Spring Returns...

...and with it our annual sparrow tenants, Ozzie and Harriet, are once more in the garage, dive-bombing us if we go to get into the cars. They've come back for the fifth year, using the same old undisturbed nest in the never-will-be-fixed-now garage door opener, and their first batch of eggs has been laid. They'll switch back and forth sitting on it, and when it's their turn to fly free they perch on the huge birdfeeder in the back yard and stock up. Occasionally Ozzie, being braver than his wife, will come and sit on the rail of the deck while I work at my table, and chirp at me. That's very cute, but the hunningbirds will be back soon and that's where their feeder is.

This year we also have a resident mockingbird whose specialty seems to be imitating animals other than birds. Yesterday, it was crickets. The day before, it was the pack of coyotes who are marauding through the neighborhood. Just now, it's yelling at the dove that's gleaning from the spillover under the bird feeder.

My flowers are thriving: my crocuses and daffodils are in full bloom, as is the ancient lilac tree in my side yard. I call it ancient because while in full bloom it has a diameter of probably 12 feet. I sit underneath it sometimes to hide from the world; the boughs are so heavy with blossoms that they bow all the way to the ground. I'd probably LIVE there for these two glorious weeks of spring if I didn't have sinuses. All of the flowering trees are having an outstanding spring--dogwoods, tulip trees, magnolias, the cherry trees---our hill and the cliff behind it are streaked with violent hues of purple and pink and red.

It is lovely--lovely and warm and breezy and fresh. After the winter we had this year, it's a welcome change from the monochromatic greys that were left after the snow melted. Fortunately for me, spring is also a time of creation.

While Ozzie and Harriet have been divebombing me, I'm up to 58k on my new project.

GUESS WHAT I HAVE FOR YOU?

Coming June 8, 2008 from Aspen Mountain Press.

The Muse Beckons Again

I'm back.

It's time for me to snap out of the real world and back into my own quiet, sheltered, dear little space where I am at one with the universes in my mind. I've spent the last month dealing with the sorts of things that stifle creativity, only to wake up the day before yesterday to discover my muse: well-rested, impatient to begin, she sat on the edge of the bed and swung her foot irritably until I got out of bed and went to my study.

And for the first time in months, I locked the door. This is the universal signal of "Mom is busy; don't knock until you've lost two pints of blood."

I have missed my divinity, my absolute omnipotence over the worlds that drift through my study. I have five of them pinned to my walls at the moment.

Asphodel: huge, still-growing, and vibrant. Asphodel beckons me, compels me. It seems that she still has stories to tell.

The darkworlds and dreamworlds of Darkshifters: nebulous, sinister, twining around my head as I stare at the infinity I tried to encompass there. It screams at me, demands that I complete its tales.

Terella: bound and captive, clustered at my knees. Still in its infancy, pleading with me to help it take its first steps into fulfillment.

And then, there are the other two. These embryos develop daily--a little here, a little there, and now I can see the twisted paths they follow. Their lives are still uncertain, clamoring for my attention away from the worlds that have enslaved me for years.

I find myself breathless at the prospects before me. It's like standing on the edge of a cliff just before you make the jump, wondering if the bungee cord will break under your weight. The adrenaline is amazing. The anticipation is agonizing. Even now, I sit outside on my deck as night descends over the hills that cluster along the horizon and I hear the muse calling me impatiently.

It is time to begin.

In Response to a critique

...here you go. One dead Elf, courtesy of http://www.gamespot.com/. You were right, Polenth--the old blog needed more dead elf imagery. This one's for you:

she TOLD me to do it.

So anyway, my daughter has ORDERED me to write a blog entry tonight, despite the fact that towels are now molding on her bedroom floor, and anxiously awaits what I will say. I got a grudging "You're pretty funny, Mom!" from her earlier while she read through two years of posts, so I guess I should comply.

Today, I've been doing spring cleaning. Not normal spring cleaning, oh no of course not. I've been moving the living room to the study and the study to the dining room and the dining room to the living room. That way I can scrub all the baseboards and steam clean the floors and move all the furniture, which is the joy of my existence. Seriously. I love rearranging rooms, and I'll fiddle with them once or twice a month just for the hell of it.

At any rate, I threw out my back and broke a toe on my left foot.

Couch confinement may not be a choice when I wake up in the morning. It may be a requirement. Isn't that pitiful? I shouldn't give up so easily. The fact is that I can't be bothered to follow my doctor's orders. Hell no! I have editing to do, I have new books to write, I have to get my oldest daughter drunk for a week. I have too much to do, so I'll just lay on the couch and do my writing stuff and let the house fall into the seventh circle of hell without my assistance or preventative measures.

That's right. Fuck housecleaning. As long as the hubby dragsz the furniture where I want it, I guess I'll get to it in my own good time.

Perhaps.

It's really funny, isn't it. *shrug* I really don't give a rat's patootey about doctor's orders any more. all my doctor does is charge me a buttload of money and brings me no pain relief. I'm already a week ahead on my meds. Damn. Not like I can call him for more percocets. Maybe I'll have to have a hospital visit or something. I have a feeling, though, that if I went to the emergency room tomorrow they'd slap me into a room with a gaseous octagenarian before I could hobble to the door. I hate those idiots too.

However, as I lay here and glance around at my disordered house, I just have to shrug.

*shrug*

I think I'll finish it up tomorrow just so it won't bother the bejesus out of me. I think I'll get up at seven, wake up the brat...oops, I mean by beloved, saintly, would NEVER drink with her parents daughter Meredith...to get off her lazy ass and hop to it. That's almost literal but she lost the crutches a week ago. It's about time for her to earn her keep...there's those flower beds to be weeded...and daffodils in the front bed to be thinned, and lots of stick left over from winter to be picked up. I understand that tomorrow is supposed to be in fifties with rain and high wind.

Sounds like a PERFECT time to pick up sticks. I can sit on the front porch with a beer and a cigarette. I can point and laugh as she staggers by with her Hefty bag of dead tree. What fun! What bliss!

*evil grin*

And then she can wash the van. It's not THAT big after all. Since the hose doesn't reach though, that's going to be a lot of trips back and forth with a bucket of soapy water. In the rain. And the wind. And past Mom sitting on the front porch and giggling while she eats a handful of vanilla creme cookies.

Am I evil? Oh, yes. Am I funny? Naturally.

Oh, by the way Meredith...













HAPPY APRIL FOOLS DAY.

silly wench.