In the gloaming...

I had to go out last night to fill my tank and I drove there and back (a total of maaaaaybe 3 miles) with the windows rolled down, taking in the very tail of end of the evening's light. The sky was that really dusky blue it gets just before it goes all black and night sky and there were just one or two stars out and the wind was cool and fragrant and the black, graceful silhouettes of trees settled into their mysteriousness for the evening...It was just lovely.

It took me back to night drives with friends, coming back from the beach or home from a party or those wonderful times when we were just out driving to indulge in driving. I especially loved those. Quiet, not much talking, just wind and smiling.

That's what last night was, minus the comradeship, and I very much wanted to just keep driving. But since it took $40 to fill my small tank, it didn't seem wise. Which made me disgruntled to have to consider, because what I really mean is that it didn't seem prudent (one of my least favorite words in the world, if not the least). It IS wise to indulge in beauty and things that give your lungs to breathe and joy, dang it!

I hate when practicality forces us away from the feeding of our souls in order to maintain the feeding of our bodies (and those of our wee beasties). I'm sure we are the poorer for it in the long run.

Daydreaming

Tonight, I go to see a house for sale. I'm not in the market for a house, not with my credit and my salary. In fact, I have no hope of being able to buy this house, inexpensive though it may be, unless a fairy godmother flits down and buys it for me or gives me the money with which to do so.

Contrarily, my biggest hope for this visit is that I get inside and find something incredibly wrong with it. Maybe it will be missing a toilet or have a hole in the ceiling where squirrels have chewed through the attic floor. (I had hoped for an extremely wet basement, but one of my friends looked at the house last year and informs me the basement is in immaculate condition.) I am hoping for ruin.

You see, I have fallen in love with this house and I need a reason to break up with it without regret.

There are many practical reasons to love it: it's quite close to work, it's in a fantastic neighborhood that I would feel absolutely safe in, and it's priced well below market value. It comes with new appliances, it has new air conditioning, new flooring, and new windows. I wouldn't have to do a thing to it for it to be livable for me. It's small (870 sq. ft), but how much room do I really need? One bedroom for me, one bedroom for a study--I'm good!

Practicality is all well and good, but I need more for love, for something to be right. I need charm and personality. This house has both. It has window boxes just waiting to be flowered. It has a cute front porch that welcomes you in and a sprawling back deck inviting you to kick back and watch the sun set. There is a burbling pond with waterfall near the deck for ambient noise, but even with the large deck and the waterfall, there's still plenty of yard. There are trees and perennials in the back as well as grassy expanses. The side yard is quite large as well, and an arbor to direct you to the little courtyardy area that would be perfect for a bench or a stone cafe table. The only thing the yard needs is a fence to make it perfect.

I've seen the inside only from pictures and from peering through doors and windows. I don't know what the bathroom looks like, nor the master bedroom, nor the basement. These are all important areas to examine. Even without knowing those parts, though, I can picture myself living there. I know how I would paint, I know where the furniture would go, I've designed the island for the kitchen, and I can see the perfectly placed Christmas tree. I know exactly what small things I would do to bring out the full charm this house has. I would be so good for it! It's not ideal for everyone, but I feel like I'm the crooked lid for this crooked pot.

So I really need for there to be an infestation of bees in the attic or no shower in the bathroom or something that enables me to let it go. Because--no matter how perfect we are for each other--this long distance relationship thing just isn't working for me.


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Update:
This is why I went.

I'm still wildly attracted to the facade. The outside has, if anything, gotten more charming and attractive (Japanese maples! THREE!). On further inspection, though, the inside...well, we could still be happy together. It could be done.

But it would take more work than I thought. There might be more healing than I'm truly equipped to undertake. This house and I could coexist and even be content, but there would always be these things niggling at the contentment. The ancient cardboard kitchen cabinets. The aged windows ("Newer windows!" you say? Where, exactly?). There may be too many old flaws I couldn't correct.

The yard, the curb appeal, these are looks I'm still drawn to. And looking out every window made me smile, for which I could overlook an awful lot on the interior. The outside is very close to a dream come true. There are far more good points than bad, when all is said and done and if offered the opportunity to have the house, I would take it. I would. It's not the house, it's me. *sigh*

I think we should just stay friends.

Irony and fairly useless fun: a duet

I shall start with the second because it has a pretty picture to go with.

Sunday morning I went to Pottery Barn for a flower arranging class. We listened to presentations that were mostly practical, but were certainly also opportunities to sell Pottery Barn products. I came away with several ideas I'd like to implement with vases I already own. I was also reminded of how very visual I am and how important aesthetics are to me, my cluttered, mostly undecorated apartment notwithstanding.

We got to play for a very brief time. I'd gone over to the table with an idea already in my head...and promptly discarded the entire thing. There was this sea glass, you see. It was bright orange and it called to me. So I threw handfuls of that into the vase and then looked around to see what would go with it. In went shells. Then a starfish. Finally, after destroying a bundle of beachgrass to get exactly the piece I wanted, I was finished. And it was good. It was complimented, even by people who weren't trying to sell something. It was also just a bunch of rocks, a few stalks of grass, and a few shells in glass block arranged in about five minutes.

One of the instructors offered to take my arrangement up to the counter for me to buy and take home, but I was attending the free class for a reason. Instead, I whipped out my phone and, ignoring the slightly annoyed look on the saleswoman's face, took a couple of pictures for posterity. Behold! A flower arrangement without a single flower!




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And now, the first. Last night I went to my writers group, which, as it turns out, wasn't scheduled for last night. My mistake. It wasn't a wasted trip though because a new guy was there wandering around looking for the group, so we held our own. Refreshingly, you can tell that he reads as well as "writes"--not always the case, sadly.

Now, some of you know about my discovery last year that everything I write seems to turn out...creepy. Through no fault of my own, I swear! I don't read horror, I don't watch it, it's not my thing. My stories don't have gore (usually) or monsters or zombies--that would be my sister's writing. My work just goes askew and twisty somehow. When I wrote my NaNoWriMo book last year, I was determined to write a straight book. None of this weird nonsense, thank you very much. I even had to let my main character choose her own name because it was the only compromise I could make to get her to stop wanting to be a ghost all over the place.

Due to my hard work, Oblivion is a straight book. It's literary fiction. It's normal and uncreepy. And the second chapter of this book is what I took last night for review. In this chapter, the husband has been throwing up from guilt and worry and just everything. He then goes out to comfort their worried dog and decides to take the dog for a walk. That's it. That's pretty much the gist of what happens.

The nice man listening to me read had a few comments and then paused, before speaking again. "You know what?" he said. "I don't know why, but you know what this feels like to me? It feels like a horror novel."

Aaaaaaaaaaaand irony.

Wanted:

One or more mentors, specifically in writing.

Someday, perhaps, I'll be able to afford to get my creative writing MFA. I'd very much like to for a lot of reasons, but right now, it's simply beyond my means.

So I'm looking for a writer who wants/is willing to have a protege.

This person should be someone who has either been published or been an editor and has, therefore, a fair amount of expertise. She cannot be cruel, but she must be honest. He should be willing to offer feedback, specific and extensive, negative and positive. She will help me to hone my craft while allowing me to retain my own voice. Ideally, this writer would live nearby and could meet me once or twice a week, but in today's world email, phone, and/or fax will work just as well. I would prefer if this person already works with an agent of their own or has in the past. I want to work in both fiction and creative non-fiction and I honestly don't know which I prefer--each brings out a different voice. He would not be a writer of primarily theological academic books, which lets out most of the authors I actually know. She will probably be a little weird and most likely sarcastic. Must be willing to recommend good books, both for learning and pleasure. I am willing to write for hours on end to make sure I keep up my end of the bargain.

Robin McKinley, Patricia McKillip, and Siri Mitchell are especially encouraged to apply.*

Sincerely,

Jane and Michael Banks



*I wanted to include a man in here but I can't think of anyone offhand. Isn't that awful?