Three Year Anniversary

I really try not to post on weekends usually, but yesterday I was pissed off and today is my wedding anniversary! Plus this was pre-written last week so I'm not taking any time out of our day, which is a good thing!

 

Us at Denny's in Killeen, TX a few months after we were married. Photo by Zebo (a friend)

Today marks the day three years ago when my husband and I were married in a courthouse in the outer Chicago suburbs.

We met online on an art website called DeviantArt in February 2006, we both like to take photographs and ended up coming across one another on there. We talked on there for a while, leaving comment on one another's photographs and writing until my husband managed somehow to convince me to give out my email and IM.

He was deployed to Kosovo at the time as Active Duty Public Affairs support for the National Guard out there, so our time difference was only an hour as I lived in England. After I got home to my apartment from work in the evenings, at around 11pm, I would get online and we would talk all night, getting ourselves into trouble with our respective jobs for being constantly tired. There were a couple of guys that I was already seeing at the time so I just thought of him as a friend, someone to talk to. After all, we were from different countries and led totally different lives, it would have been impossible. We would send one another music we were listening to, photographs we'd taken and talk about our writing.

We took the plunge and decided to have voice conversations on Skype. He played guitar for me over Skype and I fell in love, although he didn't let him know that until much later.

In July of the same year he took two weeks leave and came to visit me. We met for the first time in the arrivals lounge of Heathrow airport, got a hotel and hung out together for a few days in London. We caugh the Eurostar to Paris and wandered around seeing the sites, eating great French food, taking photographs and talking.

Us in Paris. Photos by a timer and my husband. Man, I used to have long hair before it started falling out.

After a long weekend in Paris we came back to my apartment in Nottingham for the last week, he said to me "What would you say if I asked you to marry me?"
I said "Um, yeah I guess."
He wandered off for a while, came back and said, "Well. Um, well... will you marry me?"
I hugged him tight and he said "Is that a yes?"
"Yes."

He caught the plane back to Kosovo a week later, I went with him to the airport and cried on the way home in a London Underground train filled with early morning commuters. We emailed one another and spoke online nearly every day until I traveled to the States in December of the same year.

We were married in a courthouse under a week after my arrival, I wore skinny jeans, a cute purple dress and crochet ballet pumps. He wore a shirt, jeans and converse sneakers. A couple being followed around by 6 young children in cute little dresses and suits were married before us, while we waited in the main hall. His best friend was the only person with us during the ceremony. She cried and made me promise to never tell anyone that she did (oops). On our way out, two men in handcuffs were being escorted into the building by men in police uniform. We don't have a single photograph from that day, but I wont ever forget.

The past three years have brought us so many things, the main one of course being our son. There have also been 3 different homes in two different countries, lots of joy and laughter as well as the hard times. I wouldn't change anything for the world.

Us in Autumn 2008, photo by my dad.

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Resolution - Words to Live By

Nikon D3000 with Nikkor 28-105 Macro, manual.

I'm not a huge fan of New Years Resolutions, mostly because I tend to break them within a few days of making them. This year I wanted to just think of something less specific, after all what is the point in making goals that you know you'll never achieve?

So I thought I would consider some words to live by in 2010. I thought of some inspiring quotes and came across this one from Eleanor Roosevelt -

"Happiness is not a goal; it is a by-product."

I would like to be happy in 2010, but it shouldn't be my goal, it should be a by-product of my goal.

I have things to look forward to in 2010, another year in Germany, my sister-in-law's wedding, my husband passing the entrance requirements and getting selected for his new MOS (fingers crossed) or if he doesn't get in then he'll be in line for another promotion, our third wedding anniversary, me finishing school (hopefully). But these aren't really goals, they are just things that will (or will not) happen.

I'd like to finishing some knitting projects this year, sew myself a dress, do more yoga, kick the sugar addiction, read some more wonderful books, involve myself in more creative endeavors, cook amazing food, have a simpler life and follow more of a natural rhythm.

On thinking over those things, my word to live by in 2010 seems more obvious and it's a word I've already used a lot in 2009 since my OCD diagnosis and treatment.

mind⋅ful

/ˈmaɪndfəl/ [mahynd-fuhl]
–adjective
attentive, aware, or careful (usually fol. by of): mindful of one's responsibilities.

Origin:
1375–1425; late ME mindeful.

Related forms:
mind⋅ful⋅ly, adverb
mind⋅ful⋅ness, noun

Synonyms:
heedful, thoughtful, regardful.

In 2010 I aim to be more mindful in my everyday life, in my parenting, in my marriage, in my creative projects, in taking care of myself.

Happy New Year,
What are your words to live by in 2010?


Linked at Nanny Goats in Panties and Mama's losin' it.

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From London to Chicago

The end of December 2006

In Nottingham, England, I packed up the possessions in my house into boxes and bags, giving away or selling things that I would not be able to take with me. I was abandoning my university studies after a year and a half, and altogether too much of my own hard earned money. I had not managed to find someone else to rent my attic room so that I could break the contract, the person I had lined up let me down at the last minute. I left anyway, leaving behind posters on the walls and furniture scattered around the room, perhaps the free furniture could be an apology to the people who I shared the house with. They would have to find someone new to take my room.

With friends in our favourite places, a red letterbox and the local bum.

My parents picked me up and took me and the remainder of my belongings, mostly books and clothes, back to their house where I spent my last Christmas with my family. I packed up my single suitcase with clothes and important small keepsakes. I had to leave behind my books because they were too many.

My parents drove down to London where we stayed overnight in a hotel to be ready for my early flight the next day. The line in the airport was ridiculously long and it seemed like we were waiting forever. My parents left and I went through security, everything went fine and I got on a plane headed to Ireland where I was to change planes and head to Chicago. Ireland was where the trouble started.

For some reason, U.S. immigration was in Ireland instead of the U.S. In hindsight I'm thankful for that because of what followed. I get a grumpy man at the immigration desk, I didn't have the correct visa. I was sent to one of the scary little rooms to be interrogated, there was an Irish American family in front of me, the wife having problems with re entering the U.S. on her Green Card. "This always happens," she gave me an exasperated smile.

The immigration officials decided that I was trying to enter the U.S. with the intention to work illegally. I explained that I could easily get paid more by just staying in England, he wasn't particularly impressed (my mouth gets me in trouble sometimes). My luggage was taken off the plane and I was led out of a secret door back to the main airport, along with a very scared looking asian family. There I was left, the immigration official told me that I was very lucky that he wasn't going to file the paperwork to have me barred from entering the U.S. for 3 years. That I could try again tomorrow.

I was stranded in Ireland with no Euros and a cellphone that was about to run out of battery. I went outside and tried to hold back tears while I lit a cigarette. I called my (future) husband and he answered sleepily. I tried to explain what was going on. I called my parents and tried to decide what to do.

I had no money or transport to get a hotel room for the night and then pay for another ticket to the U.S. the next day. Trying to figure out my options, I wandered around the airport talking to different employees. "Hey, you're the girl who didn't make it to Chicago?!" I became known among the airport staff for that day at least. Even the man who helped me with my bags knew who I was. What a 15 minutes of fame.

After much deliberation, I exchanged my ticket for one going back to London. I called my parents who came to meet me when I arrived, my dad having paid for a second ticket for the following day.

The flight the next day went as planned. I arrived at immigration in Minneapolis, I was so nervous the immigration official must have seen it. He seemed suspicious of me, but luckily my failed attempt from the previous day hadn't been recorded in my passport information. He let me through and I just about kissed him and cartwheeled with joy through the airport. I managed to refrain myself lest he change his mind.

I called my future husband from the airport in Minneapolis to tell him the good news before boarding the plane to Chicago. The rest is history, my husband met me at the baggage claim in O'Hare with one of his friends. We drove out to his cousins place and hung out. We got a hotel that night, went to a New Years party at an apartment belonging to one of his old band mates on the next night and were married three days later (which is another story in itself).

It's been three years, so much has changed and so little.

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Children's Books

Ok, so let me just admit right now, straight off the bat. My attempt at NaNoWriMo was a washout. Not only do I not have the attention span to write something of that length, but my efforts were also thwarted by goings on at home, Mikey deciding to stop sleeping and then illness. I haven't written anything to do with my novel for about a week, I did get further than I expected though. It turns out that this attempt was the most words I've ever written for one project. Blasts my 10,000 school essays out of the water, so that's something.

I did not plan the novel well, I had nothing before I started writing it which really hindered my efforts. I may still finish it one day, but not today.

While writing it, however, I was blessed with pure unadulterated inspiration. The most magical idea for a children's book. I adore children's literature, I'm not talking about teen lit, which I dislike for the most part, or board books for babies because for the most part they're pretty dull. But things written for children between the ages of 4 and 11, I could just sit in the children's section of the library and read all day. 

As I don't have an older child of my own, I'm going to have to ask here. What sort of books do your older children enjoy?

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Random Tuesday Thoughts 6

It's that time again folks!



This morning a man with a tractor vacuum type thing came and stole all of our leaves!

I am beyond upset... even though they were wet and starting to rot. He messed up the grass too, now it resembles a mud pit. Time for mud pies maybe?

I am obsessing over Origami at the moment. Just one of those things I guess.

I mentioned before that Mikey is sick? He's not. He's getting his final molars in, all 4 at once. I haven't slept this little since he was a newborn. Ok that's a lie, I'm not sure I slept at all when he was a newborn. On Saturday night he woke at midnight. He didn't go back to sleep, despite our very best efforts, until 5am. We did watch Monsters Inc though... I think Mikey is in love with B
oo (that's his nickname as well... well he's Boo Monster.)

Isn't Squash awesome? We're going to have had butternut squash two nights in a row. Yesterday was a recipe of my own invention, it involved Butternut Squash and Bacon. I know you're dying to find out what it was. Check back on Friday, I'll be posting the recipe along with my Thanksgiving menu and trial run results. Yes I'm doing trial runs of almost everything! Spaghetti Squash is totally weird. I'm waiting for an excuse to use some in cooking, but haven't found a recipe I like yet.




When the weather starts getting gloomy, I like to crack out the literary classics. I've no idea why I do things this way, but summer tends to be for modern novels and winter for classics. I'm going to be re-reading some Dickens, Austen (even though I don't like her, maybe I've changed my mind since studying her in school. I didn't like soap operas back then). Then on the list we've got some Bronte sisters, Shelley and HG Wells.

You know, camera companies like to trick you. Yes they do. They tell you that you have to spend lots of money on a camera if you want to take good photos. Now if you're a professional then sure. The hubby uses a crazy expensive Nikon army issue camera. And sure, if you have the money to spend on expensive cameras then go for it. I used to have a Canon 350D before it was stolen from the hospital while Mikey was in the NICU. Now I use my vintage film cameras (none of which cost over $10) and my trusty Canon PowerShot SD1000.It wasn't as expensive as the one I just linked to. It was more like $150.  Don't know why that one is so pricey. Don't get me wrong, I'd love a new SLR, but immigration is an expensive business. Trust me when I say I could have bought two of the camera I want and still not reached the amount we're spending on immigration paperwork. True Story.

Anywaaaaay. It's a point and click compact cam... except I use it on manual. Although it would be nice to not have to cheat around the cameras autofocus to get what I want out of it. I have to set it to one point focus... usually in the middle. Focus on exactly what I want with the center point autofocus and then caaaaaaarefully move the camera to the angle I want without changing to distance between the camera and the object. *yawn*

Here are some shots of a couple of my lovely vintage cameras... and a brooch I bought to use in making my scarflet.

Hello Lover.

<3 <3 <3

 

 

P.S. I wish to not speak of NaNoWriMo today. Things are not going well with my poor characters.

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Jazz at Midnight

While writing some more of my NaNoWriMo novel last night, (I'm over 10,000 words now!) I was suddenly reminded of something that happened a long time ago. One of my characters reminds me a little of someone that I used to know, I had to stop writing because I couldn't concentrate anymore. Instead I felt compelled to write out this little story.

When I was 18 years old, nearing 19, I was at an acquaintance's birthday party. He was someone that worked with my boyfriend at the time, in the bike repair shop, and he was just turning 18. It was summer, so the party was outside in a marquee type thing. Fancy dress, I can't remember what I dressed as but my boyfriend refused to do fancy dress because I suppose that he felt that it imposed on his manliness somehow. There were a group of us - my best friend, who shares my first name and was dressed as a fairy, another guy that my boyfriend worked with who was dressed as a Nazi soldier and there was Ed, who was about 3 years older than us.

The guy dressed as a Nazi got disgustingly drunk, the party was a washout mostly although the younger kids seemed to be enjoying themselves. We ended up sat at "the grown-up's table". Ed was the guy who introduced me to The Beat Poets, this is when we sat and discussed them. He was flirting outrageously with my best friend too. My boyfriend was sulking, as he so often did. The guy dressed as a Nazi had to be taken home, he was supposed to go home with Ed and we were all desperate to leave anyway so we started to walk him home.

After we dropped him off at his house, Ed asked us if we'd like to come over to his and have some drinks. It was about midnight and we didn't feel much like going home at that point so we went with him. We walked to his house, he said it was just up the street. It was, but the street turned into a dirt track that led through a field. In the field was an old falling down house with its windows boarded up, the front door had an enormous padlock on it, Ed said that was because people liked to come out here and vandalize his house.

Ed unlocked the padlock and opened the door, we all stepped in one after the other and Ed flipped the light on. Inside the house looked in similar condition to the outside, the wallpaper was peeling off and the floor was concrete. The kitchen had only a stove, microwave, sink and a couple of tables. We went upstairs to Ed's room, we passed his older brother who was getting ready to leave to go see his girlfriend.

Ed's room was small, one wall was lined almost entirely from floor to ceiling with old records and CD's, another wall with books. His bed was pushed up against the wall and there were more books underneath. He put on some music, I think it was Joanna Newsom, and lit up a joint, we passed it around and talked for a while.

Later we went downstairs, through the kitchen into the back room. The room was big, easily three times the size of Ed's bedroom. It was filled with recording equipment and musical instruments, there were tatty Persian rugs lining the floor. Ed made us all some tea in the kitchen and we started to pick up instruments and mess around with them. I played something on the piano and as I did, my best friend started to join me by tapping on one of the drums. Ed laughed and rooted around in the back for something. He eventually pulled out a silver saxophone and handed it to my best friend, she plays a lot of instruments including the saxophone, clarinet and piano. She is actually a music teacher now.

Ed handed an electric guitar to my boyfriend and plugged it into a nearby amp before sitting down himself behind the drum kit. We didn't speak to one another, Ed started tapping out a beat on the snare drum. I started playing on the piano, my boyfriend joined in on guitar and then finally my best friend joined in on the saxophone.

We ended up jamming all night, playing Jazz. We played until 5am, before we started to get tired and decided we had to go home.

I never saw Ed again, my best friend went back to his house a couple of times to see him before she left for college.

It's funny, that night was amazing and I'm not really sure why. I still remember it vividly 6 years later. I only met the guy once and he had such an impact on the way I live now, the way I see things, what music I like and what books I like to read.

Can you think of anyone who has had an impact on your life like that? It could be a close friend, or even someone you only met once. I want to know!

P.S. I have added a couple of new websites to my reading list in the sidebar on the left. They're pretty amazing, I'll talk about them at length at a later date, for now I've got housework to do.

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NaNoWriMo Update

I'm at 7273 words as of 10pm tonight. I'm still a little behind, but managed to write a lot more than I thought I would. Especially considering that Mikey is sick and has been waking up a lot last night and tonight. I really want to be caught up by next week, I might talk the husband into letting me toddle off somewhere, sans l'enfant, to do some writing this weekend.

The story is really starting to write itself though. I have trouble with dialogue, it always sounds so ridiculously fake when I write it. But that's something that can be cleaned up post-November. For a story starting with no real plot, I've surprised myself with the way my main character has led me and what she's gotten herself into so far.

For those who are remotely interested, I wrote a kind of synopsis for it tonight. Drumroll Please.

Shadow Box

     My name is Danielle, but you don't need to remember that, it's not really all that important in the scheme of things. When I was nine years old, I was given a shadow box. It used to belong to my grandfather and his father before him. The frame was a dark wood and parts of it were beginning to crack with wear. Under the glass were 6 dead moths, neatly spaced and pinned to the black backing, with their Latin names written in scrawled handwriting on small, faded pieces of paper attached underneath each moth.

     I had to sell the shadow box eventually, it was the only thing I had left that was worth anything and I was in trouble. Alex bought it back from the guy I'd sold it to and left it outside my apartment a few nights later, wrapped in gaudy paper, for me to find. I didn't want it as a gift from him, I couldn't accept anything from him or I'd end up like one of those moths. Lovingly placed under the glass and neatly pinned to the backing.

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November

November has crept up on me faster than I expected and I'm completely unprepared. This year I'm participating in NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month) for the first time, after saying I'll do it for years. For those of you who have no idea what this is, the gist of it is that I need to write a 50,000 word novel in the 30 days of November. Admittedly it doesn't have to be good and in that sort of time frame I'd be surprised if it was. But I just need to get it out.

Thing is, I've done absolutely no prep work for it. I don't even have an idea. I need to come up with something between now and midnight Saturday! We're heading to the library tomorrow, so maybe I'll find some inspiration. I'm seriously considering Sci-Fi at the moment, perhaps some SteamPunk. Every time I seem to think of something at the moment, I realise about a minute later that it's from a film I saw or a book, or a graphic novel I read. Perhaps I'm panicking.

50,000 words in 30 days sounds like a lot. I guess it is, but it's 1,667 words per day. That's not bad. That's like an extended blog post every day. The only things I'll need to battle with will be inspiration and possible writers block.

So I don't know how much I'll be posting here come November. I'll probably keep things much the same as they have been this past month. We'll see.

Wish me luck!

And if you're taking part you can add me as a buddy here. I don't have any buddies yet so I'm a little lonely, haha.

Finally here are a couple of shots I took today while outside playing with Mikey.

 

 

He's such a cutie! <3

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Banned Books Week 2009

September 26−October 3, 2009 is banned books week in the US. This week you should be celebrating the freedom you have as an American to be able to read any literature that you so choose. It is to teach and celebrate First Amendment rights, the power of literature and free society. I'm sometimes unsure of how to write about this, I'm not officially an American Citizen as of yet, but my son is. So excuse me if I say "you" instead of "we" at some points.

This is something very close to my heart, not just because my husband is one of the many who serve in the army and fight for freedom, but also because I believe in the First Amendment, freedom of intellect - the freedom to access information and express ideas, I am looking toward training to be a librarian and finally of course, the fact that I love to read.

I do not believe that anyone else has the right to restrict books or information that I, or others, would like to access, or to have books removed from schools and libraries because they do not personally agree with them. We are a diverse people, we all have different standards, morals, ideas. That is the beauty of a free society and it is something that must be preserved.

The Color Purple, One Flew over the Cuckoo's Nest, A Clockwork Orange, Catcher in the Rye,The Great Gatsby,To Kill a Mockingbird and Ulysses, wonderful examples of amazing and teachable literature (and books that I have both read and studied extensively in school at some point, be it highschool level or degree level) that have been challenged, restricted, censored or banned in the US at some point since their publication. I would not like my son to grow up in a world where he is not permitted to read books such as these, and other pieces of classic literature.

Yet I do understand why some people would want certain books restricted from libraries. They worry for their children, books such as Harry Potter or And Tango Makes Three do not line up with their views or what they would like to expose their children to. That is ok, I do not personally agree, but as a mother myself I understand wanting to protect your children from what you do not think is appropriate for their age or for your personal family values. Removing those books from schools and libraries does not solve anything. You should monitor what your own children are reading and censor within your own household as you see fit, but you do not have the right to tell me what my child can and cannot read, regardless of seemingly good intentions.

“While not every book is right for each reader, every reader has the right to choose reading materials for themselves and their families and should be able to find those materials in libraries, classrooms, and bookstores. Our goal is to protect one of our most precious fundamental rights—our freedom to read." Deborah Caldwell-Stone, deputy director of the ALA Office for Intellectual Freedom (OIF)

Censorship is dangerous, it is our diversity that is what makes America the country that it is today.

Most frequently challenged books of 2008

National Coalition Against Censorship

American Booksellers foundation for free expression

The Kids' right to read project

Top 50 banned books that everyone should read

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Making Do

I never thought I'd be a Stay at Home Mum. In fact, I never really even thought all that much about getting married and having children. I wasn't sure what I was going to do with myself, but it was probably geared towards finishing my degree and then either getting a job in advertising or owning my own business.

I've changed my mind since then and decided I'd quite like to be a librarian. I can't really think of any other job that I would enjoy and that would use my best skill, which is the ridicuous speed at which I read books. I pretty much love everything to do with books, I thought about working in publishing, in archives or as a copy editor and perhaps I'll still end up doing something like that too. Jobs that involve books also seem to be fairly transportable, which is important when you have to move around as much as you do in the military.

For now though I can't do any of that. I have no qualifications save my British A Levels in Psychology, English, Theatre Studies and Critical Thinking (which are apparently the equivalent of an associates degree in the States based on the level of the work, despite the fact that they are completed at age 18). I am not yet an American citizen, so I'm automatically disqualified from getting a job on post. Volunteer positions are awkward because I do not want to pay out to cover the cost of childcare while I work for free.

So for now I am making do, it is not something I feel as though I should let myself get frustrated about. I spend a lot of time doing independent research and learning about all sorts of things, I read non-fiction just about as much as I read fiction. I have started writing again, although not directly related to what I want to do it's something that I really enjoy doing and perhaps it will get me back in the swing of writing essays when the time comes to finish my degree.

I'm excited about writing, I've got a couple of articles in progress but the trouble comes with balancing everything. Being at home means that there's the endless amount of housework and of course my first priority being Mikey. I don't like to write while he is awake, I refuse to use the TV as a babysitter so that I can get some work done. I don't think it's fair. I do a bit of housework while he is around, he's getting to that age where he loves to "help" with a lot of things. It's slow moving, but he is learning and I am getting jobs done. We've also started doing a bit of homeschool preschool, not much at the moment though as I'm still researching it. At naptime I take time to relax, maybe write a blog post, do some yoga and just generally chill out for an hour or so. Then at night time I can finish up the housework and work on articles. It often feels as though there isn't enough time in the day to get everything done.

Anyway. Enough of that.

Yesterday I came across a wonderful website called IndieFixx who have started a Free Art Project. This is from their website -

News flash….the economy sucks. The stock market is up & down, people are losing their jobs and homes, all sorts of businesses are closing down & nobody seems to have any idea what the hell is going on. That’s the bad news…

Now for the good news. Even though the economy is tanking, it’s more important than ever to stay positive. We shouldn’t dwell on the negative news, it’s just not doing our souls any good. To that end, I came up Feed Your Soul: the free art project to hopefully bring a smile to your face and brighten your day.

There's some beautiful stuff on there, I've already downloaded a few for Mikey's bedroom and a couple to go in our hallway. Check it Out.

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Articles

I'm trying really hard to get back into this writing malarky... aside from doing it right here that is. I'm thinking more along the line of articles at this point. I have submitted (or am in the process of submitting) a couple of requests, ideas etc to some different "online magazines" on subjects that I am fairly confident of.

It seems weird to me that I can go from easily writing 5,000 word essays for school and university on obscure literary subjects (links between comic book superheroes and Ancient Greek Plays anyone?) back in the day and now find myself not knowing where to even start. I suppose writing must be one of those things you have to keep working on or you lose it?

I feel a bit like Daisy from Spaced (Pre-Shaun of the Dead, Simon Pegg sitcom) in this clip. Warning for strong language. I always had a feeling I'd end up like her when I got a little older.

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Existential Crisis

So the time rolls around again where I dump myself headlong into a mini sort of existential crisis. It happens a few times a year, more often recently. Not because I particularly have anything to get myself into a crisis over, I have everything I could ever want. An amazing son, wonderful husband, nice apartment, I live in a small but beautiful city. I have food on the table and clothes on my back. It's perhaps more because I'm really quite fond of hyperbole, therefore anything can trigger an existential crisis of epic proportions. Something like breaking a vase, or tripping on the edge of the rug. Just ask my husband about when he regularly hears banging and cursing coming from the kitchen, or last week when he told me I had "Computer Tourettes" while trying to work out how to order some books from Amazon.

Case in point, this particular crisis has been brought on by a rather nice mixture of my husband going away on TDY, my upcoming birthday and the fallout from reading Julie & Julia. Nothing life-shattering. In fact, I tend to be strangely unfazed by the real bad stuff in comparison. And trust me, we've had plenty of that too.

So I'm going to be moping around a bit and trying to find "The Meaning of My Life". Then I wont find it so I'll eat plenty of chocolate and watch some trash TV instead. Crisis averted. The world is at peace once again.

And so it goes.


In other news, we're getting a referral to the child psychologist for Mikey. I had my second therapy appointment last week, we ended up talking about sleep (or lack thereof) among other things and the subject of Mikey's night wakings came up. He's going to get me a referral so that we can go talk about ideas and options.

I'm secretly hoping that they might hypnotize Mikey - "You LOOOOOOVE sleeping... yes you love to go to sleep, it's your most favourite thing in the entire world" but really, he's just going to tell me to -
Read some book. I've read them all, no really. I can quote from them if you like?
Do a bedtime routine. Are you serious? It's set in stone.
Don't let him have sugar or caffeine before bed. Or how about not ever, seriously... he's not even two. He gets hyper from just seeing a dog, bird, car, his shoes etc. He doesn't need sugar and caffeine as well.
Let him cry. How about YOU listen to him crying for over an hour every 3 hours throughout every night for 2 weeks in a small apartment? p.s. you can still hear the crying when you have earplugs in. Yes those military ones.
Drug him. His pediatrician said to me at his last well baby appointment when I mentioned the sleeping - "You know Benedryl?" I said "Yeah but surely I can't use it every night?" She just raised an eyebrow. I'm not sure that it would even work anyway, when he had his operation last year they gave him something that was supposed to make him sleep so that they could administer the real anasthetic. He didn't fall asleep and just flopped around laughing like a drunk until it started to wear off.

So I'm not holding out a whole lot of hope. It might be nice to hear another person say "yeah, that's gotta be tiring" though. I feel like that sentance really validates my existance. Sleep is for the weak.

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On Reading...

While waiting for my most recent book purchases to arrive (and after finishing The History of Love), I re-read two Margaret Atwood books. I have to say that this woman is probably one of my absolute most favourite writers. I'm not even sure why, I perhaps enjoy the raw gritty female emotion. I don't often read books by women, I don't often like them... they tend to contain overly frivolous and romanticized characters and are just, well, bland (for lack of a better word). I could get into a Virginia Woolf style rant about feminism and words, but really I wont because that would take forever and honestly I have written enough essays on that particular subject to last a lifetime. So I can just leave you with my favourite quotation from her and tell you to read something of hers if you're interested.

"...who shall measure the heat and violence of a poet's heart when caught and tangled in a woman's body?"
— Virginia Woolf (A Room of One's Own)

Actually I don't normally get into feminism either. Perhaps living the opposite sort of lifestyle as a Stay at Home Mum stops me from that (or stops me being taken seriously at least). Not that I don't think it's important, but a lot of things are important.

As for Margaret Atwood, the ones that I re-read were The Handmaid's Tale and Oryx and Crake. They were as wonderful as I remembered.

My new books arrived on Thursday, a David Sedaris (Me Talk Pretty One Day) which I have already finished and packed up for my husband to take with him on TDY next week. I also recieved The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society and Julie & Julia. I have started Julie & Julia and I like it so far, being about a third of the way through. The writing is a bit awkward in places but I suppose it's the feel and idea of the whole thing that I like. It really appeals to me at this moment in my life.

I don't watch TV. That's a lie, I do watch TV but only while I'm doing something that doesn't allow for reading a book at the same time. I watch the British channels that we get here, so that I don't forget my accent.

I thought at one point that because I read so many books and written about so many books for my degree (or at least the part of it I did before dropping out to move to the states and marry a soldier) that I'd be great at writing reviews. Sadly that's really not the case. I royally suck at writing reviews, it makes me kind of sad. My reviews consist mostly of "It's really good, you should read it, you'll know what I mean" or "Don't bother". I feel as though I lack the right words to accurately describe what I thought about the story, characters or whatever. I fall in love with the good ones just a little, it's like being asked to describe a relationship with a husband, boyfriend, significant other... I just can't do it.

So in that case I'll just continue to fill up my head with all of these words, stories and lives. I'll find something to do with it all one day.

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These Beautiful Days

I thoroughly enjoy sitting in our living room with the fan going and all of the windows open. I opened the windows at 8am, despite being directly next to a busy road the air still smells fresh and clean. We don't get much light due to the angle of our apartment, but early in the morning the sun shines through one of the trees outside our window and covers the living room in beautiful dappled light.

I've been battling with the constant need to be doing something at all times. I unconsciously count the number of cars I hear go past the window, measure by eye the distances between the railings and notice that they're not as evenly spaced as they might first appear. The inner walls of the apartment are crooked in places, the archway between the living area and the bedrooms is more narrow at the bottom than it is at the top. There's a gap underneath the base boards in every room that is about 50mm tall, underneath them live small spiders and other bugs that wage secret wars while we are sleeping in our beds. I try to leave the spiders but vacuum up the other bugs.

Fat silverfish appear in our sinks every morning and have done since before we moved in. The hassle of having them removed is more trouble than it is worth although I am secretly afraid that they will eat the glue binding on all of my books. I am tempted the wrap all of my books in cellophane, but I know that would be crazy.

The pattern repeat on the fabric I have used for curtains is just over a metre, one of the curtains in the livingroom has been hung upside down so that the pattern runs the wrong way. I'm the only person that has noticed this so far, however upon remembering it I am always distracted by the fact that the ceiling and wall nearby has been painted in three different shades of white, in uneven splotches across the surface. This distraction requires enough scrutiny to make me forget about the curtain every time. Although writing about it now has reminded me that I need to change it around.

Sometimes things in the house are uneven on purpose, I will not straighten the 4th picture frame from the bottom center because when I look at it I'm reminded to look at the photograph it contains.

The weather is beautiful today. Mikey and I already went for a walk this morning, this afternoon we are going to go and play on the playground after cleaning up the house and doing a few loads of laundry.

While Mikey was falling asleep for his midday nap I finished reading Unaccusomed Earth. Next I will be starting The History of Love by Nicole Krauss. After that, who knows?

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Names Have Been Changed to Protect the Innocent

I'm toying with this idea. I felt the desire to write something for the first time in a long long time. I only have a rough idea and the four bare beginning first-draft paragraphs. It's still the skeleton of an idea at this point, the skeleton being the truth and the story being the fictional flesh I intend to build around it. I'm not sure if the memory is still too raw to process, it has been years gone. But write what you know, you know?

Here goes -

I pressed the bare skin of my legs against the cool concrete of the rooftop garden as I laid down, shading my eyes and looking toward the ledge. There was no one else up here with me, but Alex would be arriving home from his fathers sometime within the next few minutes. I closed my eyes briefly before moving my gaze upward to the blue tarpaulin above my head, my eyes readjusting to the shade.

The rooftop garden wasn't a garden as such, at least it hadn't been originally intended that way. On afternoons like this the makeshift tarpaulin shade was the only refuge from the heat, the huge glass windows of my apartment along with the plastic siding only served to let in as much heat as possible during the summer. The apartment building had been aptly named, not without a sense of irony. I can only hope that the architect had never intended for The Glasshouse to be, well, like an actual glasshouse when hit with the full force of a British summer sun. It was an ugly building and stood out against the old paper factory that was alongside it. But the rent was cheap and it was close to the bustle of the city centre, that is why I lived there. I couldn't speak for Alex, he had no need to be so near to the city as he rarely left the apartment, save for his bi-monthly visit to his father. He didn't go out for groceries, preferring instead to get his food and alcohol delivered to his door, the latter of the two being more important to him. Even his dealer stopped by at his apartment every week or so. Alex had never been short on money either, so the rent for the place couldn't have been a particularly important deciding factor.

The rooftop garden had been a late discovery. One summer night last year, Alex and I had been drinking in his apartment with the windows wide open to let in the cool night air. We had fought, as we so often did, and I had climbed out of the window onto the balcony. He followed, so I had used the window ledge and balcony rail as footing and, precariously balanced for a split second, somehow propelled myself onto the roof (As time went on and I went up there more often, it became much easier to climb). He hadn't followed me that far, instead cursing and throwing the glass that held his vodka and coke over the side of the balcony. I heard it smash onto the concrete 5 floors below us followed by a slam as he angrily climbed back through the window and shut it behind him, still cursing to himself.

There hadn't been much up there that first time, a few lonely flower pots half filled with dried up soil and long dead plants, there was also the blue tarpaulin and a lot of bird shit. I remember at the time being particularly struck by how bright the city lights had been that night, an intoxicated haze had perhaps settled over my eyes by then and intensified it, but I remember how beautiful it was. I had crawled under the old tarpaulin and fallen asleep, to be woken early the next morning by Alex calling my name, his voice strained with worry and slurred slightly. He obviously hadn't slept and was probably still drunk. He was always like that, back and forth. I was sure that he hated me when he was drunk or high, but he also needed me. After all, nobody likes to really know that they're alone.

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April is the cruellest month,

APRIL is the cruellest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.
Winter kept us warm, covering
Earth in forgetful snow, feeding
A little life with dried tubers.
Summer surprised us, coming over the Starnbergersee
With a shower of rain; we stopped in the colonnade,
And went on in sunlight, into the Hofgarten,
And drank coffee, and talked for an hour.
Bin gar keine Russin, stamm' aus Litauen, echt deutsch.
And when we were children, staying at the archduke's,
My cousin's, he took me out on a sled,
And I was frightened. He said, Marie,
Marie, hold on tight. And down we went.
In the mountains, there you feel free.
I read, much of the night, and go south in the winter. Excerpt from The Wasteland, T.S. Elliot

This month is National Poetry Month. To celebrate, The New York Review of Books has chosen 30 poems from the archives and will be posting one daily. I am in love with today's.

Sunday Papers

By Charles Simic

The butchery of the innocent
Never stops. That's about all
We can be ever sure of, love,
Even more sure than the roast
You are bringing out the oven.

It's Sunday. The congregation
Files slowly out of the church
Across the street. A good many
Carry Bibles in their hands.
It's the vague desire for truth
And the mighty fear of it
That makes them turn up
Despite the glorious spring weather.

In the hallway, the old mutt
Just now had the honesty
To growl at his own image in the mirror,
Before lumbering to the kitchen
Where the lamb roast sat
In your outstretched hands
Smelling of garlic and rosemary.

Yep.
I have another flower picture for you.

And some awesome tadpoles that are in my dad's pond. The big black bit in the first one, if you can't see it properly, is all tadpoles... loads of them.

And Dad's Beehives. There were lots of Bees flying around, but you can't really see on the picture.

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Midnight Coffee Break

I was reading through some of my old "work". Interesting, interesting.

Thank You For Your Most Recent Rejection
2007

I keep the walls of my cheap
apartment blank as their birth, except
one wall in the back of the office where
I spend nights slaving over cover letters,
proof reading and
licking the glue from envelopes.
This is where I keep my rejection letters.
Behind me now, light
from the open window slowly
fades black type on letters carefully
pinned to the wall.
Thank you for your most recent rejection,
I now have enough letters to cover
the wall entirely
and perhaps things will start looking up for me.

A Night At The Paper Factory
2006

Florescent light painted
sleight by hand
on plastic cups, black coffee
into mud.
Grimy metal grind metal -
spark, rust and
squirm. Cannibal conveyor belts
whine, devour dust
and their own emerald tongues.

Asphyxia
2006

In web-like net,
grimey and
green with algae,
we lie in wait
like limpets.
Anticipating
the approaching storm,
waiting together
for the ocean
to wash us
away.

He Is Silent
2006

He is silent.
Smoke curls from his nostrils.
Eyes slowly wandering,
rest for a moment
on strewn bedclothes,
vagrant pillows.
Bringing the cigarette to his lips,
the scent of sex lingers.

She does not.

Loose Change
2005

autumn to winter:

we speed through the
transition of the seasons

racing each other

like clouds upon a storm,
skittish and impatient.

we are still in anticipation
of tangible change.

revolution.

The Psychology Of Moths
2007

we sleep
back to back
bodies curled
foetal
and dream in
unison

on a bed
of folded paper
and flesh-toned
ink

Perhaps I need to read a "How to write Poetry for Dummies" guide. I forget. I don't rhyme. I need to purchase a Thesaurus.

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it ain't what you do

Today I was reminded of one of my favourite poems by british poet Simon Armitage that I had not thought of for a while. Despite absolutely detesting his poetry when I was forced to learn them in school for my English Literature GCSE, I'm actually a big fan of his now it's not being force fed to me by an insufferably benign english teacher.

It ain't what you do it's what it does to you

I have not bummed across America
with only a dollar to spare, one pair
of busted Levi's and a bowie knife.
I have lived with thieves in Manchester.

I have not padded through theTaj Mahal,
barefoot, listening to the space between
each footfall picking up and putting down
its print against the marble floor. But I
skimmed flat stones across Black Moss on a day
so still I could hear each set of ripples
as they crossed. I felt each stones' inertia
spend itself against the water; then sink.

I have not toyed with a parachute cord
while perched on the lip of a light aircraft;
but I have held the wobbly head of a boy
at the day centre, and stroked his fat hands.

And I guess that the tightness in the throat
and the tiny cascading sensation
somewhere inside us are both part of that
sense of something else. That feeling, I mean.

Now if I could only remember how to write. that would be nice.

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