Starting tomorrow, I am participating in the Clarion West Write-a-thon. This is an annual fundraiser for the fabulous writing workshop I attended in 2005. My pledge this year is to write 500 words per day/6 days per week for six weeks.
This year, with the economy as it is, I am asking my sponsors to perform an act of creativity: be it fiction, fine arts, music, culinary arts, or mechanical. Join me in deciding to be more than a survivor this summer. Live life. Create.
If you wish to make a cash donation, the link is here.
A week after I said, "Hey, I think we made it through flu season without getting sick," the padawan and I have come down with the weeks-long variety. (Sardonic woo!)
In the past three days we have watched:
Hairspray Zathura Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix Stardust Nancy Drew Pirates of the Carribean: Dead Man's Chest The Dark Crystal (twice) Spy Kids 3-D: Game Over American Idol finale & 2-hour results extravaganza
Not the Buffy marathon I had in mind before he joined me in this wretched sickness, but not too shabby. Also at the urging of said padawan, I re-read The Pushcart War, by Jean Merrill. I hadn't read it since I was 10 or 11. What a charming, subversive book.
Okay, try this: Close your eyes. Imagine rolling it between your hands, forming first a ball, then a long snake that curls as you twist it between your palms. Flatten it on the kitchen table of your childhood (or back patio, or bedroom carpet). Cut it into circles, or stars. Make a play-doh blueberry pie. Serve tiny slices to another person on little plates also made of play-doh.
Now can you smell it?
Yes? Then it's like we're in the same room.
This post brought to you by olfactory emotional conditioning.
An early start to fire season in CA (March!) meant that my day at the big D with the young padawan and the princess-in-training was surreal. We stood in line for the Pirates of the Caribbean ride while flakes of white ash from the nearby Anaheim Hills fire drifted down onto the crowd. Lots of out-of-staters who looked up and said "Snow!" and then realized it wasn't.
The light was the wrong color.
The burning smell would come and go.
I've been around wildfires before, and this one wasn't really that close, but it was so strange. Just before you go into the Pirates building, you are standing above the back and forth of the queue. I looked down, and every person below me had at least one fleck of ash on their hair or shoulders. And we went about our business of recreation. The fire was outside, and we were inside.
I don't think this effect is only limited to certain amusement parks in Anaheim. Is it denial or resilience that allows us to go on when things around us are burning?