Extra: Quest Literature

Yep, me again.  :)

Just a quick note for my faithful readers...times, they are a-changing at Notes.  In the coming weeks you will be seeing the regular iPod-driven selections ("That Song by Elvis, or, Long Live a City in the Desert," for example) interspersed with my personal favorite, more "quest" pieces.  And what will the quests be?

Well, one you already know...my Pablo stairs.  More updates on that to come.  And the other?

Adventures, dear reader, in setting books loose "in the wild."

This past week I donated my usual large stack of books to the Main branch of the San Francisco Public Library, and got a new reaction--the usual "Thanks much for donating, do you need a receipt?" (No, I don't; just take 'em and enjoy) was replaced with "In the future, can you take these to some depository place we have set up in the Mission?  Would that be convenient?"  Um, no, it would not, but I understand...it must be some sort of effort to keep costs down.  In that instant I had a flash of inspiration--lay off the library donations for a while, and go back to the BookCrossing gig.

Ah, you ask, what's BookCrossing?

Click on the links.  Go take a look.  I'll wait.  (Yes, it's free.  It's worldwide.  It's legit.)

Some of the posts will be my notes from releases, from searching for the "wild" books, and, if I'm lucky, an occasional find.

And you, dear reader, are invited to participate in my quest, as always.  You can:

• Read the adventure, and enjoy;
• If a book sounds good and YOU want to read it, I will mail it to you for you to release once you're done reading it, regardless of where you are (just tell me where you leave it);
• Or, search for or release a book in your neighborhood (WORLD-WIDE, people) and share your story of the literary equivalent of a "message in a bottle."

By the way, I don't work for BookCrossing.  This is designed to be, like Desert Solitaire and the writing marathon for 826 Valencia, JUST...PLAIN...FUN.

You game?

Onward, dear reader.

P.S. - Insert your own favorite tune here.  :)

That Song By Rogers & Hammerstein, Or, The List

When you're unconventionally employed and struggling, a surprising number of people will offer advice.  But then, I've encountered many more opinionated people the older I get, and like my mother I don't know what to do with them.  So I accept them reverently--surely all of these people so sure of themselves have to be right just by sheer will, yes?

I guess I've been seeing this more and more lately, and I find myself at a crossroads.  Continue to worship them and gain their endorsement?  Or be myself, and ultimately end up alone despite trusting myself?

Amidst all of this, I considered simplifying the task.  Don't raze the field, Jo.  Don't burn bridges.  And don't not burn the bridges because you'll be afraid you may need that person later, but because it just ain't nice.  Why make the lives of others miserable?

The task--simplified--was inspired by my brother's Bob the Cat.  He knows what he likes, whether you like it or not.  So, for you now, whether or not it's politically correct, whether it offends or not, whether it makes me boring, pathetic, or naive...

These are a few of my favorite things:

• Declawed large and loving cats
• Stews made with so many ingredients you think you'd died and gone to heaven
• Language, foreign or domestic
• Cottage cheese
• Seasides
• Literature with a love of language and twists of plot
• The music of Bruce Springsteen
• Baseball
• Basil
• Horse stables
• The roar of a crowd, winning
• Bright, copper kettles
• Warm, woolen mittens
• Lists
• Love
• Sex, well played
• Don Julio Anejo, neat, accompanied by a lime, a cutting board, and a knife
• Dahlias 
• Tres Leches cake
• Making my brother laugh
• Making EVERYONE laugh
• Teaching
• Writing
• Libraries
• Movies
• God.  And God all to myself (I prefer to not be an evangelist)
• Cattle ranches
• Flying in Cessnas and Piper Cubs
• Riding in Amtrak trains
• Dark chocolate with chilis
• Warm rolls
• Acceptance

P.S. - This song is the inspiration of today's installment of Life For Rent.  What's on your list?

That Song by Marvin and Tammi, or, Mountain Out (of a) Moraga (Hill)

When I was about thirteen my parents decided to have a pond dug on our property--3/4 of an acre, and deep as the contractors could haul it without getting the equipment stuck in the grade. Deep, of course, meant that the contractors had to displace a lot of dirt.

Normally backfill dirt is pushed around the area surrounding a pond, so that the dirt not only looks like it's part of the grand design (after some grass grows on it, that is) but so the pond appears deeper. But my mother would have none of that--she loved to travel, and her intention was to have her own mountain. Now, anyone who has seen that movie with Hugh Grant or has lived with in the mountainous parts of the world knows how high a mountain actually is, and we tried to correct the semantics on this one for Mom. In fact, the running joke was that this was not only not a mountain but it probably couldn't even be considered a hill--more like a "mosquito bite." But my mother stood fast--"Don't make fun of my mountain."

I don't anymore.

I climb a "mountain," too.

*****

It's no secret that I love the San Francisco Giants--in case you've forgotten, you can refresh your memory here. One of my favorite players on the team drifts back and forth along the infielder positions, and his name is Pablo Sandoval. In 2009 Pablo looked like the next Barry Bonds--making every pitch into a hit or a homer, with one exception...Pablo was happier than Bonds. You couldn't miss it--it was all over his face.

Pablo was happy ALL THE TIME. He was happy batting, happy in the dugout, happy blowing a big pink bubblegum bubble just as he caught and threw a fielded out. They started calling him the Kung Fu Panda, just like the cartoon, or Panda for short.

Last year, in 2010, something changed. Panda spent the season losing his batting average and adding pounds, and became quiet. It was hard to watch Panda benched. He looked benched in the body and the face. All that happy, gone.

My coworkers laughed at him, blaming food and food only, and Pablo's lack of willpower with food. I thought at first something was injured, somewhere, but he wasn't on the DL. You don't go on the DL for a broken heart.

I hesitate to give away too many details of Pablo's story from 2010, because a good measure of it could be rumor. But the rumors, what I heard after the season in December, made sense. Pablo was going through some personal life experiences last year that would make some tough guys cringe, but what was worse was that he was trying not to let the camera see these problems. In covering up the problem, he created a new one--get out of shape and sad (and worse, useless at what he loved) in front of the camera. When I found out what created all of this, I found myself to be a little rankled at all of the jokesters.

When you get what you want but not what you need, writes and sings Coldplay, and I got the feeling someone saw that need in Pablo on a level of friendship. Pablo knew he was out of a job if he couldn't start hitting, and he couldn't hit with the extra physical and emotional garbage hanging on him. So he worked with a trainer. They took him to hills, hot and sandy, in Arizona, and told him to run up those hills.

I'm sure to him, at the bottom both literally and figuratively, those hills looked like a mountains.

Lost souls, creating what they can't find but desperately need. My mother created a mountain out of a hill, and my happy hero leveled mountains. Today Number 48 for the San Francisco Giants brings a higher batting average than weight scale reading, which was not the case in 2010. Does he look any different? From the chin down, a little. Pablo has genetics and frame working against him to even think of being mistaken for Nyjer Morgan. But that face...oh, it breaks the heart. He's beautiful. He's that kind of unabashedly happy that I haven't seen in eleven years, that happy that takes the observer by surprise with its innocence and complete lack of agenda, the happy my mother used to have.

Have mountain. Will travel.

*****

There is a hill six blocks from my apartment, formally called "Grand View Park" because, once climbed, it gives you a view of almost the entire City, as well as Daly City to the south, the Golden Gate Bridge to the north, and the ocean to the west. To many locals in the neighborhood it is called Moraga Hill, named for the street that the hill severs between 15th and 16th Avenues.

Moraga Hill is steep--like many hills in the City--and there are sets of stairs on the east and west sides. The stairs on the west side are a zigzag set of wooden steps, like a vertical boardwalk. Those on the east side--my approach--are concrete, half drifted with sand, sometimes slippery with fog or rain. Each flight on the east side has a small landing. Sometimes, depending on my body, I have to stop one of the landings to catch my breath. I'm hoping that won't always be the case, and little by little I get to a higher and higher landing before I have to stop.

There are seven flights of stairs up the hill.

Do I want to climb the steps when I get up in the morning? Hell, no. It's work. Sometimes the fog is so thick that there's no view. (I call those my treehouse days--the fog closes in walls in the sky.) Regardless of the day I come down from the hill sweating and steaming like a Budweiser Clydesdale.

Do I need to climb the mountain? Hell, yes. I like my writing so much better when I get back to the apartment and scribble a few notes, fresh from the air, streaming sea spray and perspiration. Dogs meet me on the walk back and I offer my hand, knuckles first and slow, and they sniff and lick the salt deposit with absolute...unabashed...joy.

Onward, dear reader.

P.S. - This song is where the inspiration for today's post of Life for Rent comes from. Marvin is so dreamy... :)

Extra: That Song by Green Day, or, A Month Early on Mondays

Warning--this post may sound bitter.

That's not my intention.

Let's drift back to that holiest of references for a moment, the business practice called "cost-to-serve." I'm going to couple that concept with communication connecting. Let's look at both of these concepts in terms of writing for an audience as thus:

• Cost To Serve: The act of producing something where the effect meets or exceeds the effort put into the endeavor
• Communication Connection: Writing for the sake of producing something that the reader can relate to, learn from, or gain relief in some way from

These two concepts have come strongly into play over the past couple of months for me in two aspects of my creative life: Notes From Sea Level and my writing groups. Most of my time during this period of unconventional employment has gone into one of those two categories--every day I'm working to find some way to market the blog, market me, or market the writing group. A part of me had hoped that if I go to every group meeting and if I write the blog and promote it four days a week I'll have incremental growth and I'll be a better writer.

It hasn't worked out that way.

The beauty of it is, I had time to try it out. I had seven free days a week to persist. The wise woman knows when persistence isn't enough, and a friend of mine wrote on just such a topic last night, which I discovered this morning. I'd already been churning this in my head last night, probably while she was writing her piece. I'm poetic and I'd like to think it happens that way.

For those readers who have "liked" my posts on Facebook, who have told me their comments off line, have commented on the posts in front of others--thanks for your feedback, keep it coming, and this love letter to you isn't going away. It's just being scaled back a little. Soon the fairy tale will end and I will have to earn a living the conventional way again, and a job probably isn't conducive to blogging and marketing that blog four days a week. But it will exist on a smaller scale, one day a week, probably Mondays. I want to focus more on getting a paying gig now and to focus more on writing short stories for FUN, not because it's on a checklist and at the end of the day I'm too tired because I've already cranked out four blogs and spent four hours searching for a job. For those who follow me on Facebook, you'll probably only see me on Mondays, unless you post or like something I do, or message me there, in which case my little phone alerts me. For those who follow me on Twitter, it will probably be a visitation of Monday and maybe one or two other days--Twitter gives me job openings, so I'm a little more faithful to it.

As to the writing group--I am cutting back on some of them. Once one of the hosts returns, I can cut two of the meetings out of the line-up. I can maybe take a class of my own--we'll see.

I'm taking Monday off since this post is occurring today, so I'll see my readers in a week. Hopefully it will be some phenomenal writing for your wait. Thanks for tuning in.

Onward, dear reader.

P.S. - This song is where today's post of Life for Rent comes from. If we're talking Green Day, I could probably use this one, too.

That Song by Fleet Foxes, or, The Changing Face of Mentorship

When you walk away from an environment, it acutely changes your relationship to that environment in a way that's akin to grief or injury, even if you're the one who walked away. Like the Giants winning a game, I'm always shocked when friends or relatives drift back into my life after a time, and I try not to think about their motives. I also try not to think that they are there to stay--I love the stories of others which means I get needy enough to want to see all of the details and the ending. I've had to let a lot of endings go.

I'm sure that others have had to let my endings go, although I never think of myself as having disappeared from anyone's life unless that's what they want. The dynamic works a bit differently with mentors. With mentors I am of the constant fear that I'm going to smother the life out of them by continuing to revisit the well for guidance, which means I tend to have an even greater arm's length between myself and them. I guess this implies lack of trust on my part, but it really stems from working to not inconvenience anyone from childhood forward.

I've had two prominent mentors in my life--the Good Doctor and the Airman--but I'm learning to do two things as I watch them drive farther and farther away:

• I'm learning to regenerate their voices (sort of on the same premise as "What Would Jesus Do" kind of thing)
• I'm learning to find small slices of mentorship in strangers

The first one worked well for these first four months, because I could nearly conjure up the person. With the Airman it was a piece of cake because I am still in a year where at some point I received his guidance, and with the Good Doctor it was easy because iTunes has a series of his lectures on video for FREE (sacrilege) for me to watch anytime, and his message hasn't changed much since I graduated from college in 2000. This method for both gentlemen seemed to work well for the loneliness that sneaks up behind you and bites you when you take this path in your career, so it served as a security blanket of sorts.

I find I have to let the security blanket go. There's no reciprocation--and I tend to be broken-hearted when I don't have the same impact on others that they have on me. I am forever indebted to both of them for how they helped shape me, but at some point aren't I supposed to take the tools they gave me and propel myself forward, instead of borrowing their wheels all the time? So I'm moving on to the next stage--finding mentorship in listening to everyone and taking the guidance that I need in slices. My mentor can be an author, another blogger, an agent, a children's book critique book--heck, I've even gleaned from photographers and librarians recently, and not just for writing. What am I looking at and what do I lend? Well, anyone can help me if I just listen to them.

Gone are the days of following one person like a puppy--I'm sure that got old for them, too. But here are the days that they taught me to watch for, the people they taught me to watch for, the experiences they taught me to embrace.

*****

In Missouri I mentored a lot of folks at Bass Pro Shops and Alltel, which gave me some sense of satisfaction in the fact that mentorship is an aspect of teaching, which I will love and proclaim that I love like beating a dead horse through all of time. But when I reached California I suddenly felt that my ability to mentor went right out the window--most people didn't want to follow me, and those that did did so for reasons of looking good at reviews. In my last position at Grainger I was a fish out of water--and had a hard time managing without becoming mommy and, subsequently, resentful mommy. Let's put it this way--I wouldn't have wanted to lead anyone down my path.

But in the last few weeks, leading these writing groups and workshops, I've found that when people see I have another group meeting scheduled, they come to the session. There are, in fact, some new members that are following me to every session all over the City.

Maybe they're looking for a mentor in their quest for writing companionship. I have to say at this point--I'm ready and I want to share. Maybe that's the third bullet-point of the evolution.

Onward, dear reader.

P.S. - This song is where the inspiration for today's post of Life For Rent comes from. Save for the fact that I was never taught as a kid that I was unique. That I figured out later...thanks to a mentor or two.

That Song by Rod Stewart, or, Status Update

I'm writing this post on Tuesday because I have a hot date with nine guys in orange and black before my writing group on Wednesday, so this is another drop-and-go piece.

It occurs to me that there has been a lot of philosophy lately here and not much of an update from the first month I ventured out into this journey of unconventional employment, so here is an update, in so many bullet points...

Current writing projects:

• Four blogs - One on writing, this one, one that goes out with my resume to prospective employers, and the Examiner pieces. The writing and Notes blogs are daily four times a week, the resume one is once a week, and I'm trying to find a way to write the Examiner one without sounding dry. That's my challenge right now
• Short fiction rough draft cranked out daily four days a week. Next challenge is to be strong enough in the existing process to move into in-depth editing

Other projects:

• Getting in shape. I'm climbing seven flights of stairs every weekday morning and trying to get to the ocean once a week. The stairs are called my Pablo stairs after being inspired by him in "The Franchise." So far I am very, VERY sore and tight. My next challenge is learning how to stretch again
• Job searching. Yes, children, the money is dwindling down. Current irons in the fire are to a couple of temp agencies, Yelp, and, as always, the birthplace of my Kindle--Amazon
• Writing groups. I average about three of these a week, and lead all three. It's still fun, but I wish I had other leaders to follow. Just keeping my mind open and my heart full. (I sound like "Friday Night Lights.") I don't think I'll ever get tired of meeting other writers--I just hope they don't think I am the only one who can lead them. Not getting too close--that's my challenge here
• Staying balanced. I have the tendency to cling, so I don't want to wear out my welcome with people, but I don't want to abandon them. So I just get frustrated. I'm challenging myself to remove that frustration and let people reach out to me if they need me

That's where I am. And, oh, yes, I read too. I'm three books ahead of my goal of 50 for the year. I love my City, I love the Bay Area, and I go explore.

Onward, dear reader.

P.S. - This song is where today's inspiration for this post of Life for Rent comes from. I didn't put in the Spanish...but, you're welcome. :)

That Song for the Orange and Black, or, Strike

I suck at bowling. There's no other way to describe my bowling skills. When I was in high school that was often the past-time of choice Back in the States, and on one such occasion I went out with a group of girlfriends to an alley that had a group of guys about our age from another school in the next lane. I had displayed my awesome prowess of suckage-ness consistently throughout the evening, until at one point I got creative and did the "Grandma" bowl stance.

We've all seen it, suffered by little children and extremely aged adults. You put the ball down on the lane, and push it. It rolls about .0002 mph. And then it knocks over one pin and you're done. The ball is going so slow that the pins mess the ball up, not the other way around.

When I tried my Hail Grandma Mary push down the lane, the guys in the next lane broke into deep giggles. When the ball finally reached the pins, however, it knocked over EVERY. SINGLE. PIN. I got a strike.

"Oh, HELL no!" half the guys shouted, pointing at my strike.

That's what I said pointing at Brian Wilson's last strike on the night of November 1st, 2010.

*****

Once a year folks, at least, you gotta put up with a baseball post from me. It usually happens during trades, like this post about my beloved Bengie from last year from my writing blog. I hate trades. I go to sleep after a game the week of trades and wake up the next morning and the chess players are all rearranged. (No, I do not have a black and orange chess set. Maybe Santa will be nice to me for Christmas. Stop giggling.) I lost Bengie to trades and I was afraid this past weekend that I was going to lose Pat the Bat to trades (it's still possible, but I'm in denial). At one point the team beat writers on Twitter had me all worked up that there was a possibility that Bengie's brother Jose was getting traded to us from Toronto. I was genuinely happy for about 30 minutes--even though Zito was playing batting practice--until someone killed that off.

Last year at this time here's what was different with my favorite pastime:

• Getting seats at a decent price in places like Club Level at AT&T Park were easy--I went to one game a month there
• I got teased about my orange and black at Grainger. I was surrounded by White Sox, Reds, and A's fans. They just thought I was adorably naive and overly-devotional to the quirks of my guys rather than having my eyes open to the lack of offense in them
• I could walk down the street and through Golden Gate Park in San Francisco in my Giants' cap and get a "Go Giants" and a grin, every time

That was before we threw that Grandma Strike last November. Now:

• Decent-priced seats at AT&T now come from Stub Hub and usually involve freezing in the outfield, even though I still go once a month
• A former employee of mine that I used to be friends with hurled all kinds of frenzied gloating via text at me on Sunday when the Giants were swept by the Reds. I've experienced teasing--this wasn't teasing. This was pure hate all over my phone. I have to admit that I pitied him for being soooo victorious
• If I wear my Giants cap in the City either people smile or they tell me off. As though I own the team. And they are in San Francisco...not the East Bay

Let's reiterate something from last year and this year--I don't brag on these guys. I don't say, "Philly, just you wait." (That one's for Charlie Manuel.) I didn't send this Reds guy on Sunday a text prior to that series saying, "We gonna womp yo ass, yo." (In fact, this guy stopped texting me after I left Grainger, so I figured he was a flake and took his number out of my phone.) I also don't exclusively love the Giants...I tend to have a fondness for any underdog, because even when they suck they still have to play and they have to play with heart. They defy gravity, in terms of individual players like Kirby Puckett, Pablo Sandoval, and Prince Fielder, and in terms of teams, like the Tampa Bay Rays, the Texas Rangers, and the New York Mets. I love them because they play scrappy baseball, not the high-dollar, game-show, theme-park baseball that the fans of the Yankees and the Phillies enjoy. I love teams like the Giants who are in fact average athletes who have found a way to mill a diamond (no pun intended) out of a game with nothing else but sheer, unadulterated will.

It's a shame that the diamond milled was SO big last year, because now everyone hates the Giants or decided to jump on a bandwagon to love them just this past spring. But I'm still going. I'm a die-hard. I love my boys because they are good men that occasionally make great things happen.

*****

All throughout the playoff season of 2010, as the team beat each obstacle in their way, I found myself evoking a prayer. A simple prayer, one regardless of outcome, and probably most useful for any underdog winning the impossible:

"Please God, whatever happens, make them okay with it."

I still say it.

Onward, boys of summer.

P.S. - This song is where the inspiration of today's post of Life For Rent comes from. Hellll, yeah.

That Song by Eddie Vedder From That Movie with Julia Roberts, or, Audience Participation

[Editor's Note: It struck me, last week when I established my next quest of getting in shape, that such a quest was a solitary one. Herein lies a quest with those in the audience who wish to participate in mind.]

In the latter half of 2001 my brother and I were feeling particularly isolated in a way that neither one of us could articulate very well (due to my mother's illness), and a friend of mine recommended a book entitled "A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius," by Dave Eggers. In brief, the book was a slightly fictionalized account of Eggers's struggle to raise his youngest brother after both of his parents died of cancer only months apart of each other. The book was graphic, hilarious (my funniest moment was reading the copyright page), touching, and amazingly healing for both my brother and I. Ever since that book we've been loyal Eggers readers.

After moving from Lake Forest, Illinois to San Francisco, and establishing a publishing hub of his own in the Bay Area, Eggers started a non-profit organization in San Francisco called 826 Valencia, named after the address of the organization. If you live in the Bay Area and have never been, it's an interesting experience. The study areas are fronted by a Pirate Store and one of the quirkiest storefronts you will ever encounter. The Pirate Store sells anything a pirate could ever need (from tar and feathers, to glass eyes and eye patches--no foolin'), as well as paperback and hardback published writings of the students who join the 826 family, regardless of age from 5 to 18. (You grow up, and you have to move on...just like Peter Pan. If you don't want to grow up, you can mentor and tutor kids on weeknights and Sundays--but more on that in a moment.) Eventually Eggers expanded this organization to one called 826 National, which got my attention during the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina when they set up a temporary chapter in New Orleans and Houston. At that point I wanted to get involved, and started tutoring on alternate Sundays of the month at the San Francisco location during the school year for a majority of the years since. (I took 2008-2009 off due to personal issues.) The kids who came to these sessions soon became the closest thing to me having kids to teach and love--and not just with writing mentorship. They came in on Sundays wanting to work on all kinds of homework, from math to biology to history to reading, and I jumped in and helped best I could. They made me laugh and I tried to give them the same, they taught me something and I tried to do the same. And, of course, lucky me--I got the priviledge to teach. That's always the love I go back to, no matter child or adult.

Last year 826 Valencia held its first ever 8/26 Day Write-A-Thon, held on August 26th and a fundraiser to celebrate nine years in the City. I didn't make the effort to do it last year--to my recollection I had shipper out at Grainger at that time due to paternity leave, and I didn't have a relationship with even my writing group at that point. This year is different. This year I'm doing this, because I'm passionate about the cause, because I'm a sucker for any excuse to blow half a gallon of ink on fourteen dead trees, and, maybe through my involvement, one other person will find their passion, too. Here are the details of this year's event, and I welcome the help of any readers who want to help with this quest.

Now, let me be ABUNDANTLY CLEAR, here. I don't like soliciting. Over the next three weeks I will be posting reminders of my quest on Facebook and Twitter, but they are just REMINDERS...because I don't want anyone saying, "I didn't know you were doing that and I would've sponsored you" because they don't read my blog. If there's one thing I struggle with, it's a Facebook or Twitter message that informs people that if they loved me they'd sponsor me for "Save The Whales" or something. That's not my intent. My intent is to open up the door for you to get involved in something fun, if you are so inclined. Your level of participation is up to you.

What you can do (any one or more of the following):

• Sponsor me for one written page of your choice, at $10/page. By "one page of your choice," see choices to follow in a moment. You can also sponsor me for more than one page, but please, no fractions of pages. My math stinks. That's why I'm a writer and literature freak.
• Have patience with my occasional Facebook/Twitter updates through the month of August, up to 8/26. I don't see a problem with this since some folks block me on Facebook (I have more followers on Twitter) or since most of my Facebook friends have so many friends that they miss most of my updates, but just sayin'.
• Stay quiet and say a prayer for the success of myself and the other writers jumping in on this.

For those who choose to sponsor me at $10/page, your page(s) can be written in any of the following formats of your choice:

• Blog post (dedicated to you or a subject of your choice)
• Fiction
• Poetry
• Letter (to you, to a friend, to a relative, of recommendation, to an editor, etc)
• Advertisement
• Obituary
• Review (movies, restaurants, books, albums, you name it)
• Or anything else you can think of. The only limit is I won't write legal documents, death threats, or porn. I'm open to everything else.

For those sponsoring at $10/page, the following action can be taken, either singularly or combined, with your page(s):

• Published in my blog, in Notes From Sea Level, with a credit line to you
• Submitted to 826 Valencia as proof of our combined devotion
• Submitted only to you for your descendants to open in 50 years to marvel at ("Look! Who wrote this great stuff about Dad/Mom?")
• Locked up in my safe-keeping to remember you by
• Submitted to a publication of your choice. In this case, you get the money from the publication if I'm published or the rejection letter if I'm not.
• Any combination of the above or any other outcome of your choice

Now, finally...my sponsor goal.

I'm from the Midwest. As Garrison Keillor would say, we have low, "aw-shucks-ma'am" expectations. When I headed up a Red Cross recruitment with Grainger back in 2007, I told my peers that I would be happy if ONE OTHER PERSON joined with me. Everyone else I got to join was frosting on the cake. (In that case, I got 89 tablespoons of frosting--rich, baby.) I am sponsoring myself for four pages for this event--two for me, and two in the name of my mom (that's another quest post, later in the month). I only ask for one other sponsor, but I will write up to 30 pages. (No worries, folks...I have EIGHT HOURS AND TWENTY-SIX MINUTES. I should be able to clear 30 pages in that time...depending on your choice of typed or hand-written.) With me and my four pages, that means if that one other person wants to sponsor me for $260, the rest of the potential sponsors are out of luck. But if you want just a page, for fun...I'd rather have 26 sponsors. The bigger the party the better. :)

All I'm hoping for is one. That person will be the cake...any more than that, frosting. (Yum.) But if I don't get one...that's okay, too. I get to write a couple of pages for me, a couple of pages for my mom, and watch other, more talented writers with more deserved readerships write their contributions.

If you are interested in sponsoring, please message me for details of where you can send your sponsorship. I plan on writing at 826 Valencia that day, or, if it's jam-packed, writing at a series of cafes in the area and stopping by 826 at 8 pm to drop off donations that are sent to me directly. (You do not have to send me donations directly--they can be sent to 826 Valencia directly if you feel more comfortable doing that, and that's information that I can include in the message back to you.) If you are sponsoring me, please e-mail me/submit sponsorships by August 22nd at the latest--you won't get a writing for sponsorships after that point, but any donations submitted after that point will be forwarded to 826 Valencia the following week (I pass by there every Wednesday night for my writing group meeting).

Questions? Comments? Message me at Facebook or my e-mail at jostraveler@gmail.com.

Thanks for reading such a long post. It's good to have you along for this quest, in any way, shape, or form.

Onward, dear reader.

P.S. - The title of this post of Life for Rent comes from this inspiration. The video sucks but the audio was the best I could find. We all walk the long road, she sings softly as she picks up the next pen, the next sheet of paper...

A Different Song by U2, or, I Found What I'm Looking For

Ok, let's be pleasant. My last few posts weren't pleasant. Let's make some pleasantness, shall we?

Recognize the title of the book in this picture?

It's ok, I'll give you a little time...or a little more time...

Remember now? Ok, here's the exciting conclusion:

Last Thursday I took a day to explore a couple of the libraries in the City. I was homesick for the library experience I had at Carlsbad and I wanted to curl up again and read in a library. I've never had that kind of experience at the libraries in the City because, well, usually there's either someone there who doesn't speak English who's ignoring the "sssshhhh" rule, or there's a homeless person leaving a odorous print on the environment, or some such thing that sets me off.

It didn't happen this time. Now, it probably helped not having a traditional job--I could slow down and enjoy my library time, which I did. I didn't enjoy it in the same way as I did in Carlsbad, but I enjoyed it all the same, giving me a chance to say to myself, "hey, why don't we try a new one every week?" I fell in love in a hesitant way with my local one in the Sunset (there was some chatter in Cantonese, but it passed quickly enough when the ladies found what they wanted in the new fiction shelves), and after reading there for a couple of hours I even crossed the street and tried a new hotdog joint called Underdog, which was tasty and exotic, in its own organic way.

Then I took the train down to the Main Branch of the library and explored the other floors after donating five books and checking out two (I'm never going to win this "no new books" struggle, am I?). Normally when I go into this branch it's a quick walk around the first floor fiction and then checkout and go, so I was completely unaware of the study rooms on the third and fourth floors, as well as the breath-taking periodicals room with the spiraling staircase to the sixth floor. (Shockingly enough I have taken the elevator to the sixth floor before when the museum they have there had a display on Harvey Milk. Completely bypassed all the other floors. Yes, I'm a jerk.) I spent some time on the international floor and general collections writing in my journal (where everyone was quiet as mice, English or no), wrote for another hour in one of the study rooms, and walked the rest of the building slowly.

Then it hit me...I wonder if "Desert Solitaire" is here.

It was listed as there, but it wasn't in the racks in the general collection or in the "new books" by the Page Desk, which is where the location listing was. Sigh. Ok, fine. But it was also at another library.

I'll give you three guesses on which one it was at. And the first two guesses don't count.

Yeeees...the Sunset branch.

No problem, I thought. It's early, 2:30 p.m.--I'll put it on hold now and pick it up tomorrow.

It took them TWO DAYS to put the thing on hold. What's so funny about this is I am used to Grainger picking an item in stock and putting it on hold for a customer in no more than thirty minutes. So you can imagine why I was stir crazy. But they finally had it, and Saturday I walked into the library and picked it up in the holds section and just stood there, with a huge grin on my face, trying not to cry. Abbey, you bastard, I found you. I have climbed highest mountains, I have run through the fields, and HERE...YOU...ARE.

And now, to pick up where I left off in Carlsbad. By the way, if you can get a copy, it's worth the search.

Onward to the next quest, dear reader.

P.S. - This song is where today's post of Life For Rent comes from. It's the first song I thought of when I walked home with the book. The heart is indeed a bloom.

That Song by Amy Winehouse, or, Nyjer Morgan, or, Badass

This is the third morning in a row I've been awakened by a nightmare I was in the middle of. I hope I'm not screaming when this happens. I could just be a man about it and say, "Oh, it's your hormones."

Sigh.

When I worked at my last "traditional" job, I used to have nightmares that I was operating the counter all by myself and my employees were standing behind me laughing at me. Then I had to do it (without the jokesters, but still), and I was able to say to myself, "Well, at least we know you can do it." Which is roughly on par with saying, "Well, at least we know you can fire a gun at someone to go into war." Just because you can, doesn't mean you should.

The nightmares the last three days have been the larger social circle walking away and laughing at me living. I'm not sure where this renewed ridicule cycle comes from, except I do know this--it's probably been going on for a long time in Facebook circles (sorry, didn't mean to mix my Facebook and Google+ metaphors there) and I've just chose to ignore it. That's wise. I have a little less than ninety friends on Facebook and of those friends there's probably a very small number that read me or read at all, so my goal is to write for someone like me. If nothing else, I'm entertained when I go back to the page.

My high school reunion is coming up. I was asked recently if I was going. Probably not--I don't have a family or spouse of my own, and I can't imagine shucking out nearly a grand for an airline ticket to go and be psycho-analyzed for why I don't have those things. "You do what? Lead writing groups? How does that work?" Ten minutes, tops. I can answer those questions on Facebook. In fact, probably the only thing that would be assessed is how I move and how much weight I've gained since high school. I am thicker, but not by much. I wasn't thin in high school to begin with.

It all comes back to the passion. Those years in high school weren't my favorite--not because of the people but because I was trapped in a world that didn't get me. The one I'm in right now doesn't get me entirely either, but it's closer to me. And I've said it before and I'll say it again--I'm more interested in making friends from a passion than having friends from the same prison experience. Sharing the passion tends to keep the friendship longer, and make it stronger.

*****

Speaking of passions...I have a confession to make: prior to Saturday, I had no idea who Amy Winehouse was. I tend to tune out news of celebrities who party that hard, like Winehouse, or Lohan, or even the overexposed Lady Gaga. Gossip, whether in my circle or in Hollywood's, tends to bore the crap out of me. As to the Grammys and Winehouse--I usually don't watch the Grammys. When her last album was released I was unemployed at that time, too, with a lot less money and healing from a crappy relationship--hence, pretty closed up.

So Saturday, in a grumpy mood and feeling stupid, I admitted that I didn't know that "British singer" on Twitter--I called her that because if you use the person's name people worldwide can see your comment just by a person search and read you a riot act for not knowing her (I got a little bit, just a teensy one, of a chastisement for not knowing her anyway). I know this name trick because the night before I made the mistake of getting on Twitter when I was livid about Nyjer Morgan, an aging outfielder from San Francisco who now plays for the Brewers but got all "no you didn't" in the face of center field fans on Friday night. Nyjer is a fantastic fielder and has a batting average of .327, and he knows it. He has an alter-ego called T. or Tony Plush, which is what he tells the media his "gentleman's" name is, and it's interesting to hear him give a "gentleman's" name when Plush/Morgan is not what you would call a gentleman. He has a temper, yo. And a record of utilizing that temper on the field, both at fans and with opposing team members. On Friday he surprised all of us by interacting with the center field fans during a game, something the Giants fans have very little practice with. We get to see clowning for our benefit in batting practice, but other than that, the men play their game and we watch. When Nyjer starting engaging the fans, though, it snapped something in me. If for no other reason than kids look up to ball players and he was a ball player in the stands.

Keep in mind that for the last two games I have had the rotten luck of being surrounded on at least two sides by the opposing team's fans. Nyjer did help me out in that aspect on Friday--they all left when he started behaving erratically. In fact, the Giants' fan next to me with his grandson took that little boy up to the slide when Nyjer started acting like that--so he offended people. I was angry about his behavior and came home and tweeted about it--forgetting the cardinal rule of Twitter and using names. I got read the riot act. No wonder the nightmares. It appears that I'm a "Giants' crybaby" for thinking what I do. I could understand that if all the Brewers' fans around me hadn't left when Nyjer started in.

Brian Wilson = badass

Nyjer Morgan = just plain awful

But, despite NOT using Winehouse's name, I still got referenced. I had to give myself a break--waking up with nightmares, getting lambasted by Morgan fans, I just shut Twitter off, read a book, and listened to Winehouse. I thoroughly enjoyed her music, yes. I celebrated that. I didn't want to focus on the failure of her death. She reminded me of something a chef had mentioned earlier in the week on Twitter: "Why is it that people hype up failure instead of success?"

Well, according to Winehouse, Plush, my high school classmates, and me...I guess that depends your definition of success.

Onward, dear reader.

P.S. - This is where today's title of Life For Rent comes from. I cheated myself, like I knew I would...

That Song by Deborah Kerr, or, Fake It 'Til You Make It

Sometimes you just have to do what you don't want to do.

Today is no exception.

I'm overcoming two challenges today:

• Leading a writing group three blocks from the protest-ridden Mission office of the SFPD when I really want to curl up at the Carlsbad library, where the librarians greet you at the door.
• I am to the point in my current short story writing where I have to write a sex scene.

Depending on how you look at my past employment, the fear factors are a toss-up. After spending three years working in Oakland, I'm more scared of the writing assignment. After working in California for seven years, I'm more scared of the protestors.

Flip a coin and whistle a little and dance on-ward, dear reader.

P.S. - This is where the title of today's post of Life For Rent comes from. This is song I'm playing to be brave...it serves dual duty. It makes me feel sexy. No white boy has ever called me "mama," so Mat is turning me on. Well, that, and the lyrics help. :) Standin' there like a Tennessee queen sayin' 'Don't look at me, don't look at me...'

*Picture courtesy of my sis-in-love Serena. Find Bob in the picture and win keys to the Buick. To borrow from Shakira: "No hiding, no hiding."

iPod Stuck On Repeat, or Still Playing That Song by U2

Stay with me on this one. There's a story and I'm a storyteller, so we'll start with that.

Last week I posted a tale of how I couldn't find Edward Abbey's "Desert Solitaire" for sale in San Francisco. I got lots of great advice, from the Healer on where to find it with Amazon, to this bit of advice from a friend of mine:

Just do what I do - put a hold on it in the library web site. This makes them do the searching in those outlying branches, and if they find it, ship it to your local library at no cost. This eliminates the risk of "I spent two hours on Muni and now it's not on the shelf WTF?"

You're going to see how ironic this all is in about a paragraph. Or two.

So yesterday we were having some things done at the apartment in the morning and I thought to myself, how can I turn this into an adventure for me? I thought, hey, where is that Abbey book I wanted? Which branch of the library? And found out it was in West Portal. Now, I could have followed my friend's recommendation, but I had a hang-up: you mean I'm having someone drive this book to me? This book is an environmental treatise about how they are paving over Arches National Park so that people can wheel themselves up to nature instead of discovering it through roughing it, and I'm supposed to wait for someone to pave the way to the book for me? Seems sacrilegious to what I was supposed to be learning from the book. I felt like I'd be booking a room in the Marriott to read about Walden. (By the way, I have journeyed to Walden. And I've done the Marriott thing. Poor comparison.)

Besides, I had unfinished nostalgia with West Portal. West Portal during the day reads like a forgotten Main Street--families and markets and bookstores and an old, cramped movie theatre. So here was my plan for yesterday:

1. Write at Starbucks, check.
2. Look for the next Maupin book in the "Tales of the City" series, check. I also found a book on the sales table called "Baseball Haiku" that I couldn't resist. (Yes, I looked for Abbey. No dice.)
3. Lunch at Mozzerella di Bufala, where they make my favorite spaghetti bolognese, check.
4. See the last Harry Potter film, check. (Which, by the way, was my first one in a theatre.)
5. Visit Walgreens, check. (West Portal has the Walgreens in the City. Very very little of their garbage is locked up. I love that Walgreens.)
6. Go to the library and pick up "Desert Solitaire."

Yeah, that last one is missing the "check."

It was on hold and in transit. Now, Glen Park library has it. I could have it driven to me. Or I could have tried to hunt down Glen Park Library, before some nimrod put it on hold. And I say "some nimrod" with all of the love in the world, because before I started this crusade last week there were missing copies from the Main Library and four "Check Shelf" copies at the other branches. Now there's ONE open at Glen Park. In other words, between my feed on Twitter and here, I've started a movement.

Well, a four-book movement anyway.

Yes, I said FOUR book movement...because there's more.

I had a lovely day in West Portal, regardless of the main purpose getting lost in the shuffle. I came back to the apartment, changed into cooler clothes (summer sneaked in for a few hours yesterday), and watched "Shrek Forever After" on HBO On Demand. About an hour into the movie my Twitter feed revealed to me a reply from an inquiry I sent a week ago, from a challenge to Green Apple Books and Booksmith--Green Apple had "Desert Solitaire." (Booksmith never said boo, which is odd considering I've talked up their store on the Examiner before.)

I waited until the movie was over and took the 44 bus down to Green Apple. I looked. They didn't have it. (By the way, if you look under their website and click the little "Other Editions of this Title" link, it says they still have it today.) So I went to the counter. Inquired. Told the lovely young lady where I had looked, after a smart aleck behind me said, "Why don't you look under Abbey?" The lovely young lady behind the counter said it might be in the mass market field guides on the floor next to the nature section I looked in. Excellent. I went back up and looked there. Nothing.

I left the library giggling. I left Green Apple ready to cry. Either someone saw the Twitter exchange and bee-lined it for Green Apple, or Green Apple has no frickin' clue of half the titles in its repertoire. (Both are highly possible.) You may ask, Sarah/Jo/Sadie, when you go into these bookstores, where are you looking for this book? It's non-fiction, so here's where I look:

• Nature
• Environmental
• Memoir
• Biography
• Travel
• And, if I get desperate, I assume the worst possible intelligence in the bookstore clerks and look for it with his Fiction

Here are my remaining options:

• Wait for the hype to go down and for me to catch up on the rest of my reading (I now have a stack of books up to my belt buckle), and then go get the damn thing from the library in a manner that would make Abbey spin in his desert pyre--by transferring it to my local branch.
• Order the thing from Alexander's, which has never promised me anything or ignored me for any reason, read the book when it comes in, and donate the book to the library, which obviously needs it.
• Order the thing from Amazon, to ship to me, and wait for Abbey to strike me with lightning. Read the damn thing and donate it to the library.
• Wait and finish the book when I go back down to see my brother again. I think he has the only copy I'm able to touch, but it could have been a mirage.

I like that last one. Kill two birds with one stone, by the method of airline fuel. Curse you, Abbey.

By the way, the Carlsbad Library, my brother and sis-in-love's local, also has just one copy. And it's on hold. Okay, I'm back to giggling. You'll have to wait, Edward. I'm on a quest, and it doesn't involve Amazon or Borders liquidation or empty promises. When you're ready to drop back into my life, I'll find you.

I will climb/Highest mountains/I will run/Through the fields.

And yes, this book is JUST...THAT...GOOD.

Onward, dear reader.

P.S. - This is still the inspiration of where the title of today's Life For Rent comes from. Since we had the Boss last time, thought I would go with the original this time.

That Song by Alanis Morissette, or, Perseverance

I had kind of an anti-climax weekend when it comes to my writing group that I'm so excited about--not from the people whom I lead in my portion of the groups, but in my fellow leaders. I had to do a lot of conjuring up of the Airman and the Healer this weekend, and just sit with them in quiet meditation. I had to keep forgiving myself for actions that I didn't take but heavily considered.

But I didn't run away.

That's important--when I first met the Airman it wasn't under the best of circumstances for either one of us and I ran away from that encounter. Of all of the people who would have had every right to hold it against me, he never did, which continues to astound me every time I think about it. He only brought it up one other time, to give me reference in another high tension situation when I was trying for another position with Grainger, and he asked that I come talk to him if I didn't get the job. I could still go home after talking to him, but he didn't want me just running out.

I sat with that last night when I had spent a weekend interacting with folks who were leading to lead, not to promote the support of other writers. I won't go into specifics, but I finally came to the conclusion that I still have one organizer in the group I can gain inspiration from, even though he's not leading a group right now, and I can still conjure up the Airman. I know what he would ask--"Is this what you want to make important?" Nope, you're right. I will also gain inspiration from folks who call it "dreaming their novel" instead of free-writing when they hit a road block in their book, or the British visitor who wrote despite jetlag. And this will always be my writing group, but I'm looking into others, instead of sitting here waiting for my writing group to show me all the possibilities in one basket. I'm not leaving my group, just seeing how other groups do it. I'm doing my part to make sure that I learn as a teacher, and then bring that back to my groups.

And I don't feel quite so discouraged, or like ditching the whole thing. I didn't run away. That's progress.

Onward, dear reader.

P.S. - This is where today's title of Life For Rent comes from. I was listening to it yesterday during a particular ugly moment on the bus, and thought to myself, this song could describe my City, too, personified. And yes my love...I'm still here.

That Song by U2, or, Disappointment

My brother is a huge devotee of Edward Abbey. Back when I lived in the States I introduced him to "A Fool's Progress," a novel that I thought was hilarious and sad, and he took the horse by the reins and opened it up on the plains, reading and buying anything Abbey. He loved in particular Abbey's works on the desert, and traveled to Page, Arizona on a dare that he read between Abbey's lines.

This past week in Carlsbad my brother and I got in an impassioned discussion about nature and society and he loaned me "Desert Solitaire" to read. I made it to a chapter entitled "Cowboys and Indians" before I had to give it back. Since I now hail from a City entrenched in environmentalism and green, I thought I would find a gazillion copies of "Desert Solitaire" over a span of the San Francisco libraries and bookstores.

The Main Branch of the San Francisco Library no longer has it--they are all overdue and billed or missing. (How fitting, given Abbey's anarchy.) There are copies available in two other branches that I don't often go to, but I may have to make a special trip, for the book is not to be found on the shelves of bookstores in San Francisco. If you want Abbey in this town, you can read "The Monkey Wrench Gang." THAT'S IT. Not "A Fool's Progress," which I could readily find in Southwest Missouri. Not "Desert Solitaire."

What. The. F....

To add insult to injury, if you go to the websites of two Pacific Northwest favorites of mine, Powell's Books of Portland, Oregon, and Elliott Bay Book Company of Seattle, Washington, Abbey is readily available in nearly all of his forms.

Our big-time, supposedly literary and environmental City, is shown up by the grunge capitals of the universe. It may be time for me to move north.

My hope was this: I have the free time. I'll find this book in my City, my beloved land of culture and anarchy and nature-loving, tree-hugging freaks. I'll find it and see the City again and I'll be proud to BUY LOCAL. But local doesn't have it. So I'll have to check it out of the library, instead of reading it and donating it to the library.

It's a heartache.

Onward, dear reader.

P.S. - This is where the title of this post of Life For Rent comes from. Thought I'd pick one with my Boss in it, as well. Enjoy.

That Song by G-Side, or, Success, One Small Step at a Time

While I was on vacation I received some very exciting news--the San Francisco Public Library had approved my request for space, and now I finally had a writing group in my neighborhood. The fact that I am leading it is just frosting on the cake, since the teacher in me gets to bloom again with my favorite subject: the application of words to the page. Due to rules and regulations I can't have the space weekly, but twice a month will do; I have a guest-facilitator position with the Wednesday night version of the group in the Mission, and there is a critique session once a month in the Mission on the first Thursday of the month. That spare Thursday? Well, the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art is open late on Thursdays, or there may be the occasional Giants game, or--GOOD GRIEF, I LIVE IN A CITY. IT'S NOT THAT I'LL HAVE NOTHING TO DO.

Heh, heh.

Then last night the founder of the group, the man who has managed to bring what is currently 1,088 of us, over a span of two coasts, together bequeathed his group to me. It was a humbling and somewhat emotional experience. This gentleman started the group in 2007 (he started it in August and I joined in November), and he's held the South of Market (SoMA) meetings since that time. I have filled in for him from time to time, but we had discussed me taking over this session so that he could branch out within the group and help facilitators with other sessions. He turned it over to me last night with well-wishes and a handshake, and I conducted the session. That was intimidating, but not in a bad way. It's just that he's so good at it that I felt like a relief pitcher in the World Series. (C'mon, you mean I gotta follow THOSE eight innings? You sure he can't stay in? Does he have to watch?) The honor was quiet and profound.

There are other honors to come from this. For the first time in my life as a leader, I have a back-up, a wonderful and inspirational woman that attends two of the groups a week with me, so that if I get a sudden summons to San Diego for a free sunburn, she has my back. She is very supportive to all of the members, and to know that she's got my back is humbling as well. I get to work with a whole collection of leaders devoted to the craft and to introducing others to its satisfaction and discipline. All this, and no, I don't get paid. Well, not in money, anyway. The Healer tells me that that part is for people who don't understand personal passion when I get excited about this, and the Airman and my brother say, "Joke 'em if they can't take a--" I think you get the picture.

Yes, the time is drawing down to where I will soon have to punch a clock again, any clock, but for now my payment is in collective passion of dreams coming true, dreaming with my eyes wide open.

Onward, dear reader.

P.S. - This is where today's title of Life For Rent comes from, yo. "If he died with his eyes open I could tell that he would focus." Word.

That Song by Smash Mouth, or, the Baseball Prom

A couple of times this week I've been asked by on-line and SoCal inquiry alike, "So, are you all excited about the All Star game next week?"

Oh, hell no.

As I have mentioned in past posts, I'm a "let's-watch-the-mediocre-minor-league-team-do-something-miraculous" girl, to start with. I would rather see a game by the Rejects vs. the All Stars. For me, watching a game comprised of nothing but the best is sort of like watching those movies that are written for a lot of A-line actors but end up having the world's worst plot, like "How the West Was Won" or, more recently, movies like "Valentine's Day" or "He's Just Not That Into You."Ohhhh, look. Derek Jeter. Shane Victorino (yes, I know he's on the DL today, but I'm just sayin'). Tim Lincecum. Brian Wilson. If you want a parade like that, join Twitter and subscribe to the MLB feed. Spotlights are for media, and don't really make for good baseball.

Back in 2007 I LOVED having the All Star game in San Francisco, but not for the game. I loved it for Fan Fair. The Moscone Center was filled with baseball activities, history, World Series trophies, etc. I picked up a tee-shirt there with all of the nations minor league teams on it. (Some of the names are a giggle-fest, folks. Go Google and see.) As for the game, well, I didn't go. I had no desire to go. I didn't even go to the parade. And I have never, ever, seen the game.

In my mind's eye, if I want to see an "All Star" game, I have one of two choices:

• I can see a Yankees game, because at those salaries those fellas are "supposed to be" the best, or
• I can go to a Giants game. Because I will always love my scrappy Giants, whether they are at the bottom or at the top.

*****

The comments have been made, of course, that I want to see this year's game because Bochy is managing them and because the Giants are loading up the bullpen. I'm partial to the entire team, though. I'll miss Cody Ross. I'll miss Panda Bear. And, here's the worst of it...the entire team will be rested up while our pitching staff won't be. Ah, purposeful compromise. Yes, it's an honor. How about we just name them, though, instead of putting them through a game? How about every City gets a week of Fan Fair and meet the players and everyone gets a break? You could get named "All Star," like a Cy Young or Rookie of the Year or something, but give everyone the week off.

Pitch on, dear reader.

P.S. - This is where the title of today's Life For Rent post comes from. No, I wasn't thinking of Shrek when I picked it, heh heh.

That Song by Rufus Wainwright, or, Running in Place

Within the last two weeks I have seen a familiar face at many of my writing Meetups in a woman who moved here from Alabama via Los Angeles. She is nice enough; she always has a friendly smile and is always eager to talk.

At the writing Meetup "marathons" on Saturdays or Sundays the day is comprised of three sessions of writing, separated by breaks where you can snack, check your messages, chat with other members, etc. before you get back to the business of writing. In last Sunday's Meetup I was asked about my farm/rural childhood between the first and second sessions, and during the break between the second and third sessions this new San Franciscan asked me how long it took me to get used to California. (Four years, although some days I'm still stumped, albeit not heartbreakingly so.) Then she asked me if I ever miss the Midwest. (Sure, when they have snow. When the leaves change. When it comes to barbecue. And the work ethic.) Then she asked what I did to get over the homesickness of back home.

Uh-oh.

Three years ago that question would have gotten her a dirty look. These days, and I never thought I would say this, but I am never homesick. I haven't been back to Ohio in nine years and I haven't been back to Missouri since I left in 2004. There are a number of reasons for this. Smug natives of the land of California think it's because Ohio and Missouri don't warrant visiting. They do. But I know from friends and relatives that things have changed there and what I loved about the states I can't find in a "visit"--I'd have to go back. And those things aren't powerful enough to go back for.

I have a feeling this woman wants someone to rag on California with, and she's a little late. I have my brother. Both of us know California about the same, and we don't even rag on the entire state--just the two most prominent metropolitan areas. (My sister-in-love, from the Central Valley, hates these discussions but is fully aware that we consider the Central Valley to be like the Midwest in many aspects, so she knows we aren't picking on her.) We both hate the work ethic that we encounter much of the time, or the state motto that both of us have informally attributed to the state regarding many of its inhabitants: "It's Ok, Someone Will Come Along and Take Care of It." My brother and I also recognize that there ARE people here who have a work ethic, and we are friends with those people. (My brother also firmly believes that to increase your chances of getting an employee with a solid work ethic, the employee should have been born outside the state of California. That counts in terms of immigration as well.) We both make fun of California drivers. We both make fun of crowd mentality in the cities here. (I have more fun with that one than he does, since he's agoraphobic.) And we both make fun of the transportation issues in this state, whether by Caltrans or by mass transit.

Knowing all of this, my brother and I were talking last week when he came up about travel. He knows I have a huge crush on New Orleans right now (the only thing keeping me from going is the heat and humidity), and he asked me, "Anywhere else you thinking of going?" I shrugged. "Maybe to see you guys," I said, "but honestly? I live in my vacation destination." My brother nodded emphatically. "Me too," he said. "My buddies back in the Midwest don't get it. If I had a week or two off, I would just comb the lagoon in Carlsbad for bat-rays. They have to go somewhere." We don't understand a lot about our state, and we wish we could change a lot about our state. But we love it, all the same.

When I first moved here, however, I wanted to do what this woman wants to do--I wanted to downplay it. The rest of America is constantly told how great California is, and it is wondrous, but that opinion has to be earned. If she knocks California to me, I get rankled. Only I can knock California, and I can only do it with the guy who did the same thing I did. If this woman wants to catch up with me in seven years, she can, but by then I will have been here for fourteen years and I will have a whole new slant on the world. It's just not the right time.

I feel empathetic for her situation, but my best advice to her? Join more Meetups. Join the ones in particular that are among new transplants. When you want to get back to talking about writing, come back to this one. She didn't take that advice, and I don't know how much writing she's getting done, but I didn't bring that up in last night's Meetup with her. She's responsible for her acclimation...just like I was.

Just like I still am.

Onward, dear reader.

P.S. - This is where the title of this post of Life For Rent comes from. I'm a huge fan of Rufus, and I wish he was available to play on my team...but alas. He can talk about California with me any time, if you get me.

That Song by Alison Krauss, or, Sweetheart

I am conducting a little experiment in my Meetups this week, so I am visiting all of them, just to see what they are like. The one I visited last night was in the East Bay, at 7:30 at night at quite a distance walking from mass transit, so I rented the car for the evening and played in Berkeley for a few hours.

Walking back from the car to the apartment I had a sudden, unbelievable longing crossing the intersection of 8th and Kirkham--I wished I had a man to admire me. Then, in the same sentence, I realized that he wouldn't be admiring me--he'd be admiring my biology.

That self-catch from wanting "love" would make me smug, except I gotta wonder--is there any man out there who would want me in friendship that could move to partnership?

I have to believe no, for now. Otherwise, I'll make myself crazy longing for the next guy who's going to behave like an animal. And I must qualify this by saying that I don't believe that all men are animals; I have some phenomenal male friends that help me understand how to be a better woman. But I'm not romantic with any of them.

Onward, dear reader.

P.S. - This is where this post's title of Life For Rent comes from. I first heard this song when I was in love with a man I couldn't have in Missouri. Now it just helps to wonder about possibilities.

That Song by Gavin DeGraw, or, Commitment

A lot of people have floated in and out of my life in the two and a half months of Life For Rent. Men from my last employer have floated in and out, wanting sex with minimal effort. People have stood by me, disappeared, warned me that I would disappear, reappeared, backed away, introduced themselves as strangers that have enjoyed my company, moved on to other lands, listened to advice that they asked for, listened to advice that I offered freely, ignored both kinds of advice, and offered me advice. I haven't asked for much. Everyone else doesn't seem to be in my situation, which keeps me from asking for advice. It doesn't stop people from giving it.

Nowhere do I see a level of flakiness like that of my Meetups. I'm not saying that everyone else is a flake at these things and that I am some kind of saint. My attendance and dedication to my writing groups has more to do with a strong desire to write and a strong desire to meet other writers. But I've had to grow a LOT in this respect. When I was first able to attend the group meetings again I was annoyed by folks who RSVPed "Yes" and never came to the meetings, or people who showed up and left early, or even facilitators who flake out week after week after week and who I have to facilitate for. (That last one still has the ability to rile the crap out of me. It smacks too much of being an assistant branch manager--"Yes, PLEASE, I want the opportunity to make YOU look good." But, again, my problem.)

I hate to go all California new age on your fine selves, but Zen helps. In Natalie Goldberg's memoir "Long Quiet Highway" a favorite passage of mine is when Goldberg talks about her teacher's approach to those who come to Zen Center in Minneapolis--she talks about how Roshi had to let each student go every time in his heart, in case they didn't come back. Some didn't. The commitment wasn't there.

Some did. Some of us can't help ourselves. But that also means that I have to let it go when a facilitator doesn't post a meeting until the day of the meeting, or doesn't post at all, or writers show up all fired up to write and leave after 20 minutes. I have to let that go and not take it personally. I have to assume that in the grand scheme of things that group meeting doesn't quite sit at the same level of priority that it does on mine. And I can't judge the person for that, because sooner or later my brother comes in town and he takes priority over a meeting I was supposed to attend.

That shift in commitment? That's been the most difficult thing for me to learn.

But I am getting better and better at it every day, to the point where if long-time friends flake out or forget or wander off...I don't think anything of it. If they were meant to be back, they will be. If they aren't, then I had fun with them in the meantime. Most importantly, I'm more compassionate with them and with myself for deviations or shifts in the commitment.

Onward, dear reader.

P.S. - This is where today's title of Life For Rent comes from. I'm really in love with my love of writing. It's okay by me if no other lover comes into the path.

That Song by Tina Turner, or, Repeat

I have a standing bet going on with the Airman that the Giants won't repeat the World Series and its championship this year. He'll probably win--I'll be short two micheladas in September.

But it's not September yet.

Meantime, I'm learning how to push myself. You're only as good as the last thing you write, or the last thing you do. (Looking at the Giants as of this writing on Wednesday, that's not hard to beat--Mad Bum? Really? Eight runs in the first inning?) So I'm learning how to write the short fiction better, do the in-between hikes around the block to stay fit, enjoy the art better, eat better.

So far I'm succeeding. Am I shooting for being the best? Well...

Taking myself off Facebook has helped. Not comparing myself to people who are nothing like me helps. And I'm getting much better at being me.

Which is what I wanted the whole time anyway.

Onward, dear reader.

P.S. - This is where the title of today's Life For Rent comes from. I'm a hidden diva, what can I say.