hurricane-2011: November 2006

Christmas Survey

Back in the 80s I found this pregnant snow lady on Brattle Street in Cambridge, Massachusetts. A few days later she lost her grape nipples and cherry tomato navel when her water broke during the spring thaw. Her carrot slice eyes stayed with her a bit longer. I never learned who had sculpted her, but she made my day.

Throughout November I've kept Mote's NoJoMo, a daily "NoJoMo" (November Journaling Month) blog on Open Diary. I've copied many of those entries here. For the final post of the month I used a survey on the diary of NoJoMo's founder, Sweet Francesca....

1. Egg Nog or Hot Chocolate?
Yes

2. Does Santa wrap presents or just sit them under the tree?
Years ago, this Santa, one of many Santas, had contributed to a children's gift drive and was part of the gift-wrapping team. The recipients were children whose names we didn't know -- and as the presents were being wrapped I noticed a clear sex bias: trucks and the like were being marked for boys; dolls were being marked for girls. (As a girl I didn't much care for dolls, but I had a formidable Matchbox car collection.) I commented on this to the other women (we were all women doing this), and was largely ignored. I have made it a point to buy gender-neutral toys for such occasions, and also toys that don't need batteries or that run out of supplies, since those cost money and we were gifting disadvantaged kids. Often I bought Etch-A-Sketch because it was self-sufficient and encouraged creativity. So, yes, Santa wraps presents -- but with certain considerations in mind.

3. Colored lights on tree/house or white?
No decorations on the outside -- though sometimes, when we're feeling ambitious, Mary and I will put up a string of colored lights indoors to make the environment more festive.

4. Do you hang mistletoe?
No, but we see it sometimes in neighborhood trees, where it is a parasite. Some people we've spoken with believe that Spanish moss and other epiphytes are parasitic, but those are not. They're perfectly fine for the tree, and when we find a healthy-looking epiphyte on the ground we bring it to our trees. Mistletoe, on the other hand, is not good for trees.

5. When do you put your decorations up?
Sometimes, if we find a pretty picture in the newspaper, we'll tape it on a wall. But that has nothing to do with any holidays. The exception came when we put pictures of the moon and "scary" things (alligators and the like) on our front door one Halloween.

6. What is your favorite holiday dish (excluding dessert)?
Matzo! Wait, what was the holiday again?

7. Favorite Holiday memory as a child:
I remember being wowed by the Mr. Magoo Christmas Carol when I was a kid. And I loved the "Little Drummer Boy" song -- so much so that I played it on the piano during the summer one year, over and over and over.

The other childhood memory that stands out had to do with a tradition in my family of driving around the neighborhood to admire everybody's lights. At some point it struck me that we didn't have them. I grew up in a Jewish & Italian neighborhood, so when I was very young I believed the whole world shared that demographic. I was very puzzled and not a little shocked when I heard one of the broadcast stations (long before the days of cable) announce, "Merry Christmas! And Happy Chanukah to all our Jewish friends," almost like an afterthought. Christmas definitely got top billing.

When I felt bad about our having no holiday lights of our own, my mother got out every single menorah she could find and placed them in our windows. She took construction paper, cut it into dreidles, and taped the paper dreidles over our porch lights. So we had holiday lights that year! I was thrilled -- but I also got an important lesson in demographics and in How The World Works.

8. When and how did you learn the truth about Santa?
My friend C told me the truth when I was about five. I was pretty upset, and my mother was fairly pissed at C, who was four years older than I.

9. Do you open a gift on Christmas Eve?
Of course! It's Erev Christmas, and where I come from holidays begin at sundown the night before.

10. How do you decorate your Christmas Tree?
My what?

11. Snow! Love it or Dread it?
There's a good reason I moved to Florida. I have nothing against snow, but I'm glad I don't live in it any more.

12. Can you ice skate?
Yep. At least as of a few years ago I could still skate backwards and skate on one leg.

13. Do you remember your favorite gift?
Being alive ranks right up there.

14. What's the most important thing about the Holidays for you?
Generally, the holidays are like any other days for me. But I especially enjoy the week between Christmas and New Year's. I call it Magic Time because the world seems to look backward and forward at once, like a Janus head.

15. What is your favorite Holiday Dessert?
Probably eggnog.

16. What is your favorite holiday tradition?
Christmas Day is also Mary's and my anniversary, so we celebrate that as a holiday tradition. We celebrate our 11th this year.

17. What tops your tree?
Lately it's been bluebirds. And that's trees, plural, out in the yard.

18. Which do you prefer, giving or receiving?
When done right, they both happen simultaneously.

19. What is your favorite Christmas Song?
After hearing just about all of them played to death this time of year, none really stands out as something I'd want to hear again. Except, maybe, David Sedaris's riff in his "SantaLand Diaries" on "Away in a Manger," which he sang in imitation of Billie Holliday. The first time I heard that on NPR I nearly peed my pants laughing.

20. Candy Canes! Yuck or Yummy?
Wouldn't touch the stuff.

21. Fave Christmas Movie?
It's a close race among the Alistair Sim version of A Christmas Carol, It's A Wonderful Life, and Rudolf the Red-Nosed Reindeer with the Island of Misfit Toys. Yes, I'm a softie.

22. What would you ask Santa for this year...(and it has to be a material thing...none of this "world peace" or "happy family" stuff!)
"Material thing" -- From Catalyzer Journal: "The god of the earliest Indo-European Pagans was 'Dzryaus-el': 'the Oak-Tree One.' His wife was Mater, a person so dear in our lives that her name has remained virtually the same, after ten thousand years, in every Indo-European language: mater, modder, mutter, mother....Mater had always been the earth, and, therefore, earth-stuff is called 'matter' also after her."

Santa, please take all the plastic crap that's overflowing our landfills, littering our highways, turning our precious nonrenewable resources into flash-in-the-pan trinkets, and choking sea creatures who think the stuff is food, and have your elves recycle it all into cuddly, battery-free companions for all those kids who are displaced from their homes, orphaned by poverty and war, crowded into refugee camps, sleeping in cardboard boxes, and otherwise lost. And while you're at it I want seeds. Lots of seeds. And fertile soil that doesn't have any lead or asbestos in it. Organic soil, none of those pesticides and mega-fertilizers that slosh into runoff and create algal blooms. And you know those older lost kids, the ones who try to find self-respect and dignity in gangs or who have lost that self-respect and dignity altogether? Give them those seeds and soil and people who can teach them how to garden and grow and create and help other things live. And let them taste the extraordinary produce that they have helped create, and all the extra vegetables (and even some decorative flowers!) can go to the little ones who are too small to wield the rakes and hoes and whatnot. But even little ones can pee, and you can teach the older kids how to mix everyone's pee with fresh water to create good, natural fertilizer. And maybe the little kids would enjoy picking off squash bugs and the like.

And I want trees, Santa. Lots of trees. Not the ones cut down every year and put into Christmas tree stands, but trees that grow and extend their roots and help hold the soil in place against erosion and mudslides. I want that Walgreens across my county road gone so that the forest can return and so those displaced gopher tortoises can have homes again. And all those olive trees bulldozed over in the Middle East? I want those replanted, Santa. All those clear-cut mountains in Appalachia? I want them restored. And every place where the Earth and Her Creatures have been raped in every continent and in every waterbody, I want healing. Material things? This planet is a material thing. It's the only real material thing we've got.

My demands have only just begun, Santa.

Peace (Sign) Prevails

This is an old Polaroid I took of the attic bedroom that was my sanctuary when I was growing up in Brooklyn. That purple peace sign hanging from the ceiling light fixture kept company with posters of Emily Dickinson, Edgar Allen Poe, Mr. Spock, Frankenstein, and other assorted luminaries. The 1971 poster/circular calendar at lower right dates the shot.

First, the initial news and resulting rant:

I filed this item in my What?! Department:

"DENVER -- In a town in scenic southwestern Colorado homeowners are battling over whether a Christmas wreath that includes a peace sign is an anti-Iraq war protest or even a promotion of Satan...." More detail is in "HOA Bans Christmas Wreath With Peace Sign" at TheDenverChannel.com.

The story was condensed into a paragraph in Tuesday's St. Petersburg Times and sent me scrambling on the Web....

Okay, I thought -- Maybe there's just an overall ban on signs or decorations or whatnot. The deed restrictions where I live, for example, prohibit the erecting on lawns of the real-estate signs I see popping up like mushrooms all around me. (I said there were restrictions. I didn't say they were enforced.)

So, I thought, maybe there's a legal precedent for the peace sign ban. Something that might make some non-idiotic sense.

Nope. It's idiotic.

"The subdivision's covenants said no signs, billboards or advertising are permitted without the consent of the architectural control committee," says the DenverChannel article (no author name, but the Associated Press contributed to the report). "When [Loma Lynda Homeowners Association in Pagosa Springs president Bob] Kearns ordered the association's architectural control committee to require Jensen to remove the wreath, they refused. Jack Lilly, chairman of the group, said it decided it was merely a seasonal symbol that didn't say anything. Lilly also said he had received no complaints from homeowners. Kearns fired all five members of the architectural control committee."

Which only goes to show that Richard Nixon Is Not Dead.

Homeowner Lisa Jensen is fighting the attack against her peace sign, which includes a fine of $25 per day for every day the wreath remains up. "I honestly wasn't thinking of the Iraq war," she said. "Peace is way bigger than not being at war. This is a spiritual thing. I am not going to take it down until after Christmas. Now that it has come to this, I feel I can't get bullied. What if they don't like my Santa Claus?"

Jensen, by the way, is past president of the homeowners association. Leaving her peace wreath up through Christmas would cost her an estimated $1,000 if the HOA enforced the fine. Fortunately, she's getting a lot of support from People Of Goodwill And Good Sense, including a war veteran.

HOA president Kearns also insisted that the peace sign was an anti-Christ sign.

When I Googled "peace sign wreath," Target.com came up right at the top. Oh good, I thought, Target must sell these "Satanic" things. When I clicked on the link and then searched for "peace wreath" on the Target site, the one match I got was to an audio CD of "Battle Pieces" by Warren M. Swenson.

A search for a peace wreath yields battle music. Where's George Orwell when you need him?

Mychristmasitems.com sells wreaths, but a search of the site yields nothing having to do with peace signs. Or, for that matter, with peace at all.

Jesus, Prince of ... Prince of ... lemme see, what was that word again?

Mr. Light offers this solar powered peace wreath with white LEDs for anyone who wants to shell out $79.99. I tell ya, given the nonsense happening in Colorado it's tempting. Not to mention environmentally friendly.

God/dess bless you, Mr. Light.

From the DenverChannel article: "Kearns, meanwhile, also said he was concerned about the pagan symbolism of the peace sign."

You hoo, Mr. Kearns! Christmas started out as a pagan holiday.

"Roman churchmen tended to favor the Mithraic winter-solstice festival called Dies Natalis Solis Invictus, Birthday of the Unconquered Sun," writes Barbara G. Walker in her compendium, The Women's Encyclopedia of Myths and Secrets (Harper & Row, 1983). "Blended with the Greek sun-festival of the Helia by the emperor Aurelian, this December 25 nativity also honored such gods as Attis, Dionysus, Osiris, Syrian Baal, and other versions of the solar Son of Man who bore such titles as Light of the World, Sun of Righteousness, and Savior. Most pagan Mysteries celebrated the birth of the Divine Child at the winter solstice."

Walker goes on to say, "Trappings such as Yule logs, gifts, lights, mistletoe, holly, carols, feasts, and processions were altogether pagan. They were drawn from worship of the Goddess as mother of the Divine Child. Christmas trees evolved from the pinea silva, pine groves attached to temples of the Great Mother."

Walker doesn't have a listing for the peace sign, which, according to Thomas Munro's article "Peace sign creates stir" in the Durango Herald Online, was created by Lord Bertrand Russell when he campaigned for nuclear disarmament during Easter of 1958.

You remember Easter. Rebirth. Resurrection. Springtime plantings. All those good things. Easter began as a pagan holiday, too.

I remember the first time I ever saw a peace sign. It was around 1965. My family and I were vacationing in the Catskills when the Catskills still meant Borscht Belt. We were in the dining area of some hotel, and I saw a woman in a black A-line minidress printed all over with white peace signs. I thought the dress was very pretty and hadn't a clue about what it meant.

Once I got a clue, I embraced the symbol, during those difficult days of the Vietnam War.

As I write this I'm still looking to see who sells peace sign wreaths. For $20 the Peaceful Company ("fashioning peace one person at a time") sells this 3-inch diameter window ornament made with recycled glass. "Feel the peace rays illuminating your home and softening your heart," says the website.

Mr. Kearns? Is your heart softening yet?

Intermission:

During my online sleuthing Mary walked in and asked me to take a detour over to Pub Med, to see what its articles say about xylitol and plaque. Seems some toothpastes that used to contain xylitol, shown to reduce plaque, are dropping that ingredient. So far, what we've found is that chewing xylitol has been shown to reduce plaque versus, say, chewing sucrose tablets -- but we haven't found anything yet on whether brushing with xylitol reduces more plaque than brushing without it. Mary's already been special-ordering tooth gel containing stannous fluoride, which off-the-shelf toothpastes used to contain until they switched to the less-effective sodium fluoride.

All we are say-ing ... is give teeth a chance....

Now, the update:

Fortunately, the fine has been withdrawn, and -- after dozens of e-mails offering Jensen support, including financial assistance -- Mr. Kearns has decided an apology from the homeowners association might be in order. This from the USA Today blog "On Deadline", following up on an update from The Durango Herald (Thomas Munro writing again, "Support rolls in for peace sign").

Does this mollify me? Not really.

Kearns has changed his mind because of public pressure. (The phrase "bullies are really cowards" comes to mind.) Whether or not he still believes peace signs are a tool of the Devil is another issue.

And whatever he believes, I'm sure he's not alone.

Thomas Jefferson said, "The price of freedom is eternal vigilance."

One might say the same about the price of peace.

A Philosophy of Critters (updated with species ID)

Large view

I was very lucky to catch this little one in mid-takeoff on Saturday. Mary had spotted it on the sidewalk around the corner from the supermarket and called me back as we hauled groceries home. My guess is it's some kind of an Owlet Moth (Family Noctuidae), but I've made an ID request at Bugguide.Net and am waiting for any further info....

Large view

Large view

Update, 30 November 2006: Thanks to Jan Metlevski at Bugguide.Net for identifying this as Agrotis malefida, also known as the Rascal Dart. Family Noctuidae (Owlet Moths), Subfamily Noctuinae (Cutworm or Dart Moths).

According to Bugguide, these moths range throughout the southern half of the U.S. and stray in the northeast to New York. They also range through Mexico and Central and South America to Argentina and Chile. Larvae are also called "pale-sided cutworm" and "rugged cutworm".

I photographed this one outside Bugguide's stated flight season of April to October. That fact made me check the Moth Photographers Group page to compare malefida with the very similar Agrotis apicalis, which seems to range only within Florida and Cuba. After poring over wing and thorax markings for both, I found enough differences to lead me to agree with Metlevski.

I also finally uploaded the videos I took of the "mini-fish" and "micro-fish" (Mary's term, pronounced "microfiche") that we spotted on the University of Tampa campus back in October:

Mini-Fish:

Here's the still shot:

Micro-Fish:

I couldn't get a decent still shot of the micro folk.

I finally saw March of the Penguins (U.S. TV premier on Hallmark Saturday night), and was struck -- not for the first time -- about how, thank goodness, science is finally recognizing that animals have emotion and intelligence. A similar viewpoint is evident in the article, "Why Chickens Like Pretty Girls...and other bizarre animal stories" in today's Parade magazine. (Full text will be available online on the 28th.)

Used to be animals were seen as "dumb", "unemotional", and "incapable of feeling pain." Any argument to the contrary created a hue and cry in the scientific community that one was anthropomorphizing the beasts.

News flash: Humans are animals. We're sophisticated beasts, perhaps, but deep down inside we're still beasts. We deal with instinct, suppressed or not, just as other animals do.

The whole concept of anthropomorphizing becomes pretty much a moot point for me. I assume our cats felinomorphize us, because that's their frame of reference. Sure, there are behavioral differences between, say, myself and the moth above -- and I assume I was being lepidopteromorphized by the moth because that's its frame of reference. That doesn't mean the thing isn't intelligent or doesn't have feelings -- it means its intelligence and feelings follow a different trajectory than my own.

With the help of advances in monitoring technology, scientists are now "discovering" that animals are "more human." As I see it, empirical evidence is just now starting to catch up with common sense (dare I say "horse sense"?). I turn it around: as much as animals are becoming "more human," humans are beginning to realize that we're "more animal."

The more we learn about our place in the Kingdom of Animalia and the more types of monitoring we can do, the more ethical questions that knowledge will raise. For example, Bryon E. Petersen's work, profiled in John Barry's "From mice to men" in last Tuesday's St. Petersburg Times, carries extraordinary implications for the curing of human diseases. That work also involves the genetic manipulation and killing of animals. The ethical conundrums are many, especially when you consider another article in today's Parade about the "ownership" of genes and how their monopolization can stand in the way of medical research ("How Gene Patents Are Putting Your Health at Risk").

I don't have answers -- except, maybe, the wish that humans enter into the territory into which our instinctual curiosity takes us with a sense of awareness and respect. That to the best of our ability we recognize what we do, whatever that might be, and consider all the implications we can.

As for March of the Penguins -- just in case I wasn't the last person on Earth to see this thing, I recommend it unconditionally. It's an extraordinary documentary. Have Kleenex handy.

I spent part of the holiday weekend tweaking Covenant and am almost done with the first round. I'll do several more rounds and make sure I'm fully satisfied with what I've got before I send the revised manuscript in.

Two Thanksgivings

Wishing you all a happy and healthy day
-- and going down memory lane.
The setting is Cambridge, Massachusetts....

Journal excerpt, November 28, 1992

Earlier today I saw G, whom I had met at the University Lutheran Church shelter. He did not look good. The last time I saw him, I'd given him $5 that H, another homeless man, had refused for a watercolor he'd painted and given to me. But that was years ago.

The first thing I noticed was that G's bald pate was covered with open, weeping sores. He looked like he'd been beaten.

I asked him, "What happened to your head?"

He began with a roundabout answer about Social Services and the need to take a shower. He concluded by saying, "It's lice." He'd been trying to shower daily, but we had a wet summer, which exacerbated the problem.

As usual, he was carrying numerous papers with him, including a copy of the Financial Times. Most of the papers were folded and served as a kind of seat cushion in the cafe area of Au Bon Pain. Weather was clear and warm; people were eating outdoors. It was hard to tell if the "cushion" was a way to alleviate discomfort caused by the sores or if it was a way for him to keep track of what was where.

He'd shown me his calf at one point and it looked almost leprous. It reminded me of my Summer of Fleas in '83, only worse (and it's hard to get worse than that).

Throughout our conversation he kept scratching. I pretended to ignore it. I overlaid: I've seen men scratch like that, as a prelude to unsavory behavior. Here was G, a man both brilliant and kind, scratching from pain. Scratching to keep from dying. Talking about other multitudinous topics to distract himself.

We'd shaken hands. His nails were black and his skin bore a patina of grey. He's petitioned the Massachusetts Civil Liberties Union three times, with no response, in an attempt to get himself some medical attention, at least a daily shower. We discussed bathrooms — he telling me which had electrical outlets and dryers, which didn't. He felt sheepish about washing up in a public bathroom. Interspersed with this was a discussion about the library facilities and museums, he telling me and reminding himself that there were annual reports he had to get hold of. Told me he was once a financial analyst.

At one point I asked G, "Is there a home remedy that could help, like ammonia or lemon juice?"

He knew what I meant, and told me that Tegrin had been recommended. I went to CVS and picked up a bottle to give him: $5+ for next to nothing, but so what?

I'd left a small suitcase at the Au Bon Pain table — it had held the VCR I dropped off for repair, and now held only a few papers. But it was a step for me to leave it behind, in the hands of an acquaintance tortured by lice, while I picked up the shampoo.

On my return I handed it to him. "Use it in good health." He kissed me.

When we first met today I'd handed him 3 singles, mouthing a lame, "Happy Thanksgiving."

"What's this for?" he asked.

"Whatever."

He introduced me to a grizzled old man whose name I forget, and asked me if I wanted to join them for coffee. I said sure, and ended up going into Au Bon Pain to get two coffees — one for G and one for me — and was asked to get a croissant. G handed me the $3 I'd given him. I picked up two coffees, a plain croissant, and a turkey and cheddar croissant ("protein," I explained).

When I returned I handed the $3 back to G, saying, "Here's your change."

He placed the bills on top of a pile of papers — some open newspaper, some articles carefully folded, almost like origami. He'd given a glossy, full-page photo, from I don't know where, of an elephant, to his friend. The white-bearded man grinned and held it up for me to see, then asked G, "May I have this?"

"It's for you," G said.

His friend thanked him, then warned him that if he wasn't careful the dollar bills would blow away.

"To my advantage," the friend added. G qualified the statement by saying that the white-bearded man also served as his "bank."

The white-haired man had grown up in Illinois and gone to an Illinois Latin school, then moved to Massachusetts and gone to Andover. I think G had mentioned that he'd had a home, but that he was living on a fixed income.

Journal excerpt, November 25, 1995 (two days after Thanksgiving)

I'm at the Harvard T-station waiting for the train. I don't usually do this — I walk instead, but this head cold forces me to pamper myself and the weather is
wintry.

I'm reading Mauriac's Dinner in Town when a trench coat walks up to me and a voice above my head asks, "Excuse me, but have you heard of the Church of Jesus Christ of the Latter-Day Saints?"

Without looking up, I nod, in a kind of quasi-rudeness zone. He goes on talking in spite of my bowed head, asks me where I live.

"I'd rather not say," I say. "United States."

He laughs. I join in. "State of Massachusetts."

"Cambridge?"

I don't answer.

He asks me if I know the church is devoted to families.

I say, "Yes. So is every other religion."

"But this one is the true religion."

I nod and say, "That's the one thing you have in common with every other religion."

As I speak I look up briefly. Blond hair, blue eyes, clean-cut. The word my mind conjures up is: typical.

He keeps talking. I keep forcing myself to be rude, looking into the Mauriac and trying to read, for the sixth time, one character's thought that the dialogue he engages in is one that is both repeated endlessly and is positively futile. I nod inwardly at the character.

Finally I tell the man, "Look, I'd really rather read."

He doesn't give up. Finally, encountering nothing but my silence, he goes away.

No sooner does this happen than a very rotund man in a blue Michelin Man jacket comes up and says, "Hi! I'm homeless. Could you give me some money for something to eat?"

Sometimes I say yes to these requests, sometimes no. Today I say no. Had I been thinking I'd have said, "Look, why don't you go to the man there in the brown trench coat?" (He is already proselytizing to someone else.) "I'm sure he could spare some of his Christian charity." But I am too polite to say that. My upbringing overrules my sense of irony.

A paragraph further into the Mauriac I glance around quickly, see the two men working the crowd in their own individual fashion.

The train comes. Seated, bent over my book, I hear two men's voices above my head. Before my face is the familiar brown trench coat. The man not in the trench coat says, "...but then I started getting into it."

Ah, I think, the proselytizer found another Mormon.

But then the other man starts telling about deer and about Maine, and I realize the two of them are talking about hunting. Hunting for sport. The proselytizer takes a break from his missionary zeal to swap tales of how God's creatures are killed for recreation.

Now I truly am interested in the man because of his contradictions. This is what makes good character material. Running in tandem with this thought is the one that we are objects to each other. He views me as a potential convert, someone to talk to, not with. Someone to reform. Someone to mold in his image. The homeless Michelin Man sees me as a dispenser of money. I see him as a homeless man — after all, he has announced himself as such.

And both become character material to me, the price I exact for the time I've spent with them, for their insistent interruptions. Objects all, in the name of my own self-preservation.

Turkey Vulture Day

I finally uploaded my October 30 video of turkey vultures. Tampa Vultures (1:38): Cathartes aura, Family Cathartidae. Around here these are called Florida buzzards because of how numerous they are around here outside of summer heat. "Nearly eagle-sized (spread 6 ft.)," says the Peterson Field Guide to the Birds of Eastern and Central North America. These vultures range from southern Canada to Cape Horn and are migratory in the north.

Mary and I watched these Big Birds from our room at the Hyatt during Tampa's annual science fiction convention, Necronomicon. That's mostly Mary's voice in the background. A still shot is here.

To give an idea of what these birds look like up close, here's a shot I took of one in our neighborhood back in April:

Happy Turkey Day, vulture or otherwise!

[end of entry]

Underfoot

I almost missed the Ceranus Blue butterflies, they are so small. Wingspan of less than an inch, more like 3/4 inch. I was minding my own business when my eye caught a tiny flicker of lavender in among the dried grasses....

Hemiargus ceraunus, Family Lycaenidae (Gossamer-Winged Butterflies). Caterpillars feed on plants in the pea family. This species ranges throughout the southeast and southwest, year-round in Florida and Texas, and ranges northward during the warmer months. According to Bugguide.Net, the southeastern variety has one large eyespot along its outer edge (see ventral shot, below), while the southwestern variety has two. Both sexes are brown on the ventral side. The blue color on the dorsal side of the wings (above) identifies both butterflies shown here as males, since the one below is also blue on its dorsal side (not shown). Females are more brown.

I thought the spillway at the "post office pond" looked interesting enough for a shot. After downloading I watercolorized it and "transplanted" the Blue Ceranus.

Recent rain has raised the pond's water level, making it a mirror on a calm, crisp fall day. Just a few dragonflies and damselflies flitted about. Beneath the water, fallen leaves sent up a spectrum of autumn color.

In the space of about a week, two articles (including poems of mine), another poem, and three illustrations have been accepted for publication. Both articles and the one poem had been solicited.

An article on speculative poetry (including three reprinted poems) will appear in Poets' Forum Magazine.

An article on dark poetry (including one reprinted poem and first publication of two award-winning poems) will appear in the online newsletter of the Horror Writers Association (accessible by HWA members only).

"First Things First" (also accessible on my poetry page, referenced below) will be reprinted in the journal Harp Strings.

The three cover illustrations will appear in Star*Line (some time next year).

In addition, several of my photos and an article will appear in Of Poets and Poetry, the Florida State Poets Association newsletter. The photos, which I took at our October conference, should be in the next issue. The article should appear next year.

Within the past three weeks or so, three of my photos appeared in The Layout (magazine of the Southern Division, Train Collectors Association [SD-TCA]), and four others have been posted on the FSPA website.

I first posted the Layout pictures back in May on Flickr, after I did a photo shoot at the home of "Grandpa" Nelson G. Williams. (I'd posted the photos with his permission.) In addition to being a founding member of my critique group, Nelson has been a member of the TCA since 1974. Dozens of his articles have appeared in four national train collector club magazines. In 2003 the SD-TCA named him its Tinplate Tycoon, bestowing upon him the organization's highest honor. After his stint as an award-winning college editor, Nelson became a newspaperman and textbook author and is now a retired lawyer.

He was profiled in December 2005, in the St. Petersburg Times' "Meet the People" segment, Hometown Citrus section.

The photos now appear in the Fall 2006 issue of The Layout (Vol. 40 No. 4), accompanying Nelson's article, "40th Anniversary Trains: The Real McCoys 1966-98". The captions are his:

Nelson: "Above: The McCoys built this green gondola car for the 1969 TCA national convention in Clearwater, Florida, hosted by Chester and Margo Holley and other charter members of the Southern Division. The yellow and green SD TCA patch was adopted from the Southern Division Herald in time for our 1975 national convention in Orlando."

Nelson: "This memorial boxcar to honor the late Bob McCoy was designed and built by his family in 1997. Two years later, Margaret McCoy and their son, Bob Jr., closed their original factory in a former chicken house at Kent, Washington. Bob McCoy, Jr., now builds, sells, and repairs McCoy trains at Otis orchards near Spokane."

Nelson: "For the 1976 TCA national convention in Philadelphia, the McCoys put two red and white circus wagons on this blue 'Spirit of '76' flat car, marking the bicentennial of the Declaration of Independence."

(Nelson gave me attribution on the photos -- but, alas, the photos were published without attribution in The Layout. Fortunately, I'd already posted them on Flickr months earlier. The entire photoset is here.)

When Larry Gross, webmaster for the Florida State Poets Association, posted my corner of the FSPA's "Meet Our Poets" page, he included a stock photo of the ocean to go with my bio. I thought I could provide a better one. I referred him to my shot of the Atlantic, taken coincidentally during an FSPA conference in Daytona Beach. Not only did he like and use that photo, but he asked my permission to use several others on the site. (He gave me attribution for those, along with links back to my Flickr pages.)

Two of my photos appear on the main Meet Our Poets page:

At the top:

At the end of September 2005 I photographed green oranges on my neighbor's tree. They ripened four months later, as shown here.

At the bottom:

This was my mother's grade school composition book. I remember seeing it while I was growing up, and I found it again when I moved to this house. She had gone to P.S. 80 in the Bronx, New York. I find no dates inside but she had indicated the 7th and 8th grade, which places this notebook in the late 1930s. She would have been 12 or 13 years old. (My mother was also a member of FSPA more than 25 years ago, and best friends with Lyn, in whose yard I'd photographed the mushrooms shown in this entry.)

Chinese Wisteria, on Joyce Shiver's poetry page:

The Atlantic at sunrise, on my poetry page:

More submission preparation and manuscript tweaking have been on tap for the weekend.

The Magnificent Faux-Poster Bed

Large view.

Mary possesses an un-enviable metabolism. Too many covers and she sweats; then she chills as her sweat cools. Too few covers and she freezes. Even a mild breeze hitting her directly will keep her awake, as will sudden intrusions of light.

However, she has an admirable knack for innovation. And for recycling....

She models at upper left along with her lovely assistant, Red. Two sturdy plywood boards stand to the left of her. The boards came courtesy of the Cambridge, Massachusetts, Department of Public Works, a recycling center par excellence. (We've literally gone dumpster diving for books there.) Those are her sneakers doubling as reading lights at the photo's lower right.

The shot at upper right offers a closer look at the boards at the head of her bed. Standing at the foot of her bed, shown in close-up in the shot at lower left, are metal bifold doors. I'd removed the doors from my bedroom-converted-to-studio closet, which now holds writing and art supplies.

The blanket draped over the faux-posters was a hand-me-down from my friend Marlene back in 1983, when I moved into the rented Woburn house that she was vacating. I don't know how long she'd owned the blanket before then. Age and rampaging kitties have compromised its quilting a bit, and it's been stitched back up several times.

The finished product is shown at lower right ("faux-poster bed" is Mary's term). Heavy boxes and an old computer tower hold the "posters" in place. Sheets cover the heavy blanket with the help of several binder clips. The dark blue sheet is more than 20 years old and dates from Mary's waterbed days. The yellow-orange patterned sheet (and a purple sheet, not visible) are at least 35 years old and date from my childhood in Brooklyn. The beds themselves are close to 50 years old and still quite comfy. Mary told me she slept very well. On a night in which the temperature dropped into the 40s (F), we had no need to turn on the heat.

States of Mind

This is the first of two such notebooks containing the diary I kept through high school in the early 1970s. I'd kept diaries prior to this one (my first-ever diary is shown here), but "Believer's Log" broke the record for longevity at that time. I carried it with me everywhere. The title is written on medical adhesive tape.

I have Isabelle Gorayeb to thank. I took her Creative Writing class as a John Dewey High School freshman. She told all of us to keep a journal -- a tradition that I now continue with my own students.

This entry is in response to Colleen's comment, "I'd love to hear more about your therapy sometime," accompanying my entry A Bit of Time Travel....

It was 1974. I was a shade under 16. Nixon was on the verge of resigning the presidency and our involvement in the Vietnam War was on its last legs. We were in the midst of an energy crisis and various forms of domestic unrest.

My emotions were all over the map, from both external and internal causes. I was studious and precocious, would enter college while still 16. In the summer of '74 I was attending summer school, which allowed me to graduate early, plus it got me out of a house that was chaotic at best. I was under pressure to do well on college entrance exams. I was drafting my first novel, in which I had congratulated myself for writing an "intellectual rape scene."

Sex terrified me. It was not unusual for me to see men masturbating openly on the New York City subway back then, and one drug-addled man had come up once and rubbed his penis on the back of my jeans. When that happened I ran like hell, held myself together through the school day, then fell apart when I got home. My mother told me I was overreacting.

I was in a spiritual crisis, about to dump a belief system that had me "communicating with the future" in far-off galaxies. My internal guides -- which I believed at the time to be external and autonomous, "real" -- had been my support group. Those guides had told me on many occasions not to kill myself, and they'd been key to my survival. When I dropped my faith in them I entered into a cycle of anorexia and bulimia that lasted into my mid-20s.

When I was 15 I begged to go into therapy because I felt suicidal, and remained in therapy for about 2-1/2 years.

Back in April 2006 I posted this entry in a semi-private blog I keep on Open Diary, prompted by and responding to the online writings of a teenage girl whose difficulties reminded me of my own when I was her age. I responded specifically to issues concerning the relevance of therapy and drugs when applied to teenage and/or young adult brain chemistry.

Or, put another way: how much had they influenced my own healing?

Looking back, I can partially answer that question. The most important component was that for all its flaws -- and it did have flaws that I recognized at the time -- therapy gave me tools that I could then apply outside that scope.

And those survival tools, in my opinion, are the bottom line. Because survival is the bottom line. For a long time I didn't expect to live past my 20s, and I didn't start developing a strong will to live until I was 17, after I was on the verge of doing away with myself.

But they can be double-edged swords, particularly the drugs, and especially because researchers have only recently discovered that brain chemistry changes as one develops. Prozac might help an adult deal with the world, yet it can be a causative factor in a teenage suicide. My friend Helen, who was bipolar for decades, had struggled with her medications. She went off them when she felt they impaired her ability to work, and she landed in locked wards from the fullblown manic episodes that resulted. She faced other problems when her accumulated doses reached levels of toxicity in her body. I'd met her when she was in her 30s. She died at age 50, from the double-whammy of bipolar disorder and colon cancer.

There are no easy answers.

When I was 15, the intake psychiatrist I had seen put me on Thorazine and told me it was a "tranquilizer" instead of the antipsychotic drug it really was. It helped relax me, but after a few months I felt it was doing me more harm than good. By that time I was seeing my "long-term" psychiatrist, and to his credit he agreed with me and discontinued the prescription. I was, in that respect, very lucky. Someone listened to me and respected my opinion despite the fact that I was "only" 16 at the time -- still a minor, still under parental control, basically untested out in the world.

Most important, I had no legal standing. Things could have been much worse.

Would things have been different had I not been given the drug? I don't know. Possibly, by relaxing me, it made me receptive to messages and states of being that helped my healing process along, but would a non-chemical intervention have done the job? I have no way to tell.

"Your health care is only as good as your doctor." A former coworker once told me that, not in a psychiatric context but in the context of the dysmenorrhea that once debilitated me, including when I was a teenager. That had been another source of stress for me: redoubling my efforts to make up for all those times I was physically out of commission. (I describe that ordeal in my entry The Pot of Painlessness at the End of the Rainbow.)

Part of me thinks there is far too much emphasis today given to diagnoses, especially of people whose brains are still developing and whose brain chemistries are understood even less than that of adults. On the other hand I can understand the Need To Know, to at least be in the ballpark, to have some cognitive grasp of what's going on. There is a certain terror in not knowing. When I was 15 I wanted desperately for someone to understand me, and to understand myself.

My diary entries from then didn't follow dates, but were "Bands" and "Entries". There are some hints as to dates, like Nixon's resignation on August 8, 1974. The entries here begin in July of that year.

____________________

Band 12, Entry 2 (B12E2)
It was so beautiful this morning! Clear skies, a cool, dry, brisk air, Luna silhouetted against the moving train. I felt a strange tingle, a weird elation. I'm getting an intense fear of trains, tho. Every day, I hold my pen, the point bared, holding it like a knife or an ice pick for self defense. And then a day in a crowded room, inside. Give me the sky, so that I may be free, today. An eternal traveler.

B12E3
After class I got into a really interesting discussion with this girl R and her friend K.
R: "You mean you've never made out with a boy?"
Me: "No."
R: "Why?"
Me: "A physical relationship alone isn't my idea of a relationship."
R: "But it feels good. That's all. If I want to f--- I'll f--- because it feels good. Did you ever go on a date?"
Me: "Yes -- a group date."
R: "And you didn't make out after it?"
Me: "No."

She was flabberghasted. I thought it was funny!

B12E6
Had another talk with R. A really good talk.

R: "Don't you want to get married?
Me: "No."
R: "Why not?"
Me: "I don't want to take the time away from myself. I could not live with another person."
R: "You don't mind if I say this, do you?"
Me: "Not at all. You can tell me anything -- I encourage you to be honest."
R: "Well, I think that's conceited."
Me (smiling): "Maybe you're right."
R: "You wouldn't want to have children?"
Me: "No -- I have so many other things I'd rather enjoy."
R: "But you were put on this earth to marry and have children! That's why you're a woman!"
Me: "I'm a person. I'd side with People Power before Women's Lib." Etc.

Sure, I like my womanhood, but not motherhood!

____________________

The pressure to have sex, to make out, was enormous. We were all a bunch of tangled hormones, and society's emphasis on sex didn't help matters. My friends were going boy-crazy at the time, and I felt abandoned because I was not going that route and at the same time I no longer had the emotional support from them on which I'd come to rely.

The next day I pasted into my diary an article in the New York Daily News, entitled, "TV Newsgirl Shoots Self on Camera, Dies."

____________________

B12E7 (quoting from article)
Sarasota, Fla. July 15 (combined dispatches) -- "In keeping with Channel 40's policy of bringing you the latest in blood and guts, and in living color, you are going to see another first -- attempted suicide."

With that announcement, television newswoman Christine Chubbuck put a gun to her head and fatally wounded herself as her half-hour morning show was being broadcast live by WXLT-TV.

Miss Chubbuck, 29, died tonight in Sarasota Memorial Hospital, nearly 14 hours after she pulled the trigger. She had suffered a .38 caliber bullet wound in the head.

Horrified viewers who were watching the morning program, broadcast to a three-county area, flooded police with telephone calls. One asked if it was a joke.

The TV screen immediately went black and, within minutes, the station resumed telecasting with an old movie.

Local viewers said that the TV station, an affiliate of ABC, did not have a "blood and guts" reputation.

News director Mike Simmons said, "It took less than a second to get the gun to her head and pull the trigger."

He said that Miss Chubbuck joked a week ago about buying a gun and that she had told a co-worker: "Wouldn't it be neat if I were to take the gun, pull it out on the air, live and in living color, and blow myself away."

A sheriff's captain, Ellis Dunham, said Miss Chubbuck's family had told the police over the weekend, she talked of suicide.

Miss Chubbuck's news script was scribbled on a note pad found on her desk. Parts of the script were obliterated by bloodstains.

"They'll take me to the hospital now," the news script said.

____________________

I had written in my diary, "It just got to me, and in a way, I admire her for the method she used."

What I had admired was her anger. She did not go quietly. I felt she was reacting against much of the same things I was reacting against, not the least of which were all the images flooding the media. Her pain had seemed to mirror my own, and her release seemed a kind of vindication. But the truth of the matter is, she did not survive. If she did, I wonder what might have become of her -- whether she could have found and used new strengths.

____________________

B12E13
Went to [Dr. G, my regular doctor] to get a referral to a psychologist (who won't be treating people till Sept.) and because of my fatigue -- yep, you guessed it -- another blood test.

____________________

Looking back, I was studying like crazy, I was up late writing, and every time I had a period I was wrung out like a sponge. And I was still growing into what would eventually be an adult body. Given all that, I'd say my fatigue was completely natural, though no one -- not me, not my parents, not my doctor -- seemed to realize it at the time.

____________________

B12E15
I feel a strange sensation, today -- a feeling of freedom and power. It could end in depression later on, of course....When I'm really angry, I suppress much of what I write here. Probably next year, I'll find a pattern of lines written in a passion here. I wish I could start psychoanalysis now -- September, I just feel sometimes, may be too late. But I wouldn't need psychoanalysis if I had someone to talk to, someone other than family, who can take an objective view of the situation. Suddenly, I feel very nervous -- can I adapt? Can I adapt and still keep my values?

____________________

It was me against society. A society that wanted me to have a boyfriend, to get married, to have kids. A society that didn't want me to be so smart or so imaginative. One that wanted me to be completely superficial. Having my own internal guides was another point of contention, because that made more than a few people around me really call me crazy. I felt as though I were trapped between a rock and a hard place, with no way out. Completely alone.

____________________

B13E2
I'm extremely depressed right now. The line isn't too emotional, but in a recent burst of poetry I can express my thoughts. -- I gave at the office/Let me be. Don't crowd me now./You're hurting me./You are taking the air from my lungs./I am different from you. I can give no more./Leave me -- I must escape/Escape. From the people/And Mom's Apple Pie/I cannot adapt to this world/You haven't the power to help me./I am different. I walk alone./Don't ask me for words/Or for my witty phrases/Or my intelligent essays/Or my strong and delicate emotions/I gave at the office.

____________________

Mood swings from hormones are bad enough. They're natural, which doesn't make them any easier, but sometimes simply understanding that helps. At 15 I was also facing a world that wanted to change the person I was -- and, in essence, still am. Except for a few short lapses I stuck to my guns. During those lapses, when I tried to "fit in," I was even more miserable.

Time and experience are key, here, which means holding on and hanging on. Living builds confidence. The trouble is that it takes so long (still, that's better than the alternative). But then it gets to be a "transfer of training" situation. It's like learning new software because you know older software. Being perimenopausal these days, I've got times when there are little elves in my head shoveling tears out of my eyes -- and it's not depression but Hormones Gone Cuckoo, triggered at the least provocation. I'm like a baby who's bawling one minute and cooing the next, and sometimes I feel like I'm possessed. I'm learning not to be embarrassed about it, and I have an advantage of living in a community filled with retirees who have been there/done that or witnessed it, so no big deal.

In a way it's like being a teenager all over again, but in many ways it's not, with life experience making the difference. Because even though I'm experiencing "new" things, on another level I know what's going on.

____________________

B13E10
I dreamt that Mom had bought me albums of depressing music when I got home (to bring me out of my depression). I was playing Carly Simon's "Haven't Got Time for the Pain." I tried to figure out the last chords (which I love) on a violin. I can interpret that dream perfectly. When I'm depressed, I put on depressing music to keep me that way. Mom always said a chirpy, "Snap out of it!" This was wish fulfillment. I always felt a sense of power listening to the song mentioned, and whenever I like violins it's always when they play depressing music.

____________________

At the time my mother had dispensed that utterly worthless advice, she herself was in the throes of perimenopause and going through her own mood swings. Plus she was teaching in an inner-city high school, living with diabetes and heart disease (and taking a slew of medications with different side effects), and living with a husband and daughter whose emotions were also chaotic. It was too much for her to handle, and more times than not she had shut down emotionally or flown off the handle entirely. (Picture a woman running around the house, screaming, "I'm not supposed to get aggravated!!!")

She got some release by crying while we watched Marx Brothers movies on TV -- during those scenes when the lovers were going to be parted or the theater was going to be closed down. She'd be wiping her eyes with a Kleenex while my father and I laughed hysterically at all the hijinks. Nowadays I'm in good health (knock on wood), I take no medications, and my stress level has plummeted since moving here, but I can understand this part of her better now from a perimenopausal point of view.

____________________

B13E11 (August 8, 1974, the day of Nixon's resignation)
R didn't read the story for today and I never help people like that. Mr. M, for once in his life, was asking questions, so R asked me, "Quick! What happened?" "I'm not going to tell you." Well, R and her friends cursed me out, right then and there, saying after expletive deleteds, "You're so miserable! You're worthless! I don't know why you were put on this earth!" Well, I felt super! "Everyone's entitled to an opinion," I said. Then they sneered, in childish tones -- just what I wanted! After all those years when I'd been tortured and that taunting had hurt me. I'd always wanted to be calm and collected when confronted with that, and let the other one learn how worthless she is! Well, those girls' reactions were perfect! I wrote on the blackboard in social studies, "The world is what you make it. If you get no satisfaction out of what you are yourself, then you deserve to die."

____________________

Their cursing me out had still hurt, but I was learning to fight back. Unfortunately, that also brought with it a lot of battle fatigue -- which deepened my depression.

____________________

B14E18 (first session with intake psychiatrist)
I had a 45 min. cry in which I did all the talking (& the crying) and Dr. C asked about 4 questions -- 2 of them I found good. The first was, "If you pride yourself on such a good memory, why can't you remember (such & such a detail)?" That was probably to deflate my pride, so I think he got some kind of impression, tho I don't like it. The 2nd question was on my self-consciousness; if someone took a crack, the type my mother makes, seriously, C asked, "And what if they did? What is it to you?" That question I liked, but he's supposed to help me get over that!

____________________

Right there, that's one of the tools: not caring so much what other people think. That stuff took me years to learn, and it was like the layers of an onion, always with a new and harder application. And one can still be hurt but then get past it. Some months ago I watched an A&E Biography program on Jodie Foster, who with all her successes and experience spoke of how hurt she was when people had accused her of making "Nell" to give herself an Oscar vehicle. It was a labor of love for her; she's allowed to feel hurt. Hurt still happens, but it's how one handles it while following one's convictions.

____________________

B15E3
There was a senior orientation today, and with PSAT, SAT, Regents Scholarship Exam and Achievement Tests taking up the span of 2 months, I'm terrified. I feel very closed in about it.

____________________

Academic pressure sucks big time, and I think it's worse now than it was then. I remember my father yelling at me on the morning of one of those exams because I wasn't still studying. Instead I was staring out the front porch window because our neighbor across the street was being taken to the hospital to die. In four months cancer had reduced her from a robust middle-aged woman to a skeleton, and I had been in a state of shock.

____________________

B15E12
Saw Dr. C today. He seemed much more human than last time; he spoke more, seemed more concerned. We spoke mostly of my relationship to boys, but first we went over my analytical feelings and self. He asked an excellent question: "You seem to be talking about something else, but could you also be referring to wondering what I'm writing down?" That had me thinking for a while. "I trust you, because of the insight you have into the human mind, which is your profession," I answered. I feel much better, it seems. He's one person to whom I can empty out my mind without fear of being corrupted and exploited.

____________________

There's that Need To Know. I wanted to learn what was going on in my head. Given my internal guides, I was most interested in multiple personality disorder, especially since Sibyl was in the popular culture at the time. "Empty out" notwithstanding, I never brought them up in therapy, fearful that then I'd really be locked away. (After I left my marriage and started living on my own -- and dealing with a slew of flashbacks -- I saw a counselor, short-term, and told her about the inner guides. She applauded them as a good coping mechanism.)

Not long after this entry I overheard Dr. C. in the hallway of the clinic, muttering angrily, "Magicians -- that's all we are." His own insecurity. The vagaries of the human brain. It was an eye-opener for me.

____________________

B15E19
Went to Dr. C today. We talked about my anxiety on trains, and just plain anxiety. He gave me a prescription for Thorazine -- a tranquilizer. I'll be getting it tomorrow.

____________________

These are the same trains where I'd seen men masturbating, and where I held my pen in my fist, on the lookout for anyone who would come near me. This was also after I'd been assaulted. I was anxious for good, empirical reasons.

My mother, bless her lonely self, was no big help here. She was literally overjoyed -- told me at bedtime, "We can have a pill party!" Finally there was something she and her daughter could do together.

____________________

B16E2
Went to J and M's wedding. I liked the ceremony -- the rabbi made an interesting speech -- stimulating. A woman was hysterical, crying, "My baby's getting married!" and she was only the maid! I danced, but with Dad, but at least I danced. At the dinner table I spoke with B, who goes to Queens College, about the sunset, schools, etc. His sister was immature -- every other word she said was, "falooza!" I felt crowded, headachey, and really needed that tranquilizer!

____________________

Dancing was supposed to be a sign that I was getting "normal". Except for the rabbi, it all seemed very superficial, but the pills helped me to better put up with that superficiality. As an adult I still attended events like that, but I'd either go find stimulating conversation or treat it all as a kind of anthropological experience. As for dancing, I eventually found my own style, overcoming a lot of physical nervousness. What I do now bears no relation whatsoever to the waltzes I was expected to do back then. (And, worse yet, I wasn't allowed to lead!)

____________________

B18E6 (case study evaluation)
I sat in a small room (smaller than I thought and the back wasn't a straight wall -- I think it was a dark green or blue) -- I spoke with the head psych -- cried a bit, too. I'll probably have to transfer psychiatrists -- I'll miss C. He became a friend. Anyway, a few minutes after I left the room, a guy carrying about 5 copies of the News came by and gave me a copy. After he turned out of the hall, I looked in that direction. He peeked out by the wall and smiled. And I'm reading Chekhov's "Ward 6"!

Dad had me outraged and upset -- I overheard his views. He thought (hoped) treatment would end (I've been recommended for long-term therapy), he says he never went to a psychiatrist (you can see it, too!!!) and he doesn't believe one ounce in the system. He says it's all in my mind, and the mind can't be changed unless I change it. (That's actually the way it is -- there is knowing, and there is knowing, to put it briefly!) Whenever I told him I was afraid of him, he always said, "I don't care." Well, I don't care!

____________________

That version of my diary ended soon thereafter. For one thing, my internal guides were fading from me. Most of my entries had been records of those visions.

For another thing, the Thorazine was numbing me out. In the last few days of my entries my handwriting had changed from cramped and neat to sprawling across the page. I wrote no diary entries through my anorexia as I finished high school, my bulimia as I started college, or my near-brush with suicide in January of '76. I started a journal again in January of '77, around the time 22-year-old comedian Freddie Prinze had blown his brains out. He was dead. I was alive, and fighting to stay that way.

And my internal guides were back. I was very frightened when they returned; they were from my "crazy years." But I needed them. This time I called them "personas" and used them consciously as healing tools.

Scenes from Monday's Post Office Walk

large view (For this and other large views, click the magnifying glass after clicking on the link.)

Mary and I live about a mile from our local post office, where I keep a PO Box. No matter how many times we take our "post office walk," there's something new to photograph....

Though beautiful, this Mexican petunia growing by a neighbor's mailbox is an invasive species. Ruellia brittoniana, Family Acanthaceae. Says Floridata.com, "Mexican petunia is native to Mexico, but it has escaped cultivation and established in disturbed areas in the SE U.S., and can be found invading habitats across Florida. ... Mexican petunia is listed as a Category I invasive species by the Florida Exotic Pest Plant Council. This means that it is 'altering native plant communities by displacing native species, changing community structures or ecological functions, or hybridizing with natives.' This warning applies to all parts of the state of Florida (and other areas with similar mild climates). Where hardy, the Mexican petunia excels at invading wetlands."

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Lantana camara (common lantana), Family Verbenaceae. We pass a small strip mall (one of three we encounter during this walk) on our way to the post office. Very near the mall is a wild lantana patch that's a favorite hangout of various species of butterfly. We didn't see any butterflies on Monday, but I liked how these berries caught the low sun.

There are more than 100 species of lantana. Although not native to Florida, this common variety has been naturalized in the state for centuries. Says Floridata.com, "Pets have reportedly become ill after ingesting lantana. The unripe berries are known to be very toxic and the foliage toxic to livestock. Lantana is listed as a Category I invasive exotic species by the Florida Exotic Pest Plant Council, which means that it is known to be 'invading and disrupting native plant communities in Florida.' Lantana is also invading natural areas in Texas and is a huge problem in Hawaii."

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Mary found this fallen twig and its resident acorn. I carried it in my tote bag and photographed it while standing on a walkway at the strip mall nearest to our home.

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Photographed in a small park a couple of blocks from home.

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The same park had these fallen pine needles, which I photographed around 5 PM, shortly before sunset. This is as-is out of the camera (about 3 mg.).

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Giant Leopard Moth, Hypercompe scribonia, (reclassified from Ecpantheria), Tiger Moth Family (Arctiidae), subfamily Arctiinae. This one was hanging out in front of the supermarket -- in roughly the same place I'd photographed another of the same species back in March. This time I used a higher resolution.

From Steven H. Long at Clemson University:

"This moth can be found throughout the southeastern United States ranging from New England to Mexico. The immature stage of this moth is a caterpillar, known as the woolly bear caterpillar because it is heavily coated with long black hairs, known as setae. When feeling threatened, the caterpillar will curl up in a ball revealing bright red markings between its many segments. They feed on almost any type of foliage, but only for a brief time before spinning a cocoon and emerging a few weeks later as a mature moth.

"The moth stage of this species is very beautiful. The wings of the moth are solid white, with irregularly shaped black circles all over them giving it the leopard-like appearance. The abdomen is dark blue with orange markings. After emerging from the cocoon, the male species of moth immediately begins its search for a female to mate with. The female moth releases a pheromone into the air for the male moth to find and locate her by. The male will pick up the smell and fly in a zigzag pattern into the wind until he reaches his female and mates with her. After mating has taken place, the male goes out in search of another female while the female he has mated with begins dispersing her fertilized eggs wherever she may find."

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Mary and I had skedaddled to catch a bite at the bakery before it closed for the day. We were about to sit down at an outdoor table when I noticed a trio of toy soldiers perched just outside the bakery's plate-glass window.

Given the frequency with which people comment that they see us walking -- and given that I am often seen perched with my camera in sometimes weird positions -- I joked to Mary that I wouldn't be surprised if people started putting out camera bait to see if I photographed it. I don't think that was the case with the soldiers, but it was a funny thought that came to mind. (Once, when I stopped into the bank, a couple of employees who have seen me photograph insects immediately called my attention to a "big green bug" perched at the drive-through station.)

A Bit of Time Travel

This is page one of the first draft of the first non-Star Trek science fiction story I ever wrote (more legible in the large view). I was still in grade school at the time. The story was about a scientist and an android who in the end became each other.

I had begun writing Star Trek adventures when that show went off the air in 1969, because I missed it so much. That summer my mother suffered a heart attack that almost killed her at age 44. (Just before Star Trek first aired in 1966 I almost died, myself. That story is covered in my entry "Name one event that changed your life.")

Starting in about the seventh grade, I expanded into general science fiction. The third story I wrote garnered me the Read Magazine Creative Writing Award in 1972, when I was in the eighth grade. (I was one of two people in my school to receive the award that year.)

Until word processing arrived I always wrote my drafts in longhand. After I finished this rough draft I wrote it again, more neatly, tweaking as I went along. Once I was satisfied with the tweaking I typed it up on a Smith Corona manual typewriter.

About three years after I wrote "The Alternative" I drafted my first novel....

I wrote Ambrosine when I was 15, in the summer of 1974; this is my original notebook from back then. At that time I used my first and middle name as my nom de plume. My handwriting here is on medical adhesive tape that I'd pilfered from my parents' bathroom and stuck onto a cloth-covered three-ring binder.

I wrote part of the draft, carrying this notebook with me, while my parents and I vacationed at the Gilcrest Motel in New Hampshire's White Mountains. (I stayed again at the Gilcrest years later, during the time of my entry The Unexpected Trails.) The night sky was so thick with stars that I had trouble teasing out the constellations. It was the perfect, magical setting for writing a science fiction novel.

Ambrosine took its cue largely from fantasies I'd had during the preceding years. The people inside my head underwent adventures that often reflected the trials and tribulations I was experiencing as an adolescent, only I hadn't made that connection at the time. At first I believed that somehow I was able to communicate with the far future. I had devised (and even lectured in school about) an elaborate theory of time cycles to explain this contact. I was viewed as a "kook" but my teachers were intrigued because I was an intelligent, articulate "kook".

In truth my characters were an internal support group. I became anorexic (and later bulimic) after I banished them in April 1975. The novel was a way for me to fictionalize what I had for years believed was real. On one level I still believed in the characters while I did the writing, but relegating them to fiction was part of a process of exorcism for me.

In addition to writing Ambrosine in the summer of 1974 I prevailed upon my parents to let me enter therapy because I felt suicidal. (Among other redeeming qualities, the people inside my head kept telling me that the only way I could enter their world -- the future -- was by not killing myself.) I entered outpatient therapy in September of that year.

I sent this query letter for Ambrosine (more legible in the large view) in December 1975, less than two months after I turned 17. Looking back at it, I think it's rather quaint.

I was a college freshman -- still anorexic, and still in therapy.

I grew up in Brooklyn, which placed me a subway ride away from the publishing houses in Manhattan. When I received a positive response to my query letter for Ambrosine I delivered the manuscript in person and got to meet and talk with Donald A. Wollheim. He gave me a copy of Tanith Lee's novel The Birthgrave, saying my premise reminded him of that work.

I was completely naive, and didn't fully realize just how special this attention was. I was still 17 years old at the time of this memo.

Not long afterwards I began drafting my second novel, Flying on Preshaped Wings, in which the character Ambrosine continued to figure. Only now she was presented as the fantasy of an anorexic woman in therapy. I also incorporated into that writing my obsession with the piano, which at times had me practicing for up to five hours at a stretch.

Today my characters enjoy a certain level of autonomy -- explained in more detail in my entry Collaborations. That autonomy, tempered now by craft and by more psychological awareness, stems from a long tradition of relinquishing myself to my visions -- and to the creative force that brings them to me.

In Deep Appreciation

Mary and I were watching The Longest Day when the doorbell rang. She's expecting a chair delivered, but we didn't think it would come on a Saturday.

When I answered the door I was greeted with 21 roses set in a large open glass cube. (Our cat Daisy investigates at lower right. Mary "got" the number immediately -- said they were a "21-bud salute.") They were addressed to me. My eyes widened because I had no idea who might have sent them. I signed for the delivery, then put on my reading glasses before I opened the envelope to find out....

They came from Architecture Boston, one of my clients. I've been transcribing interviews and roundtable discussions for AB for years -- I think since the magazine first began. The other day I let the folks there know that I'd signed a book contract for Covenant, the first volume of my trilogy Deviations. (More information on Deviations is here.)

I've always felt my freelance work is better than a free education because it's an education I get paid for. My degrees are in psychology. Not surprisingly, my writing is largely character-driven. Although I've had no direct "translation" into fiction of the material I get from AB, I like to think I've picked up a certain architectural sensibility that finds its way indirectly into my writing. In one scene in the second volume, my protagonist gauges where she is based on the shape of the buildings around her.

My comments in response to the material I transcribe have being published in the magazine a couple of times: once in a sidebar to a photograph, and once in a letter to the editor.

I was floored, though, by these roses! And by the kind gesture made by my friends at AB.

I'd held my first paying job at age 16, the summer after I graduated high school (I was precocious). But I've had a certain professional stiffness about me since early childhood, when I was taught how to answer the phone and take messages. By the time I was eight I was helping my mother grade papers submitted by the students in the inner-city high school where she taught English.

Even before then, probably when I was around kindergarten age, I helped her produce and collate exams. In those days she used a hectograph, which meant mixing a gel and letting it solidify in a pan. We lay specially-inked paper on the gel to create a reverse print, then lay plain paper sheets on the reverse print to create doubly-reversed copies.

If ditto machines were primitive, hectographs were downright prehistoric. Our dinette table became our print shop.

I temped through college when I wasn't working as departmental secretary. I've always had an impressive typing speed because when I was about ten years old I taught myself on an old Smith Corona manual, not to do office work but to submit my stories. Between that and inheriting genes from my pianist father, I had pretty good manual dexterity.

From the summer of 1975 on there was hardly a time when I didn't work. I was a teaching and research assistant in grad school, and I worked in lower Manhattan while writing my thesis. When I moved from New York to Massachusetts I signed up with a temp agency before I signed my lease. From 1983 on I juggled my day job with freelance work except for when I freelanced fulltime: 1988-1990 and 2003 to the present.

Going beyond the formality of a business relationship has always been a challenge, but little by little I've been learning to loosen up. The same goes for publishing, which is sometimes even more of an enigma to me. I expect my corporate writing and editing, my transcribing, etc., to be commodities. My emotional attachment is not to the product but to the level of service I can give.

My creative output, especially writing, is far different. If I'm a stiff, staid "adult" in the business world, I'm a little kid (one might argue a naive little kid) in the creative one. I am easily awed, and that often makes me shy -- though once I pass that barrier I can yak it up with the best of them. I had to push myself to write to people I'd been out of touch with for decades, and I'm still trying to articulate to myself why I've felt so intimidated by this.

It's like anything else: Habituation comes with practice. Submitting is not the problem. I started submitting poetry and fiction in the 70s, had my heyday in the 80s, and am now starting to get back up to speed.

My very first rejection slip (not this exact one) came from Galaxy, which was also the first science fiction magazine to which I ever subscribed. I think I was a high school freshman at the time, which would have made the year 1972-1973. My reaction to the rejection was that this now made me a real writer! As a minor with a very limited budget back in my high school days, I had sent everything, including the self-addressed stamped envelope, by fourth class mail. That taught me patience.

I treasure these things, and appreciated the note ("Some parts do show a mature style") left by the reader on the rejection shown here. Far from being discouraged, I just kept on submitting. Galaxy is no longer publishing, but I've had stories in Asimov's (Nov. 1984, mid-Dec. 1986), Amazing (May 1988), Full Spectrum (Bantam Books, 1988), and various smaller publications.

Twenty-plus years ago I made a bit of a splash and was like a deer caught in the headlights. To mix metaphors, it was as though I stood at the door of a house, knocking quietly for years. Then suddenly the door opened wide and I was swept up in a din of shouting and noisemakers -- which made me run screaming in the other direction.

It didn't help that I was working so hard to keep a roof over my head that I had few brain cells left for crafting. Not that I didn't try. But that created a very unpleasant split in me: How could I respond to editor solicitations when I was overloaded with grunt work, working in two departments at once (I did that for two different employers), and freelancing on top of that because I wasn't being paid for overtime? Add onto that the dual existence (in the 80s) of getting fan mail on the one hand while being called, literally, "the lowest of the low" on the other, by a supervisor who shall remain unnamed, because I was support staff.

Now I'm in a position where I can devote more time to crafting again, so I'm keeping my fingers crossed that I can make another go of this. Produce materials, gather them together, send them out ("Fly away, little poems! Be free!"), see if they can find a home. One of my goals for the coming year is to get back into the submissions groove. I've already done a bit with state and national contests and have a few new publications under my belt, but I plan to start doing more. It's just a question of lining up my priorities.

Meanwhile, I've been:
1. Going through my manuscript and tweaking according to publisher specs: namely, changing from present to past tense and breaking up the chapters a bit more.
2. Preparing and printing announcements to mail to friends, family, clients, etc.
3. Writing a couple of articles solicited by two magazines (the second a result of my re-establishing old contacts), both of which have been accepted (ya gotta love e-mail!).
4. Writing letters to connect with a couple of folks in publishing, whom I knew in the 70s and 80s.

I've put several entries up at Open Diary that I haven't transferred here, mainly because the OD format is more accommodating of photo width:

1. Step Forward, my first published poem in 1972;
2. All The Pretty Horses, painted horse sculptures in the center of Ocala, Florida; and
3. Ocala's Historic Buildings.

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