Favorite Shows

I am not a TV watcher per se. I love great comedy so I adore the stand up on Comedy Central (most of the time). And I love "Law and Order". I think both great drama and great comedy has what writers must also have - great timing, a voice (or point of view) and the ability to tell great stories.

Tonight, I watched Chris Rock...which some would say is inappropriate with his four letter words (he's especially famous for lobbing the a few "F" bombs). I think his social commentary, through all the haze of his langauge, is on-target. In his most recent stand up he really nails marriage and relationships and I found myself laughing so hard that I could hardly breathe. I'm like, "Does this guy know relationships or what?"

I think that's what is great about comedy -- it can be so personal and so "right on" but it's trick is it makes you laugh at yourself. That's all it is...you watch this person and realize that he (or she) is talking about you and your crazy life. It's deeply personal and revealing.

Which is also what I love about great books, novels. Today, I picked up several of Joyce Carol Oates books that I have not yet read. I am reading "Zombie" and it is grossing me out. Not your average read.

The thing is, I can't read anything anymore like I use to! I read it now like I'm some editor looking for all the techniques that the writer is using. How does the author get this character in the car? How does the author move the characters through the paces of the story? What devices does the author use to create mood, atmosphere, tension? And now, I've started doing that with my favorite shows.

I watch for dialogue, tone, and all that stuff. It's a great way to learn the form of writing and its nuances, but I'll probably never read a book the same way again! And I love it.

I've written almost 15 pages of my current project and I'm having a blast working with an editor and learning how to write. I have so much to learn and I'm enjoying it immensely.

Surviving the Senior Picture Day

One day, $1,000.

That about sums up my day with my son after we tackled the senior pics and the summer band fee.

Wish I had as easy a gig as a photographer with a senior picture thing going. I'll probably get clobbered for saying this here but c'mon! Is there any more of a "sitting duck" than a mother, strung out because her first born baby boy is leaving the nest? You throw some great looking shots of his mug up on a big screen, play some sappy music and you've just made some easy cool cash.

I got through about two of the shots of my baby boy in a suit and I was a goner. Mascara smearing, snot running, heaving sobs. OK, I exaggerate...the mascara didn't smear too much, really, it was good stuff.

I have to give the photographer credit though, he took it all very well. I mean, if you are an artist and had someone sitting there who had never taken a picture of any quality telling you, "That one looks goofy.." when you know the lighting is perfect, the angle sublime...well, THAT tells me this guy has his ego in tact.

At one point I leaned over to him and said, "Y'know I'm not looking at your photos...I'm looking at pictures of my kid."

The photographer did a fabulous job capture Nathan's subtle, thoughtful, mischevious self. I tried to stay out of it as much as possible and let Nathan pick out the shots he most wanted. And here I have to give it up for Nathan..he was the perfect gentleman, even asking my opinion on a couple of shots. How can there ever be any bad shot of a mother's pride and joy?

Gardener's Journal: After the transplant

It's leaves are brittle, brown and flaky. Even though I had put a stump beside it, the small tree drooped and was lifeless.

I kept watering it although I had little hope it would survive. It was a "volunteer" sprout which had shot up beside a stronger more steady tree. But the emerging root system was small and frail and transplanting did it in.

Today, I went out to take it out of its misery and remove it from view. I had put this off for several days, hoping that some sign of life would show itself and that I could keep it. I had big plans for it, since it was an oak sapling, that it would grow tall and shade the sunny side of our house. It was positioned just right and if it grew would be a beautiful specimen.

I had even gone so far as to plan other fall plantings around it, cultivating a theme with redbuds and evergreens to make a beautiful forest canopy.

Faithfully, each day I had watered it. Had refused to be daunted by its lack of life and its droopy shoulders.

But today it was clear, it would not be. So reluctantly, I went out shovel in hand, ready to do my deed.

As I neared it, I saw something. The tiny trunk was green. And just below all the crunchy, brown leaves there were small sprouting buds of new growth. I put my shovel down and ran to it..."you're alive" I cry, as if it could hear me.

I sat there on my knees for a bit just wondering how it could have fooled me so. Why had it waited so long to reveal itself? All along as I had been waiting, it had given no sign of life, no sign of anything. It was saving itself, waiting for the mystical combination of light, water and nutrients before it made its big debut.

Saving itself for more life later. Resting before reappearing. Emerging just when all hope might be gone.

A new tree, a new life...are they so different? Isn't the hardest part the "in-between" times of leaving and regrowth? Aren't the times when it appears no life is present just about the time when life and grace appear? And isn't in those times when my heart and soul cry out for some sign of life, of hope?

For some lives are like some trees. They cannot stay in the shadow of the established parent. They cannot flourish when competing with another's roots. They cannot reach to the heavens when their branches are tangling for sustenance, growth.

Tomorrow I will water my new tree again. I will not be so quick to give up life. I will not so soon cry "death" when I have seen the emergence of life in a translant.