I could actually plow forward and write what I'm working on now. . . )

- gae

where water and wonder meet

i love artistic people.

i love the creative spirit.

i love when i connect with someone's work so deeply that I try to inhale it, internalize it, make it seep in through my pores.

(although it simultaneously pains me that i can't possess it wholly, wrap myself in it, make it happen through my fingers, or my lens).

no, i am not above coveting.

speaking of which,

this is lori.

photo credit: lori landau

she is where water and wonder meet.

she is, among other things, a poet, an artist, a friend.

i have known her since i am 15.

as teens and college students, we wrote poetry together as we pined for boys, made sense of the world, yearned for more. i have always coveted her words.

now, i also covet her art.

i admit this. oh, how i do.

last night, i was lucky enough to attend the closing of her show Works in a Series at the New York Open Center  (a meshing of her work from Elemental Soul and Nature of Mind). Did I mention the photographs are all of water?

Truth is Nameless, archival print
credit: lori landau


that was one of the many that made me hyperventilate. . .

you can imagine how i was mesmerized. . .

this is also lori

At the end of the show, lori spoke a bit about her creative process and what moves her as an artist and a photographer:

"Every photograph, every painting, and every drawing I do starts from the same place: that small, nameless force inside that seeks connection to myself and the world around me. . .

Art making is not an act of doing—it is a way of being in the world, a way of filtering all of those ordinary moments we all have—of being mindful about the little things: the way the light touches the top of the mountain when the sun is coming up. . . the sound of the ocean when you realize that it is breathing just like you are."

the audience listened, rapt, as she continued:



Breath of Light, archival print
credit: lori landau

"I don’t think you need to make art to get this. You just need to open to the experience.  

Both making art and viewing it are acts of deep listening, of deep feeling.
I know that you get this . . . 

We are all vulnerable. We all want to understand a little more about mystery.

We want to touch it. We want to be it.

We all want to matter."


when you look at lori's photographs,

you feel,

you connect,

but moreso, there is a certain tranquility, coupled with a stirring,

that allows you to open yourself, breathless,

to be moved.

in this way, her art matters.

***

If her photographs are tranquil, her paintings demand a bit more,

they pull and push,

they promise comfort, but house pain.

they evoke our own discomfort

but offer a path to calm.

top left Yama; top right: Dharana
middle left: Vyadhi; middle right: Tapasya
bottm left: dhyana; bottom right: Samadhi
4 x 5 paintings acrylic on canvas

credit: lori landau

". . . my desire is to do something with my feelings, to rise above them, to transform them, to transcribe my own interior. I consider my camera, pen & brush an extension of my hands, a translator of the “everyday me” a way to evoke the idealized part of myself. . . The photographs and paintings here rain into my heart and my hands from somewhere other than self, but I recognize myself more clearly when they arrive."


This particular show of Lori's closes today, but there will be more, trust me, and when there are,

you should go see them.

connect,

reflect,

be moved.

"Photography and art remind me that

like water,

everything is constantly changing. . . 

(they) are a visual documentation of where I have been,

the only way,

other than memory,

to hold on to something. "

 

 

- gae

---------------

More about Lori:
 

Writer, artist and photographer Lori Landau’s work explores the intimate connection between meditative and creative states. As a certified yoga and meditation teacher, Landau is deeply inspired by the Buddhist concept of interconnectedness. A spiritual nomad at heart, her work
symbolizes her exploration of sacred mystery.

Her articles and poetry have been published in a wide range of magazines, books and blogs; most recently, in the upcoming An Anthology of Babes: 26 (or 30) Women Give Motherhood a Voice." In addition, Landau is a visual artist, whose work has been exhibited in several group and solo shows. Her concept-driven and interdisciplinary art spans a range of mediums, including photography, drawing and painting. Landau regularly uses her art and words as a platform to raise consciousness about both global and meta issues.

You can find more of her work on her own blog,

www.consciousnesscreativity.com, as well as the women’s section of
Technorati.com.

Finally, her new monthly column for iPinion will debut this Sunday! 

 

Summer Redux: Please?

With the West Neck Pod this past Saturday,
honoring the children who died in the harbor
on July 4th, 2012. More soon on this from the Water-blog.

I'm trying to milk the best out of August -- or the best out of me IN August.

It's not easy. My life seems to lack a certain flow.

Plus, much as I scramble, there's no way I can cram accomplishing everything I wanted to all summer, into the remaining 24 days of one month.





My bad.

I want June back.

I want July.



My handsome hubby signing at a little get together at our house
for my birthday this July.

I WANT A SUMMER REDO!

I feel panicked as, around me, friends in warmer states (actual states, I mean, like Arizona and  Florida) tweet and facebook about returning to their classrooms, about their kids going back to school.

BACK TO SCHOOL. ARE YOU KIDDING?!?!?!

*covers ears*

*covers eyes*

*searches frantically for healthy denial*

I need summer.

I need warmth and open water,

This was me in June.
Don't I look accomplished and hopeful?!

and daylight hours that extend until 9pm.

I. Need. Time.

I know, I know. I'm starting to sound like a broken record. But I'm trying. I'm really trying.

I'm doing my best to keep my time on social networking limited.

Facebook, you know I LOVE YOU, but you won't get these manuscripts revised.







In other repeated news: I'm doing THIS SWIM on August 11th, to raise money for cancer research. For those who don't already know, I'm swimming in honor of a little boy named Lane Goodwin who's been battling a rare and ugly form of cancer for a few years. He's my hero. If you can donate a buck or two to my swim, I'd be grateful. EVERY DOLLAR RAISED goes DIRECTLY to the cause.*

My "Frankie" revisions are turned in to my agent. They go to my editor on September 1.

And, on August 25th, an attempt at a five-mile swim.

I already know, none of it will be enough. I already know, there will be loss and regret and longing.

If only I could get a redux.

If only I could figure out how to embrace the fall.

-gae

*according to information from the Swim, due to adequate corporate sponsorship, all admin costs are covered and all donations go 100%  to the cancer research orgs.

How Dare it Be August?

Summer wanes.

How dare it be August?

To tell the truth, I'm not sure I've made the most of it.

I know compared to some, I've done a lot. But compared to others I'm a sloth, and anyway, the only thing that matters is if it feels enough to me.

It doesn't.

I know in my heart what I've done and haven't done.

I've swum less.

I've written less.

I've read less.

I've been less.

I shouldn't be wasting hours and days.

Partly, it's the usual distractions. facebook and twitter, I mean YOU!

And, partly, I've been lazy.

And, partly, things hurt more than they used to. *shakes fists at hip and lower back*

This photo pains me, as much as fills me
. . . why must everything feel symbolic?

But it's August.

And I need to get on the ball.

I'm swimming Swim Across American's 5K on August 11th to help raise money for cancer research and am going to attempt a 5-mile swim with the West Neck Pod on August 25th.  So there's that.

My Frankie revisions are due September 1st and I'm still working on them. I have the right to turn in my next "option" manuscript four months after that. I should have already been on that project instead. Plus, I have a wonderful independent publisher interested in my women's fiction piece Swim Back to Me, which needs to be rewritten.

I long to have my women's fiction published.

And, yet, I've wasted time.

I'm wasting time.

I squandered away too much of July, and I'm feeling it.

So, tomorrow is August.

And, I plan to milk it for all it's worth.

Let's see what I can get done.

- gae

Duet

There's a chalkboard that hangs in my kitchen that I bought for the quote scrawled on it:


"Marriage should be a duet. When one sings, the other claps."

I can't tell you how true I think this is.

But, there's a flip side of that quote, too. I think it needs a sister board that reads:

"Always give your spouse something fresh and new to clap about."

My hubby and I have been through some really crappy times in our marriage... times we were hanging on by a thread. But I think one of the things that keeps us together is that we do give the other something to clap about from time to time, and when we do, the other is there, obliging.

Us, at my sister's 30th surprise party...

I married David for many reasons (here, honey, I'll list some: he's kind, gentle, loyal, funny and really smart), but one of them was because of how beautifully he sings.

He wasn't a singer per se, but he sang in the car, and in the shower, and he left long (long!) singing messages on my answering machine.

Sometimes, just when I thought the long (long!) message was finally over, it turned out he was merely taking a breath. Sometimes, he had to call back to finish the song. :)

Over the past few years, my hubby has had a lot of opportunities to need to rise to the occasion of our blackboard.

Us, the first time we spotted my book in the wild.

With the release of my first book, and the attendant, if quiet, recognition that has come with that, David has spent a decent amount of time in the audience, clapping for me.



But, over the past decade, I've also had the lucky opportunity to clap for him, as he's pushed himself to step out of the car and shower and perform on stage, and my accolades still come from a place of genuine excitement, admiration and sincerity.

I am truly his biggest fan.

Of course, there are those rare, rare hours (okay, sometimes days) when I don't know how I've stayed married to him (and I remind myself there are days when he feels this way about me).

But most days, I'm utterly happy to have found him.

He's definitely where the love is . . . and when he stands on that stage, smiles like that, and opens his mouth to sing, I'd marry him all over again.


I'm still clapping, baby, and still grateful I get to go home with you after the show. 

- gae

Blind Contours (with love and thanks to Lori Landau)

Ceci n'est pas une pipe

There's an age spot on my left hand.

It's been there for some time now.

I try not to notice it.




This is my father's pond:

and these, my father,

and my father's gardens.

My father was always ageless. Now, he is nearly 75.

He hauls pots and plants and small boulders up his hillside alone. Even as his eyes grow cloudier,

he gardens from dawn to dusk.

My father is old. My father is strong.

I, too, am aging.

I have a liver spot on my left hand.

It's been there for some time now.

If you were an artist, and you closed your eyes, this is me:

My friend Lori Landau drew this blind contour.
I love this more than words itself.
I see me. I am not old or young. I just am.

When I enter the water, I am strong. I can swim forever.

Yesterday, I braved the water alone.

The waves were strong. They slammed me down.

I was free and not afraid.

When I swim, I have no
age spots
or unfamiliar creases,
or tired eyes.

When I swim,

I am all blind contours.



This is the swing that looks out over my father's gardens:

today it was empty because he was working
in his gardens.
One day, it will just be empty.

How I wish everything could stay green.

- gae

Wind breathes longing,
greens the trees
Burns the mountain
Rains the heart,
Exhales fractiles of green

flecks the eyes

Kaleidoscope retina rearranges

vision

turns like seasons

Kisses open trembling lips

sings songs on tongue of green

Antique (green) syllables fall

amber unto a table set with green

Door opens,

woman stares at wheeling
copper Sun

streaking the sky with fading light 

I want to tell you

About the green of time

Bone, flesh and wild mind

Grasps greenly

here you are and here I am

and here it all is

in the palm of green sand in the green of the hand

fisherwomen go down to green

seas troll green waters

for green’s true and secret name that hides among

heartbroken weeds of green  

-  Lori Landau

** you can see more of Lori's amazing work here at the Art House Co op, Sketchbook Project.

Assorted, Discombobulated Things

Frolicking in the waves at West Neck the other day.
We are way farther from shore than we appear.

It's been a good, busy few weeks.

The water at West Neck has warmed up so much that, after our last swim this past Monday, Carole and I stripped off our wetsuits, booties, gloves and caps before we got out and enjoyed a little Scandanavian ice bath. ;) It was so warm -- I'm guessing close to 60 degrees -- that we got out, looked at each other, and raced back in to frolic once again in just our bathing suits. It was a brief frolic, but still. A sure sign that the regular, daily swim season is just around the corner.

I cannot wait.

On the writing front, some of you might remember this blog post from my YA blog, That Wee Bit Heap, in which I compared my publishing life to a game of Chutes & Ladders. I was about to go out on submission again, for the first time with my new (and fabulous!) agent, Jim McCarthy of Dystel & Goderich, and was feeling kinda hopeful again.

Then months passed, out on submission, with no good news.

I spent the winter slipping down lots of seriously long and ego-crushing chutes.

But, guess what?

Yep. I made it here.

That's all I'm saying right now, because I'm not really at liberty to discuss more. Or, probably not even that, for that matter. But no one reads this blog anyway, right? ;)

Plus, I've known for like two weeks, and I'm missing enjoying the fanfare with you, although, I've decided it's good to learn to not  always need the fanfare. At least, I think it's good for me.

I should work harder on that. Let 48 be the year of no fanfare.

(Um, who am I kidding? I love fanfare. ;))

Anyway, I'm writer-happy. And, well, that's all I'm going to say for now.

More soon. I promise.

In other news, I am totally obsessed with this Goyte song.

I mean, OBSESSED.

In fact, I had to stop and listen to it again before I kept working on this post. Which is now twice in the last hour, because I also put it up on my Wee Bit Heap blog post and listened to it then.

I don't know what it is about it *coughs* but it just strikes a chord.

So, I'm sharing.

And, speaking of sharing, I need to share this one last thing.

It's a brilliant reduction of a complex truth to a very simple understanding.

I'm convinced if everyone could hold on to this, the world would be a gentler, happier place. I know, for me it would be.


I'm trying to hold on to this. I'm trying. I'm trying.

- gae

Swim Back to Me

I've been day-dreaming about my manuscript, Swim Back to Me again.

Yeah, yeah, I know, Ann Packer stole my title -- believe me, you, I had it first. (Sh)it happens. There are only so many titles in the world.

Anyway, the manuscript's been at the top of my mind these days. I'm itching to work on it again. I'm poking some irons in the fire.

I mean, I love my YA writing and my YA books, but there's something about my women's fiction  that speaks to me where I live, that reflects all the raw, often-bottled, and once-in-a- while-unleashed angst of being a woman, wife, mother in this day and age.

There's just something so damned cathartic about taking my real feelings, and the small, mundane events in my life, and blowing them up and out of the water (if you will), to leave them heaving and bleeding on the page.

There's something about the mood of my women's fiction that fills me, that I just don't get from my YA.

Take this bit I was reminded of today because of this photograph I came across from the beach where I swim . . .

     John lowers himself onto me and we kiss, as around us the yard hums and above me the clouds drift by in stretched wisps across a perfect cornflower blue. Everything is sharp-edged yet floating, as if I have fallen into a Magritte painting and might reach up to find my own features gone, replaced beneath a black bowler hat by clear sky and clouds passing through.
 

    This here, this is not me.  

 

     N’est pas une pipe.   

     I let my eyes wander, follow sky, and breathe him in like air.  He lifts my shirt, and slips his hand in, and as he kisses me, his fingers find my breasts.  He moans and grinds his pelvis against mine, and the ground swirls and disappears. 

 

           Where am I?  How did I get here?  Who took my old life away? 

∞ ∞ ∞

From Swim Back to Me.

- gae

 

 

Clinging to my Aura

I'm growing more and more jealous of deeply religious or spiritual people (while emphatically having almost zero desire to be one), if only because they have a goal or desire or comfort that extends beyond this life, be it to Heaven or enlightenment in a new form through reincarnation.

Without that, there are endless goals ahead of me that I badly want to achieve, but they all feel marred, or at least laden, by the concrete fact that this physical body, from head to toe, is going to give out on me.

It's already begun.

Try as I might to somehow settle myself in this knowledge, and be okay with it, I can't get there; it's all too much to bear.

Which is why it fascinates me that, in the yoga room, I promise you (I kid you not), I can see my aura. A halo of light that outlines the entire edge of my body expanding and vibrating with my breath.

And, not just around me, but around all the bodies in the room.

Back when I was in my late thirties, and was practicing yoga on a regular (almost daily) basis, I remember how, right when I turned 40, I saw it then, after a uniquely spiritual period in my life. Soon after, for various reasons not important here (though one being that I don't really like doing yoga -- only like how it makes me feel after), I stopped, and began my current passion of swimming.

Now, so many years later, returning to a mild practice, I thought fondly of the aura sighting, and worried that it wouldn't be there.

But, alas, there it is.

And if I focus on it while I'm trying to hold a pose, it will often pull me through.

According to Wikipedia, "an aura is a field of subtle, luminous radiation surrounding a person or object (like the halo or aureola in religious art). The depiction of such an aura often connotes a person of particular power or holiness. Sometimes, however, it is said that all living things (including humans) and all objects manifest such an aura. Often it is held to be perceptible, whether spontaneously or with practice: such perception is at times linked with the third eye of Indian spirituality.^"

Well, whatever it is, I can see it. And I need it bad, so I'm clinging to it. And I'm not letting go.

I have an aura, and you have an aura, and that has to mean something good.

- gae

One of Those Truly Meaningful Days

Lately, I've been talking a lot about what it means to matter.

For me, so much of my self-worth feels tangled up with my writing career, and what it means to be successful there.

And in this publishing climate -- where being commercial can be more important than being good -- it's a tentative place to rest one's self-esteem.

Sometimes, I worry too much about what I haven't achieved yet, instead of what I have. Some of that is ego, sure. But part of it is truly the desire to leave some small, indelible mark on this world that actually matters.

So, while another day passed without an email in my inbox announcing a book deal for Frankie Sky (I don't matter! I don't matter!), I spent the afternoon at a local high school in a "shaky" lower-income school district, not too far from my home. When I got home, I emailed this note to a few of my close author friends:

"If I ever complain again, remind me of this day."

The rest of this blog post is extracted from the remainder of my note to them:

"I got to the school and there were posters all over.

The teachers, librarian, and vice principal were there to greet me, and were all so excited for my visit. The school had ordered 50 copies of my book this past fall after one of its awesome teachers had heard me do a reading at a bookstore and thought it would be a good addition to the curriculum, as the school teaches Of Mice and Men.

The students came in -- they had stayed after, by invitiation only, for extra credit, and there were 50 of them, one for each copy of the book that had been temporarily distributed in connection with the unit.

The kids were smart, engaged, warm, funny, and respectful, and completely enthralled with the book.

I talked about my journey to get published and how subjective criticism is. And, how to persevere when rejection keeps flowing in. I applied this concept to sports, art, and life in general. As I spoke, faces paid attention and heads nodded. As I spoke, I reminded MYSELF to heed my own words, if I meant them. And, I did. I meant them.

After, we talked about Nick, Jaycee and the Scoot. The kids asked endless (smart, amazing!) questions about the book. They wanted me to sign everything. Their tickets, pieces of scrap paper, bookmarks. They wanted to know if there's a sequel coming. They want a movie. And, most importantly, they want
my next book NOW.

I read aloud from the opening of Frankie Sky, and they went nuts for it. Even if no editors, yet, are. . .

At the end, the vice principal stood up and announced that, given the amazing display of enthusiasm he had just seen, he had decided to let the kids keep the books -- that the kids could take the 50 school hardcover copies home with them, if they wanted. It blew me away, but cheers actually erupted. I'm not kidding. As they ran up to get them signed, the vice principal held the late buses for 15 minutes...

Not a single copy of the book was left behind.

After the students left, the teacher who originally brought the book into the school told me she actually got teary-eyed at her vice principal's gesture, though she was not surprised by it because it is the kind of administrator he is. "These are not kids that are just given books, or that get to meet authors and talk with them . . . " she said.

As we walked to my car, she told me that the book stuff was all fun and cool, but that she was most grateful that I had talked about the subjectivity of art, and about rejection and perseverance. She said she could see the kids' faces taking it in, and internalizing it. She said she hoped that, if they took nothing else from the day, it would be that one thing, because it was a message they so badly needed.

Me, too, I kept thinking, me, too.

As for the book's future in the school next year, the vice principal assured me he'll be ordering 50 new copies for the fall.

Man, talk about your "shaky: districts. ;)"

I drove home elated, trying to memorize the feelings swirling in my heart and brain, reminding myself to hold onto the more important aspects of what I do.

I might not ever have the huge success I'm hoping for (whatever that is), but today, to a few kids, and a few teachers, for a few short hours, what I do mattered. To them, and to me.

- gae

And, (I think) the Award Goes to...

Trying to Stay Afloat in a Sea of Words.

*thunderous applause erupts as she rises from her seat in her wetsuit and goggles, and makes her way through the drunken Globe crowd to the stage* <---- Yes, that is, too, what happened.

Okay, fine. Maybe not. But it is kinda cool to get my first blogger award ever (thank you, Katia!), although, as is fitting, it created the need for me to drop everything and write another blog post, too. *sigh*

Do any of you who don't blog know how much time it takes to write a decent blog post? The answer is, anywhere from fifteen minutes to two hours. At least for me. And I maintain two.

My "YA" or Young Adult writer blog, That Wee Bit Heap (where I will cross post sometimes, including today) and where I mostly talk about things writing and book related, and this one Trying to Stay Afloat in a Sea of Words, more a women's fiction blog which is not always wholly appropriate for kids and teens. Here, as those who follow me know, I talk about more gorey things like love, parenting, aging and marriage, as well as provide a sort of chronicle of my life through open water swimming.

Staying Afloat is a much more personal blog.

In choosing my blog as one of her favorites, Katia described it, saying:

"This very versatile blog is run by one of my favorite authors: Gae Polisner, who wrote “The Pull of Gravity,” one of those YA books that turn me into a gushing, stuttering fan. Gae is fun and honest when she talks about her various moods, her publishing ups and downs, her strange habit of swimming in the cold ocean off of Long Island, her love of board games and many other fun things."

which leads me to believe that she may have actually been describing a little bit of each of my blogs and, as such, it takes both to live up to the award. Okay by me, as they are both a part of me.

Indeed, it's funny to me to think that I do put so much of my private life out there. If you told me ten years ago I would, I couldn't have imagined it then.

I ran across this cartoon the other day on my friend and writer Lena Roy's page, and it seems so true:

I think, despite the glut of blogs out there in the world, they still find readers because they offer up glimpses of ordinary, private lives to us, and allow us to feel less alone.

At any rate, I'm honored that Katia included my blog(s) and now I must do the oh-so-stressful winner duty of passing on the Versatile Blogger award. Hard to do when so many of my friends are writers and run magnificent blogs.

Seriously, I could now sweat this task for hours, but do not have the luxury as I am steeped in revisions that must get back to my agent... so what you get is a sort of Monday morning free association, the first 6 of many amazing blogs that come to me this morning.

By the way, you heard me. I said 6. I was planning to do 15, but am breaking the rules (I wonder if they will send me to blogger jail for this <--- *seriously, now sweats this*) and only listing six blogs because this has already taken me nearly an hour and a half... you will see in the rules that we are supposed to pick 15, so may the blogger gods and award-bestowers please forgive me.

So, without further ado, here we go! In no particular order, I hereby bestow the Versatile Blogger Award on the following blogs:

When you receive the award, the rules are – a) you blog about it and you include this lovely badge:

b) you share some cool tidbits about your life with your readers and c) you nominate another 15 blogs for versatile awesomeness.

1. Okay, this one is easy peasy, because it is my one must-go-to blog.
The Middle Ages ("two friends, different ages, different husbands, different opinions") where Barb and Deb make me laugh or cry (or both) on almost a daily basis;

2. Conscious Creativity ("an exploration and manifestation of creativity and consciousness"), where Lori shares ideas on art, life, meditation, yoga, and creativity, and, if you're uber lucky, will share a dream poem or piece of her art;

3. Confessions of a Watery Tart ("a digressionary journey of a writer") because -- come on! -- Hart had me from the title, and her blog is funny, prolific, poignant and unbelievably reliable, to boot;

4. The Green Bathtub ("writing instead of housework"), Not only because Amy is lovely and adorable and interesting, but because that little tagline alone describes my life;

5. Christa Writes (funny, poignant stuff about life and writing) <--- my lame tagline, not hers, because I couldn't find one); because, well, because she blogs funny, poignant stuff about life and writing, and, btw, the link is to an older blogpost of hers which was particularly funny...; and

6. Lena's Lit Life ("Léna (me): Lit, as in literature, Lit, as in light, Lit, as in a little kooky: Life.") <--- raw, honest musings on a writer's life, including feeling the wings and shadows of a famous grandmother.

What are some of your "award-winning blogs?

p.s. want to shout out to a few extra blogs (or, in the case of Megan Bostic, her vlog):

Megan Bostic is a dear friend and fellow YA-writer, but she's also just an adorable pile of charisma, funny, and awesomesauce (did that sound like a compliment? It was supposed to). Just watch a few of her Middle Aged Angst (or Chronicles of an Aspiring Writer) vlogs HERE to see what I mean;

Geoff Herbach is a Mess, (at least that's what his blog used to be called), but he's the best kind of mess, funny, talented and one of my favorite writers on earth; and

Weekly Adventures. Ordinary Girl ("Life. Writing. Yoga. Food. Music. Bliss.") and not just because I want a dress made out of Aryn's stunning background. . . her blog is chockfull of beautiful musings of an adventurous girl seizing life by the . . . writing and yoga mat. :)

- gae

My blog post is here today:

http://ghpolisner.blogspot.com/2011/11/november-indoor-blues.html

Kisses.

- gae

Weather, Whims, and Waiting

Washington Square Park, NYC 10/28
sleet and roses

<-------- that, my friends, is sleet.

It snowed the other day in New York.

Not in Alaska, mind you.
Not even upstate, northern New York.
But on Long Island and New York City.

It snowed wet, cold, slushy stuff that rained down on my head, soaked my jeans through to my legs, coated the streets of NYC with just the kind of hazardous, slick, gray sludge a person like me can kill herself on.

I cursed the weather gods, as I ran from the LIRR to the subways, to Washington Square Park, trying to get my kid and his friend to their Saturday NYU math class* on time.

By the time we got back on the LIRR to go home, my jacket was soaked and frozen, and my toes were all but numb.

I don't remember a time when it snowed in New York in October. And I'll be happy if I never see such time again.

And, yet.

This morning, still October, the car thermometer reads 33, and the lawns are covered in a definitive blanket of white frost.

In another world, in another lifetime, that might be pretty. But, for me, in my world, it means only one terrible thing:

there will be no more open water this season.

suited up, mid-october at
West Neck Beach

I can do waves and wind and water at 53 degrees, if I can emerge to sunshine and temps above 45 on dry land. But I cannot do wind and water at 48 (the last reported temp before the snow and frost of this weekend) and emerging to dry land temps below 40 degrees.

I wish I could, but I cannot.

That means, for this season, I am out.**

I knew it was coming. I tried to brace myself.

In an effort to release land-based endorphins, I may have even bought some bright red hair dye on impulse and worked it through my hair.

Don't kid yourselves about it; I'm not sorry.

Even if I know, perhaps, I should be.

My hot-cherry red hair is making me very, very happy.

As happy as I can be on dry land.

So it's likely not going anywhere soon.

And, yes, fine, we'll see what color it turns when the chlorine starts mixing in.

In the meantime, I'm back to waiting. My Frankie Sky revisions are with my agent. He said he would have feedback to me soon. Then, if approved, we go back to the other waiting. The harder waiting.
Waiting for the editors to say yay or nay.

And, don't I know how often the nays have it.

But, really, what choice do I have?

So until then, me n' my hot-cherry red hair will be here, on dry land, or immersing myself in the chlorine. Waiting for good news. Waiting for spring. Waiting for another open water season to begin.
---


*please note that my son is taking said class at HIS request. I would NEVER suggest anyone take a math class on a Saturday. ;)

** hope looms eternal: as I finished typing this blog post, an email from my swim buddy appeared in my inbox promising temps back up near sixty this week. Could one more open water swim be  possible . . .?    ;)

- gae

Halloween Riff (Sugar Rush)



Me, last night, with the treat my sweet hubby delivered

Reeling from a sugar high (after weeks of not eating any) and inspired by a copy of Edgar Allen Poe's The Raven (reprinted way below) that serendipitously arrived in my email box this morning, I penned my own version of some early Halloween terror.

I invite you to join me in the comments and create a little Halloween homage of your own.

Definitely treat over trick.

- gae

Deprav'in

Once upon a Tuesday, teeming, with the thought that I was dreaming,

when consuming pounds of creamy, malted chocolate balls galore,

should my sugar-coated teeth, my growing thighs felt underneath,

this memory, now, so vague and brief, it barely lingers at my core. . .

“Tis only fair, you see,” I muttered, “to mix some sweet amidst the bore,”

only this: a sugar fix, and nothing more.

Ah, distinctly (I was sober), it was in the bleak October,

sent my husband like a gopher, to the aisle in the store. . .

Eagerly, no, not a Spartan, sent him for the whole damned carton

Tried to cease, but played my part on, part on asking, yes, for more --

Now, the fear of scale uncertain, holes in teeth will soon be hurtin’,

Thrilled me - filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;

So that now, to still the beating, of my heart, I stand repeating,

"'Tis some minor weakness leaving, exiting through every pore,

Calories to soon be leaving, through my every pore.

Twas only candy, nothing more.”

The Raven

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
`'Tis some visitor,' I muttered, `tapping at my chamber door -
Only this, and nothing more.'

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow; - vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow - sorrow for the lost Lenore -
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels named Lenore -
Nameless here for evermore.

And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me - filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
`'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door -
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door; -
This it is, and nothing more,'

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
`Sir,' said I, `or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you' - here I opened wide the door; -
Darkness there, and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, `Lenore!'
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, `Lenore!'
Merely this and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
`Surely,' said I, `surely that is something at my window lattice;
Let me see then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore -
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore; -
'Tis the wind and nothing more!'

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore.
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door -
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door -
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
`Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,' I said, `art sure no craven.
Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the nightly shore -
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning - little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door -
Bird or beast above the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
With such name as `Nevermore.'

But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only,
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing further then he uttered - not a feather then he fluttered -
Till I scarcely more than muttered `Other friends have flown before -
On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before.'
Then the bird said, `Nevermore.'

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
`Doubtless,' said I, `what it utters is its only stock and store,
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore -
Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore
Of "Never-nevermore."'

But the raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and door;
Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore -
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore
Meant in croaking `Nevermore.'

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er,
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er,
She shall press, ah, nevermore!

Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
`Wretch,' I cried, `thy God hath lent thee - by these angels he has sent thee
Respite - respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore!
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

`Prophet!' said I, `thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil! -
Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted -
On this home by horror haunted - tell me truly, I implore -
Is there - is there balm in Gilead? - tell me - tell me, I implore!'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

`Prophet!' said I, `thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us - by that God we both adore -
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels named Lenore -
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels named Lenore?'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

`Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!' I shrieked upstarting -
`Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken! - quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,
And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted - nevermore!

-Edgar Allen Poe