Hi friends,

Some of you came to the 1st annual Kaitlin Harris Foundation trivia night last year. Some of you were very sorry that you couldn't come. Well, guess what? WE'RE DOING IT AGAIN!!! Last year was so much FUN and such a success for the cause that we will be hosting the event again. THIS YEAR, however, the facility will be much larger and the acoustics will be rockin'. We simply were overwhelmed with the response last year, and could not believe people were lined up outside the door, willing to do whatever it took to get a table. BUT... there are only 30 tables altogether, So...

If you're the trivia lovin' type, or the havin' fun type, the I'm-lookin'-for-somethin'-to-do-on-August 8-at 7PM-in-St.Louis-type, or if you just want to make a positive difference in the lives of teens in our community, please consider reserving your space at a table NOW because this event WILL sell out again. Reserve single tickets and we'll put you at a table. OR... If you have a group of friends, reserve a whole table. (Tables seat 8.)

The theme will be Night at the Oscars, and it's sure to be all kinds of fancy-shmancy. :) You can dress up (or not). You can decorate your table (or not... but you know you wanna... :):):)) You can just come and drink and munch and hang out if you want. Regardless, it will be a great time, so think about it. I'll send you the form. Reserve your spot. C'mon. Do it!

In addition, many of you so generously donated items and services for the silent auction last year. Thank you once again. It was a terrific success. And for anyone who has any type of goods or services (it can be anything--seriously... we auctioned off stained glass windows, author-autographed books, certificates for a free hour with an attorney, jewelry, sports memorabilia, a bucket of school supplies, closet consultations, tile at wholesale, etc. etc. etc.) and if you feel moved to donate this year, the foundation would be most grateful, as all of the proceeds go to helping depressed and suicidal teens. Your donation is tax deductible, and nothing is too insignificant or small.

You can email me and I'll get you the tax exempt forms as well as the address (or we will have it picked up, if local. Just let me know.)

For more information about the foundation, please read here: http://www.kaitlinharrisfoundation.org/
or you can read about my personal involvement on this page of my website, here: http://tgseale.com/my_hope.html

I thank you all, my generous friends, who support my support for this important charity. Empowering teens in positive and productive ways like this really, truly does save lives.

Peace and love to you all,
-tg

simulating what it's like to have schizophrenia. Heed the warning before clicking the video box if you are sensitive.

http://www.janssen.com/janssen/news_mindstorm.html

It's a TWO-FER.

Vinegar
by Tanya Seale

Spectacled white-haired man,
crumpled list in hand,
stares befuddled, leaning toward grocery store shelves.
Vinegar, he mutters
while rows of balsamic, cider, rice, rice wine, red wine, raspberry red wine, white wine
stare back.  So many choices.
He lingers hopefully, as a young mother approaches,
gaunt and listless—stunning—,
banshees reeling off her cart.
The littlest whirls at her feet, tugging,
as the woman absentmindedly
checks her list and plucks a bottle
of malt vinegar for her cart.
Would you—
the man starts merrily, offering
his list for her eyes.
But she cannot hear or see.
“Mom Mom Mom Mom vinegar vinegar vinegar vinegar”
chants the reading banshee, pointing,
while the third one picks and inspects its own mucus.
The man finds the woman’s eyes and begins again,
but she turns
and continues down the aisle
in a haze.  She cannot hear or see.
He watches her go and then studies
every brand of malt vinegar,
chooses the one she chose,
plucks it
from the shelf, and knows
it will probably be the wrong one.

Golden Lotus
by Tanya Seale

Baby girl, six years old
pray to Quan Yin for
mercy.  Winter has finally come. 
Pungent herbs and tepid animal blood curdle in a tiny tub
for your feet.  Your mother
has clipped your toenails to the tender quick.
Your grandmother binds your crying eyes
with silk.  You will become the Confucian ideal. 
Do not cry! says Mother.  Your job,
to be obedient.  Submissive.  Dependent.
Marriage,
your only ambition.  Grandmother hums
a cruel tune.
The minuscule slippers you embroidered,
the only creative outlet for your flourishing intellect. 
Exquisite, baby girl. 
They will confine you brilliantly,
fetch you social status, steal
your sexuality, murder
strength.  But do not cry!
Your job, to be quiet. Subservient. Chaste.
Marriage, your only
ambition.  Mother massages and then cracks
the arch of your foot, snaps your toes back, twisting the shattered bones tightly
against your sole. You retch at the ache.
She has broken
you.  Scream in anguish. 
Grandmother straddles your chest, forcing arms above your head, her own tiny    
    Lotus petals digging into the mat at your ears. 
The stench of rotting flesh emanates from her squalid folds.
Qing Dynasty sex manuals show your
grandfather
and your father
and your future husband
all the ways in which
He Takes
pleasure from your pain.
You too, baby girl, will be an erotic fetish
when you bend and sway with the
Lotus Gait.  You writhe
in dissension as the throbbing now reaches your
thighs
your hips
your spine
your neck.
Mother weeps, raising
her voice.  Chinese women have gone the way of the Lotus one thousand years before    
    you!
Grandmother presses her nails into your wrists. 
You smell her hot sour breath on your neck,
too close to your ear.  Mother tugs the silk strips
from the blood bath around your instep, under your heel.  Jerking
hard and tight, pulling, cramming, shoving your splintered nubs
closer together.  Three-inch lotus feet
promise a smaller dowry, so she binds,
confining, constricting, restricting
your foot and your balance, your trust.
You kick, you
jerk, you
thrust, you
wail.  You
do not cry! she screams.  Your job,
to be silent.  Meek.  Devoted.
Marriage,
your only ambition!  You pray, unheard,
to Quan Yin, the goddess of
Mercy.
With both feet shattered you
will walk
a vast expanse, crush your lotus flowers
with the weight of your world.  Your job,
to be forever dependent.  Worthy of betrothal.  Broken.
Marriage, your
only
ambition.

When James Joyce says:

His hand took his hat from the peg over his initialed heavy overcoat, and his lost property office secondhand waterproof. Stamps: stickyback pictures. Daresay lots of officers are i the swim too.  Course they do.  The sweated legend in the crown of his hat told him mutely: Plasto's high grade ha.  He peeped quickly inside the leather headband.  White slip of paper. Quite safe.

I say:

Uh...

When James Joyce says:

Can become ideal winter sanatorium.  Moses Montefiore.  I thought he was.  Farmhouse, wall round it, blurred cattle cropping.

I say:

That's crazy talk.

When James Joyce says:

There's whatdoyoucallhim out of.  How do you?  doesn't see.  Chap you know just to salute bit of a bore.  His back is like that Norwegian captain's.  Wonder if I'll meet him today.  Watering cart.  To provoke rain.  On earth as it is in heaven.

I say:

Je parle Redneck? ...... Por favor?

When James Joyce says:

On the hands down.  Blotchy brown brick houses.  Number eighty still unlet.  Why is that?  Valuation is only twenty-eight.  Towers, Battersby, North, MacArthur: parlour windows plastered with bills  Plasters on a sore eye.  To smell the gentle smoke of tea, fume of the pan, sizzling butter.  Be near her ample bedwarmed flesh.  Yes, yes.

I say:

Mmm butter.  I'm hungry.

When James Joyce says:

Hello.  Illustration.  Firece Italian with carriagewhip.  Must be Ruby pride of the on the floor naked.  Sheet kindly lent.  The monster Maffei desisted and flung his victim from him with an oath.  Cruelty behind it all.  Doped animals.  Trapeze at Hengler's.  Had to look the other way.  Mob gaping.  Break your neck and we'll break our sides.  Families of them.  Bone them young so they metempsychosis.  That we live after death.

I say:

Lalalalalalalalalalalaaaa

When James Joyce says:

His vacant face stared pitying at the postscript.  Excuse bad writing. Hurry.  Piano downstairs,  Coming out of her shell.  Row with her in the XL Cafe about the bracelet.  Wouldn't eat her cakes or speak or look.  Saucebox.  He sopped other dies of bread in the gravy and ate piece after piece of kidney.  Twelve and six a week.  Not much.  Still, she might do worse  Music hall stage.  Young student.

I say:

I hope there's no quiz on this. Must. Buy. Sparknotes. Immediately.

When James Joyce says:

Seaside girls.  Torn envelope.  Hands stuck in his trousers pockets, jarvey off for the day, singing.  Friends of the family.  Swurls, he says,  Pier with lamps, summer evening, band,

I say:

That sounds naughty.

When James Joyce says:

Mulch of dung.  Best thing to clean ladies' kid gloves.  Dirty cleans ashes too.  reclaim the whole place.

I say:

Cuckoo.  Cuckoo.  Cuckoo.  Cuckoo.

When James Joyce says:

Midway, his last resistance yielding, he allowed his bowels to ease themselves quietly as he read, reading still patiently, that slight constipation of yesterday quite gone.  Hope it's not too big bring on piles again.  No, just right. So. Ah! Costive one tabloid of cascara sagrada.  Life might be so.  It did not move or touch him but it was something quick and neat.  Print anything now.  Silly season.  He read on, seated calmly above his own rising smell.  Neat certainly.  Matcham often thinks of the masterstroke by which he won the laughing witch who now.  

I say:

Hm... well... Perhaps. If the existential pencil cup door button. Transpire with vigor. Mortality kidney beans and rare forms of nothing.  Persons after streetlamps and many not if yes lingering.
But... mostly I say... Ew?

When James Joyce says:

Explain that morning hours, noon, then evening coming on, then night hours. Washing her teeth.  that was the first night.  Her head dancing.  Her fansticks clicking. Is that Boylan well off? He has money. Why? I noticed he had a good smell off his breath dancing.  No use humming then.  Allude to it. Strange kind of music that last night.  The mirror was in shadow.  She rubbed her handglass briskly on her woolen vest against her full wagging bub.

I say:

Her bub? Did he seriously just say she had a full wagging BUB?

This is why I hardly ever buy frozen foods. Look at the quesadilla on the packaging:



Okay. Now look at the frozen version. I like the perfect rectangle inside the tortilla.





Okay, so the directions say FOR BEST RESULTS, one must first defrost the food item in microwave. Then cook it in microwave for 2 1/2 minutes. After that, add quesadilla to a skillet full of margarine or vegetable oil for an additional 4 minutes.

Note: By this point I'm thinking I could have seasoned and cooked an entire chicken breast, shredded it, grated a block of cheddar, and broiled it all in the oven in about the same amount of time. But I'm optimistic.

And then...



and...



I *shudder* to think what might have happened had I not used the FOR BEST RESULTS directions.

Memory Maker Bracelets can be customized.

A friend gave me this last night.

And I just filled it. Lookie! Lookie! :-D



Bracelet LOVVVVVVVVVVVVE.

annemariepace is doing a virtual COOKIE EXCHANGE!

So let's wander over, grab some cookies, carol along, and then wander back for more! Yum!

I'm bringing this in lieu of cookies:

Microwave Caramel Corn

Ingredients:

* 1 cup brown sugar, packed
* 1/4 cup white corn syrup
* 1 Stick (4 oz.) margarine or butter (butter is better)
* 1/2 teaspoon salt
* 1/2 teaspoon baking soda
* 3 to 4 quarts POPPED corn


Put the popped corn into a brown paper grocery bag that has been sprayed with a pan coating.
Combine all remaining ingredients--except soda--in a 2 quart microwave safe bowl. Put bowl in microwave on high, and bring to a boil. Cook for 2 additional minutes after syrup comes to a boil. Remove bowl from microwave and stir in soda. Pour the syrup over the corn and stir to combine. Close the bag by rolling it down a couple times and then cook in the bag on high in the microwave for 2 minutes. Remove and stir again, or just shake vigorously. Cook in the microwave another 2 minutes. Remove and pour onto parchment paper to cool. Break apart when cool and then store an airtight container.

Pass it on. And you don't often hear me say this, but CALL ME!!! :-D

I saw this lying beside the road a couple days ago:



And again yesterday. I couldn't tell what it was exactly. I only knew it must have been a tragic loss, and that it was beating and flapping in the wind. I hoped someone would come looking for it.

This morning I heard the weather man say:



And I couldn't bear to think of the ruin that would ensue.

So I stopped my car when I saw it was still there this afternoon.



I think it will be worth the valiant rescue. I would definitely want someone to rescue my "utterly exceptional masterpiece" if it were left on its own in a ditch beside a busy road.

Well... what to say...

I have a bunch of words compiled in a binder.
Some of them are good. Some of them will have to go.

Overall, NaNoWriMo 2008 was a slightly (very) stressful push toward better self discipline. It was also a productive exercise in taming the (sometimes cranky but almost always dead on) inner critic.

Good things take time, and this project needs a lot of work. But I still like the idea. I like the characters. And I will continue working on it.

Would I do this again (on a time schedule with a word counter)?

Sure.

Maybe.
:)

Ouch! I had a big, major slow down this week. I'm doing some character development work, which doesn't add up on the word meter. But hey. What are ya supposed to do about that...

Okay, so I let that baby arc itself on out. I have the barest bones of a first draft, and I am okay with that b/c I write lean. Lean lean lean lean. And then I go back and fatten it up.

I wrote the closing scene. And then I cried a little--a little bitty bit--okay not much at all but some--not really waterworks or anything, just that little hot flash you get behind your eyes before you have to swallow to get rid of the rock in your throat--you know what I'm talking about--yeah, that thing--fearing that I am far far far too introspective to be a decent novelist.

I should be a self-help writer. Yes. Yesssssssssss.

But then I scrolled back to the beginning and began filling in the huge gaps of scene that are missing. And I'm going to work on bringing in some new characters, new subplots, and all new, never seen before footage. Maybe it will be a novel-esque sort of thing by month's end. It may not be 50,000 words, but it might. Yay for PRESSURE. Grrr rrr rrrrrr arrrrrrr grrrrrrrrrr rrrrrrrr bzzzz bzzzz baah mooo roar.

Push through the NaNoWriMo pain and birth that baby--that's what I'm talking about.

Ohmygoodness. I drank so much coffee today my cheeks are buzzing.

Two weeks down.

Ohmygosh. It's the halfway mark. I cannot believe I am still in this. I have skipped whole sections and am now arcing too quickly. No arc! No arc! I have halfway to goooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo.