I’ve written many times that one of my constant companions is this flu of ideas and thoughts that fill my head, all the time.  My brain is sometimes so noisy with thoughts that I can’t escape them, and it’s hard to follow one thread of thought for enough time to see it to a conclusion.

I know, first world problems, right? Boo-hoo hoo, look at me whiny about not getting a minute away from my own mind. Really, in the scheme of things, yes, it’s a minor problem, and I shouldn’t complain. And, I’m not. Instead, I am setting the stage.

Because, this particular tale I wish to share with you is most remarkable when you are cognizant of how my brain spends weeks with thoughts flooding through, and providing very little in the way of rest.

I had been having a particularly long period of “brain flu,” and I had just learned an alternate route from work during the evening commute, which takes me parallel to the always busy I-70.

The last leg of the trip turns me facing north/northwest, to hook up again with I-70 to go  the last few miles home. This particular day, I turned, and went under the railroad tracks, and as I started to emerge from under the bridge, and as I crested the hill, there it was, huge, and perfectly framed by the narrow passage under the tracks.

For the first time in weeks, my mind was silent. The mountain looked like it was just a few miles away, rather than the 70+ miles away I knew it to be. I stared at it, as if I’d never seen that beautiful peak properly before in my entire life.

Anyone who lives near mountains knows that they sometime look like they are much closer than they really are, and that that perspective changes daily.

Here’s a picture I took from just past the spot, and it wasn’t as big the day I took the picture. I don’t remember seeing the crane at all, and can’t even tell you if it was there.

What I do remember, is thinking, over and over again: “That’s Long’s Peak. Right there. That’s Long’s Peak. It has to be. It’s Long’s Peak, but how? I’ve *never* noticed it there before. How did I miss it? That’s Long’s Peak!”

I starred at it, rampant disbelief echoing around my head which was pretty much empty of other thoughts, so, it had lots of room to run.  That glorious sight allowed me to hear silence. It gave me peace, and then, there were a few appreciative tears, I’m not ashamed to admit it.

It was like a wake-up call to pay attention to what was all around me. To be present in the moment, and allow myself to breathe and take in the wonder and magic of existence. It shouted, “Look, you idiot! You live *HERE* in COLORADO and it’s BEAUTIFUL! It’s amazing every. Single. Day. And, you’re not appreciating it.

That moment was like a breath of fresh air, and there was healing it. It’s one of those moments that remind me of those words of the Psalmist, who said “I will lift up my eyes to the hills, from where comes my help.”

Yeah, I know, I’m a big softy, and this wasn’t remotely funny.  But, I was needing this reminder again this weekend.  And, by sheer coincidence, I have been meaning to use this as a blog post for ages, and had nothing better to write about today. So sue me. (On second thought, please don’t. Thanks.)

One of my super-secret projects that’s not really secret is that I’m writing a column for syndication.

While I’m working on getting traction with the people who might or might not pay me, I’m curious to see if there’s even an audience for this thing, and see if I can’t grow it myself, too. I’m not posting the columns here, but, I’m offering it for e-mail subscriptions. Call it an experiment.

So, if you’d like to see my Sunday column,
Subscribe to Flying Solo by E-mail

There are sample columns posted here.

I’m enjoying writing it, and hope that it’ll someday have an audience. Maybe that audience is you.

I’ve gotten behind again, which is my own fault. This means that I’m going to use this old story, which is on the short side.  The word is almost longer than the story.

Today’s Word:

gynotikolobomassophile

As in:

This is the story of Orring, the little gynotikolobomassophile who lived hislife happily moving from one face to another. Orring was one of the most fortunate of souls: He got to live his passion. Dangling above a shoulder, Orring could enjoy countless hours, securly positioned in the object of his affection. Never had there been a gynotikolobomassophile with such luck! For you see, Orring was in the most enviable of existences for a gynotikolobomassophile, he was a lovely earing of solid gold.

gynotikolobomassophile: /GYN-o-tiko-lobo-masso-PHILE/ Someone who likes to nibble on a woman’s earlobe. Again, yet more proof that there is indeed a word in the English language for everything.

For the last few years, I’ve had to be much more creative with my gift-giving, because funds have been exceptionally tight. This means, I’ve been focusing on experiences and spending time instead of money.

This year, in keeping with that spirit, I decided that for Christmas I was going to write my nephews a story, and not only make then the heroes of the piece, but, make it a whole adventure: a self-contained experience that, with any luck, they would remember, and would have a touch of magic for them.

I had no idea what to write.

Finally, one night, in the bathtub, I was realizing that the story needed pictures, and I remembered that I had a picture of my oldest nephew and a gray kitten that had wandered across our path when we were walking around in a cemetery in Iowa. And then I knew what to write.

I turned that photo into the beginning of a quest. The kitten would lead the boys to a castle in another world, where they would get a treasure map, and a mission from the King to reclaim the treasure, and break the curse put on this land by a witch. The boys would need to find it, and then disguise and protect it. As their reward, they could keep the treasure.

At work, I made the treasure map, complete with burned spots and aging. I got a small treasure box at Hobby Lobby, filled it with “gems” and sparkly plastic necklaces I had in my costume closet, took some pictures of these, and mailed them to my sister, who would arrange the hiding of the treasure.

I put the story into a book, and printed it from one of the print-on-demand sites, with extra pages in the back for the boys to draw and color the details of how the story ended.

The boys had a blast. They took their swords with them to hunt for the treasure, and they looked under every tree they saw. They took the bequest for “disguising” the treasure very seriously, and were certain that there was no way that evil witch would recognize the stolen treasure.

My sister recorded the whole adventure on video, and I admit, it was pretty cool to watch them get excited about the adventure as my sister read the story. Their imaginations went crazy, inventing a path and bridges on the map that weren’t there. They saw “naughty guys” hiding behind bushes and were amazed that they were reading a book with their pictures in it.

According to my sister, they’re still hiding the treasure all over the house, so that they can go find it again. They excitedly showed me their efforts of painting the box.

My sister and brother-in-law figure that I should create customized story kits, for families to have their own adventures, where the kids are the heroes, and the parents are involved in orchestrating the magic for their kids.

So, I’m going to give it a try. I’m working on the logistics, pricing and creating three story templates to see what happens. My brain has constructed a “dig for dinosaur bones” story, a pirate story, and a lost princess tiara story, and I’ll put each of them up for sale in two formats. One will be customized story only, with instructions for how to collect the other parts they need. The other will be a full kit, with the treasure/dinosaur bones/tiara all packaged together with the customized book. For this version, I’ll have the parents send a few specific pictures of their kids to mix in with the text.

What I’ve noticed is that I’ve been feeling particularly inspired by pursuing this idea, and I’ve really been generating a bunch of ideas around this concept, and how to make it go, and it’s feeling exciting to me in ways that some of my other projects of late haven’t felt. It has also started to solidify more of a direction for me in terms of what my goals are and what direction I want to take, which is feeling more “right” to me than almost all the other directions I’ve contemplated.

I don’t exactly know where this will lead, but, it seems worth trying. I will keep you posted.

It was very difficult to return to work today. It feels like I stepped into the ring and took a serious beating. It was really hard to get out of bed this morning, and if the traffic had been at normal levels, well, I’d not have gotten coffee this morning.

This is another in the series of stories based upon nursery rhymes.

Today’s Word:

indurate

As in:

The continuing economic downturn has forced some families to some unusual means to try and earn a living. Maybe “unusual” is just the way it is with our next guest.

I’m talking today with Rosemary Shue, a long time resident of Stonybrook, who has been called unusual for two things: her house, which is built in the shape of a shoe, and her large family. Rosemary is the mother of 15 kids. Recently, when her husband lost his job, she was forced to take drastic measure to earn a living for herself and her kids. In this case, she decided to turn her house into a tourist destination. That’s right, the “Shoe” is open for business.

While the non-standard house is still the family’s residence, during the day, the indurate family will be giving tours of the place. You can now finally see what’s inside this local landmark. It’ll cost you $5 for the privilege. For that price, you’ll get a full hour tour of the place, from “heel to toe,” as it were.

The Shoe will also be serving breakfast, lunch and dinner in its spacious gardens and enclosed patio. The food will be prepared by Mrs. Shue herself, and will include some of the produce her family grows on the property, plus locally sourced meat and dairy.

When she’s not serving meals or giving tours, Mrs. Shue will give classes in various ways to stretch your budget. She’s learned them all while raising 15 kids! She’s charging $20 per person, per class, and they range in topics from canning and freezing, to making your own furniture, handmade holiday décor, and tasty recipes that can be made for pennies.

Like many other destination restaurants, the Shoe has added on a gift shop, which is, naturally the last stop on the tour. You can buy some of Mrs. Shue’s prizewinning preserves, and bring home a t-shirt or mug with a picture of the iconic family home, built centuries ago.

You can even take home a picture of yourself at the home. For $5, you can have your photo taken either in front of the home, or waving from the top of the high-ankle. It’s sure to be a prized memory in any scrapbook.

*******************
I’m not sure if I’d *buy* a photo, but, a tour of a shoe house would be interesting.

indurate / IN – dur – ATE / physically or morally hardened

I finished reading Simon Pegg’s autobiography earlier this week, and it brought out my stylish melancholy with a sidecar of thoughtful baggage.

The book traces Pegg’s nerdly influences growing up, and how they’ve cycled back  in his adult life to making things which are themselves a tribute to those inspirations, and then even to working with those heroes who had an impact on his life and imagination.

I couldn’t help but notice the similarities between his childhood and mine. Sure, he’s a few years older than me, and a boy, and from Gloucestershire,  but, there’s a cozy familiarity in the geekly media that was influence to the young geek in training.

Like the young comedian/writer/actor, I had a number of early brushes with theater. My first press clipping came from the Winter Park Manifest when I was all of five years old. (I still have a copy, if you’d like to see my cute little five year old self declaiming said dialog.)  I was the only kindergartner with a speaking part. Never mind the fact that I earned the part solely on the basis that my teacher figured I was the only girl who’d be able to remember the lines.

In the small communities I grew up in we didn’t really have a community theater. Well, unless you count the one that started up a few months before we moved. We all were encouraged by the organizers to go to auditions, which included a round of improv. I got cast in the musical with a speaking part, but, wasn’t allowed to take the part because we wouldn’t be there for the performances.  I’ve clearly been stewing on that one for a few decades.

We moved to Pueblo, which was a parade of huge shifts in my world, and I didn’t have a clue how to fit into this place. It was there that I spent some time being “That Kid.”

I, too, have vivid memories of those Gen-X geek rites of passage , seeing Star Wars, and its sequels, Raiders of the Lost Ark, E.T., and Star Trek, and Dr. Who. I remember the first time I auditioned for a part in a Shakespeare play (The Tempest), and the thrill of getting to speak those glorious words with some pretty accomplished adults, who jumped at the chance to do the scene with me. So what if I didn’t get the part? The director complimented me on my understanding of the Bard, in front of everyone, and no one else got such praise. Of course, I also didn’t get the part, so, I took what I could get.

What my lovely, neurotic brain also noticed while reading this book, was there were similar points in my life to Pegg’s life, and the ones in my life came out very differently. Things that kept him on the path that would take him to making geeky love letters in film-form to his childhood inspirations didn’t end up taking me down that same path.

Not that I’m saying I had any real ambition to be a professional performer. I can’t say that I was in the same league as Mr Pegg, nor do I begrudge him his success.

I could be bitter, but, I’m not.

Instead, I’m just more confused than anything. Is it simply hindsight that allows us to interpret our choices in life as all culminating in a a clear singular direction? Is that just the way people decide to interpret things to support the choices they make?

The familiarity of the experience in Pegg’s life made me think about all of these things in a different light, and I wondered how it was that I had ended up where I am.

There were opportunities that I didn’t take, for reasons that seem perfectly reasonable at the time, like the unpaid screenwriting internship I turned down the summer before my senior year in college. Did I screw up my true fate? Should I have taken it? It was not fear of the job that held me back, but, fear of not having money, transportation or a place to live.  Seems like such a minuscule problem in retrospect. Though, I do like food, and not being homeless.

I had decided to read the book because I thought it would be funny, and I like Simon Pegg, and I wanted something light to read. Instead, I’m onto my latest existential crisis, and trying to again figure out if I’m putting my efforts into the things that somehow matter or are going to make the world a better place. Is that so much to ask?

There are still things I’m processing from this book I mistook for a light-hearted romp. Oh sure, for some people it probably was. It has funny moments. And, if it had not felt so much like my own biography, well, it might’ve been a hoot. Instead, well, it’s made my brain ponder serious thoughts, and it never needs any encouragement to do that.

Christmas has come and gone, and I’m feeling barely aware that it was here, and I admit that I’m feeling a touch “down,” and disappointed in myself. Don’t let it worry you, I’m sure I’ll be over it soon.

This is a strange story that was inspired by a simple sentence, that I held onto for years until I could figure out how to make it work as a story. Until now.

Today’s Word:

maunder

As in:

It’s weird, isn’t it?

I’m a normal guy. Well, mostly normal. I like sports, and beer, and gadgets. I’m living the cliche.

Granted, I don’t tend to tell people about my “work,” which is usually only normal for secret agents. Or people in my field. My field’s not exactly socially acceptable. No, I’m not a garbage man or an undertaker or anything like that. Geesh. I’m a simple honorable thief.

Yeah, I know. I should stop.

But, it’s hard to get a job in this economy. It’s not like I can list skills like “fencing goods,” “stealth” or “lighting fast appraisal” on most resumes. I have very little in the way of job history, and my references are not exactly what anyone would consider ideal. I mean, I don’t even know what “Stumpy’s” real name is, and I ain’t asking.

It’s not a terrible life. I don’t have to put up with performance reviews, or uncomfortable polyester uniforms, or TPS reports. Nope. None of that. Sure, the threat of jail is a bit loomy, but, that’s not that big a risk if you’re careful.

So, why do I maunder on a Saturday night, shuffling down an empty street, looking like the saddest sad sack that ever blew down a street?

I can’t even believe it myself. I don’t know what it is about that girl. I mean, she was pretty, that’s part of it, sure. It’s more than that, though. There’s that dimple, and the way she laughs, and all those cliches. I’d never thought I’d have been susceptable to all that stuff.

Maybe it’s more the way she was with those kids. I don’t even like kids. They’re not even her kids, it’s just a job, but, she protected them, and they trusted her. They’re good kids too. Polite. They stayed calm the whole time I was there.

Look, I didn’t know anyone was still in the house. They are rich, and were supposed to be on vacation. I didn’t expect to find the kids and the nanny playing hide and seek in a dark house, when they were SUPPOSED to be on vacation.

I didn’t even steal anything from there. I couldn’t. I lost the will to take stuff. I’ve turned into a fool. A fool who wants a different life. A life where people cared about you, and where you had regular meals, and people who looked up to you, and treated you like something other than garbage.

It’s a fantasy world, but it had given me cravings that I can not ignore. How can I continue my life of crime with this gnawing emptiness consuming my thoughts? How did I get infected with the idea that I could have a happy life? What thief suddenly has dreams of being a nanny?

***************

I told you it was a peculiar idea.

maunder / MON – der / to wander slowly and idly 2. to speak indistinctly or disconnectedly.

Well, that’s not entirely true. I have ideas. That’s not the problem. However, all of them seem self-indulgent and only of interest to me.

As I try and get myself together for the end of the ear, I’m racing in so many directions, and I can’t focus on what to do with today’s post.

Then, of course, I get that annoying self-loathing which is reminding me that I’ve failed to post on the previous two Sundays, and I’m feeling uncertain whether I’m going to have something ready for the next Sunday, which is, of course, Christmas.

All of this is served alongside my to do list, which includes a bunch of stuff that I was hoping to accomplish before Christmas.

This, apparently, is translating to a ramble-y stream-of-conscious post.

I just finished watching American Horror Story’s season finale, and as messed up as this season was (content-wise), I learned that they’re essentially creating a season-long anthology show, and that’s inspired, and inspirational to me.

I’m supposed to go to work tomorrow, and I will need to deliver some Christmas presents tomorrow night, before I go to my mother’s  for the holiday itself, and I’m honestly feeling like the holiday is something of an annoying distraction, and I’m resenting it, and feeling a bit Scrooge-y. In point of fact, I’m not feeling that Christmas is anything but a day of deadlines, presents due, column due, blog post, due.  Then the day after Christmas, I start working on the stuff I wanted to have done *before* the holiday, but, is now late, so I’m playing catch-up instead. Family photo album “Christmas present,” which I’ve only just started.  Backlog of writing work I failed to get done during the past two weeks.  Oncoming deadlines of ornaments (Jan. 7), thank you notes to write (Jan. 3), newsletter (Jan. 1), blog posts (2 plus a Word of the Day) and columns to send out. Columns which no one is even reading.

And they say that the holidays are stressful. No solid waste matter, Sherlock.

Part of me is glad I’ve given myself so much to do in the last few weeks, because it helps to distract me from feeling depressed about the holiday. Much better to  have little sense of the season than to notice that everyone is spending their holiday with children and significant others.

That busy plan was working pretty good until I wrote the above paragraph. Thanks so much, brain, for that one.

Does this post serve any purpose except to make feel slightly better about myself for not missing yet another deadline?  I’m not even sure I’m not just going to delete this thing, and just live with the continual shame of missing deadlines. Is that better? I don’t know.

I’ve got at least another hour’s worth of work to accomplish tonight, and I’m cold, and long for a warm bath and bed. I’m this close to letting that seduce me away from doing anything meaningful tonight.

Expletive this. I’m posting, and then thawing in the tub for a bit.

I am starting to suspect the holidays are a conspiracy to drive us insane. I’m about to surrender, just so that I can get some sleep.

Today’s Word:

transpicuous

As in:

Barbara Montez, 49, has an unusual profession. She is the only known “Gift Whisperer.”

Given that there is only one “Gift Whisperer” in the wide world, you might be wondering what does one do. I was curious myself, so, I asked her.

A “Gift Whisperer” is a person known for two things. First, she can detect, without opening or damaging the gift wrap in anyway, the contents of a wrapped present, with an 80% accuracy rating.

This is a very valuable skill, and people who are burning with curiosity as to the contents of the items under their tree are more than happy to pay her to have a “peek” under the wrappings without the taboo tell-tale signs of paper-tampering.

Some of her customers employ her services to assure that an item wrapped for another household member is not, in fact the same item they themselves wished to purchase for that member, saving both the giver and the recipient from the headache of a duplicate gift.

Barbara, who has always has a “sixth sense” about wrapped presents discovered her unusual knack as a child, when she would guess her own wrapped presents. When no one was around, she’d pick each one up and give it an experimental shake. “Usually, judging by the weight and the sound of the contents, I could make a pretty good guess just from that. The items spoke to me as if the wrapping was transpicuous. I mean a book is pretty obviously a book, right? Even when it’s wrapped. The next trick is to figure out which book, and for that, well, it took listening to each item and thinking about the giver, and all the factors of gift giving. Presents just seem to speak to me. I have no other way to describe it.”

Barbara’s skills don’t stop at identifying what’s inside a gift package, however.

The other service she offers is making recommendations for each person on your list. She’s very good at taking a very brief description of the personalities on your gift-list, and suggesting the perfect gift. She even offers a money back guarantee. “If your loved one doesn’t love the present I suggest, I will give you back your money. Guaranteed”

Her unique skills have even been employed the USPS during the holiday rush, to help determine if suspicious packages are, in fact, dangerous. Her accuracy rating on these types of parcels? Ninety percent. More accurate than the best bomb-sniffing dog.

Montez has been providing insight into gifts professionally since 1989.

***************
I had this thought over a year ago, maybe two, and then failed to do anything with it until this year. Hope it was worth the wait.

transpicuous / trans – PICK – you – us / clearly seen through or understood.

One of the things that is both a challenge and a joy for me every Christmas is the annual Santa letters. By this I don’t mean a holiday letter to my family, or a letter I send to the dead-letter bin at the Post Office, but rather, the letter I write from Santa to some of the special kids in my life.

I’ve been doing this for nine years now, and I think about them for months before I sit down and write them. I try and think of new adventures for Santa, and for the cadre of characters I’ve invented over the years. I try not to do too much duplication, and tried not to make them too scary.

I goofed one year, and one of the kids was really scared by the story, and, even though Santa triumphed in the end, it was scary for that kiddo in particular. Some of the younger kids weren’t bothered by the same story, it just happened to hit on specific fears he had, and I felt really horrible about it, not just for misjudging it, but, for not knowing my audience well enough to anticipate that.

I write the story first, either on the computer or long hand, then transcribe it onto Christmas paper in script. This serves two purposes, first, Santa would never print. He’s old school. Second, I always print, and no one would guess, from comparing my script to my print that they came from the same person.

I personalize it as much as possible, and try to refer to the things the kids are getting from Santa. I also try to mention things that “only Santa would know.” It takes at least an hour to transcribe the letter into script, and if I make enough mistakes, I start the page all over again.

The stories have had real white elephants, and black polar bears, and a whole mythology about the North Pole. Looking back on them year after year, they make me smile, and I try and imagine hearing them for the first time as a child on Christmas morning.

The hardest part for me is that I rarely get to see the kids’ reactions to the letters. Only twice have I been present on Christmas morning, when my sister read the letter for my nephews. I’ve missed seeing the faces of my namesake and my goddaughter hearing the stories for the first time, and I’m secretly wondered if they even liked them. I’d hear a few things from their parents, but, it’s not the same thing. And, I couldn’t very well ask the children about them.

I won’t wonder about that so much after this year. The letters seem to have a cumulative effect. First, the oldest child for whom I’ve written them (who just turned 12), still believes in Santa, which is later than I myself did, and I suspect that a good part of this is due to the fact that he’s gotten personal letters from Santa since he was three.

This year, when his family was putting up the tree, he collected all the letters from the past years, and took them to his room to study them. He analyzed the handwriting looking for secret codes, or a clue to Santa’s identity. He wanted to volunteer to go to the North Pole and help Santa fight the Nightmares. (The Nightmares are the very thing that frightened him six years ago.)

So, I guess, they had an impact.

Santa told him that while there wasn’t any coded message in the previous letters, it was a fun idea, and maybe next year he’d do that. I’ll work on it. Santa also told him that his sister needed him more than he did, but, that his offer was appreciated.

What I wanted to give these kids was a touch of magic, something that they would remember for their whole lives, even after they no longer believed in Santa. I would’ve done this with my own kids, but, as it’s increasingly unlikely that I will ever have kids of my own, I would just have to do it for other kids I love.

I don’t know how long it will last, and I suspect I will miss doing it for them when they’ve moved on. But, for now, I’ll enjoy that little touch of magic, and look forward to talking with the kids about the stories when they’ve grown. Maybe, they’ll let me write them for their kids one day.