A Port in the Fog

  I grew up in a bunch of islands, where there were always rocky promontories, boats to hit them, and a bit of fog. For a number of years as a child, I would often hear a foghorn blowing somewhere off in the distance, its exact location unknown to the present day. It was a double horn, two identical notes broken by a short pause. It sounded lonely, even creepy, marking the passing of time like some inexorable, slow heartbeat, and the threat of unseen rocks; it was also familiar, a steady presence. Not as solid an entity as the islands themselves, however, its note waxed and waned in its strength each time as the fog drifted through the archipelago and distorted the sound-carrying capacity of the air. This lent a further mystery to the foghorn, which Mom helped my young mind decode with cool logic and the scientific process: Aided by the kitchen clock's second-hand, we timed its intervals at half a minute. First it came through clearly, then grew quiet and murky, before popping out again to startle me; but it was always there.

  One year, I don't remember which, the double foghorn ceased to sound, departing my younger years forever. But such things enter the mind of a child and never leave, becoming part of the fabric of life. A cartoon of a triangle-shaped marine depth marker with a cartoon face calling "Oooo..." joined our early refrigerator art, and I still listened for it years later on soft gray days.

  Today I woke this morning to a double-noted foghorn shockingly familiar to the one I used to know, like a cousin of a quiet, gruff old man I once knew who had long since passed on. Surely not, I thought. But I pulled back the curtain, and sure enough! The soft white haze of fog-laden air, rare around here in the city. We do have waterways out there near Portland, if only a river and not the sea, and a foghorn is a foghorn is a foghorn -- or so it seems.

  Now, after more than two and a half decades have elapsed, I've spent nearly a third of my life in this city, a state away from my home islands, and compared to them it's still not home. I'm at the mercy of a string of landlords and will have to move again this summer. My childhood rotary phone is long gone, as is the house where we could watch the thick white blanket of cloud explore the inlets and bays offshore, and here I am typing my reminiscences on this sleek little sci-fi thing. My job lets me work any time, any place, but also requires that I put on headphones and vanish from the world. This morning I weighed my deadline, and chose to wait longer to work than I planned. I didn't want to blot out the world and its sounds quite yet. I had never thought I'd hear a double foghorn again.

  It's out there now, at nearly noon, parsing time ... or is it still? Yes, there it went. Like the foghorn of my youth, it has slipped in and out of my morning soundscape like a wraith, first waking me up at 9:30ish, fading away for a bit, then starting up again at about 11:00. Its notes are slightly longer than the ones my youthful brain recorded, making me feel like time is rarified, drawn out. Wait; now I really am not hearing it anymore. It's gone. The fog may have cleared. It's late morning, and life awaits.

  As for me, I still feel at times like my old self, like a child, drifting on an uncertain future tide of everyday pain, longing and discovery. My career isn't in full swing yet. And I hate moving. But there's a comfort in knowing that here -- in this still-new town, in this sometimes impersonal life where I've learned all you really have for support in your deepest and quietest moments is yourself -- when the fog rolls in, the double note of reassurance may very well sound again.

Wild Brews: New Herbal Series Forming

After a long pause of not posting, The Creative Conduit is back!

 

 My latest work is divided between several projects, of which the Wild Brews series is first priority for publishing, and holds exciting promise. This series, packed full of all kinds of easy drink recipes you can make at home for enjoyment and health, is rooted in herbal medicine but also keeps fun in a front row seat. These books will be available through Amazon's Kindle program.

The first edition was originally designed for the holidays, but is coming out rather late (of course!). Still, it is the harbinger for what I hope are many more editions to come, each drawing on the richness of the seasons, containing recipes to celebrate the different plants, energies and holidays of the year. In January and February, be watching for editions such as, Wild Brews for Starting Anew — a New Year's resolution focus; WB for Wintry Blues, for seasonal affective disorder and post-holiday blahs; WB for Colds and Flu, which pretty much sums that up; and a Valentine's Day edition, which may be named something like, Wild Brews for Loving Moments. The possibilities really are endless, and I look forward to sharing creative ideas in natural health with everyone. I'm also having a good time designing covers in Photoshop. At last, at long last, my marketing passion and design skill put to productive use for business! When no one else appreciates your god-given juice, hey, put it to your own use.

Other projects include a line of actual herbal products, tentatively branded LivEdge (Live-Edge) Naturals. A side branch of this company is LivEdge Mysticals, what with my being essentially a witch. I've toyed with the idea of my own private label for a long time — all that remained to be decided was the name itself, and what it would sell! Clothing, art? No: For now, we're sticking with potions. (Thanks, Dr. Snape.) LivEdge products will be outsourced by wholesalers or, in the case of proprietary formulae such as Libido Dulcis Fervidus for Valentine's Day that I don't intend to release to any other company, I will compound (manufacture) the products myself in über-limited quantity.

Finally, a new series called Slices is underway. This YA paranormal romance is not your typical fluff. You'll have access to plenty of dreamy eyes and silky whatever; you'll also stumble — or perhaps soar — out of the final chapter with the beginnings of spiritual enlightenment and, whether you're a female or male (though it's designed to appeal more to females), a better sense of what it means to be a good human being in a fake, glittering world of sheer idiocy. Yes, Slices is another offshoot of the powerful Sarkazen Ethos, so be prepared to have your comfortable illusions rent asunder. Sucka.

The creative conduit goes on! Meanwhile, I its main power source must contend with a 5:30 am get-yo'-punk-A-outta-bed time — I believe it's also known as "oh-dark-thirty" — at which my workday begins at OHSU's Comparative Medicine department. A writer must, in the beginning, rely on a good job (hopefully, with amiable crewmates) in order to get those bills paid . . . at least until Amazon business kicks off!

Published!

The second issue of collected spiritual works titled The Red Door, produced by Trinity Cathedral, was made available on May 18 and marks my first venture into being formally published. And I must say, it's about time. Three of my works made it into this issue, two painted illustrations and a poem.
The poem, called When I met my Mama, was actually written when I was twenty-four or so, and even then, friends of mine were whispering to me "Publish! Publish!" after a reading of it. I'm happy to say I've fulfilled that urging!
Also new to my life, as writer and otherwise but mainly as a writer, is this phenomenon known as Kindle. (Thanks to Linda Stirling for providing that lovely workshop!) Then there is a new Amazon account to go with that, of course. Fortified with Kindle software and plenty of writing ideas, I look forward to two things: First to contributing to the, shall we say corpus vitae?, the living body of literature that has grown up around Kindle platforms and continues to do so; and second, supporting all you other writers in doing the same.
 "Our adventure is only just begun..."

Quit before you rip

Saturday morning, which meant a spot of gymnastics before nine hours of sitting here at the desk on my bohocus! I focused on bars, especially, which is not only a fun upper-body workout but is a compounding practice: You build up skills, even as you build up the calluses on your palms . . . and if you go too many days without practicing, you lose both! heh. On any given day, the trick becomes to stop practicing bars before you get a dreaded "rip," which may be an impressive war-wound that marks you as a real gymnast, but also prevents you from practicing for awhile. Back to square one. So when I felt that sharp little burn on my palm, I stopped. No doubt some palmist could look at my hand and proclaim, hmm! Steady, patient, independent; writer, artist . . . recreational gymnast.

Last night was a lovely interlude with a new writer's group called "Writers who Read," which I saw on Meetup and decided to attend on the spur of the moment. It was their first meeting, so now I have a new group of word-enthusiasts to hobnob with as well as homework! We discussed a book called "Reading like a Writer" by Francine Prose, which I now can't wait to sink my mind into. The way home via bike, alas, was very cold and very wet and my fingers were numb by the time I reached my apartment!

Edge is being read by Dad and two friends; I now need the guts to send it to everyone else. I also heard back from a dear writing lady named Tina Connolly (author of Ironskin) who sent me a sheet of tips as well as the general process for finding an agent and publisher . . . Thanks, Tina! Now the real fun begins. Tina says: "It can be a discouraging process, so don't get discouraged!"

When in doubt, I say . . . remember the crap that does get published.

I am gearing up to begin the second, having trouble with plot linking, but I recalled how the plot of the first seemed to fall together as I wrote; I am confident this will happen again, with perhaps a bit of planning beforehand and along the way.

This past Wednesday began a five-week series on meditation. I am no beginner, but it always helps to be reminded of basic techniques -- and again, and again. The woman is very sweet and it was simply good to be there. Some of what I learned promptly went into my writing, as my life invariably enriches my work.

On that note . . . back to work!

MAC Open: A symphony of life in motion

The MAC Open Gymnastics meet is here again!

I am sitting down finally at my desk, after standing and running about much of the weekend, soaking in the sights and sounds of the meet. I feel like I'm getting something I never got as a kid, filling an emptiness that will always be a bit present. It's the place where longing lives. In my case, it's a longing for being part of a tight-knit team. I did sports, certainly; but they were either more team-oriented and thus I felt too different, or more individual in which case the team bond was less pronounced then, too. Gymnastics seems the perfect combination of both: You all do the same events and thus share each other's woes, but your performance is your own.

A gymnastics meet is also pure joy to watch, a feast of sight and sound and feeling. It is rich with moments of fluid grace and awesome power, moments of letdown and relief, pain and fierce triumph and outright silliness. I love it, all of it. My eyes are addicted to the motions, my ears to the sounds of cheering and the crash of the springfloor (which also vibrates deliciously in the chest). Small wonder my first MAC Open, a year ago, was a sort of talismanic gateway into my current pursuit of the sport I never was privy to as a child. The T-shirt I splurged on was almost too sacred to touch . . . although blinding white makes this reluctance no less! Small wonder, too, that gymnastics was already finding its way into my writing as early as last MAC Open, so inspired was I by it.

Now, this year's gym-fest revives memories of that event, how new and fresh and awesome it all was, in that I had never seen it on television and thought then, I want to be a part of this. I want it to be a part of me. And best of all, I know I am not too old. Handsprings, flips and a State Games later, I have proven this to be true. It is not quite as fresh a sight today: I can see a back aerial or full-twist tuck flip and know, after numerous iterations, what I'm looking at by name. The sight of a honey-bear beside the chalk bucket is still sweet, but no longer a surprise --- and I now know what a "rip" on the palm from bars feels like. But it is all still thrilling, and yes, awesome. I've bought this year's shirt (stylin' on the sleeves, yo!) with the same wonderful rush of, This represents what brings my heart and adrenaline to life, and this year even volunteered with the door crew. Overage or not, I am proud to have gymnastics in my life, proud that my body and mind are not afraid to embrace this form of expression. MAC is losing some gymnasts this year, as always. I got to see the amazing Nate smoke the floor twice, along with plenty of other great performances by kids who make this their entire life, and I am grateful. To Nate and Banks and the twins and the others leaving for college and future gymnastics, or not . . . my best to you, in whatever. You have been an inspiration to many others.

Parkour starting up again! Got another rip on my hand, though, from the high --- make that harsh --- bar. Grips may be in the future for me....

Other news:
 Edge is in full black-and-white illustrated PDF form!!! Now the search for publishers commences . . . and writing simply goes on! I heard from an author who told me she wrote several books before she cemented the deal with an agent and "got in paper", so I am prepared to keep up the productive engine until, and after, its output gets hooked to a receiving unit. As in: Lots of juice coming from this source, hellooooo? And enviro-friendly too! (please print on recycled paper.)

Illustrations continue, as always. Just did a lovely one of the two main characters sharing a moment of tenderness and pain. The boy's uncle enfolds him with a guardian's comforting warmth and love --- as well as the demanding presence of destiny and the inevitability of "no going back": The man is, after all, the ruling figure of their entire tradition of magick.

Other ideas include a Sarkazen romance, which would simply be fun to write. What, after all, is such an experience like from the other side --- that is, dating a Sarkazen boy? But I intend to pursue the series as per Isaac's viewpoint, and romance will be included anyway. It's one thing to be breathlessly in love with a really hot sorcerer-boy. But through Isaac's eyes, we not only have access to a wild new world full of whimsy and magic, but we get the lovey-dovey experience of the girls he dates, as well: Isaac, after all, is a Phrenoskoper. As for the word that means "someone who can taste life", well. I have no idea. The beauty of it is, from this perspective, we see why Isaac does what he does, instead of just panting girly angst. This boy knows what he is, and what he wants, and what he needs. He also decides to "leave any territory better than he found it" . . . in this case, the territory of feminine heart, mind and soul. Isaac, as an older teen, is a rare bird: A good-bad boy, a user who gives a damn. Small wonder he's irresistible.

The Current State Appraised

The rain is back, and January is starting to feel like it!

Good time to be inside doing creative stuff.

 The Icon of the Worldly King has just undergone formal appraisal, courtesy of Sovereign Gallery! This wild piece was a lot of fun, inspired by pieces from a Charlemagne relic to illuminated manuscripts --- yet I had no basis for pricing it in a gallery-type setting, except what I felt it was worth. Art is vague that way, unless taking into account the sheer amount of work involved. Work is work, undeniable in both the skill and tedium required.
 At any rate, the piece was begun several years ago and is still unfinished, with the remainder of work being the addition of gemstones. I felt it to be worth a lot, but was still surprised to hear that its worth is about what I'd hope to get reasonably for it.
 A lot.

 Excited more than ever about Edge, work on which continued until 3:00 am last night!
 The scene being snipped, diced, ironed and fitted was one I wanted to get right (write!) --- one that can get very long-winded with thick, juicy slabs of paragraph unless one is careful! It's the main character's primer on the basics of magick, after all. My thinking being: Hey --- if you know something about real magick, flaunt it. Teach people. Just maybe, it will change the way someone looks at the world . . . especially a kid.
 But it's an art, writing such a scene. Too much thinking, not enough crackling dialogue, and you lose people. People are l-a-a-z-y. Most of America today, in my opinion, does not think. They do not know how to think. One of the purposes of my book will be to get them thinking. How do you do it? Trick the idiots! Throw in enough fun and romance and angst to keep them reading, then sneak the juicy archetypal bits in there like morsels of superfood.
 And yet, I am resigned to the fact that no matter what, there will be people I lose  . . . because I am not the lowest common denominator. And I don't write for the lowest common denominator. I have a conscience, see --- I hate to waste trees on crappy writing, when there are already so many folks (you know who you are) who do write crappily. I want to help people learn things that move their spirits and minds, not just their nether regions. But that's okay. For all those folks, there's the smut shelf, the tabloid rack.
 My quote for lately has been:
 Those who can write, do. Those who can write more . . . teach.
 If you want empty pleasures, and do not want to risk learning anything, then my advice is this: Do not pick up Edge.

 "Trust? I was under the impression my chosen profession was politics!"    ---from Lincoln

 This morning was a discussion of Lincoln at Trinity Episcopal. I feel embarrassed I have not investigated more into the life of this amazing man --- but it's never too late to begin. The rich discussions of politics, spirituality, religion, conflict and the condition of being human were as soul-food to me, and I enjoyed it deeply. I and a few others were so stimulated by the talk as to "linger" afterward, well into the church service.
 I also felt it added a lot of fuel to my own creative engine, which is churning already with lots of serious, and utterly ambiguous, themes --- Edge is full of them. Isaac --- with a politician for an uncle, family relations that could get him killed, and a magickal gift that comes at a dreadful price --- dwells in a world where many avoid speaking truth out loud . . . whether out of concern for his safety and happiness, or more sinister motives. He dwells in ambiguity. I am even more "amped" about exploring such complicated themes as we discussed today about Lincoln in my own work, and in this story, which takes two trodden-to-death archetypes and pumps new life into them
 . . . takes them to the Edge.

 What else is going in the brew?
 No doubt the recent scandal with Lance Armstrong and his doped-up career. Doping and cheating is a long-standing matter in sports going back to ancient Greece and, no doubt, before. Humans are survivalists, and given the chance, many will cheat.
 In a world where the source of your magickal power and biological health comes from certain substances, when potions of all sorts are being made and drunk and swapped and some are necessary for life, where do you draw the line between "enhanced performance" and an athlete's regular programme? It's a question our world has to deal with, and so too shall the young competitors in Edge --- especially when the desire to discredit a rising upstart from an outcast tradition is strong.

 Time to get off . . . work to be done!

Mis(fits)rule: Illustrating in angst and whimsy

A fragment of one of the illustrations for Edge: A shapshot of misfit protagonist Isaac at home in one of few places he feels qualifies as "home", the forest, with his usual prop of a book. His actual house qualifies less as home, though he does try to make it his. Aside from magic powers and brains, he's a pretty typical dark-culture teen. And, more and more typically, he's also bicultural.

Isaac and his verbophilic friend Ellie, both darkly-cute creatures saturated in wry humor, made the flyer for IPRC's Text Ball (in black and white for cheap printing). Not many went out, but it's on file for the future, as well as a good prototype for others . . .