tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35784471996007740762024-02-20T08:52:50.400-08:00gr@itudenoticing, taking notesPamela Schotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13305551262035819359noreply@blogger.comBlogger46125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3578447199600774076.post-71824780011805665662009-11-22T14:39:00.000-08:002009-11-22T14:44:26.642-08:00music from a scorched earthFollowing is the pitch I'm using for my newest/oldest screenplay, MUSIC FROM A SCORCHED EARTH.<br /><br />To, you know, answer the question, "What have you been up to?" and, hopefully, account for the long absence from this blog.<br /><br />(Hi!)<br /><br />---<br /><br /><div style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Music expresses that which cannot be said and </span><span style="font-style: italic;">on which<br />it is impossible to be silent.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">— Victor Hugo</span><br /></div><br />Spiraling. She is spiraling down. Two months clean and sober, living just this side of homeless with devout grandparents and a trunk-load of secrets they won't share, won't discuss, won't even admit are there, and if 18-year-old Ellie doesn’t do something, she’s going to lose it.<br /><br />Out. She wants out. She wants to claw out of her own skin (that's the addiction speaking), to crawl out of the hole that has been dug for her as a well-meaning cocoon that does nothing to shelter her from a past she did not live and the memories of ghosts who refuse to lie down.<br /><br />School is suffocating. She is a prodigy, they claim — brilliant, an exceptional artist, a classical musician whose talent conjures that of the masters. Haydn. Handel. Hummel. What she possesses is beyond promising — if. If she can remain focused. If she can stay disciplined. If she can keep the bottle at bay.<br /><br />The death of her friend and mentor at Guildhall, one of the most prestigious music academies in the world, and suddenly, London feels provincial. Comical. Unbearable. Ellie has to step out, step off, step away. It is the only way.<br /><br />Escape to Vienna, to a music academy conducting program designed to restore the dilapidated school to its original grandeur. The move emboldens her. She can separate herself from her family's past, her father's pathetic addictions, her mother's calculated, clinical love, and the canyons of resentment that have ruptured and settled around her grandparents' volcanic past.<br /><br />Never mind that she is the only female student of conducting in the entire school — the first female ever to grace its campus. Never mind that her teacher, himself just a student, demonstrates an alarmingly accurate ability to see through her tough-girl, fuck-you attitude to a part of her that she's not ready to reveal. And never mind that the score she's been assigned to lead an orchestra through in just a few week's time resonates in a way that makes her sick to her stomach. This is it. This is all she has.<br /><br />What she doesn't know is that the music holds the answer to everything that has plagued her for as long as she can remember. The score that she must lead her orchestra through leads her directly into history, into old-world Vienna on the verge of the Holocaust, into the camps at Auschwitz, and, at last, into the living room of an old man's home on the banks of the Danube.<br /><br />In the final score to this music from a scorched earth is a crescendo of promise: of confession and forgiveness, of resolution and redemption. And if she can face the music, if she can make it through, she’ll make it out.Pamela Schotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13305551262035819359noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3578447199600774076.post-35147935489075615342009-10-19T20:18:00.000-07:002009-10-19T21:48:44.779-07:00as it was written<div style="text-align: center;"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 266px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLub1UciZ-4pWYxnJkCgXl-4gVu0XE9odeYtN-doTLUeCQXgazYtP1KKpJK_fP2_oJFFDj1kSWSnifcyWh2cTW3b4K_c44T42cJbYoqtBK5rzEwgpa9tNZ_Dih_uI9mtLreEvc2YxbC5k/s400/Hampton+book.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5394521405047565602" /></div><br />I recently had the great fortune of receiving the galleys of a novel by Sujatha Hampton for her début work of fiction entitled, "<a href="http://www.amazon.com/As-Was-Written-Sujatha-Hampton/dp/0312584121/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1256008797&sr=8-1">As It Was Written</a>," due out in February of 2010 from Thomas Dunne Books. <div><br /></div><div>I first learned of Sujatha through my yoga teacher, who emailed me to let me know that she was looking for someone to help her create a visual pitch for the book and devise a viral marketing campaign to generate online buzz prior to its release.</div><div><br /></div><div>A few days ago, the book arrived in the mail. Minus its official cover, but complete with the publisher's marketing strategy bullet pointed on the back, it was exciting to unwrap from its package. There it was, after all, raw and new and full of potential, a writer's vision made tangible, suspended in that still, quiet middle place where years of work and discipline and daring wait to give way to an official flipping of the switch on the publicity machine, when the book will hit the shelves, the author will be paraded and toured, plied with questions of craft, and (hopefully), applauded for her work.</div><div><br /></div><div>If the outside of the book was a thrill, what was contained within left me wanting to be a better writer. This is a story of love and longing and family, of culture and tradition, and of a multi-generational curse on which the story hangs. It's one of those books that you stay up to read and reluctantly put down at the last possible minute, when the demands of carpool and dinner and homework can no longer be silenced.</div><div><br /></div><div>It's also one of those reads that is crafted like a literary treasure hunt, with clever turns of phrase and evocative descriptions dotted like pearls across the novel's landscape, there for the discovering. I earmarked the page when I stumbled on this one: "...a cool wind blew down from the roof bringing a rain of yellow flowers the size and shape of apostrophes," caught my breath when I read, "Amma made an earthy sound, like the moving of mountains..." and finally had to put the book down when this achingly beautiful observation, "And in that moment the mother knew it was two and she knew one was a boy, and what this meant was too enormous a thought for such a simple slice of the hushed and gentle night," made the simple act of turning the page feel like sacrilege.</div><div><br /></div><div>Who writes like that? <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Too enormous a thought for such a simple slice of the hushed and gentle night</span>. It's turns of phrases such as these, simple, elegant, profound, that keep writers glued to their chairs, staring for hours on end, listening — <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">praying</span> — for this kind of inspiration to activate the stagnate cursor on the screen. This is brilliant writing, but you don't get here on talent alone. I don't know Sujatha — not yet — but I know something about the process, know that to write as she does, you've got to show up even when you have nothing to say, when the well is running dry, when you'd rather be running carpool and doing dishes and helping with homework — anything other than what you have to do, which is to confront the blank screen, and wait.</div><div><br /></div><div>"As It Was Written" is the result of years of work and discipline and daring, and as it is written, is a stunning work of fiction. 2010 should be nothing short of amazing for Sujatha Hampton, and I can't wait to watch as the year gives up its own treasures to her.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Pamela Schotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13305551262035819359noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3578447199600774076.post-33631744316956099212009-10-17T18:36:00.000-07:002009-10-17T20:35:43.995-07:00first homecomingJohannah had her first prom tonight, something she began preparing for weeks ago when she decided she wanted to design her own dress.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzdDePZNWZ7H1FWXCRAi8Nqh-Ai6fINg40yhF5sHS8bNYjrDA_W9Mcnma0NuLCRIycaMnabYu_LNuWGNcy1exiGOdeyTS_vIjY_9csOimAQQ4H9bVwID9NXQFWmojkCODYwkTb9DdVm8k/s1600-h/materials.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 345px; height: 518px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzdDePZNWZ7H1FWXCRAi8Nqh-Ai6fINg40yhF5sHS8bNYjrDA_W9Mcnma0NuLCRIycaMnabYu_LNuWGNcy1exiGOdeyTS_vIjY_9csOimAQQ4H9bVwID9NXQFWmojkCODYwkTb9DdVm8k/s400/materials.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5393751470144111682" border="0" /></a><br />Her color scheme was what can best be described as "Cherry Cordial" — a pink, strapless dress with a lace bodice, cinched at the waist with a thick chocolate band. That, or it's way past dinner, and I am typing with my stomach. However you call it, it proved to be the perfect complement to her creamy skin and dark hair and eyes.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhB2BKrR7whBBveq2i1fEui60y4P4S0S2IqhLM3S_Tn-h3BUVPq4dOWYt-LMJeX9aB6ZqNDuNOWNbrxc7HhnRoqUteEHKJOOHxXRzehmIYFPZ5gt-R5PbKa0uaasTNShGRi6GkQXLP-jjM/s1600-h/eye+shadow+2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 302px; height: 454px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhB2BKrR7whBBveq2i1fEui60y4P4S0S2IqhLM3S_Tn-h3BUVPq4dOWYt-LMJeX9aB6ZqNDuNOWNbrxc7HhnRoqUteEHKJOOHxXRzehmIYFPZ5gt-R5PbKa0uaasTNShGRi6GkQXLP-jjM/s400/eye+shadow+2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5393751254748494226" border="0" /></a><br /><br />After "Project Runwaying" her into the dress (due to issues with the band, complete with subsequent tears, I had to sew her into it), we blew out her hair, braided the top with bits of fabric from the dress, and curled the rest. Under pain of death should she lose them, I also let her borrow my chocolate pearls.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXm-y9G0I4eMU2g5SQemhq90xAsMG1R3IYoTYlJeNFurke9mjKMgeqKVGjCd91_EV5yOPiEBqDPRu-UtWq4-2sRyzNCU9wYoIqmMaXgPjlw5bdFuUJmK_uaPBKAosv70iJOjBp5O1EzJI/s1600-h/full+length.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 286px; height: 497px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXm-y9G0I4eMU2g5SQemhq90xAsMG1R3IYoTYlJeNFurke9mjKMgeqKVGjCd91_EV5yOPiEBqDPRu-UtWq4-2sRyzNCU9wYoIqmMaXgPjlw5bdFuUJmK_uaPBKAosv70iJOjBp5O1EzJI/s400/full+length.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5393765299381445506" border="0" /></a><br />A pair of killer heels and a pedi finished off the look.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFNuc6ggpqRM1QHcHPBnHaKwrrg-FQ3qg61jk9bK7DdCGUe_OIuo_ZDCPfOTaizPLLSe7GY5LS7HFtkx5fenL0lOuboUfrXqf6GLDwtm-I8Bko9FwCsbV0ReceGbi_IIZgNFUb7JIp1I8/s1600-h/profile.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 333px; height: 500px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFNuc6ggpqRM1QHcHPBnHaKwrrg-FQ3qg61jk9bK7DdCGUe_OIuo_ZDCPfOTaizPLLSe7GY5LS7HFtkx5fenL0lOuboUfrXqf6GLDwtm-I8Bko9FwCsbV0ReceGbi_IIZgNFUb7JIp1I8/s400/profile.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5393765140603196738" border="0" /></a><br />A friend dropping her daughter off for a sleepover with Julia commented that maybe sewing Jo into the dress was a smart move, considering. I think I can see her point.<br /><br />So, no tears on our part, and I think that's because there was no boy at the door with corsage and cracking voice. These days, I'm told, it's more common for the kids to go in groups, and I am not ashamed to admit that I'm relieved. I know it's coming, know it's a natural part of growing up. I'm just not ready for the growing up bit. Not really. Which is kinda too bad, because it's going to happen — is already happening — whether I like it or not.<br /><br />Weird how, in the beginning, parenting requires that you hold on tight, don't let them out of your sight, until it's time to let them go, gradually, then completely. But if you do it right, and if you're very lucky, maybe they'll remember to look back every once in a while as they take one step, and then another, and another, on their way up and out.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinGImHAKba_7n4zmHf1RkuU5X0Qj823AuWcV0fqtIMdMGyDagj2UbRGTfHIcb3F7TaTdIH-JDYXWSr4madBL3D4P6YvjSOPM-Cvj2Fy4vb8s-iLdLdYIlmyH2NuQXFXw9OWlf-E6asl2s/s1600-h/beautiful.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 334px; height: 502px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinGImHAKba_7n4zmHf1RkuU5X0Qj823AuWcV0fqtIMdMGyDagj2UbRGTfHIcb3F7TaTdIH-JDYXWSr4madBL3D4P6YvjSOPM-Cvj2Fy4vb8s-iLdLdYIlmyH2NuQXFXw9OWlf-E6asl2s/s400/beautiful.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5393749716814596066" border="0" /></a>That's what I'm hoping for, anyway.<br /><div><br /></div>Pamela Schotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13305551262035819359noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3578447199600774076.post-61054461737170309112009-10-05T11:08:00.000-07:002009-10-05T12:58:21.356-07:00relative irrelevance<div style="text-align: right;">"To have a child... is to decide forever to have your heart<br />go walking around outside your body."<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">— Elizabeth Stone</span><br /></div><br /><br />I have become irrelevant. Overnight, and without warning, my thoughts/feelings/experience have lost most, if not all, of their weight/importance/value, and I have been reduced to someone to be pitied and/or ignored, take your pick.<br /><br />All of the above forward slashing comes to you courtesy of my teenage daughter, who is responsible for eliciting her own share of forward slashes in me. By turns, she is charming/annoying, adorable/loathsome, my baby who spoke in entire sentences from the age of 18 months/a silent, brooding harpy who, if provoked, can reduce me to tears with the most vicious of word choices.<br /><br />Welcome to Young Adulthood, and the roller coaster ride that is the Mother/Daughter Dynamic. Please, fasten your seat belts and keep your hands/heart inside, as this is promises to be one wild ride.<br /><br />In all fairness, I knew this was coming, I suppose. I saw it happen with my nieces, the younger of whom just went off to college, which means that the memory of her ups and downs is still relatively fresh, the lessons taken away from observing and taking notes as my sister-in-law learned to navigate the choppy waters of hormones and coming-of-age there at the corners of my memory, easy to recollect when I need the comfort of experience to talk me off the ledge of despair or self-criticism.<br /><br />But, foolishly, I thought I could sidestep the turbulence, could, with careful planning and sacrifice and the laying down of solid foundations for her to root herself in, avoid the wild ride altogether. As if it were possible to forge another route, to skirt adolescence, and the necessary push me/pull you of growing up and away and into adulthood.<br /><br />But it's not about sidestepping at all, but rather <span style="font-style: italic;">stepping back</span>, taking a breath, and realizing that, however nauseating the ride, and however much you'd just rather not go at all, it's a necessary part of what's next. It's what has to happen: If she's going to stand on her own, she has to learn to stand apart.<br /><br />The <span style="font-style: italic;">apart</span> part — there's the rub. That's where the hurt comes in. As much as it has to happen, as healthy as it's promised to be, it's no picnic.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">*<br /></div><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"></span>When she was a little girl, about six months old, our brand-new television set blew a tube, leaving us with one of two options: We could replace the set, or go without. We chose to go without, spending our time together instead on walks throughout our San Francisco neighborhood to Golden Gate Park or the grocery store, or visiting family across the Bay. Weekends, we'd tune into <span style="font-style: italic;">A Prairie Home Companion</span> or <span style="font-style: italic;">Mystery Theatre</span> on the public radio station, not really aware that she was tuning in, too, soaking up stories that outpaced her comprehension, dousing her subconscious in hero journeys and turning points and plot twists, planting seeds that would someday sprout in a literary imagination that now grows wild and out of control.<br /><br />And we read. Book after book, till she could recite them word for word, again long before she knew what she was saying. Soon after she finally was able to string together a thought of her own (her first sentence, at around 13 months of age, was spoken to our neighborhood cat whom we had come across on a walk one day after not seeing him (her?) for a while. "Maestro," she said, laying flat on top of him/her right there on the sidewalk, as was their custom, "I no see you long day."), she delivered her sentences in what we called Book Speak. An exclamation, an observation, a question — each was followed by her own self-reflective narrative. "'I'm tired,' she said sleepily." "'Can we go to the puppy store?' she asked excitedly." "'Where's Nana?' she wondered, puzzled."<br /><br />And so it went. She was bright and gifted, a tiny little thing that powered her way through the mall talking to anyone and everyone who would stop to listen, charming them with her mop of spit curls and command of the language. But she was also the product of her environment, the result of having two engaged, present parents who were willing to bypass lofty job titles and fat paychecks to be there for her, to give her what money couldn't buy: our time and our attention.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">*<br /></div><br />15 years on, and it is hard to accept that that little girl who once bowled us over with her language skills can now cut us to the quick by choosing to not say anything at all. These days, she's busy chatting with friends on Facebook, and suddenly, we're not to know about those conversations. "Please don't read my status updates," she asks, when she asks at all. Most of the time, if she does update, it's set to private. I know what she lights up her Facebook talking about, am certain she's discussing boys and making plans for prom and seeking comfort from her friends when another girl has hurt her. It's not about <span style="font-style: italic;">what</span> she's sharing, it's <span style="font-style: italic;">that</span> she is selective now in what she'll share with us, that she is choosing to "outclude" (her word, circa age three) us on things that only weeks ago she would have come to us on.<br /><br />And I know that it doesn't get better from here, not really. Naturally, necessarily, she will move on and out, will (God willing) find someone to share herself with, will build a life full of moments and memories that have nothing to do with us, just as we have done.<br /><br />And if we do our job right, if the investment of our time and our selves pays off, this is exactly what should happen, what has to happen, if she is to be the strong, healthy, whole woman we want her to be. What's unknown, then, is who I will be, once all is said and done. Once this relative irrelevance becomes a way of life, and not just a terrifying next step. I have a few years yet to figure that out. In the meantime, the challenge is to hold on and let go at the same time, to know when to step aside or step up, and how much room to give, even when she doesn't ask for it, and to stay relevant.<br /><br />Because for all she does and does not say, she needs me. She'll always need me. And for that, I'm grateful.Pamela Schotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13305551262035819359noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3578447199600774076.post-51166918078862600352009-09-14T10:28:00.000-07:002009-09-14T11:18:37.101-07:00easiest. diet. ever.So one of the best things about the new place is the fridge. I know, I know. If you believe everything you see on HGTV, the refrigerator should ALWAYS be one of the best things about a home. But in all honesty, I've never been one of those people who cares overly much about lines and makes and models, or however appliances are classified. As with everything, it's what's inside that counts, you know what I'm saying?<br /><br />Obviously, in matters of kitchen appartus, I have been remiss. Because people? The Samsung in our kitchen? It is ah-mazing. NOT ONLY does it keep our food cool/frozen, make ice, and generally behave as a refrigerator is expected to, but also? It slims, and tones, and lengthens. I kid you not, in two weeks' time, I have:<br /><br /><ol><li>grown at least three inches;</li><li>lost about 10 pounds; and</li><li>toned and strengthened flabby bits that have, in spite of my best "defy gravity" peps talks, lunges, and curls, dimpled and become all morose and pouty looking, like they're plagued with 40-year-old angst or something. Whatever, it's not attractive.</li></ol>All without breaking a sweat (because, believe it or not, all those trips to the refrigerator, the opening and closing of the door, the reaching and bending for leftover pizza on the top shelf, the ice cream in the lower compartment fall disappointingly short in the "aerobic" category — who knew?).<br /><br />Check it:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiShpDqf0xVbUDSJnwBXT_ZKpaxAQhBfa2sNRabZrlSgclA68GmQlpBAMEFI3fcAqVw8pF7LwYiQLV5pEPXxZ8ywcZF5YqT5Bn3gC6sWYuVqvAPSNhhkR8A561FX9REzwqzvpXkrYS0oq4/s1600-h/DSC_3989.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 350px; height: 526px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiShpDqf0xVbUDSJnwBXT_ZKpaxAQhBfa2sNRabZrlSgclA68GmQlpBAMEFI3fcAqVw8pF7LwYiQLV5pEPXxZ8ywcZF5YqT5Bn3gC6sWYuVqvAPSNhhkR8A561FX9REzwqzvpXkrYS0oq4/s400/DSC_3989.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5381382266516064258" border="0" /></a><br />I have boyish hips! Tapered calves! And a waistline that would make Barbie a bulimic. I suppose there is a likely explanation for this. Something having to do with the convex shape of the door creating an optical illusion, blah blah blah WHATEVER. Fact is? It's working for me.<br /><br />You know how, in all those beauty magazines, they tell you to post a picture of a genetically superior, bikini-clad model on the door of your fridge as motivation so that you think twice before reaching for that second helping of stroganoff? Yeah, that won't be happening in the new place. Because I'm in no hurry to cover up what this feat of engineering has accomplished.<br /><br />Well played, Samsung.<br /><br />And now, if you'll excuse me, there's a piece of apple pie that needs liberating from the fridge. And by the look of things? I can totally handle the extra calories.Pamela Schotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13305551262035819359noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3578447199600774076.post-36875375155992386262009-09-09T11:43:00.000-07:002009-09-09T19:48:20.924-07:00friday night lightsIt's not the typical way of spending an anniversary, I suppose. Going to a high school football game. But it was our sixteenth wedding anniversary, one of those milestones that can't be referenced in shorthand like a tenth anniversary (when the realization that you've done <span style="font-style: italic;">anything</span> consistently for a decade makes you have to sit down and rest a while), or a 25th (the silver celebration) or — gasp — 50th (solid gold, baby). Without a Hallmark handle to slap on it, we were left to our own devices. Which meant a varsity game at Jo's new high school where we shared a couple of cheeseburgers (one foolishly dressed with relish*), a view of the canyons back lit by the dying embers of the setting sun, and, on the field, the cool, metallic glow of floodlights that cast us all in a robotic pall and called forth memories of other Friday nights spent in much the same way, twenty or so years ago.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">...<br /></div><br />In many ways, I was your typical teenager. I adored boys, loved music (The Police were at the top of that list until 1987, when U2's <span style="font-style: italic;">The Joshua Tree</span> would fully and forever leave any other bands contending for cassette time on my Sony Walkman in the dust, battered and bleeding and pleading for ear space), envied the pony-tailed cheerleaders, and worshiped my best friend. It was Marla who introduced me to Nordstrom's and L'Oreal and Dooney & Burke, who relieved me of my propensity for tube-socks-and-<a href="http://www.famolare.com/about/photos/3page.html">Famolare</a> footwear, who let me know in no uncertain terms that <a href="http://www.timem.com/starwebs/sarahdouglas/auto/pics/douglas53.jpg">this look</a>? (the hair, not the latex) — yeah, it was fashioned for super villain Ursa (<span style="font-style: italic;">Superman II</span>) BECAUSE SHE WAS NASTY. I was a smart ass, a francophile, a hard worker, and a good writer. With Marla's help, by senior year, I was also marginally cool, cuter than when I started high school, and finally hip to what fashion was and how it could be used.<br /><br />(Going back to the cute thing, I want to share a memory that I HAVE TREASURED for 22 years. Acquaint (or reacquaint) yourself with my bio photo, and you will understand why. Back in the 80s, we called someone who was hot, "fine." Senior year, Marin Catholic High School, in the senior hallway, I was called "fine" by — check it — Varsity jocks. You know, the kind that wore Polo cologne (yummy) and white Levi's (...) and worked out in the weight room every day after school. "She's so fine now," one Mike said as I passed (they were all named Mike). "I know," a second Mike added, as other Mikes flexed and scratched and tossed their hair in agreement. VERBATIM, Internet, and OMYGOD what a rush. It only happened once (that I am aware of), and it didn't lead to anything more (like, say, a prom date, kiss, or invitation to wear one of their varsity jackets/jerseys/senior rings), but whatever. IT HAPPENED. If ever you cringe when you recall what you were like in high school, you will understand the significance of this memory, will know why I still cherish it all these years on, why I would even consider it for my epitaph, except for the fact that once I'm six feet under, <span style="font-style: italic;">She's so fine now</span> will no longer be considered praise. I hope.)<br /><br />I passed my after-school hours waiting for my carpool, sitting in the bleachers, watching football practice in the fall and winter, baseball in the spring. Friday nights were spent in the grandstands or on the sidelines keeping stats, loving the way the boys preened under adoring eyes, scrambling through their play book all the way to the Oakland Coliseum, where they would face off against the best team in the state.<br /><br />But really, I came to watch Miller. From Sophomore year on, when once he sat next to me in the cafeteria after school and gave me his photo (be still, my heart), I carried a torch for Miller like an Olympic champ. He was blond and cute and athletic, a boy full of himself, of his potential, of the promises our privileged Marin lives threw at him without discretion, and I couldn't get enough of him. Long after he had passed the last of his photos out to the other girls, after he was nominated to the Homecoming court and took another girl to prom, after we went to Washington D.C. on a government studies program and he fell in love with still another a girl from back east, I kept that torch burning.<br /><br />He must have known.<br /><br />Game nights, after yet another victory, he'd take off his helmet, pass a hand through his sweaty hair, and toss me the biggest, most boyish grin: He was hot, he was <span style="font-style: italic;">fine</span>, he was on top, and he knew it. I was there to witness him in all his glory and promise, to worship at the altar of his potential, to remind him of his perfection. I was faithful to my vocation, the most reliable of admirers who was at once tortured by unrequited love and exquisitely in love with my predicament.<br /><br />I stumbled upon images of Miller recently on the Internet. I wasn't looking for him, not really, (though I had Googled him in the past), and so it was with not a little bit of trepidation that I scrolled down the page that he was referenced on, holding my breath as I waited for his picture. He was easy to spot in the group shot. His features had thickened, and his blond hair had darkened and receded a bit with the years, but it was him. Same athletic build, same sense of style (though no white jeans in sight, thank God), same boyish grin. It was all there. <span style="font-style: italic;">He</span> was all there.<br /><br />Except, he wasn't.<br /><br />Looking through the photos of him with his friends, I found myself missing his voice, and realizing that for all of his good looks and blustering charm, this is what I remember most about him. The sound of my name on his lips (however infrequently he spoke it — you never forget how your name sounds coming from another's mouth), his laugh, the way the telephone condensed his voice on the rare occasion when I would pluck up enough nerve to call him (oh, yes, I did). And it's no wonder. Language is my currency, after all, how I pay my way to memory, experience the present, fashion a future. So to see Miller was one thing, but it wasn't everything. Without his voice, he was represented in the images, but he wasn't there. Not like he used to be.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">...<br /></div><br />Sitting in the bleachers last Friday with my husband of sixteen years, I watched the team on the field, the cheerleaders, the color guard and band, the kids around us (texting, always texting), thinking about Miller and the Mikes, about my years at Marin Catholic (which was more Marin than Catholic, but there it is), asking myself for the millionth time how was it possible that I have a high schooler now.<br /><br />But mostly, I wallowed.<br /><br />I wallowed in the fact that, sixteen years on, and I was still with this wonderful and complicated and frustrating and beautiful person. Sixteen years on, and he's just as blond and funny and charming as the day I met him. Sixteen years on, and — most amazing of all — he's as into me as I am into him. And sixteen years on, and the sound of my name on his lips is still the sweetest thing.<br /><br />We made it past the one year bliss, the seven year itch, past the decade and decade-and-a-half markers, and twenty years married is within sight. Thinking back on the Millers and Mikes and mistakes of my past, for once I am unable to articulate what it is like to sit next to this man on a warm Friday night in September at a high school football game.<br /><br />Happy Anniversary, Jeremy.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">* This is the way the relish happened:</span><br /><br />At the condiments stand.<br /><br />Julia: Daddy likes relish, Mom. Don't forget.<br />Me: Yeah. I know. We've been married for 16 years, remember? I got the condiments thing down. Leave it to me, kid.<br /><br />Later.<br /><br />Him: There was relish on my cheeseburger.<br />Me: I know! I got it for you.<br />Him: Who puts relish on a cheeseburger?<br />Me: You do! You put relish on a cheeseburger! You love relish.<br />Him: On hotdogs.<br />Me: Oh.<br />Him: I can't say I've ever had relish on a cheeseburger.<br />Me: You ate it all, though, right?<br />Him: ...<br />Me: ...<br />Me: Happy Anniversary!Pamela Schotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13305551262035819359noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3578447199600774076.post-81182056493405268322009-07-28T20:37:00.000-07:002009-07-28T21:19:41.259-07:00date stamp: 8 p.m. gmt, june 29, 2009<span style="font-style: italic;">Travel and a hectic production schedule are keeping me away from the blog, leaving little time for me to organize my thoughts, let alone arrange into some sort of eloquence here. No matter. The words and images from this date stamp speak for themselves. </span><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEissAir1d8r2isSEyYJm1-5HRpX11dOI2kZ0NT22feHJkCPvwNv75MAphGJsDQwqh1k9AnqcxzkhV8NozfqCcruvjN9wRW2gGdHAU0MwMng4frym735T271TWryMUvTiDSsSdxHMB3kEPI/s1600-h/world+sunlight+629.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 579px; height: 311px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEissAir1d8r2isSEyYJm1-5HRpX11dOI2kZ0NT22feHJkCPvwNv75MAphGJsDQwqh1k9AnqcxzkhV8NozfqCcruvjN9wRW2gGdHAU0MwMng4frym735T271TWryMUvTiDSsSdxHMB3kEPI/s400/world+sunlight+629.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5363731045652636370" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;"></span><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: center;"> ______________________________________________<br /></div><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Manchester, England</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">GMT</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">(8 p.m., local time)<br /></span><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7wLgFTD2d9zPcJiA8l_g4hpt4FSQGZHgBf86KiF18RA84mM-EK4i4qzhS7Lq5aTIgdXkbd-iorDVnPvCh3kv8PmjOmvObKLYZgfPY0Zamt33HpwI_7iEFukqYevWjjnGZCupRP02_nrw/s1600-h/manchester+629.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 437px; height: 327px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7wLgFTD2d9zPcJiA8l_g4hpt4FSQGZHgBf86KiF18RA84mM-EK4i4qzhS7Lq5aTIgdXkbd-iorDVnPvCh3kv8PmjOmvObKLYZgfPY0Zamt33HpwI_7iEFukqYevWjjnGZCupRP02_nrw/s400/manchester+629.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5363723626112828610" border="0" /></a>It's been a lovely day, the sort of summer's day we don't get every year. And with sunshine comes optimism. So, I was optimistically on my way to date-stamp the curry-mile, that colourful slice of Mumbai in Manchester, when I saw the sign. A sign. Of the times we are living through. On the banks of the river Mersey - yes the river of ferry-crossing-across-fame - (it does pass through the Mancunian Metropolis) - atop the grassy bank, where people should be sitting outside, drinking and chatting, there are instead boarded windows and doors and a littered yard fenced off with wire fencing.<br /><br />The closed pub, credit crunch symbol of the UK. <span><br /><br /></span><span style="font-style: italic;"></span><div style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-style: italic;">— Peter Spencer</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Screenwriter</span><br /></div></div></div></div></div><div style="text-align: center;">_____________________________________________<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: right;"><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Toronto, Ontario</span> <span style="font-style: italic;"><br />Canada</span> <span style="font-style: italic;"><br />GMT -5</span> <span style="font-style: italic;"><br />(3 p.m. local time)<br /><br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhR9wR_76UqZldTrWHwdlPOiF9n2MWD5lL4sewlpOiYKzL8-OByt5YJO0opYDjHzRQwIkIW83_h8axlMvqdghUewXoEMzUEh7NwpISBuLkPzb7fuYd1YAFYF4sDkU1cXioQ7UbFJqHJOHE/s1600-h/canada+629.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 436px; height: 581px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhR9wR_76UqZldTrWHwdlPOiF9n2MWD5lL4sewlpOiYKzL8-OByt5YJO0opYDjHzRQwIkIW83_h8axlMvqdghUewXoEMzUEh7NwpISBuLkPzb7fuYd1YAFYF4sDkU1cXioQ7UbFJqHJOHE/s400/canada+629.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5363729792744584290" border="0" /></a><br />Today's date stamp finds me enjoying a dinner at a very unique establishment in the city of Toronto. A Spanish tapas restaurant where there is live 'Flamenco' dancing. Nothing helps digestion better than the pounding of feet on a wooden platform.<span style="font-style: italic;"><br /><br /><br /></span><div style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-style: italic;">— <a href="http://www.screenwritersedge.com/">Svet Rouskov</a></span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Screenwriter</span><br /></div><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></span><div style="text-align: center;">_____________________________________________<br /></div><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span><div style="text-align: right;"><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-style: italic;">New York, New York</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">United States</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">GMT - 5</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">(3 p.m. local time)</span><br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBtHrcmsX2RHqA6Inw_I0uquOna9q36XDjv65kbicgjUaFTk2ZmflkbPCmi_WpWilX4F4fZV0K_l4dvT6aDhlfUTCm8J5vX1Rp0zjeqe80w22hFKBQHZHOdh9PVy5GjknZJ__EZA3nuls/s1600-h/0629_24hwds.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 439px; height: 329px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBtHrcmsX2RHqA6Inw_I0uquOna9q36XDjv65kbicgjUaFTk2ZmflkbPCmi_WpWilX4F4fZV0K_l4dvT6aDhlfUTCm8J5vX1Rp0zjeqe80w22hFKBQHZHOdh9PVy5GjknZJ__EZA3nuls/s400/0629_24hwds.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5363724516880022034" border="0" /></a>This is taken from the fire escape of my office building. I think it's a sort of urban garden for the florist shop, but since I have a terrible sense of direction, I'm not 100% sure. This is the joy of Manhattan - somehow, even in the tiniest of spaces, there's room for an oasis!</div></div><div style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span><span style="font-style: italic;">— <a href="http://www.mkwriter.com/">Mrinalini Kamath</a></span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Playwright, Filmmaker</span><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />_____________________________________________<br /></div><span style="font-style: italic;"><br />Raleigh, North Carolina</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">United States</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">GMT - 5</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">(3 p.m. local time)</span><br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUZc5QedOETYrDXglJTJRR4K88piSdf3fbkrTOxlv3aUxzVuRZesHQichtUpSEvYayU0PnyBYJFAw-9r6kn8g0FiaL3I98VCJ_admA-6VPdNJgBzXpwDsolFD80y8Lo1n6-3_E7cZf_gY/s1600-h/MikeScherer_062909.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 434px; height: 308px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUZc5QedOETYrDXglJTJRR4K88piSdf3fbkrTOxlv3aUxzVuRZesHQichtUpSEvYayU0PnyBYJFAw-9r6kn8g0FiaL3I98VCJ_admA-6VPdNJgBzXpwDsolFD80y8Lo1n6-3_E7cZf_gY/s400/MikeScherer_062909.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5363724122443148482" border="0" /></a>Mondays.<br /><br />I hate Mondays.<br /><br />And when I see this sign I know I’m one-third of the way<br />home with only fifty more miles to go. Seventy-five miles<br />each way. One-hundred-fifty miles a day. Just to work.<br /><br />It’s really not so bad though and I do love the drive home.<br />An opportunity to unwind. An opportunity to think.<br />To think about writing. To think about my latest screenplay.<br />To plan my writing Weekend. I work for the weekend. I live for the weekend. But I still hate Mondays.<br /></div></div><div style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-style: italic;">— </span><a style="font-style: italic;" href="http://www.schererjoyofwriting.com/">Michael Scherer</a><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Screenwriter</span><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />_____________________________________________<br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Louisville, Kentucky</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">United States</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">GMT - 5</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">(3 p.m. local time)<br /></span><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4JRvhPpy4bbFBeiKdDA2gbeH80vKdsw11qwGeF_hLNCWsoao1nNpbI5PWfaPs8Cu4_F6o6kkmzXreDbsNp-oUEtxsoxxkcfsrPopk9V_XvS5MehtXeGlNtYHSzGX_wzqFgVbUSUqJO98/s1600-h/louisville+629.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 436px; height: 327px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4JRvhPpy4bbFBeiKdDA2gbeH80vKdsw11qwGeF_hLNCWsoao1nNpbI5PWfaPs8Cu4_F6o6kkmzXreDbsNp-oUEtxsoxxkcfsrPopk9V_XvS5MehtXeGlNtYHSzGX_wzqFgVbUSUqJO98/s400/louisville+629.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5363724687740560674" border="0" /></a>My daughter Sarah snapped this picture of friends at Seneca Park, in the late afternoon. She turned 12 today. It was a perfect summer day for a walk, for swinging, for a swim and a cookout. Later, at dusk, the girls caught lightening bugs, roving across narrow lawns on our tree-lined street, into neighbors’ yards, like gamboling nymphs. Ah, youth! And summer nights!<br /><br /><div style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-style: italic;">— Jeanne Hammond</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Screenwriter</span><br /></div></div></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /><br /><br />_____________________________________________<br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Westlake Village, California</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">United States<br /></span><span style="font-style: italic;">GMT - 8</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">(12 p.m. local time)</span><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiz49Cn30877Qj5d9VPF-MjhzJ1lC1rkP1wD2ownuw1zupT2D0eF_wLeWevHZo_2gp6EPe50WRHKo6cYtfpfhQO4sLze02qNd1wvmpJdc11B_wOTDAZlV0jo6mo2nYqUY2VCcLZSYS0Sg4/s1600-h/729+wlv+date+stamp.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 440px; height: 661px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiz49Cn30877Qj5d9VPF-MjhzJ1lC1rkP1wD2ownuw1zupT2D0eF_wLeWevHZo_2gp6EPe50WRHKo6cYtfpfhQO4sLze02qNd1wvmpJdc11B_wOTDAZlV0jo6mo2nYqUY2VCcLZSYS0Sg4/s400/729+wlv+date+stamp.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5363724898776564242" border="0" /></a>Yoga done, one load of laundry in the machine, another waiting for a turn in the tumbler. Only noon, and already you've made it into the shower — a personal victory of the summertime variety. Just a few finishing touches now, a sweep of blush, some mascara and gloss, and the rest of the day is yours to do with as you see fit. This is true luxury, this free time, and you're grateful for it.<br /><br /><br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-style: italic;">— Pamela Schott </span><span style="font-style: italic;"><br />Author, Screenwriter</span><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><div style="text-align: center;">_____________________________________________<br /></div></div><div style="text-align: right;"><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div></div></div><span style="font-style: italic;">Tikrit</span><span style="font-style: italic;">, Iraq</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">GMT </span><span style="font-style: italic;">+ 3</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">(11 p.m. local time)<br /></span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNfgg1OO7BCmc2zi-qbKinriK4h_PATRsPu_cEMCoedHxQP5EdedAhYX1UpYum_aUEmtHLcz5yUt8p3RPWPnska1gCNPirnNCUQ2FlRthVnzfi8AOfV5V9RF4CFBy2dj72P2Jp8QenwnA/s1600-h/tikrit+629.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 446px; height: 335px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNfgg1OO7BCmc2zi-qbKinriK4h_PATRsPu_cEMCoedHxQP5EdedAhYX1UpYum_aUEmtHLcz5yUt8p3RPWPnska1gCNPirnNCUQ2FlRthVnzfi8AOfV5V9RF4CFBy2dj72P2Jp8QenwnA/s400/tikrit+629.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5363728129533723938" border="0" /></a>This was the view of my world, an hour before the start of 30 June. Dark, quite, not much moon. Alone. Many people, I suspect, fear darkness because of the great unknown. I have come to embrace it, for all the potential it holds. It's fitting, then, that this was my image heading into 30 June.<br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-style: italic;">— <a href="http://www.blog.artlaflamme.com/">Art La Flamme</a></span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Blogger/Army Serviceman</span><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">_____________________________________________<br /></div><br />Elsewhere in the world:<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Abbey Road</span><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-style: italic;">London, England</span> <span style="font-style: italic;"><br />United Kingdom</span> <span style="font-style: italic;"><br />GMT</span> <span style="font-style: italic;"><br />(8 p.m. local time)</span><br /></div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRMyVoaCjEbfMeyOtQbbL9Dyz-6PTatHrSzrVIXk_kg5LkWNKwvpro3D2DudQHg-nATj3w6HkEPtXO5OF17KrQG9hrjKN4kwt4cVEQ6NXRje5UXaGeJXDsR5Ffyxr7D10Gw379ePHMmjA/s1600-h/abbey+road+629.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 431px; height: 331px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRMyVoaCjEbfMeyOtQbbL9Dyz-6PTatHrSzrVIXk_kg5LkWNKwvpro3D2DudQHg-nATj3w6HkEPtXO5OF17KrQG9hrjKN4kwt4cVEQ6NXRje5UXaGeJXDsR5Ffyxr7D10Gw379ePHMmjA/s400/abbey+road+629.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5363728737687832050" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">_____________________________________________</div><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Venice<br />Grand Canal<br />Italy</span> </div><span style="font-style: italic;">GMT +1</span> <span style="font-style: italic;"><br />(9 p.m. local time)</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwiyykJxcbwNBcx1tBSDQ_w3cxoosQ-R0bh3gvOPirLMP_nZI4B_-bPs_MoZPmsJF9kS0AaCjxWJJHX4Hv2VXSOc7LWyFdscq0TutvdU7wowSFCDJvo4wkABMNFQLAGwDz1o_wEB_gZKA/s1600-h/venice+629.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 438px; height: 285px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwiyykJxcbwNBcx1tBSDQ_w3cxoosQ-R0bh3gvOPirLMP_nZI4B_-bPs_MoZPmsJF9kS0AaCjxWJJHX4Hv2VXSOc7LWyFdscq0TutvdU7wowSFCDJvo4wkABMNFQLAGwDz1o_wEB_gZKA/s400/venice+629.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5363728956972435618" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">_____________________________________________<br /><br /></div><span style="font-style: italic;">Paris, France</span> <span style="font-style: italic;"><br />GMT + 1</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">(9 p.m. local time)<br /><br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGQqmFPLfN3vnMvK6RL6dEzjebAO82Agt6Rr3z5ssMfZqGUtZCoHvdWgYklNx_K6Kd62jlpt4HZkKuP9wfS3kFiqlYlXPeVECRu71cGX6pB71G3uWoJAEh_hZOccQAonqwDQepLAaGFpM/s1600-h/paris+629.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 434px; height: 343px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGQqmFPLfN3vnMvK6RL6dEzjebAO82Agt6Rr3z5ssMfZqGUtZCoHvdWgYklNx_K6Kd62jlpt4HZkKuP9wfS3kFiqlYlXPeVECRu71cGX6pB71G3uWoJAEh_hZOccQAonqwDQepLAaGFpM/s400/paris+629.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5363729124638093282" border="0" /></a>Pamela Schotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13305551262035819359noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3578447199600774076.post-88968791627706564242009-06-28T17:25:00.000-07:002009-06-29T09:04:11.184-07:002:27 on a sunday afternoon in juneHot and dry and dusty. That was the California of your growing up, when days were cooled by Tang and sprinklers (once the drought had passed) that made lazy arcs in the sky like a jump rump. All these decades on, and California is as you remember it, the air baked as if in a brick oven, and heady with the smell of pine and eucalyptus and lavender and parch.<br /><br /><div>Driving back home through Hidden Valley in the early afternoon, you dropped off at Foxfield, a riding school across the street. You'd been meaning to come over to take photos, hoping to capture the essence of this hot dry dusty place nestled into a corner of the Santa Monica Mountains, and with little left to do on a lazy Sunday in late June, it seemed like the perfect opportunity.<br /><br /><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 510px; height: 339px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5RMl5DQkukeoW0TG9n4T658KtV51T1BUjBdT41NnPEuHU_MT2AmJf90iaocaV0GouK6cOW0n3zheae0F_T_CbdDXZKE6_HUII19ElIjAnLPtM0KMP5sknipd1xkVwShoTRAx8qLI1Dlo/s400/Foxfield+sign.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5352541551215818370" border="0" /></div><div><br /><div>From the road, without the benefit of the sign, you'd never know it was here, would never guess that the place was a hub of laborers and instructors and students and patient horses, large and gentle things that submit humbly to the rider's instructions at the click of the tongue or the tap of a boot heel...<br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgNIShFYRGAFzfildWyKLPylhXpz0x7vHV3eY_NNsGDDsGtvFia12UvocFoP3bgfASEq2KTps5aBjPVbMHDyAqEy6enMe-Q9o3pYZQSm2aV_ZVf8HD1m6QCz-538LAPavg64ijCalbq1o/s400/horse.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5352545588541689170" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 437px; height: 657px;" border="0" /><br /><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 508px; height: 337px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsJtpqGFnAc9of7pPN2kPZOizk_OAhKPQnwGmpr4a84Qr0MqcAMjQkE-86k8hVanvJvSGlgQIKJ4LOXOtSHPGuXsWGvExgASXhvlPwXakrOCHcQGkmh8pVwLubtc4RMPIgyTERgtJk1K4/s400/feeding.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5352545863549603010" border="0" /><br /><br /><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 437px; height: 657px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjx98RqUIWCdOckgAHfjaGDES_grnv2qW5H72gh8UAIiwaaVLCcl2oYZVb33UzIKNtYdUty-bMviD-rlT1GZ_-Suvahy-ENhhwNpYRJazokYiakyt2V21iYVkmqtmxIK7QAFmwTkN5mISU/s400/drinking.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5352545712786228898" border="0" /><br />...as well as a few others, whose purpose at the school you can only guess at.<br /><br /></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTMgQovNMYgbaGIESIKTOjHZd0YyISwoZrZtd3qOfAfAvXLDMBC4ypxoW6Of0fenTpcS8ldpST8NqC5vwN1Vyj7dECuH94AezNKgnQ_imO3NGTI5bBhH9aco5-XBkl0OoYdSA1OkbBhsk/s1600-h/donkeys.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 501px; height: 333px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTMgQovNMYgbaGIESIKTOjHZd0YyISwoZrZtd3qOfAfAvXLDMBC4ypxoW6Of0fenTpcS8ldpST8NqC5vwN1Vyj7dECuH94AezNKgnQ_imO3NGTI5bBhH9aco5-XBkl0OoYdSA1OkbBhsk/s400/donkeys.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5352546670640042786" border="0" /></a></div><div>The stables sit under a knot of Oak trees, which is just as well, because without them, the already-oppressive heat would turn the blood in your veins to sludge and melt the marrow in your bones. You're sure of it.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgP3oLqWQyg5bqo7NZc_b_IAConv4hYoeBiM5-rWk4JQXrEoWf3weMFw_kIWdanlXEUVAdRIBh5e4Hcn39Kh0VDLDJIMu2uz0ksbuTN11_tBugjyQXDC2tAk_PW4vYDpJrfbx4VWnA2nd4/s1600-h/Oak+tree.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 444px; height: 667px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgP3oLqWQyg5bqo7NZc_b_IAConv4hYoeBiM5-rWk4JQXrEoWf3weMFw_kIWdanlXEUVAdRIBh5e4Hcn39Kh0VDLDJIMu2uz0ksbuTN11_tBugjyQXDC2tAk_PW4vYDpJrfbx4VWnA2nd4/s400/Oak+tree.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5352554523538403026" border="0" /></a><br />This early into the summer, and already there are fire warning signs on the sides of the hills — advice the stable owners seem to have taken to heart, and with great success, judging by the cobwebs on this fire extinguisher:<br /><br /></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEht6nT8fvHqIWHmC04usq6PujIJKWmgglzBMCYE6RBF_ajQRFygASb0CLBVITeFfzgNrKwhCWIHLuwjJwpcE4cLu-qJx_CferV5Mty9Nsnw0fnTTfWjaB89f2I9Ff4QqRsudsyBiHipaso/s1600-h/fire+hydrant.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 436px; height: 655px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEht6nT8fvHqIWHmC04usq6PujIJKWmgglzBMCYE6RBF_ajQRFygASb0CLBVITeFfzgNrKwhCWIHLuwjJwpcE4cLu-qJx_CferV5Mty9Nsnw0fnTTfWjaB89f2I9Ff4QqRsudsyBiHipaso/s400/fire+hydrant.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5352555525892530594" border="0" /></a><br />At the back of the property, behind the barns and storage units and ancient trucks<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3XEeLH2X0nH66PHUzf6U267nA3h5AxvX1AcoOpSNqzfeunrGnxaOqXAekXg8gQLiaMpPWm6TXFAT7miVAp8LnfBgwJnaQthyphenhyphen6tU_EzPFeOafVhjiHuLdAlYij7rLEtXbix6hiXT9PWy0/s1600-h/mirror.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 502px; height: 333px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3XEeLH2X0nH66PHUzf6U267nA3h5AxvX1AcoOpSNqzfeunrGnxaOqXAekXg8gQLiaMpPWm6TXFAT7miVAp8LnfBgwJnaQthyphenhyphen6tU_EzPFeOafVhjiHuLdAlYij7rLEtXbix6hiXT9PWy0/s400/mirror.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5352557179836558530" border="0" /></a><br />and storybook tractors<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiahDpc2LzioJNapejgES33oQBSRoC4lyKp0W7dpj7RgV3onP5iKJMHiy0qyGUe4sxLRUuX_Qk4N_o-EV_01MQ3es4rSNcxvt-jwYjsMXuckXSBsTWEhXGpxcQ_xTZo_jFQPFRyeSJl9RA/s1600-h/tractor.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiahDpc2LzioJNapejgES33oQBSRoC4lyKp0W7dpj7RgV3onP5iKJMHiy0qyGUe4sxLRUuX_Qk4N_o-EV_01MQ3es4rSNcxvt-jwYjsMXuckXSBsTWEhXGpxcQ_xTZo_jFQPFRyeSJl9RA/s400/tractor.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5352557422486112994" border="0" /></a>and tools designed to measure and gauge<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmH55gu_wvTWsMe1_rHAQD_lW1tjLc3rXDDoBpi0kdiSrR38SRsKKF2ijfmJObNpeDLWNLXAK9YeBkBlInTYuttCISqTTtyGa8lt9PDHXSkvUS6i5eTwUKCor5Md4t93CQgkzOJbYdHPI/s1600-h/time.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 416px; height: 714px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmH55gu_wvTWsMe1_rHAQD_lW1tjLc3rXDDoBpi0kdiSrR38SRsKKF2ijfmJObNpeDLWNLXAK9YeBkBlInTYuttCISqTTtyGa8lt9PDHXSkvUS6i5eTwUKCor5Md4t93CQgkzOJbYdHPI/s400/time.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5352588449284678898" border="0" /></a><br /><br />stretches this bridge:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLEnAwDPdmK9wniJxdz935X8RX-KiBWijKUCeLpFFaqw3f-zMSEiQxPG6hhAAPCwEPoZHnVDjIV0UhNJxm5UZ48Lz_2L2cVTBQkWWFBXij8i6XlyaIiX_T1l3mcXLBWX-0XCV6hrwprSg/s1600-h/bridge.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 530px; height: 796px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLEnAwDPdmK9wniJxdz935X8RX-KiBWijKUCeLpFFaqw3f-zMSEiQxPG6hhAAPCwEPoZHnVDjIV0UhNJxm5UZ48Lz_2L2cVTBQkWWFBXij8i6XlyaIiX_T1l3mcXLBWX-0XCV6hrwprSg/s400/bridge.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5352558242772119522" border="0" /></a><br /></div><div>a rusty, angular expanse of utility and purpose that tries not at all to fit in with the aesthetics of its surroundings. You love this bridge, this wobbly catwalk of cables and isosceles triangles<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiUUKm_YuVI9EZx6OZaeg5mDXl7Jn_bcWEaKiucSB7dLoVuEy7JwzSqpgisiT33jqqF0Q7-h8nkfuyn0pewZ2Gdg9YZeTcDqABJ_CbUbSayricmW4bh-ZKkK0b5U7DpbYTMHzw7KFS55w/s1600-h/structure.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 587px; height: 389px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiUUKm_YuVI9EZx6OZaeg5mDXl7Jn_bcWEaKiucSB7dLoVuEy7JwzSqpgisiT33jqqF0Q7-h8nkfuyn0pewZ2Gdg9YZeTcDqABJ_CbUbSayricmW4bh-ZKkK0b5U7DpbYTMHzw7KFS55w/s400/structure.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5352558601744899666" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtXMSG8Qc71Fw9O0wl6kAi0HYUKVNalTXc-lw-AVkRwIELAQUL1VZXOfXUM5-3J4VtnkI7zPeGFcqk8QASsOR5hll8tR-QHT5WYWcsJM2s443yyp6Vu2Whwv2zY6RIMkNLhyLYZiFLtC8/s1600-h/cables.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 526px; height: 790px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtXMSG8Qc71Fw9O0wl6kAi0HYUKVNalTXc-lw-AVkRwIELAQUL1VZXOfXUM5-3J4VtnkI7zPeGFcqk8QASsOR5hll8tR-QHT5WYWcsJM2s443yyp6Vu2Whwv2zY6RIMkNLhyLYZiFLtC8/s400/cables.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5352558406758831714" border="0" /></a><br />love its quiet importance which must ignore the fact of the empty creek bed, below, in order to justify its existence.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKYqYGkZXRpnqq5_OggYRA5d2r5v4WwJLoVs9a4KjHdoK7KUaRSBZP03vchQsBJ6R9Ll5AaIfmIC0QChx-3LMnNQKyC59X_M6HnOyhnlQnDwGFdsPlP_WiQTCMQiByNawNnhW_lRKdS4g/s1600-h/creek.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 528px; height: 793px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKYqYGkZXRpnqq5_OggYRA5d2r5v4WwJLoVs9a4KjHdoK7KUaRSBZP03vchQsBJ6R9Ll5AaIfmIC0QChx-3LMnNQKyC59X_M6HnOyhnlQnDwGFdsPlP_WiQTCMQiByNawNnhW_lRKdS4g/s400/creek.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5352561218167827762" border="0" /></a><br />You'd think the California earth would protest more, would cry out for water, especially this far into a year with little rainfall to speak of, but it doesn't. Where there may have been desperation is only a calm, patient attendance, an acceptance of what is, a quiet expectation of what is to come. True to its boom/bust Gold Rush nature, California takes things in stride. The rains will come again, and once again, these creeks will be teeming with life-giving water, and the hills will be as green as Ireland's, as impossible as it seems now.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGtPLXqQsF4KY6L66cWojKkJRc5J6m0VH6u5HK1QL-6KfsCgYOVj-ZAreqJIIyBQoek3P-PELB4mK2kb3SkOu1Qcku8v04FeSllDsZE1H8G6z6HBTR98LSX-DaJub4tTBvx5B0iy_e4jQ/s1600-h/drought.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 505px; height: 335px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGtPLXqQsF4KY6L66cWojKkJRc5J6m0VH6u5HK1QL-6KfsCgYOVj-ZAreqJIIyBQoek3P-PELB4mK2kb3SkOu1Qcku8v04FeSllDsZE1H8G6z6HBTR98LSX-DaJub4tTBvx5B0iy_e4jQ/s400/drought.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5352561674601750754" border="0" /></a><br />You and your companion don't have as much tolerance for the heat, however<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPPi6g_5gMsF7m13Jz5GLr3nQFhpkrW1aU7r2TIxAdmkPgwFeBhLywBNiKsi21JjeD06WCa7dSrPcvrMYC_MqX5RXWEE9Y2Iu_2ND9dgzBUyqcl28AG111tiRyH4xHRf9-kIurNzbVTXk/s1600-h/Jo.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 506px; height: 864px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPPi6g_5gMsF7m13Jz5GLr3nQFhpkrW1aU7r2TIxAdmkPgwFeBhLywBNiKsi21JjeD06WCa7dSrPcvrMYC_MqX5RXWEE9Y2Iu_2ND9dgzBUyqcl28AG111tiRyH4xHRf9-kIurNzbVTXk/s400/Jo.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5352565885487493122" border="0" /></a><br />and after a while, it was time to cross another hopeful bridge home.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheG3NyEqnKQhyfS-GFrgxbO1l9YtKJDAkbRy7n68YXzhvTQ-myRGXELduiLocrzNrDsyBYPUInIULVWCqO0QcMVKc8omUvMSL70CYy51lBgAYIA5CRUj_FUKSos5lNeGMVkOTpYNiHahE/s1600-h/Potrero+bridge.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 546px; height: 468px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheG3NyEqnKQhyfS-GFrgxbO1l9YtKJDAkbRy7n68YXzhvTQ-myRGXELduiLocrzNrDsyBYPUInIULVWCqO0QcMVKc8omUvMSL70CYy51lBgAYIA5CRUj_FUKSos5lNeGMVkOTpYNiHahE/s400/Potrero+bridge.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5352566051046935810" border="0" /></a><br />Along the way, you found the greenbelt dotted with lavender bushes. Their scent always takes you back to another summer, one that folded into memory 20 years ago, the one which your older sister and best friend spent in the south of France, where she purchased for you a harlequin doll stuffed with lavender seeds.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2pPDDa8DtQRfp2tXpFzfIDuGrsDGySzjAFBBdYu00WhizOtR9N33hN8ftGxBiihzXceILZ-7HYBr2vrzvo5zmb1UXWtQXHiAIDaZ0wsWCeIhiRZvl20_c0oX-ZGKf1sQKtqUnmo5m1w8/s1600-h/lavender+2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 511px; height: 840px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2pPDDa8DtQRfp2tXpFzfIDuGrsDGySzjAFBBdYu00WhizOtR9N33hN8ftGxBiihzXceILZ-7HYBr2vrzvo5zmb1UXWtQXHiAIDaZ0wsWCeIhiRZvl20_c0oX-ZGKf1sQKtqUnmo5m1w8/s400/lavender+2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5352564224653562674" border="0" /></a><br />The doll is long gone, but to this day, you can't pass a lavender bush without calling it to mind.<br /><br />You stopped once more to appreciate this symmetry, purchased with your Home Owner's Association dues<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2VX1ZrepQFDKtjt5Nt04tAkH-jUWnqJxtBYG2XkPW8zMwlG497-35wDU4WoUyOA_h8SGmp31eijEZ3MzNB40ZjjcWumjHaG9UVzDxBw79mIFCn8QUETFiBw1jGzzZOyxFf1UUjmu22uY/s1600-h/DSC_1071.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 558px; height: 370px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2VX1ZrepQFDKtjt5Nt04tAkH-jUWnqJxtBYG2XkPW8zMwlG497-35wDU4WoUyOA_h8SGmp31eijEZ3MzNB40ZjjcWumjHaG9UVzDxBw79mIFCn8QUETFiBw1jGzzZOyxFf1UUjmu22uY/s400/DSC_1071.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5352565358679106866" border="0" /></a>and a neighbor's drought-tolerant yard featuring a gaggle of hens and chicks plants<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCw-NLhTZy7rG8pBglFAT6HFxblbwwzDn5gSlsfrxaL_-67DVzTVWdBhSIM78nmvsppQQO7frsPjlTUaYI0ZsED7ZMmOI9eSF5iNKFgQwuRa50V3A4qbxBOSkORHj5f9CSz1N9D_ZGwzI/s1600-h/hens+and+chickens.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 507px; height: 337px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCw-NLhTZy7rG8pBglFAT6HFxblbwwzDn5gSlsfrxaL_-67DVzTVWdBhSIM78nmvsppQQO7frsPjlTUaYI0ZsED7ZMmOI9eSF5iNKFgQwuRa50V3A4qbxBOSkORHj5f9CSz1N9D_ZGwzI/s400/hens+and+chickens.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5352566458889117554" border="0" /></a><br />and then you were home, where you were greeted by the cool of the brick floors and evidence that the rest of the family had already taken measures to beat the heat<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgI6rlIKBRfqSIeDbUnrSeBJGZ3jUPaG3aXwgJH8xTFQo1zPFI7ZzJ5rbKlrcOTxGrbrI-K-7s0d0KUFDP0gw7m5jGyvaip5NI6edEBuAwDT8J9uQ_hd4FAUDX2yAafcEpmzYFL5dI_Y00/s1600-h/swimsuit.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 515px; height: 773px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgI6rlIKBRfqSIeDbUnrSeBJGZ3jUPaG3aXwgJH8xTFQo1zPFI7ZzJ5rbKlrcOTxGrbrI-K-7s0d0KUFDP0gw7m5jGyvaip5NI6edEBuAwDT8J9uQ_hd4FAUDX2yAafcEpmzYFL5dI_Y00/s400/swimsuit.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5352564631664999314" border="0" /></a><br />as they waited for your return.<br /></div><div><br /></div></div></div>Pamela Schotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13305551262035819359noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3578447199600774076.post-20918218480404963792009-06-23T14:32:00.000-07:002009-06-23T16:21:44.920-07:00date stamp: 7 p.m. gmt, june 17, 2009<span style="font-style: italic;">The date stamp initiative is part of a year-long project to capture 2009 in words and images from all parts of the world. To catch up on past date stamps, click </span><a style="font-style: italic;" href="http://pamelaschott.blogspot.com/search/label/24h%20World">here</a><span style="font-style: italic;">.</span><br /><br />She was born in 1936 on the east coast of the United States into the large family of an Episcopalian minister and his wife (a tiny but tough woman who could press her hands flat to the floor while bending at the waist and who lived by the belief that cold showers in the morning set the day to rights) on the heels of The Great Depression, with the shadow of the Second World War looming large.<br /><br />In her day, she would send her sons into wars and political hot spots and teach her growing family how to conserve in a drought, would make a dollar stretch for nine children on an officer's salary, somehow managing to give each of these children a private school education. In a marriage that has lasted 48 years, she would follow her husband from base to base, criss-crossing the country and even leaving land for more exotic places (like Guam and Hawaii), only to then wait for his return from months-long tours of duty.<br /><br />An artist, she fulfilled a life-long desire to learn how to dance by taking up ballet lessons at the age of 45, even as she carpooled several of her daughters to their own dance classes. Today, at the age of 73, she will get on a plane to watch two of her granddaughters dance on the stage, scheduled in and around other trips that again see her criss-crossing the country to be with her other sons and daughters, and their children.<br /><br />There is more, of course, much more — too much to recollect here. But for all that is left out, there is one thing to be said for certain: that each of these 73 years was lived day by day, hour by hour, always with a prayer on her lips and the desire to do good.<br /><br />What better way to celebrate that life in progress than by taking a snapshot of what the world looked like on June 17, 2009, at 7 p.m. GMT. One moment in time to celebrate a world of moments and a legacy of memories.<br /><br />Happy Birthday, Sara Jean Kernan Lockwood. This date stamp's for you.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOeOswyc-nTryRiqkfjuHSJ72VmY4dvti4Ls6BmPbnbZW_R3t8_v5xyY3yyNfrDFqFawHRU_bZhZ55U-EphsvehITzEFJqNMhSu98C4tjmucKvT21HylG6BMmp12TWFZ4D-8aKMs9g844/s1600-h/617+world+sunlight+map.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 496px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOeOswyc-nTryRiqkfjuHSJ72VmY4dvti4Ls6BmPbnbZW_R3t8_v5xyY3yyNfrDFqFawHRU_bZhZ55U-EphsvehITzEFJqNMhSu98C4tjmucKvT21HylG6BMmp12TWFZ4D-8aKMs9g844/s400/617+world+sunlight+map.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5350651344037407234" border="0" /></a>________________________________________________<br /></div><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">London, England<br />GMT<br />(7 p.m., local time)<br /><br /></span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIgCiz5Q8OkFA-djkpDFb_AufK7N0Z3Cjd7LpkK2kh3cIM25-p4f36wD0RelBrBf-X9w2N-4EqeJhg-aH0MbB4rJNt2xxuWvn1Q1GtN-4TsdYWuSf2Wl_820S-EWJZ5qjTjcQuboAQHDc/s1600-h/Needlepoint.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 454px; height: 605px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIgCiz5Q8OkFA-djkpDFb_AufK7N0Z3Cjd7LpkK2kh3cIM25-p4f36wD0RelBrBf-X9w2N-4EqeJhg-aH0MbB4rJNt2xxuWvn1Q1GtN-4TsdYWuSf2Wl_820S-EWJZ5qjTjcQuboAQHDc/s400/Needlepoint.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5350652419877242802" border="0" /></a>I'm in relaxation mode right now. This is my current needlepoint project - a carpet for a dolls' house. I fitted out my own twelve room mini-mansion some time ago, but there were still so many patterns I wanted to try out, so I've continued making rugs and carpets to sell at craft fairs.<br /><br />No one else in the family can understand why I find such close work "fun", but there is something calming in seeing a carpet take shape stitch by stitch, inch by inch. Meditation in canvas and stranded cotton.<br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-style: italic;">— <a href="http://www.inwardeye.eu/">Kathryn Radmall</a></span><br /></div><div style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-style: italic;"> Screenwriter</span><br /></div></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-style: italic;"></span><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: center;"> ________________________________________________<br /></div><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Manchester, England</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">GMT</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">(7 p.m., local time)<br /></span><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsP6c5Cqf7zYHuUEmR8qBMw7G0h57aftcVG1GNlZR75bRvvqC7ATYItYwdZgc7QyjVqbLOJZ3sc83L1T76SWxpAWt164QvpsBDzZFRjZf5oky0xeXrm7Cx0O1Al-bzdIX-sba6p-iuvTI/s1600-h/100_1676.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 452px; height: 337px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsP6c5Cqf7zYHuUEmR8qBMw7G0h57aftcVG1GNlZR75bRvvqC7ATYItYwdZgc7QyjVqbLOJZ3sc83L1T76SWxpAWt164QvpsBDzZFRjZf5oky0xeXrm7Cx0O1Al-bzdIX-sba6p-iuvTI/s400/100_1676.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5350653042962888786" border="0" /></a><span><span style="font-style: italic;">Note: Peter Spencer took these photos while on holiday just north of London.</span><br /><br /><br /><br />Somewhere near Milton Keynes on a summer's evening.<br /><br /><br /></span><span style="font-style: italic;"></span><div style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-style: italic;">— Peter Spencer</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Screenwriter</span><br /></div></div></div></div></div><div style="text-align: center;">_____________________________________________<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: right;"><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Raleigh, North Carolina</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">United States</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">GMT - 5</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">(2 p.m. local time)</span><br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWTrz_Ued5L5CvryzLE7anb4V9vQgZ6z_npdupPTMJ-AknIeZyKLiJOSYh-EKKBtehiPtdlZBPTXfCjpEh2tuMXy7Ty3zCz7SmUu5txVD-Hu-pmqq91QYL_eF0-BFspjBvRgbal8hcP_c/s1600-h/MikeScherer_061709.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 450px; height: 211px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWTrz_Ued5L5CvryzLE7anb4V9vQgZ6z_npdupPTMJ-AknIeZyKLiJOSYh-EKKBtehiPtdlZBPTXfCjpEh2tuMXy7Ty3zCz7SmUu5txVD-Hu-pmqq91QYL_eF0-BFspjBvRgbal8hcP_c/s400/MikeScherer_061709.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5350653864443691730" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">Mike Scherer was also on vacation for this date stamp, reporting in from Manistee, Michigan.</span><br /><br /><br />Do guy-birds ogle the females as they work on their tans? Do they fantasize about ‘making it’ with their favorite chick?<br /><br />Do girl-birds scope out the guys on the sly -- score them on a scale from one to ten -- then giggle amongst themselves?<br /><br />Did any of this posturing and preening and posing result in any long-term relationships?<br /><br />Shrug.<br /><br />All I know: this beach has gone to the birds.<br /><br />Happy 73rd Sara Lockwood!<br /><br /><br /></div></div><div style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-style: italic;">— </span><a style="font-style: italic;" href="http://www.schererjoyofwriting.com/">Michael Scherer</a><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Screenwriter</span><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />_____________________________________________<br /><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Louisville, Kentucky</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">United States</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">GMT - 5</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">(2 p.m. local time)<br /><br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSffTfLS86RxSBlxYyQMXl4gJJdFf6txwI3AZ6HbrjYWVAQiYaumo6sNYmWpblpe0eSTgPOzzQkXsDpzLwxy00cX-EX1htYSAls035gm0nVB5ZDmd9tl9ETC4BwuyZalQmjmODT27PCPk/s1600-h/CIMG0094.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 450px; height: 337px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSffTfLS86RxSBlxYyQMXl4gJJdFf6txwI3AZ6HbrjYWVAQiYaumo6sNYmWpblpe0eSTgPOzzQkXsDpzLwxy00cX-EX1htYSAls035gm0nVB5ZDmd9tl9ETC4BwuyZalQmjmODT27PCPk/s400/CIMG0094.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5350657053342647842" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">It seems almost no one stayed put for this date stamp. Here's Jeanne Hammond's report from South Bend, Indiana.<br /><br /></span><span>Today I am on different turf: the campus of Notre Dame, with a dear friend, Sister Anthony Wargel. We toured the Administration building, viewed the oil paint portraits of university presidents past and wondered what it was like in this quad two weeks ago, when the convocation ceremony drew journalists and protesters to an otherwise peaceful campus. University President Jenkins and President Barack Obama in cordial company, as some students and alumni protested President Obama’s receiving an honorary degree. On what grounds do we etch our stands? How do we divine truth? What do we value in this life? Questions for Catholic university men and women of steady heart. Questions for all of us. </span><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span></div></div><div style="text-align: center;">_____________________________________________<br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Westlake Village, California</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">United States<br /></span><span style="font-style: italic;">GMT - 8</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">(11 a.m. local time)</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXpLjjq2f7V2PV10jcjc_XvJyQQn0TDYn7eTxFI3W207_EzeDxTtpke15JmGDWLqiospxKkpCqS-83_fNrR8x5FwS4RJtEzI79591pxJyiTRY5Fi6cbOUVF0gNdNTRDPXpV-4gSgZhofg/s1600-h/DSC_7965.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 451px; height: 268px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXpLjjq2f7V2PV10jcjc_XvJyQQn0TDYn7eTxFI3W207_EzeDxTtpke15JmGDWLqiospxKkpCqS-83_fNrR8x5FwS4RJtEzI79591pxJyiTRY5Fi6cbOUVF0gNdNTRDPXpV-4gSgZhofg/s400/DSC_7965.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5350653715908963970" border="0" /></a>Julia snapped this picture for Grandma, selecting her subject as an honest admission of what life in Southern California looks like on pretty much any given day.<br /><br />At least from this dog's perspective.<br /><br />And as far as she's concerned (the dog, that is), there's no better way to spend a birthday than belly-up in the sunshine.<br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-style: italic;">— Pamela Schott </span><span style="font-style: italic;"><br />Author, Screenwriter</span><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><div style="text-align: center;">_____________________________________________<br /></div></div><div style="text-align: right;"><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div></div></div><span style="font-style: italic;">Tikrit</span><span style="font-style: italic;">, Iraq</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">GMT </span><span style="font-style: italic;">+ 3</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">(10 p.m. local time)<br /></span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBEGecmKNlbb1iCJLKw4dHCliBPE2mGG87Vlim2GIPAm8cSArA4PpFDUOnGxAavC69OQVkOE1SdPZab0D85AAOd_qs9SnzpEhkNASZPWYtgXfUVlSARV93chMEOcPQmwLJ9sAvdF1utFE/s1600-h/617+Iraq.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 453px; height: 600px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBEGecmKNlbb1iCJLKw4dHCliBPE2mGG87Vlim2GIPAm8cSArA4PpFDUOnGxAavC69OQVkOE1SdPZab0D85AAOd_qs9SnzpEhkNASZPWYtgXfUVlSARV93chMEOcPQmwLJ9sAvdF1utFE/s400/617+Iraq.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5350655681803168050" border="0" /></a>We got socked with a heavy sandstorm last night. We literally had sand drifts inside the building last night, it was so bad. People got lost walking home. One van of our guys, coming back just from dinner, had to put two people out into the storm with their flash lights, just to make sure the van stayed on the road -- you couldn't tell where it was.<br /><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-style: italic;">— <a href="http://www.blog.artlaflamme.com/">Art La Flamme</a></span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Blogger/Army Serviceman</span><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">_____________________________________________<br /></div><br />Elsewhere in the world:<br /><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Australian Station</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Antarctica</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">GMT + 4</span> <span style="font-style: italic;"><br />(11 p.m. local time)</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIX8ZFBpLdsLOp5Gt4RFsOwaN4pjANm56seesmsEcSEkVgszVghKwDFeB07srNraPIQQj7OqRlmgduIeXMBDlUeTuMJ90P3A84VaJzEXc_nnFu3JiYNk89Rpfw5WajibIFEUyE9b8gkQM/s1600-h/617+antarctica.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 452px; height: 360px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIX8ZFBpLdsLOp5Gt4RFsOwaN4pjANm56seesmsEcSEkVgszVghKwDFeB07srNraPIQQj7OqRlmgduIeXMBDlUeTuMJ90P3A84VaJzEXc_nnFu3JiYNk89Rpfw5WajibIFEUyE9b8gkQM/s400/617+antarctica.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5350657502242683682" border="0" /></a><br /><br /></div><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><div style="text-align: center;">_____________________________________________<br /></div><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Abbey Road</span> <span style="font-style: italic;"><br />London, England</span> <span style="font-style: italic;"><br />United Kingdom</span> <span style="font-style: italic;"><br />GMT</span> <span style="font-style: italic;"><br />(7 p.m. local time)</span><br /></div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCEcfeQVV9BqCowmZ-WaROulmryBYpxpRkcQ8MC_9u7A1j2hqTZeRUMggnRvUcYqC9Titm-9MiPii0Zda9-z7W7syWxCWttcIHKW-41e5eNaCj880WenmmtTN08l0RHOAWfHC3vJmcVTc/s1600-h/617+abbey+road.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 450px; height: 294px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCEcfeQVV9BqCowmZ-WaROulmryBYpxpRkcQ8MC_9u7A1j2hqTZeRUMggnRvUcYqC9Titm-9MiPii0Zda9-z7W7syWxCWttcIHKW-41e5eNaCj880WenmmtTN08l0RHOAWfHC3vJmcVTc/s400/617+abbey+road.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5350657311132353874" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">_____________________________________________</div><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Venice<br />Grand Canal<br />Italy</span> </div><span style="font-style: italic;">GMT +1</span> <span style="font-style: italic;"><br />(7 p.m. local time)</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoE9xvpVaiNYPYvA4LoLGMdDNMj6fO7sWl1I5XKZFHEvnOwIkRuwAHszO7nqqhjXaQzmVLYttSn-ecWPk6zXENnP8X60RmW3Xtu50UUUduFDhaqCTmk5by-CR3NfaGrW06htOQ9wtFY4A/s1600-h/617+venice.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 453px; height: 295px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoE9xvpVaiNYPYvA4LoLGMdDNMj6fO7sWl1I5XKZFHEvnOwIkRuwAHszO7nqqhjXaQzmVLYttSn-ecWPk6zXENnP8X60RmW3Xtu50UUUduFDhaqCTmk5by-CR3NfaGrW06htOQ9wtFY4A/s400/617+venice.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5350657663177699298" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">_____________________________________________<br /><br /></div><span style="font-style: italic;">Paris, France</span> <span style="font-style: italic;"><br />GMT + 1</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">(8 p.m. local time)</span><br /></div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgloaifhg02JxQJP5Yp9mhiNoCUU_F3jd83u78FR6fPkpEDWDh_p5hpBGHmpOl01AeOC6SF__FWgL3UNVEWPHkkpkRrl5iQmZg3TU-iOYcYfGc1Z_fjiJVNnFHMWqQw0lFOYvN1SQXhT4w/s1600-h/617+paris.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 452px; height: 357px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgloaifhg02JxQJP5Yp9mhiNoCUU_F3jd83u78FR6fPkpEDWDh_p5hpBGHmpOl01AeOC6SF__FWgL3UNVEWPHkkpkRrl5iQmZg3TU-iOYcYfGc1Z_fjiJVNnFHMWqQw0lFOYvN1SQXhT4w/s400/617+paris.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5350657579884851266" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMPHbqrVH-7GyPLUXGumbiLKj0zpe7p-CLiu7PjwYCtsVcqoPvy1lWLD2_7CevfUzUwoTraAivRNVQJEW0s9eC3kWdRiIYFZDAe7w91JL2KZpL7WLUfExri-axwwaHdn1QBdK42BcwAaU/s1600-h/520+paris.jpg"><br /></a>Pamela Schotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13305551262035819359noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3578447199600774076.post-24599533086622772722009-06-21T15:49:00.000-07:002009-06-28T19:33:31.827-07:00father's day #15Fifteen years ago and some change, we started a family, a home-based business of sorts, complete with its own budget, mission statement, goals and objectives. Going into it, we knew that this company would never turn a profit, not as it stands. But that didn't make it any less worthwhile, didn't discourage us from making investments that, for the most part, won't start to yield dividends for a while still. No matter. It's not like we're flipping real estate or day trading. We're in this for the long haul, betting on futures we are only now just beginning to see the outlines of — just there, beyond the horizon.<br /><br />We kicked off Father's Day celebrations at Peet's Coffee with pastries and frappuccinos,<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVskgLlQLuuxyPBKXa1I5pvEDdxVXstU5C2Ds5BDhg9eeZ3bsJ4ISIbr920gKeNYa3JkJ_B3w03K1S8o2-1ik29IA43okmk6Ue8XY4Ld7WME44CCPxr3Cca0Ot-BK3vI8IO8QhCoYPdnU/s1600-h/Peet's.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 505px; height: 335px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVskgLlQLuuxyPBKXa1I5pvEDdxVXstU5C2Ds5BDhg9eeZ3bsJ4ISIbr920gKeNYa3JkJ_B3w03K1S8o2-1ik29IA43okmk6Ue8XY4Ld7WME44CCPxr3Cca0Ot-BK3vI8IO8QhCoYPdnU/s400/Peet's.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5349920070032368482" border="0" /></a>then took the long way out to Highway 1, past a riot of bougainvillea lining the road like bull fighter capes, tempting the eye away from double yellow lines that somehow manage to keep order among four lanes of potential chaos.<br /><br />It's easy to forget, living in a hot and dry valley — where canyons and traffic and the day-t0-day concerns of running four lives, and all that this implies, stand between you and the edge of the continent — it's easy to forget that the ocean is there, constant and faithful and tireless. Also, vast and beautiful and somewhat terrifying. You take the ocean on its terms, never the other way around.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTSDM6Xhz8UG4RQVg0w9Bwk7ErC6YSXRb-1qd7omkR4GjsxFOPIRCYncUiugcyZmoKLoybP2jZn_dKgHtf6DJWFRohz1Z3lXKIfRyc8Mr-qmC0myNX7z7fspSYWcw2I2-__GnF68lY32I/s1600-h/pelicans.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 507px; height: 337px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTSDM6Xhz8UG4RQVg0w9Bwk7ErC6YSXRb-1qd7omkR4GjsxFOPIRCYncUiugcyZmoKLoybP2jZn_dKgHtf6DJWFRohz1Z3lXKIfRyc8Mr-qmC0myNX7z7fspSYWcw2I2-__GnF68lY32I/s400/pelicans.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5349923431999926146" border="0" /></a><br />It was windy but warm, and like the pelicans in the above photo, we spent some time perched on Nana Rock, the place where we scattered some of his mom's ashes, almost a year ago.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_dPFCYLN5UU_nBPlGgB-v9lPRTf3DtXj7GDdaCFlJFIOHs7moOkmAZG80w8D6okRQnxViLmTndfZyeTUO6WYBLzchLMOf7dKnZtPe1aD7ZFL-Ad39eEPK0QJKwSFdIaaeg6VJiZEGukI/s1600-h/jes+at+the+beach.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 506px; height: 336px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_dPFCYLN5UU_nBPlGgB-v9lPRTf3DtXj7GDdaCFlJFIOHs7moOkmAZG80w8D6okRQnxViLmTndfZyeTUO6WYBLzchLMOf7dKnZtPe1aD7ZFL-Ad39eEPK0QJKwSFdIaaeg6VJiZEGukI/s400/jes+at+the+beach.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5349926425615946018" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiX91w8EIwZYIIHxjJZO8EaL8UyoAiKA5p2X3200GZkgwAkUso8FwbjHrD0hw7tu4mXtykQ_APjN4qv-iGlVh5DQbsu6QeCcoJPnjJJkSRqwnKGsRi2oTmrskUppZSEXEUrhzuDr89mLVc/s1600-h/kelp.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 437px; height: 657px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiX91w8EIwZYIIHxjJZO8EaL8UyoAiKA5p2X3200GZkgwAkUso8FwbjHrD0hw7tu4mXtykQ_APjN4qv-iGlVh5DQbsu6QeCcoJPnjJJkSRqwnKGsRi2oTmrskUppZSEXEUrhzuDr89mLVc/s400/kelp.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5349925839178999154" border="0" /></a><br />Then, in keeping with company by-laws, took a handful of Silly Photos to add to our collection of 16 years:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWq520rwbVB-zsvp-s0tPkZof51WZKbXxMNafaEDainjGYjA27NsqI5QdbtVQgVTESkdobJlsKJvzlizzU8UOCKy7WPL46eXGM9fIRylTZqfHJa9ILqnw_YhK2dvuneWSLOZTshpHdAyw/s1600-h/jes+glasses.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 436px; height: 655px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWq520rwbVB-zsvp-s0tPkZof51WZKbXxMNafaEDainjGYjA27NsqI5QdbtVQgVTESkdobJlsKJvzlizzU8UOCKy7WPL46eXGM9fIRylTZqfHJa9ILqnw_YhK2dvuneWSLOZTshpHdAyw/s400/jes+glasses.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5349927616759908978" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyi9rX9TedFEFfuXH__BAIMJ7wU1gPrxiuV8wb85VXDouCggkJDE9JacBXaFu7Il1e_Eu9XxbsiH5AYEs0et0WYDi4S1K3QwPhoObghDgkCpCJCieZxAwLMHIdgbcCvr-tgoFxjfD_wV8/s1600-h/jrs+glasses.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 439px; height: 660px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyi9rX9TedFEFfuXH__BAIMJ7wU1gPrxiuV8wb85VXDouCggkJDE9JacBXaFu7Il1e_Eu9XxbsiH5AYEs0et0WYDi4S1K3QwPhoObghDgkCpCJCieZxAwLMHIdgbcCvr-tgoFxjfD_wV8/s400/jrs+glasses.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5349927749073448002" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUZZZJzMknOI4XsiiStLXBaa7fW_aW46CSZiXmSUCEqXlWVvjAszMAPfOyDJkE7_rWi3dhROKT-DbevG2abfeTwrfd30WUCFYxWe1bRtOUCzs-bqM6WDkV3on_5uvWlUunF9UU1uOiZlg/s1600-h/jms+glassess.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 437px; height: 657px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUZZZJzMknOI4XsiiStLXBaa7fW_aW46CSZiXmSUCEqXlWVvjAszMAPfOyDJkE7_rWi3dhROKT-DbevG2abfeTwrfd30WUCFYxWe1bRtOUCzs-bqM6WDkV3on_5uvWlUunF9UU1uOiZlg/s400/jms+glassess.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5349927881879331186" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7Ryl_Kwh33FG8UGZtBznrzSQoyn1Zf7u3ViR_ZeR02bhhCOb6uItLxXbhpTVmunYxwUTloOf40stYFhmVAICRyv7Gz2vGY3HbP3TfVL9L-YohUeegV8szZHBaoEhaqJsYln18GVQSDKI/s1600-h/P+J.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 503px; height: 334px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7Ryl_Kwh33FG8UGZtBznrzSQoyn1Zf7u3ViR_ZeR02bhhCOb6uItLxXbhpTVmunYxwUTloOf40stYFhmVAICRyv7Gz2vGY3HbP3TfVL9L-YohUeegV8szZHBaoEhaqJsYln18GVQSDKI/s400/P+J.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5349928080232642706" border="0" /></a><br />The wind chased us off the beach and back over the canyons, resting only long enough to catch its breath as we snapped this photo of a cactus clinging to the sandy side of a hill just off the PCH,<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAw1gB2PP4qEJz6pphswa5VZ8K8j9pIgAuaMoqcgJIu14Q33tn1VQOpxJByk-JmOlFcxQLKfnA8o58fzikaLSGkjaPPyJo5DPymB2mDOv1gLkjyPNp9hnTUYM16nKOPXKAmyCw7Bhae9s/s1600-h/cactus.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 502px; height: 368px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAw1gB2PP4qEJz6pphswa5VZ8K8j9pIgAuaMoqcgJIu14Q33tn1VQOpxJByk-JmOlFcxQLKfnA8o58fzikaLSGkjaPPyJo5DPymB2mDOv1gLkjyPNp9hnTUYM16nKOPXKAmyCw7Bhae9s/s400/cactus.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5349928989973940738" border="0" /></a><br />and these on a turnout on Kanan Road, overlooking Malibu:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2NecwS3Qq3OsMFZZi5BW2njt1WE0fXKPQP2OZwiKiF0x8BhL19nHdwh-O439rhiP5j3K7Mb-M0H1p_RopR9QafngvFrZPv77rkJUE-pcEyc7X2SD7IyA_iFwt3qLajSDobT_afmizrN0/s1600-h/off+Kanan.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 437px; height: 657px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2NecwS3Qq3OsMFZZi5BW2njt1WE0fXKPQP2OZwiKiF0x8BhL19nHdwh-O439rhiP5j3K7Mb-M0H1p_RopR9QafngvFrZPv77rkJUE-pcEyc7X2SD7IyA_iFwt3qLajSDobT_afmizrN0/s400/off+Kanan.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5349929424474607810" border="0" /></a><br />Back through a tunnel with K.T. Tunstall on the stereo, the girls holding their breath and a wish<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6WwRL_yKb8Rz4tbIOIAOLjgk0MhD81YQEvecLud6ptkmCvFUz4EFlaJtnIwM3PyIhHaut9OZCZ5K3QNWDvQiUz5Z2spAXJaBJc5DKw5il4T6cnwWybNYGI3iYIcLVayGChsMb_ytIERs/s1600-h/tunnel+vision.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 501px; height: 309px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6WwRL_yKb8Rz4tbIOIAOLjgk0MhD81YQEvecLud6ptkmCvFUz4EFlaJtnIwM3PyIhHaut9OZCZ5K3QNWDvQiUz5Z2spAXJaBJc5DKw5il4T6cnwWybNYGI3iYIcLVayGChsMb_ytIERs/s400/tunnel+vision.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5349930784092192162" border="0" /></a> as gravity and gratitude pulled us down into the valley, back towards the home that he makes possible.<br /><br />Tomorrow we'll get back to the business of running this family, balancing, negotiating, mediating. With little to go on, we'll no doubt be flying by the seat of our pants. But then, that's how we've always done it, and this side of the Pacific Ocean, we're still afloat. When we turn the control of their lives over to them and turn them loose on the world, it's probable that they'll find a way to do it better. In fact, you hope that they do. Because that's your benchmark, that's how you'll know that this whole endeavor was a success.<br /><br />Happy Father's Day 2009, JMS.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzRNyqN4EWjuVInkIucBQOMtDPlF6DwrbT_veFvxh6wjYIagLiUe8hMkWHaTcm2PfPJX4BgK0eQt-ThLwWChMI84uDlJfzgvyb3WH-e5cHeqFF9ghlZB90u1ertCoL2H7lvn_-VM96sG0/s1600-h/walk+on+the+ocean.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 502px; height: 333px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzRNyqN4EWjuVInkIucBQOMtDPlF6DwrbT_veFvxh6wjYIagLiUe8hMkWHaTcm2PfPJX4BgK0eQt-ThLwWChMI84uDlJfzgvyb3WH-e5cHeqFF9ghlZB90u1ertCoL2H7lvn_-VM96sG0/s400/walk+on+the+ocean.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5349932912569143298" border="0" /></a><br />Love,<br />PJ&JPamela Schotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13305551262035819359noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3578447199600774076.post-38311854601657282302009-06-16T20:50:00.001-07:002009-06-28T19:34:05.124-07:00this and thatSummer. Finally.<br /><br />Can I say that again? Because right now? Those two words? They are the most beautifulest words to be found in the English language. It's <span style="font-style: italic;">finally</span> summer.<br /><br />This school year, more than any other in memory, I feel like we crawled to the finish line. But now that we're here, I feel 10 pounds lighter.<br /><br />In a few weeks, we'll start up with the dancing and the theatre and the driving (again with the driving), but for now, we're sleeping in and eying the pool (it's been cloudy and 70s since mid-May, but Julia wears her swimsuit every day without fail, just in case), going to Starbuck's, and running errands only on an as-needed basis.<br /><br />Exciting? Not at all. Glamorous? Snort. NO.<br /><br />But... perfect? Wonderful? Fantastic? Aw, yeah.<br /><br />Here's what the perfectwonderfulfantastic day called Today looked like:<br /><br />Jules and I dropped by Westlake High School to turn in the registration form for Orientation Week, which Jo will be attending in August.<br /><br />(Aside: Is it right that I have a high schooler? That is not a rhetorical question.)<br /><br />Anyway, while waiting for the office to open from lunch, I found this:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihrQBH8FAJ5jTxNXnDZ9fXiMFtm29ytiqBGFBUJdx28xPCdgibMKGVGVM0skb_Uz8hA1whj-GUvgcKE7fEmXkdwoUiMRz9IiHTbtLZ8kynHIRGGWnJHYsXNI5F2bIRLLCXnP-T_jTlGQc/s1600-h/concrete+and+flowers.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 505px; height: 335px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihrQBH8FAJ5jTxNXnDZ9fXiMFtm29ytiqBGFBUJdx28xPCdgibMKGVGVM0skb_Uz8hA1whj-GUvgcKE7fEmXkdwoUiMRz9IiHTbtLZ8kynHIRGGWnJHYsXNI5F2bIRLLCXnP-T_jTlGQc/s400/concrete+and+flowers.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5348144927155581266" border="0" /></a><br /><br />I love the man v. nature feel of this photo.<br /><br />(Though am not entirely sure what the circle-y concrete thing at the entrance to school is for.)<br /><br />(Maybe they will explain at orientation?)<br /><br />(Highly unlikely, but I can't possibly be the only parent that has wondered.)<br /><br />(Or maybe I am.)<br /><br />(That's just how I roll.)<br /><br />And snapped this:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEZWT186JDRtxlOOcDkMYFmbhpCmILOsmVM3-NW1JVZ0QbOZxUD8EOPk2vWy_i6GKyTZ9bypHIuW9knO-SYO-LQsuDCNJue3izvuOL6OdzvBaWdhqaEbphKaIxIQmAxkhHKW2mgmpQK-g/s1600-h/no+smoking.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 438px; height: 658px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEZWT186JDRtxlOOcDkMYFmbhpCmILOsmVM3-NW1JVZ0QbOZxUD8EOPk2vWy_i6GKyTZ9bypHIuW9knO-SYO-LQsuDCNJue3izvuOL6OdzvBaWdhqaEbphKaIxIQmAxkhHKW2mgmpQK-g/s400/no+smoking.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5348145049958171346" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Because this marks the first time in my life when a child of mine will be going to a school where they have to post such rules.<br /><br />Sur. real.<br /><br />Still waiting for the office to open:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBnsx07l9h4mzJyjuE5c2fPDQHlnAr81fZKXSzDBJrEmZxXhBJA0PUWAoQAOPom5fMZTZ5furfUQu3ibr7lvq-p9RZP4sAoVPKlAoy_KAWvMnd5twFE6kxzoNvw62RD1pimWTYT3Qe5vw/s1600-h/waiting.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 503px; height: 334px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBnsx07l9h4mzJyjuE5c2fPDQHlnAr81fZKXSzDBJrEmZxXhBJA0PUWAoQAOPom5fMZTZ5furfUQu3ibr7lvq-p9RZP4sAoVPKlAoy_KAWvMnd5twFE6kxzoNvw62RD1pimWTYT3Qe5vw/s400/waiting.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5348145183676284786" border="0" /></a><br />Nothing much to say about this photo, except that I am crazy about this kid.<br /><br />Afterwards, I took her for a haircut, and then dropped her back home before going to yoga. And then, at dinner, it was finally time to let them know where we'd be going this summer:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUo4eUHCdYAP-yZkpoErVGK60FzO182slBGG4_-sahs7sXy0Rfr2CPRvNKcNAxbDHLLLRWgNDr9nuHBOB4xiqLof4ab9andVmxQri24sD6c8BTD2hi4XKzx3vQLYE73u966-VDi-tXBk8/s1600-h/wicked.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 506px; height: 336px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUo4eUHCdYAP-yZkpoErVGK60FzO182slBGG4_-sahs7sXy0Rfr2CPRvNKcNAxbDHLLLRWgNDr9nuHBOB4xiqLof4ab9andVmxQri24sD6c8BTD2hi4XKzx3vQLYE73u966-VDi-tXBk8/s400/wicked.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5348145298635553506" border="0" /></a><br />The first envelope read, "I think I'll like..." Leggs McGee opened that one, and found the airline tickets to San Francisco.<br /><br />Julia's envelope finished the sentence with "...defying gravity!":<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbOMFhUHlnAgbfV80pjNvEvLlIqLECLND22dGr4YV7cEwgFtY5vVu9QVj0Vpbvq2voncvJEy7LPCJUefJXtsSeRHq43VXE9BaWInEQHvbzr3ZmgLtLgdz1Jvo4dfIMefyJn1KrV7CWIzQ/s1600-h/tongues.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 505px; height: 335px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbOMFhUHlnAgbfV80pjNvEvLlIqLECLND22dGr4YV7cEwgFtY5vVu9QVj0Vpbvq2voncvJEy7LPCJUefJXtsSeRHq43VXE9BaWInEQHvbzr3ZmgLtLgdz1Jvo4dfIMefyJn1KrV7CWIzQ/s400/tongues.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5348145570523767090" border="0" /></a> but it still took them a couple of seconds to realize that we'll be going up there to see <span style="font-style: italic;">Wicked</span> at the Orpheum.<br /><br />(You'd think the lyrics reference would have been an obvious giveaway.)<br /><br />(Especially considering that they were both in a production of <span style="font-style: italic;">Wicked</span> a few years back.)<br /><br />(And that's ALL WE PLAYED in the car for about three months.)<br /><br />(Not that I'm complaining — it's my favorite show that we've done.)<br /><br />(But still.)<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjX-fdeY8PbVdKPzWTxc4WbGoa4qs3jrh1XacmnMZF9PybU2JYxgpkCdWz8hySWjvW9n6u9-GjebxSDHgAoUpsiVTdpdqCRpr7HP5a2vFz0-wPvXDsZBltjT8tZ3TgZ-RqaFQlUI1C-vko/s1600-h/going+to+SF.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 503px; height: 334px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjX-fdeY8PbVdKPzWTxc4WbGoa4qs3jrh1XacmnMZF9PybU2JYxgpkCdWz8hySWjvW9n6u9-GjebxSDHgAoUpsiVTdpdqCRpr7HP5a2vFz0-wPvXDsZBltjT8tZ3TgZ-RqaFQlUI1C-vko/s400/going+to+SF.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5348145987717178626" border="0" /></a>Oh, yeah, and stopping by the San Francisco Center for Beard Pappa cream puffs and Peet's coffee (there are no words), visiting the newly-renovated Exploratorium in Golden Gate Park, maybe a day trip north to the Wine Country, plus a stop over at Grandma and Grandpa's, and eating. Lots and lots of it.<br /><br />And so, the countdown begins. Normally, I'd say that I can't wait, but I can. Because there are quite a few days of doing Absolutely Nothing to savor before it's time to go, and I plan on making the most of every last one of them.Pamela Schotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13305551262035819359noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3578447199600774076.post-32951108958701532432009-06-08T13:25:00.000-07:002009-06-08T14:43:22.057-07:00grey mattersI was going to compose a profound, insightful post about my whereabouts of late and the soul-crushing battle with bronchitis I've been engaged in for what feels like forever (but which has only been about 10 days or so), while simultaneously exploring the mild depression I feel whenever I am sick, and wrapping the whole thing up with a tidy, optimistic, see-it-when-you-believe-it bow that promises clear skies and nasal passageways are just around the corner.<br /><br />But I just don't have it in me.<br /><br />(I was going to include "possible exhaustion" with the bronchitis, but declined for two reasons: 1) the doctor didn't actually diagnose it; and 2) I have been sleeping so much over the past week, again with the sleeping, that I CANNOT POSSIBLY BE TIRED.)<br /><br />The thought of writing anything at all — enough of an uphill climb on the healthiest of days — makes my heart ache in that way it does when my will out paces my ability to create, and the act of researching depression and its possible connection to the flu (research = normally a good fall back plan when production lags) was, well... depressing.<br /><br />And so I turn, like many bloggers before me in need of material, to The List.<br /><br />I'm not a big list maker (though maybe lists would help stave off the not-possible exhaustion?), but truth be told, I'm not a big <span style="font-style: italic;">anything</span> these days, so bare that in mind. Also? I haven't eaten much in the past week, which probably explains the cravings for meat (I normally stick to a mostly-vegetarian diet). I don't know why this seems necessary to point out here, except that the lead-in paragraph to the list felt a little, um, lean.<br /><br />(Did I mention I've been bed ridden for over a week?)<br /><br />So here, then, in no particular order, is a list of things that have been going through my head. I can only hope that the physical act of writing them down will serve to purge.<br /><br />1. Snippets of <span style="font-style: italic;"></span>Andrew Lloyd Weber's "Close Every Door" from "Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat," which, as I have learned in the past 24 hours, he began working on at age 18. To wit:<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Close every door to me/</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Hide all the world from me/</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Bar all the windows/</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">And shut out the light/</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">If my life were important I/</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Would ask will I live or die/</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">But I know the answers lie/</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Far from this world/</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Close every door to me/</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Keep those I love from me/</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Children of Israel/</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Are never alone/</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">For I know I shall find</span>/<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">My own peace of mind/</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">For I have been promised/</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">A land of my own.</span><br /><br />(God. Drama much?)<br /><br />2. When it's not an ALW dirge, it's the "Gaston" song from "Beauty and The Beast," which is pure Disney silliness and not worth quoting here. Both struggle for top-dog position as the soundtrack to long, delirious nights in which I lay, exhausted and sweating, praying for sleep.<br /><br />3. I am no longer green, as Julia observed about two days ago.<br /><br />4. I am pretty sure I would commit a felony for a McDonald's double cheeseburger right about now. (Note: I have had maybe eight of these in my entire life.)<br /><br />5. I have consumed, in total, probably about 5,000 calories in the past 10 days, yet do not feel any lighter. Isn't the deal with getting really sick that it really sucks, but at the end of it, you've lost a few pounds, so it's kinda worth it? Am I missing something?<br /><br />6. Things like #5, above? They add to that overall feeling of failure I get when I'm sick. Like, I can't even do sick right.<br /><br />7. You can, apparently, do nothing and achieve everything, as the sages say. Example: I have received two very promising job offers in the past week. This, after almost a year of looking.<br /><br />8. Well, maybe not everything. While searching for the perfect words for #7 (can you tell?), I glanced over at my beside table and noticed a fine coating of dust on the picture frames and lamp. Also? All of the bathrooms need serious cleaning, and laundry, as Jerry is fond of reminding the girls, does not, after all, do itself. Who knew?<br /><br />9. I may be — <span style="font-style: italic;">may be</span> — at the half-way point in "Music from a Scorched Earth."<br /><br />10. Which is nothing to sneeze at.<br /><br />11. Except I thought I'd have a first draft done by now.<br /><br />12. Tomorrow is the culmination ceremony for Julia. Six years at the same school, she did, K through 5. A big deal in this family of nomads. She still needs shoes. I still need... well, everything. And yet, the thought of showing up and looking presentable is completely overwhelming.<br /><br />13. Friday is Johannah's eighth grade graduation, and the rest of this week is packed with dress rehearsals and performances. I haven't the faintest idea as to how I am going to get there from here.<br /><br />14. I am addicted to yoga. And yet, the thought of getting into a hot room and working out for 90 minutes makes me feel sick to my stomach, and I wonder if I will ever have the courage to start it again? You know, after all of this.<br /><br />15. I miss my husband. He's still here, of course, but he's spent part of this week on the fold-out couch because he had a big conference to attend this week that he couldn't miss. When he is around, I wake him claiming we've just had a terrible earthquake which is causing massive bloodshed, and shouldn't he check on the girls?<br /><br />Carpool duties call now, so the list will have to stand at 15. It'd be nice to say that there was more to come, but no. This is pretty much what passes for my grey matter content this week. If you want something more entertaining, Heather over at <a href="http://dooce.com">dooce</a> is about to go into labor, and <a href="http://pamie.com">Pamela Ribon </a>(whose very funny "Samantha Who?" just got canceled) is blogging more now that she's out of a job. ABC's loss, our gain, I say.<br /><br />Back more when the meds kick in, the bacteria (virus?) kicks out, and I have successfully exorcised show tunes from my addled brain.Pamela Schotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13305551262035819359noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3578447199600774076.post-56931576631274171772009-06-05T16:46:00.000-07:002009-06-23T14:35:54.598-07:00date stamp: 6 p.m. gmt, may 30, 2009This date stamp was by special request, as today was the day that blogger and Army serviceman Art La Flamme celebrated his 40th birthday with his family at home in Hawai'i, where he is on leave from the war for some well-deserved R and R.<br /><br />In other parts of the world, firsts of a similar kind were taking place, with some date stampers hailing the beginning of summer, as over in California (where summer never seems to take its leave) another marked the beginning of a young girl's career on pointe.<br /><br />The day wasn't all about firsts and milestones, however, and that's what made this date stamp feel complete. In Manchester, England, one date stamper looked back at the centuries-old remains of a church that was nearly decimated in World War Two, as in Queens, another found not what she was looking for, but something equally as intriguing. And as the rest of us made our way through what seems to have been a sunny Saturday the world over, Singapore's date stamper woke just long enough to note the time in her dark corner of the world before saying good night.<br /><br />Here, then, is a look at May 30, 2009, from the perspective of 6 p.m. GMT:<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8GtctthBXC8NvkzXmzzJ3Iz4-MEk6E9qvi29qIcygt5A10VMfJq6yoIqfwk4bdW6nZ4d1I2qw3MU702NEWnyXoLqgViV82UWFXQvehREnwu6ZSTtq_oBn3eB7z2JVgiVqDoF2XyKsegM/s1600-h/530+world+sunlight.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 550px; height: 281px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8GtctthBXC8NvkzXmzzJ3Iz4-MEk6E9qvi29qIcygt5A10VMfJq6yoIqfwk4bdW6nZ4d1I2qw3MU702NEWnyXoLqgViV82UWFXQvehREnwu6ZSTtq_oBn3eB7z2JVgiVqDoF2XyKsegM/s400/530+world+sunlight.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5343999078001907986" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">________________________________________________<br /></div><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">London, England<br />GMT<br />(6 p.m., local time)<br /><br /></span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgR6NT3wxMVGLwt3CLGa-i3vV43pOYq_6A-RRrFEmaw0puTFW2yH9fUSvvFVyXNHUMYBTW9msAWPAczysqfQNyd2_ZnC3UtNdoPtArytkln_MYHmhSuIQMmURPaJe6zihm6_GyBh4ZXoKE/s1600-h/Reclining+Cat.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 474px; height: 355px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgR6NT3wxMVGLwt3CLGa-i3vV43pOYq_6A-RRrFEmaw0puTFW2yH9fUSvvFVyXNHUMYBTW9msAWPAczysqfQNyd2_ZnC3UtNdoPtArytkln_MYHmhSuIQMmURPaJe6zihm6_GyBh4ZXoKE/s400/Reclining+Cat.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5343999495139673202" border="0" /></a>Well, it's getting to the end of another fine day - summer has (maybe) arrived. This is one of our twin cats, Pippin, crashed out in the shrubbery and savaging his favourite plant. As an old boy (fourteen on Monday), this is about as active as he gets. He and his brother just laze around all day and wander in at mealtimes as if they're long term residents of a hotel. And there had better be something decent on the menu or their disdain is palpable.<br /><br />As the saying goes "Dogs have owners. Cats have staff."<div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-style: italic;">— <a href="http://www.inwardeye.eu/">Kathryn Radmall</a></span><br /></div><div style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-style: italic;"> Screenwriter</span><br /></div>________________________________________________<br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Toronto, Ontario</span> <span style="font-style: italic;"><br />Canada</span> <span style="font-style: italic;"><br />GMT -5</span> <span style="font-style: italic;"><br />(11 a.m. local time)<br /><br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgN1Bn9GcBq8WvY5E19qG8oFp8_FE1JwbGZBGASocubBBkypIVwC59f6kdU3TBq-GXRKvjA2vpr6W44yT4w6YUwsQR7746kRL5vPpN2ijTHsMnJXWRbEwkSM1hOt4aVtsBtwjlFDhF3TWg/s1600-h/photo.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 475px; height: 633px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgN1Bn9GcBq8WvY5E19qG8oFp8_FE1JwbGZBGASocubBBkypIVwC59f6kdU3TBq-GXRKvjA2vpr6W44yT4w6YUwsQR7746kRL5vPpN2ijTHsMnJXWRbEwkSM1hOt4aVtsBtwjlFDhF3TWg/s400/photo.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5344000153358695522" border="0" /></a>'Shadetree mechanic' is a term that I have often wondered about. I mean, real mechanics have garages with lights, tools and important looking automotive bits, right?<br /><br />So on a lovely Saturday afternoon I find myself at a good friend's house for a barbeque.<br /><br />Next thing I know, we have his 76 MGB on stands (under a tree by the way) as we try to figure out why it is leaking gasoline.<br /><br />We are serious mechanics... look hard and you will notice the beer in my hand.<br /><br />All in all, a perfect summer day.<br /><div style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />— <a href="http://www.screenwritersedge.com/">Svet Rouskov</a></span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Screenwriter</span><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"> ________________________________________________<br /></div><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Manchester, England</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">GMT</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">(6 p.m., local time)<br /></span><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0_3dNXNn-J6XeWjNhRwEniSe4dExrbt2t5-5yE2MiVKsu25roAl72eYWVDasfA74T377pPKcW7NvaG2OfEAul_a308l4ji9EuXLH89usOlzUMchUVSzq1mK5P9Bgxb4PBbQIC_6BhtFA/s1600-h/100_1666.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 474px; height: 354px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0_3dNXNn-J6XeWjNhRwEniSe4dExrbt2t5-5yE2MiVKsu25roAl72eYWVDasfA74T377pPKcW7NvaG2OfEAul_a308l4ji9EuXLH89usOlzUMchUVSzq1mK5P9Bgxb4PBbQIC_6BhtFA/s400/100_1666.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5344000688891564258" border="0" /></a><span>From the road it's just another church.<br /><br />But then you notice the blue sky through the windows - looking in! The barbed wire that fences it off and the safety notice bolted to the locked gate.<br /><br />It was hit during WW2. All that remains is the front. Complete. Intact. Perfect.<br /><br />For years I've thought someone should film a zombie movie here. Y'know, the locked door that is really a portal to another time, the zombies trapped on the other side. They cross into our world one night when a bunch of partying kids break open the door.<br /><br />Oh yeah, Stockport Zombie hunters. Okay, one day I'll get a good title!</span><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /><br /></span><div style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-style: italic;">— Peter Spencer</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Screenwriter.</span><br /></div></div>________________________________________________<br /></div></div><br /></div><div style="text-align: right;"><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-style: italic;">New York, New York</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">United States</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">GMT - 5</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">(1 p.m. local time)</span><br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigWtqsQtyhFe5-2BVHwYFRFc8A_d3YeKqCIsQT-DYmh_LysQOgzySVP1yLK_5IqG_o8M5GrUWrH65rnWo0-PfeKNgRuO8EWNVqVGDGQw8bgF6EG097E-xV9nspAWv3NDGjjwQRuG628F4/s1600-h/0530_fullmural.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 475px; height: 356px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigWtqsQtyhFe5-2BVHwYFRFc8A_d3YeKqCIsQT-DYmh_LysQOgzySVP1yLK_5IqG_o8M5GrUWrH65rnWo0-PfeKNgRuO8EWNVqVGDGQw8bgF6EG097E-xV9nspAWv3NDGjjwQRuG628F4/s400/0530_fullmural.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5344001277775250850" border="0" /></a>I don't know if it's a commentary on me, my life(style) or just life in general in these United States, but despite the fact that it's almost a year to the day since I moved into my digs in Queens, I really haven't had a lot of time to explore the neighborhood. My job is in Manhattan, most of my socializing and extracurricular activities are in Manhattan, and during my "down" time, I often visit my family in New Jersey.<br /><br />So today, I decided to try and find the Sculpture Park, which is supposed to be lovely. I took a look on the internet, and set off, determined to find it, take some pictures, and still have time to meet up with a Manhattanite friend coming into Queens to eat at my favorite creperie. Of course, I don't find it. I didn't print out a map, and I have no sense of direction. But, in wandering around, I saw the Boys and Girls Club, which has this fantastic mural painted all along the wall. In the center are portraits of the five founders. All around them are the different activities you can partake of at the Club. I've included a close-up of a segment of the mural which I thought relevant to this blog: A girl on a computer, with an image of the world above her head. Macro and micro. Ah, the wonder and beauty of the internet.</div></div><div style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span><span style="font-style: italic;">— <a href="http://www.mkwriter.com/">Mrinalini Kamath</a></span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Playwright, Filmmaker</span><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">_____________________________________________<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: right;"><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Raleigh, North Carolina</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">United States</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">GMT - 5</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">(1 p.m. local time)</span><br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiotDyKfFKO6uTxk9QTpVGhU99fq1aJ9X6DsocQac8FIQo96pMYJ4CC83a3wkGJof9bYOVKt0SiuSnoxZOjjWKM9MoStOvp9MauTCNQm2Q3MoSRndF0wkX4g0b8Mh7_VxzoNzW7zc5SjfE/s1600-h/P5300025.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 476px; height: 411px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiotDyKfFKO6uTxk9QTpVGhU99fq1aJ9X6DsocQac8FIQo96pMYJ4CC83a3wkGJof9bYOVKt0SiuSnoxZOjjWKM9MoStOvp9MauTCNQm2Q3MoSRndF0wkX4g0b8Mh7_VxzoNzW7zc5SjfE/s400/P5300025.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5344001955941344818" border="0" /></a>Bright, sunny – summer like. Mr. Squirrel cools himself in the shade of a neighbor’s tree. Wary of the world that surrounds him. Oblivious to the wonders above. His loss.<br /><br />Happy Birthday, Art LaFlamme.<br /><br /></div></div><div style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-style: italic;">— </span><a style="font-style: italic;" href="http://www.schererjoyofwriting.com/">Michael Scherer</a><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Screenwriter</span><br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6KHrxz775xV7iVI0CejUy4OjEE7pkyuO7eniWfSiWMhcEHPQ28Kq_a7pMD45prGhd7oRfBfGwPmGV4xyMJFd6CSQjMLeQ_S-ybO7tYAfx22QZvbzHzvzF8W82AZe91YgImtla8B-K-ng/s1600-h/P5300021.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 475px; height: 370px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6KHrxz775xV7iVI0CejUy4OjEE7pkyuO7eniWfSiWMhcEHPQ28Kq_a7pMD45prGhd7oRfBfGwPmGV4xyMJFd6CSQjMLeQ_S-ybO7tYAfx22QZvbzHzvzF8W82AZe91YgImtla8B-K-ng/s400/P5300021.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5344001784237930146" border="0" /></a>_____________________________________________<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Westlake Village, California</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">United States<br /></span><span style="font-style: italic;">GMT - 8</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">(10 a.m. local time)</span><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmK1ecYDldqlNf4POp2HndnUMT7uRVBsjJlO2RiojWjD-ddBHEbSlurfxNjCNtSciSmtVJkXfLLGu8upBICcUYwsU0GOyjt2oil1QG_6cWrOHT8lKyKJ3rc96ze0n6Dj0pfoeCEFiTaXU/s1600-h/530+wlv.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 476px; height: 357px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmK1ecYDldqlNf4POp2HndnUMT7uRVBsjJlO2RiojWjD-ddBHEbSlurfxNjCNtSciSmtVJkXfLLGu8upBICcUYwsU0GOyjt2oil1QG_6cWrOHT8lKyKJ3rc96ze0n6Dj0pfoeCEFiTaXU/s400/530+wlv.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5344002656634515298" border="0" /></a><br />First pair of pointe shoes: a dream finally realized.<br /><br />She sewed them over the course of an hour with Broadway show tunes playing in the background, wearing the subsequent blisters like a badge of honor.<br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-style: italic;">— Pamela Schott </span><span style="font-style: italic;"><br />Author, Screenwriter</span><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><div style="text-align: center;">_____________________________________________<br /><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Royal Ville<br />Singapore<br /></span><span style="font-style: italic;">GMT + 8</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">(2 a.m. local time)<br /><br /></span><br /><div style="text-align: left;">Hmmm...What's that smell? Oh, it's 2am! As my blurry brain processes this information, my eyes refuse to open so I let my ears do the work. I know that the outside air is extremely humid so I'm very thankful for our air-conditioner, the best invention ever created by man. Meanwhile, out on the not-too-distant road beyond our apartment block, traffic still resonates albeit not as loud and chaotic as during the daytime. Still, people are out there going places, perhaps home after a night out or on the prowl to the next drinking den or on the way to Johore, the nearest Malaysian state just across the causeway. As they get on with the rest of the night, I drift back into sleep looking forward to a full Sunday with my family. Ah, that's the life!<br /><br /><br /></div></div><div style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-style: italic;">— Sonia Marzuki</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Freelance Writer, PR Consultant</span><br /></div>_____________________________________________<br /></div></div><div style="text-align: right;"><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div></div></div><span style="font-style: italic;">Tikrit</span><span style="font-style: italic;">, Iraq</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">GMT </span><span style="font-style: italic;">+ 3</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">(9 p.m. local time)<br /></span><br /><p style="text-align: left;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDheslqAxkQ4vPFuMCVcOWFWRk0UqWYSFBYPy27EekRjLcr2o1ewpT8BjrQdrpiQNL_FR13KVOSS7z6m1VYFLNItz14crhF3ygv7dK2sg-6TtkQ76GRxxl0ZSHcVLv2kIJ6NPi5oBDibw/s1600-h/DSC08727_2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 475px; height: 356px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDheslqAxkQ4vPFuMCVcOWFWRk0UqWYSFBYPy27EekRjLcr2o1ewpT8BjrQdrpiQNL_FR13KVOSS7z6m1VYFLNItz14crhF3ygv7dK2sg-6TtkQ76GRxxl0ZSHcVLv2kIJ6NPi5oBDibw/s400/DSC08727_2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5344003879166317058" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">Note: Art La Flamme is on leave from his duties in Tikrit, Iraq.<br /></span></p>The photo is actually by my son. We snuck out of the house early, while the ladies slept, and headed up to Tantalus for some photos. That's Diamondhead in the background, and beyond it is the Pacific. I could not be further from Iraq, if I tried -- physically, emotionally, or mentally. If this is what turning 40 is suppose to feel like, I can say that it's a good thing.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-style: italic;">— <a href="http://www.blog.artlaflamme.com/">Art La Flamme</a></span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Blogger/Army Serviceman</span><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">_____________________________________________<br /></div><br />Elsewhere in the world:<br /><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Australian Station</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Antarctica</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">GMT + 4</span> <span style="font-style: italic;"><br />(10 p.m. local time)</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhihK0kszcd6lSFjkNLIy4zDwSAX72wRCY9Bx8OUE71SAm8Hj4cI0oVAnyj6CgIyGlRMsT-E2FbxR5oscQOYTvfviU7KfDJJ4WDdMHv77u8wO8zbJgGCqxva5N6mwPOuROZBYH3gv_VXl0/s1600-h/530+Australia.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 473px; height: 376px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhihK0kszcd6lSFjkNLIy4zDwSAX72wRCY9Bx8OUE71SAm8Hj4cI0oVAnyj6CgIyGlRMsT-E2FbxR5oscQOYTvfviU7KfDJJ4WDdMHv77u8wO8zbJgGCqxva5N6mwPOuROZBYH3gv_VXl0/s400/530+Australia.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5344004374179247314" border="0" /></a><br /></div><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">_____________________________________________<br /></div><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Abbey Road</span> <span style="font-style: italic;"><br />London, England</span> <span style="font-style: italic;"><br />United Kingdom</span> <span style="font-style: italic;"><br />GMT</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">(6 p.m. local time)</span><br /></div><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9pK7HL08OmYjUIoXaVTh7HfcZKlPoBDdxnPxkWgDVhXv18q0viznorVf3D1-bV5Vh85-5k5ikWncwGMsRd6KmWo54BcKgKbQIhbqaBOpqTmnqavw32YQZJMWbB1QuGBXngngmgs8JITg/s1600-h/530+Abbey+Road.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 474px; height: 350px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9pK7HL08OmYjUIoXaVTh7HfcZKlPoBDdxnPxkWgDVhXv18q0viznorVf3D1-bV5Vh85-5k5ikWncwGMsRd6KmWo54BcKgKbQIhbqaBOpqTmnqavw32YQZJMWbB1QuGBXngngmgs8JITg/s400/530+Abbey+Road.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5344004695359100722" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">_____________________________________________</div><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Venice<br />Grand Canal<br />Italy</span> </div><span style="font-style: italic;">GMT +1</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">(6 p.m. local time)</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOUuB16GAslrcqmdR25XQVEL0ody90czn-UJGb5FE2d0FWCUuMv3w-IYQcMRYz_M7rTPD_4Qxx4_ax4hPmULuATeWJ7mzfPH8x7ePdcRYRasahrqxhfPwtV5X9SmlRiWyt6PxZF_5-rnM/s1600-h/530+venice.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 471px; height: 304px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOUuB16GAslrcqmdR25XQVEL0ody90czn-UJGb5FE2d0FWCUuMv3w-IYQcMRYz_M7rTPD_4Qxx4_ax4hPmULuATeWJ7mzfPH8x7ePdcRYRasahrqxhfPwtV5X9SmlRiWyt6PxZF_5-rnM/s400/530+venice.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5344005137495434514" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">_____________________________________________<br /><br /></div><span style="font-style: italic;">Paris, France</span> <span style="font-style: italic;"><br />GMT + 1</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">(7 p.m. local time)</span><br /></div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJU2xo88ooJ6F6FTzKSTfjgsEYOWknNDGM4ThPqIEfKP8-v45tKDbmTpBbsjNeqHaGQb43ijj2M6A7S3Q93XFd6PsgJ9TQBACzq39AocJGOYf7o6Xl0caYCfMTqq3U3XYLT8j3qeJpMyI/s1600-h/530+Notre+Dame.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 475px; height: 374px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJU2xo88ooJ6F6FTzKSTfjgsEYOWknNDGM4ThPqIEfKP8-v45tKDbmTpBbsjNeqHaGQb43ijj2M6A7S3Q93XFd6PsgJ9TQBACzq39AocJGOYf7o6Xl0caYCfMTqq3U3XYLT8j3qeJpMyI/s400/530+Notre+Dame.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5344005523628472818" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMPHbqrVH-7GyPLUXGumbiLKj0zpe7p-CLiu7PjwYCtsVcqoPvy1lWLD2_7CevfUzUwoTraAivRNVQJEW0s9eC3kWdRiIYFZDAe7w91JL2KZpL7WLUfExri-axwwaHdn1QBdK42BcwAaU/s1600-h/520+paris.jpg"><br /></a>Pamela Schotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13305551262035819359noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3578447199600774076.post-89554657095995481922009-05-29T08:46:00.000-07:002009-05-29T08:58:15.934-07:00showtimePosting has been light these past few weeks as I am co-directing our school's production of "Beauty and the Beast" this year, which has its first show today. Promise to return after the curtain falls with the latest date stamps, plus thoughts from production week, which will probably include entire paragraphs on how much I love the sound of children singing. <div><br /></div><div>(When they are in tune.) </div><div><br /></div><div>(Also? When they are not chewing gum.) </div><div><br /></div><div>(Which is a no-no on stage how many times do I have to say it and don't come crying to me when you asphyxiate during "Be Our Guest.")</div><div><br /></div><div>(Which is a real show-stopper, complete with kick line.)</div><div><br /></div><div>Back soon, certain as the sun.</div>Pamela Schotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13305551262035819359noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3578447199600774076.post-28712918194238831402009-05-26T13:57:00.000-07:002009-05-30T14:30:45.385-07:00date stamp: 5 p.m. gmt, may 20, 2009Helen Keller once observed that, "The world is moved along, not only by the mighty shoves of its heroes, but also by the aggregate of the tiny pushes of each honest worker." There may be heroes among this collection of date stampers (sometimes just facing the day is an act of heroism in and of itself), but as the images captured here at 5 p.m. GMT illustrate, there is no question that we are honest workers.<br /><br />This moment in time found one date stamper on a well-deserved break from the war in Iraq at home on Oahu, as two others in Shanghai and Singapore prepared for the next day's go 'round and tucked in for a toddler-induced sleep, respectively.<br /><br />In the western world, work days were just beginning, or already underway, and in between the administrivia that naturally punctuates more creative endeavors, date stampers took a break to tend to gardens, knead dough, grab a bite to eat, or just take a contemplative breath.<br /><br />We may, as Keller also noted, long to accomplish great and noble tasks. But as date stampers the world over demonstrated today, it seems that our chief duty is, in Keller's words, "to accomplish humble tasks as though they were great and noble."<br /><br />Say hello, then, to a great and noble world as it was observed on May 20, 2009:<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0dthjaQKPN9aGf-cZMgaUaNInTaHZ_zyRRC9nk9386FrD2O4hkrMvWLRTfp3yOFbwhXiuGCHvKDs8eIG5t9de1IPLSolZThvgr7Z7fJdespqpdu4dQZ133cDv7YWk56Phfwg6T08xLls/s1600-h/520+world+sunlight.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 561px; height: 308px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0dthjaQKPN9aGf-cZMgaUaNInTaHZ_zyRRC9nk9386FrD2O4hkrMvWLRTfp3yOFbwhXiuGCHvKDs8eIG5t9de1IPLSolZThvgr7Z7fJdespqpdu4dQZ133cDv7YWk56Phfwg6T08xLls/s400/520+world+sunlight.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5340251565157109650" border="0" /></a>________________________________________________<br /></div><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">London, England<br />GMT<br />(5 p.m., local time)<br /><br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFEDDIR5bKGIeP1LOCpOTf1x1GlnQuke4w7w0ZE6WlfkX7oTc7HNKaPvzpiHzTI4KbPm2z7mPIyIiivb6r35c__qbxS7UIZm9Tk3XqDpPOcWFIHlKOdOkLVisqZn7AwUWggkwToNZx4aM/s1600-h/Potato+Race.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 439px; height: 583px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFEDDIR5bKGIeP1LOCpOTf1x1GlnQuke4w7w0ZE6WlfkX7oTc7HNKaPvzpiHzTI4KbPm2z7mPIyIiivb6r35c__qbxS7UIZm9Tk3XqDpPOcWFIHlKOdOkLVisqZn7AwUWggkwToNZx4aM/s400/Potato+Race.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5340241156809500402" border="0" /></a><br />Well, the sun is just touching the treetops at the bottom of the garden and I'm making my rounds of the fruit and vegetables. In previous years I've just allowed the fruit trees - apple, apricot, cherry and plum, to go their own way. But now that I seem to have taken on my late father's gardening mantle, I'm paying closer attention to everything: checking for fruit-set or signs of disease and wondering if there will be enough grapes to produce a few bottles of wine.<br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span><br />I'm amazed at the speed that the sweetcorn, peppers and runner beans are growing and try vainly to keep the tomato vines under control. They're heading for the greenhouse roof with all the vigour of the plants that Dad used to grow as a market gardener. I hope he's cheering on my efforts, surprised and pleased, as I am, by the emergence of these three potato plants - Vivaldi, Red Duke of York and Charlotte.</span><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-style: italic;">— <a href="http://www.inwardeye.eu/">Kathryn Radmall</a></span><br /></div><div style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-style: italic;"> Screenwriter</span><br /></div>________________________________________________<br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Edinburgh, Scotland</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">United Kingdom</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">GMT</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">(5 p.m. local time)</span><br /></div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNF8frlfnHtPe6evuMTbRgoyJHLFiac-priBFZieaaI_zJWidt-Yi_UacS28gwCG-FA8v_-wo4QXOdPe_lPsXFwhPp-0LhfyeD7PaGE1Uhomec0evS22-Eq5sXgl_tjaOiQqY5sU2IksM/s1600-h/dough.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 437px; height: 290px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNF8frlfnHtPe6evuMTbRgoyJHLFiac-priBFZieaaI_zJWidt-Yi_UacS28gwCG-FA8v_-wo4QXOdPe_lPsXFwhPp-0LhfyeD7PaGE1Uhomec0evS22-Eq5sXgl_tjaOiQqY5sU2IksM/s400/dough.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5340241638555029314" border="0" /></a>I made some dough and left it to rise in the late afternoon sunshine. The resultant rolls it made were sweet and fluffy - the perfect accompaniment to our tofu burgers!<br /></div><div style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><br />— </span><a style="font-style: italic;" href="http://www.landerson.co.uk/">Laura Anderson</a> <span style="font-style: italic;"><br />Freelanc</span><span style="font-style: italic;">e Writer and </span><span style="font-style: italic;">Filmmaker</span><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">________________________________________________<br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Toronto, Ontario</span> <span style="font-style: italic;"><br />Canada</span> <span style="font-style: italic;"><br />GMT -5</span> <span style="font-style: italic;"><br />(10 a.m. local time)<br /><br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXTK5lnpmRl0kZ-KGMj7xvZFmBpflhFhdZGqycvxa-A6j6AfZpikGut-W03aLBJ-zauSNJE38gINqs0I79ookh6Zg_ZZXngaziR18_YDCUKL-4cwdJZ6OehpA2uSkjnhEVlzCTy7cOFDM/s1600-h/IMG_5428.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 437px; height: 327px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXTK5lnpmRl0kZ-KGMj7xvZFmBpflhFhdZGqycvxa-A6j6AfZpikGut-W03aLBJ-zauSNJE38gINqs0I79ookh6Zg_ZZXngaziR18_YDCUKL-4cwdJZ6OehpA2uSkjnhEVlzCTy7cOFDM/s400/IMG_5428.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5340246084296304914" border="0" /></a>An unremarkable moment for this date stamp...<br />In a regular hum-drum meeting...<br />Looking out a window and wondering...<br />'Is there more to life than this?'<br />'Are we alone in the Universe?'<br />'What is our purpose in this life?'<br />'I wonder what's for dinner?' ... and back to work I go.<span style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span> ________________________________________________<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Manchester, England</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">GMT</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">(5 p.m., local time)<br /></span><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTJQ-iOK5eD_ADizTT9QlsanAMyzMRE4P1n8zyG5Yxu_f_KX4G-nR9tKRvWJW-dtx1qo63ud3SBZK17q1E8116iQJ1bKcTsZKcg63feJBfbyZfx1MTx4gv2TNFL35_bRQ_6sQ2_3u0hFs/s1600-h/100_1662.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 441px; height: 330px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTJQ-iOK5eD_ADizTT9QlsanAMyzMRE4P1n8zyG5Yxu_f_KX4G-nR9tKRvWJW-dtx1qo63ud3SBZK17q1E8116iQJ1bKcTsZKcg63feJBfbyZfx1MTx4gv2TNFL35_bRQ_6sQ2_3u0hFs/s400/100_1662.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5340241949761071698" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />As captured by Peter Spencer, Screenwriter.</span><br /></div>________________________________________________<br /></div></div><br /></div><div style="text-align: right;"><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-style: italic;">New York, New York</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">United States</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">GMT - 5</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">(12 p.m. local time)</span><br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjffESGI4b7qi3nMQ6T2egBTUh8X5j8AqKwgHpkEmvZlTJl51COK2AOcBqMeNuPPtzOPBqNum9MfCEriZwPXGFny8axjooqWVDqlOp6uZDaKFYAXkHoeUk-a4UD03EiSr7oIMb5kVnv3AE/s1600-h/datestamp_052109.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 439px; height: 329px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjffESGI4b7qi3nMQ6T2egBTUh8X5j8AqKwgHpkEmvZlTJl51COK2AOcBqMeNuPPtzOPBqNum9MfCEriZwPXGFny8axjooqWVDqlOp6uZDaKFYAXkHoeUk-a4UD03EiSr7oIMb5kVnv3AE/s400/datestamp_052109.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5340242372074096754" border="0" /></a>Today turned out to be an unwanted day off (i.e., unpaid), so I started off the day by doing my laundry. As I passed the Ukrainian Catholic Church on the way to the laundromat, I noticed the three mosaics on the front. The picture doesn't do it justice. It's much gold-er looking, and alas, the tall building across the street blocks the sun from really hitting it and making it truly sparkle, but it's still a beautiful work of art that I'm sure church-goers find inspirational. In fact, when I passed by on my way back from the laundromat (still before 12 noon) I saw that an ice cream truck driver had parked his truck by the church and was standing in front, praying (the gates were locked). An interesting Queens scene.</div></div><div style="text-align: right;"><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /><br /></span></div><span style="font-style: italic;">— <a href="http://www.mkwriter.com/">Mrinalini Kamath</a></span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Playwright, Filmmaker</span><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">_____________________________________________<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: right;"><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Raleigh, North Carolina</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">United States</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">GMT - 5</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">(12 a.m. local time)</span><br /></div><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span><div style="text-align: left;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgd14-XBE0FLN-gBG99mZfThrN2D23KGIIua-e4xFkUR2OSwiv9o65bbkwXdAuYz9wvIdTUUvwCNm7oCS9YeldOlS413oa6iq9nBa_IftpIzgMxFGTL0QK1CbtWsZFinVfh5L_Cu3QF_to/s1600-h/mike_scherer_052009B.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 256px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgd14-XBE0FLN-gBG99mZfThrN2D23KGIIua-e4xFkUR2OSwiv9o65bbkwXdAuYz9wvIdTUUvwCNm7oCS9YeldOlS413oa6iq9nBa_IftpIzgMxFGTL0QK1CbtWsZFinVfh5L_Cu3QF_to/s400/mike_scherer_052009B.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5340242853823077938" border="0" /></a>A day of meetings. One runs into the next. The morning... becomes a blur. Time flies when you’re having fun? Run out, grab a bite, run back, continue to work. Another Power Lunch at the bottom of the Food Chain.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><br /></div></div><div style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-style: italic;">— </span><a style="font-style: italic;" href="http://www.schererjoyofwriting.com/">Michael Scherer</a><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Screenwriter</span><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"> _____________________________________________<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Louisville, Kentucky</span><span style="font-style: italic;"><br />United </span><span style="font-style: italic;">States<br /></span><span style="font-style: italic;">GMT - 5</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">(12 a.m. local time)<br /></span></div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDkSpSQfxTg9dLa3HZDsOUYQjMvFu0SsTKCP-jLQEzovx1rvEWG-5ME9D_WP8tESIoVyg5p4br0yzneyUUGsxIyM5SJgFB9hO8UTxMA9vWYWIbXln565yJu5UKHFgxfLnJrfkFY2rXVeY/s1600-h/datestamp.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 436px; height: 581px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDkSpSQfxTg9dLa3HZDsOUYQjMvFu0SsTKCP-jLQEzovx1rvEWG-5ME9D_WP8tESIoVyg5p4br0yzneyUUGsxIyM5SJgFB9hO8UTxMA9vWYWIbXln565yJu5UKHFgxfLnJrfkFY2rXVeY/s400/datestamp.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5340243268675056674" border="0" /></a>Fullness of day met vulnerably, its loveliness revealed as an orange, peeled and sectioned, through threshold and window lattice. Mouths of words<br />sweetening home.<br /><div style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><br />— Jeanne Hammond</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Screenwriter</span><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">_____________________________________________<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Westlake Village, California</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">United States<br /></span><span style="font-style: italic;">GMT - 8</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">(9 a.m. local time)</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaqRBixdLXmR5RM4uLyc9Q0JAXcRO0PbZx94QeADlZ5gCRgGruOBkn9C-wweA65NGkXnCvcAEqFu2ddT7kyNOWPEjuOL1If4U6YJkpuAf62yifbGMs5phrdqehEj_wOaisFXJLLBkJ9DE/s1600-h/wlv+date+stamp+520.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 434px; height: 325px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaqRBixdLXmR5RM4uLyc9Q0JAXcRO0PbZx94QeADlZ5gCRgGruOBkn9C-wweA65NGkXnCvcAEqFu2ddT7kyNOWPEjuOL1If4U6YJkpuAf62yifbGMs5phrdqehEj_wOaisFXJLLBkJ9DE/s400/wlv+date+stamp+520.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5340244027740830610" border="0" /></a><br />Poolside, both girls at school, the day just warming up. An hour carved out to work on the manuscript, then time for yoga. Hollywood cliché? Hardly. Except for the pedicure, which you've only recently started splurging on, you started your "hot yoga" practice back in the hot and steamy mid-west, some eight years ago. The writing started there as well, and quickly blossomed into a suitcase-full of dreams so large, you had to sit on it to get it to zip closed, way back in 2003 when you decided to air those dreams out in the bright SoCal sunshine. Six years on, and the dreams have not lost their luster. In fact, they're even juicier than when you first conceived of them, if not yet quite ripe. You'd like them to be (ripe, that is), but what do you know? For all the dues paid and time you put into it, you're still an amateur.<br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-style: italic;">— Pamela Schott </span><span style="font-style: italic;"><br />Author, Screenwriter</span><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><div style="text-align: center;">_____________________________________________<br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: right;"><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Beijing, China</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">GMT + 8</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">(1 a.m. local time)</span><br /></div><span style="font-style: italic;"></span><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: right;"><div style="text-align: left;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZDF450txoHBc5o9cVvmHpPIfC9GAesTyImlb9UGXtEFC6iYtTZ0-iG6wJiF9clbJFhLz_UwOeWE06eXR74zg_VRxbif3mNwiVkZaYtIjISMv71A9U-OOnWBbm5GV9E39ZWqYXSofzx_4/s1600-h/STA_2268_2.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 435px; height: 326px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZDF450txoHBc5o9cVvmHpPIfC9GAesTyImlb9UGXtEFC6iYtTZ0-iG6wJiF9clbJFhLz_UwOeWE06eXR74zg_VRxbif3mNwiVkZaYtIjISMv71A9U-OOnWBbm5GV9E39ZWqYXSofzx_4/s400/STA_2268_2.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5340248679442467474" border="0" /></a>Eat and learn.... When we were getting ready to move to Shanghai from Louisville, Kentucky, we were advised by other expats to bring as much of our favorite U.S.-snacks as possible as they might not be available in China. Or, if they were, they'd be expensive — at least twice the U.S. price. It's hard to pay nearly $5 U.S. dollars for a bag of goldfish crackers, when I was paying $1.69 in the States. It doesn't matter how much my three kids beg me to buy them. I started exploring the local supermarket for alternatives. Through constant buying and trying, I've found some great snacks not just from China, but other countries as well. The mini ice cream cones in the photo are a very popular brand in the U.K. The muesli from Germany is excellent with the locally made peach yogurt. The chocolate-coated digestive cracker from Korea is not too sweet and has great chocolate flavor. The red bean mochi from Taiwan, while not as good as freshly-made, are still tasty. The foods themselves are not so different from what we ate in the U.S., yet the unfamiliar characters or different words on the packaging spark conversations among my children about where the food could be from. Snack time then turns in to a mini geography lesson, and all of a sudden we're learning about the rest of the world — one snack at a time.<br /><span style="font-style: italic;"></span></div><span style="font-style: italic;"><br />— Ginley Regencia</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"> </span></div></div></div>_______________________________________________<br /><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Royal Ville<br />Singapore<br /></span><span style="font-style: italic;">GMT + 8</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">(1 a.m. local time)<br /><br /></span><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQy35O-O6Vs19Xm5QxWUocjc6tx0TEu5zcLJLrvsefh_79yaYMQ1jjFhmTGcBuh_FL_ATg-kSGZ0rm6hKjtX7ieI0-ITRqaMEk-6AA4r2cwJgoNRAoNQleZxw9dAs2ihIAkUKLDj8WqLQ/s1600-h/21052009.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 439px; height: 329px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQy35O-O6Vs19Xm5QxWUocjc6tx0TEu5zcLJLrvsefh_79yaYMQ1jjFhmTGcBuh_FL_ATg-kSGZ0rm6hKjtX7ieI0-ITRqaMEk-6AA4r2cwJgoNRAoNQleZxw9dAs2ihIAkUKLDj8WqLQ/s400/21052009.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5340249237850682994" border="0" /></a>While people are wrapping up their days at GMT 5pm, our little corner of Singapore is asleep...well, almost! The whole world seems ensconced in darkness and the only things visible are the time on the clock radio and the lights on the baby monitor. It's nice basking in the silence of the night after a chaotic day of toddler activities, daily chores and American Idol. See you in the morning Singapore.<br /><br /></div></div><div style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-style: italic;">— Sonia Marzuki</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Freelance Writer, PR Consultant</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"></span></div>_____________________________________________<br /></div></div><div style="text-align: right;"><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div></div></div><span style="font-style: italic;">Tikrit</span><span style="font-style: italic;">, Iraq</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">GMT </span><span style="font-style: italic;">+ 3</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">(8 p.m. local time)<br /></span><br /><p style="text-align: left;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDjn9-t10_usyTQ8unaj0NjNcnmcMirfbASR0OYDYB28X_cc9y6BfVH0PokVJ3WvpLIWcxxcgl5tau2KTbCZQtIAsZmY7t72vIm9oDvTkaqa9YlUc7ICzjMbiq0_zjgBh2bHIMYC27aSI/s1600-h/la+flamme+520.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 438px; height: 333px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDjn9-t10_usyTQ8unaj0NjNcnmcMirfbASR0OYDYB28X_cc9y6BfVH0PokVJ3WvpLIWcxxcgl5tau2KTbCZQtIAsZmY7t72vIm9oDvTkaqa9YlUc7ICzjMbiq0_zjgBh2bHIMYC27aSI/s400/la+flamme+520.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5340247383416719522" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">Note: Art La Flamme is on leave from his duties in Tikrit, Iraq. This photo was taken from his home on base at Oahu, Hawai'i.</span><br /></p><div style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-style: italic;">— <a href="http://www.blog.artlaflamme.com/">Art La Flamme</a></span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Blogger/Army Serviceman</span><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">_____________________________________________<br /></div><br />Elsewhere in the world:<br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;">Panama Canal, Panama<br />United States<br />GMT - 8<br />(9 a.m. local time)<br /></div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEx5noZCBVmGhv4u2FdihQbf7DYfiyk87lfHt5BFvwftejS9QhIDvVTdLFUT1kMo5oekEwT6BG01KLAN3evxLHOR290g3p_wScNxUiU4yTFVG5niCsfOh-QT331u9PKid3eBMrePVcbzI/s1600-h/520+panama+cana.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 438px; height: 262px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEx5noZCBVmGhv4u2FdihQbf7DYfiyk87lfHt5BFvwftejS9QhIDvVTdLFUT1kMo5oekEwT6BG01KLAN3evxLHOR290g3p_wScNxUiU4yTFVG5niCsfOh-QT331u9PKid3eBMrePVcbzI/s400/520+panama+cana.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5340250504691232594" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><br /><br /><br />Australian Station<br />Antarctica<br />GMT + 4<br />(9 p.m. local time)<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRUDaESs5EYEBJCE5ZnA20cm2nF6c0fMeYfgGYKjuawMv-gdA8DRUs40OPPwURFS5_zk03xuOhBsXtaHZ3LcqCMVz9DzwvDCpHgLrIHOf0K9-4d3ZAAALOYDEKyfT_BOUit_wOV195QP0/s1600-h/520+australia.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 438px; height: 346px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRUDaESs5EYEBJCE5ZnA20cm2nF6c0fMeYfgGYKjuawMv-gdA8DRUs40OPPwURFS5_zk03xuOhBsXtaHZ3LcqCMVz9DzwvDCpHgLrIHOf0K9-4d3ZAAALOYDEKyfT_BOUit_wOV195QP0/s400/520+australia.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5340250659161876642" border="0" /></a><br /></div><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><br />Abbey Road<br />London, England<br />United Kingdom<br />GMT<br />(5 p.m. local time)<br /></div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWs5CGzob-M1W0Ld93dJuPeefSJXdRtX5muqPsPNzURYf4c2cVJksW53ToRsCeXgoBkeyvyt9BcseUUd8sOuPnK3m_jk2IFyPBlvoLzzrS20Vy6GaRHL1S875nVa5W3KEo9ORJVZ3Ocfg/s1600-h/520+abbey+road.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 439px; height: 323px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWs5CGzob-M1W0Ld93dJuPeefSJXdRtX5muqPsPNzURYf4c2cVJksW53ToRsCeXgoBkeyvyt9BcseUUd8sOuPnK3m_jk2IFyPBlvoLzzrS20Vy6GaRHL1S875nVa5W3KEo9ORJVZ3Ocfg/s400/520+abbey+road.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5340250825503022674" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Venice Grand Canal, Italy<br /></div>GMT +1<br />(5 p.m. local time)<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirrEL9hyphenhyphenfbyA3klMRNieY6QuVty_m6pLxzzuE8zcbeMm-onJl5_qjXQE6vcXwy3dHVX3HuibyMNHxSgDbm3mxQDZbbznI-UJLmdxMgVA3LPYVkecqujHlc8eKWo-FD8ICMQ87NCM0u8WU/s1600-h/520+venice.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 440px; height: 285px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirrEL9hyphenhyphenfbyA3klMRNieY6QuVty_m6pLxzzuE8zcbeMm-onJl5_qjXQE6vcXwy3dHVX3HuibyMNHxSgDbm3mxQDZbbznI-UJLmdxMgVA3LPYVkecqujHlc8eKWo-FD8ICMQ87NCM0u8WU/s400/520+venice.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5340251118617551906" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Paris, France<br />GMT + 1<br />(6 p.m. local time)<br /></div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMPHbqrVH-7GyPLUXGumbiLKj0zpe7p-CLiu7PjwYCtsVcqoPvy1lWLD2_7CevfUzUwoTraAivRNVQJEW0s9eC3kWdRiIYFZDAe7w91JL2KZpL7WLUfExri-axwwaHdn1QBdK42BcwAaU/s1600-h/520+paris.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 439px; height: 346px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMPHbqrVH-7GyPLUXGumbiLKj0zpe7p-CLiu7PjwYCtsVcqoPvy1lWLD2_7CevfUzUwoTraAivRNVQJEW0s9eC3kWdRiIYFZDAe7w91JL2KZpL7WLUfExri-axwwaHdn1QBdK42BcwAaU/s400/520+paris.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5340251282519995074" border="0" /></a>Pamela Schotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13305551262035819359noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3578447199600774076.post-10479110211348138462009-05-11T14:02:00.000-07:002009-05-29T09:01:09.007-07:00date stamp: 4 p.m., april 30, 2009<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUEcgv9c-a9Jgqq6L65vgZ-WDHaxii4VEDGSuM4gySa8F16z7yYVeP993n3G6pmmOVhBEeR8g6tSidHUumz79wOhrqx7UBsJNUvD35EwKrXVTdl1v-Zt9KgvthJ5h-TGMlB3zwWaxBUgA/s1600-h/430+sunlight+.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 204px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUEcgv9c-a9Jgqq6L65vgZ-WDHaxii4VEDGSuM4gySa8F16z7yYVeP993n3G6pmmOVhBEeR8g6tSidHUumz79wOhrqx7UBsJNUvD35EwKrXVTdl1v-Zt9KgvthJ5h-TGMlB3zwWaxBUgA/s400/430+sunlight+.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5335784719711640242" border="0" /></a><br />The last day of April 2009, and date stampers from around the world filed mundane (not to say boring) reports that indicated that, media hand-wringing to the contrary, life was carrying on, the sky (as true blue in Scotland as any ever witnessed) was not falling, and people from all over the world were placing one foot in front of the other and getting on with the day. Much like one American soldier in the middle of a troubled, ancient desert had done on his daily run.<br /><br />There was work to be done, a child to be delivered to school, pastures to be grazed. And so it was, and she was, and they were. Nothing out of the ordinary, nothing glamorous or Earth shattering. And yet. It is in the simplicity of each of these reports that the pulse of the world is detected, a quiet, constant, steady rhythm, proof if ever it was needed (which is more and more these days, it would seem) that all is well.<br /><br /> <br /><span style="font-style: italic;">London, England<br />GMT<br />(4 p.m., local time)<br /></span><span><br /></span><div style="text-align: left;"><span><br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1wahXyYBkeBbSMi1lBQ-ycgnaCy-pz4eYwtr-Lb-xBMcPlBCN10Kct4RCLQeJXp09AfuhagFyd75PZck11NBt01laWABC5xNgv5oRSg2XQSz-ekbgeFW2nTIvWSbkyfgc9tv5kYOFxlg/s1600-h/Freds+opinion.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 436px; height: 328px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1wahXyYBkeBbSMi1lBQ-ycgnaCy-pz4eYwtr-Lb-xBMcPlBCN10Kct4RCLQeJXp09AfuhagFyd75PZck11NBt01laWABC5xNgv5oRSg2XQSz-ekbgeFW2nTIvWSbkyfgc9tv5kYOFxlg/s400/Freds+opinion.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5334679705012647170" border="0" /></a><span>Well, as befits the run up to a Bank Holiday, the weather is gearing down for the occasion - pretty overcast and a bit chilly, so I'm indoors tidying up my storyboard files. Fred, my very able artist's model was pressed into service for the fight scenes and is now offering his opinion on the resulting sketches.<br /><br /><br /></span><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-style: italic;">— <a href="http://www.inwardeye.eu/">Kathryn Radmall</a></span><br /></div><div style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-style: italic;"> Screenwriter</span><br /></div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span></div>________________________________________________<br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Edinburgh, Scotland</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">United Kingdom</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">GMT</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">(4 p.m. local time)</span><br /></div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoVSfMeSQsKFESkLj1cF1vw1uYZx4lPhXnQe2gMZsWUb5y0CkuwwH-vhwMfYdlwRyWRDmNYL-U2Eb6XJNvY-Zin-WfWT0BkcOB4hdt_AzBAw8Qj5sDfFBkJHRydViMWJ47Mfk_CwEfnd4/s1600-h/clouds.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 438px; height: 290px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoVSfMeSQsKFESkLj1cF1vw1uYZx4lPhXnQe2gMZsWUb5y0CkuwwH-vhwMfYdlwRyWRDmNYL-U2Eb6XJNvY-Zin-WfWT0BkcOB4hdt_AzBAw8Qj5sDfFBkJHRydViMWJ47Mfk_CwEfnd4/s400/clouds.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5334679624545109730" border="0" /></a>I spent the day writing and doing admin tasks, taking breaks to stare out of the window and up at the clouds.<br /></div><div style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><br />— </span><a style="font-style: italic;" href="http://www.landerson.co.uk/">Laura Anderson</a> <span style="font-style: italic;"><br />Freelanc</span><span style="font-style: italic;">e Writer and </span><span style="font-style: italic;">Filmmaker</span><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">________________________________________________<br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Manchester, England</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">GMT</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">(4 p.m., local time)<br /><br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAIp8RTI4MyYZvwnzPPSjt4XhPhiqgsOTuT1HlG4z0tNEtO3_1UyXSuGrxlxD6ILnlAuwqU6kmfVOKx-DQo9Z_yLLhvD-07H5I2qICEyD4NrvgV1pVqEVzw25f4-OW1VTE37GKXJWehuI/s1600-h/MVP+007.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 432px; height: 324px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAIp8RTI4MyYZvwnzPPSjt4XhPhiqgsOTuT1HlG4z0tNEtO3_1UyXSuGrxlxD6ILnlAuwqU6kmfVOKx-DQo9Z_yLLhvD-07H5I2qICEyD4NrvgV1pVqEVzw25f4-OW1VTE37GKXJWehuI/s400/MVP+007.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5334679969862665394" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-style: italic;">As captured by Peter Spencer, Screenwriter.</span><br /></div>________________________________________________<br /></div></div><br /></div><div style="text-align: right;"><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-style: italic;">New York, New York</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">United States</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">GMT - 5</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">(11 a.m. local time)</span><br /></div><br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: right;"><div style="text-align: left;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizsm7DYR-bS4Ev3iAEZZcfNwqbtELErDZNoOO9_BZIbjK0p4S9M9-cZgG8a9aYIEPE1I_9qNzh921zy8hzY89tPNAinZbNdpLfy1mmPKVN3Lb03-U-vzyfmMkgezFttFFWsJEhaKXNKA4/s1600-h/phone_043009.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 437px; height: 327px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizsm7DYR-bS4Ev3iAEZZcfNwqbtELErDZNoOO9_BZIbjK0p4S9M9-cZgG8a9aYIEPE1I_9qNzh921zy8hzY89tPNAinZbNdpLfy1mmPKVN3Lb03-U-vzyfmMkgezFttFFWsJEhaKXNKA4/s400/phone_043009.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5334680138096961266" border="0" /></a>Well, 11:00 is when the phones are turned on at my job, so here's the phone. To the right you'll see the wall of the cubicle - not quite sure why there's a bottle of white-out behind the phone (I don't think I've used white-out since college). This is the moment before the onslaught - the first two hours are always the busiest. Lucky for me that with the economy being the way it is, people are still interested in going to the theatre at all.<span style="font-style: italic;"><br /><br /></span></div><span style="font-style: italic;">— <a href="http://www.mkwriter.com/">Mrinalini Kamath</a></span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Playwright, Filmmaker</span><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">_____________________________________________<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: right;"><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Raleigh, North Carolina</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">United States</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">GMT - 5</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">(11 a.m. local time)</span><br /></div><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5scPNr92monXd8WSK2vNWjMsFWl0sgnEJN5XBcTRzy70heD8xqQO4zx4fsIj4T_Moy0IRoIZDNF058nKfJePcUsNDqxFlWUb6o2-hUC5DOPyxkJabZn-RloYrq2k19yXjfdRlUkzer2s/s1600-h/MikeScherer_043009.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 437px; height: 277px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5scPNr92monXd8WSK2vNWjMsFWl0sgnEJN5XBcTRzy70heD8xqQO4zx4fsIj4T_Moy0IRoIZDNF058nKfJePcUsNDqxFlWUb6o2-hUC5DOPyxkJabZn-RloYrq2k19yXjfdRlUkzer2s/s400/MikeScherer_043009.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5334679801863818690" border="0" /></a>Another day — another 50¢ (and that’s before taxes).<br /><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><br /></div></div><div style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-style: italic;">— </span><a style="font-style: italic;" href="http://www.schererjoyofwriting.com/">Michael Scherer</a><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Screenwriter</span><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"> _____________________________________________<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Louisville, Kentucky</span><span style="font-style: italic;"><br />United </span><span style="font-style: italic;">States<br /></span><span style="font-style: italic;">GMT - 5</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">(11 a.m. local time)<br /></span></div><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXi511eBwWgB9oDnO2vgGuiW5E9LkoQhRcagEBI0Q1WtX64fjITDnJnqFeiIwoQblkrMgPTGWf06bjH6fFsp0voeYAXcEERrJ87XnNr-g1Bs2aGBYnLlOQ2VOCuAiMvTS9gd54gY_gc_s/s1600-h/2009+Apr+30+-+Churchill+Downs,+Soccer+009.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 437px; height: 327px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXi511eBwWgB9oDnO2vgGuiW5E9LkoQhRcagEBI0Q1WtX64fjITDnJnqFeiIwoQblkrMgPTGWf06bjH6fFsp0voeYAXcEERrJ87XnNr-g1Bs2aGBYnLlOQ2VOCuAiMvTS9gd54gY_gc_s/s400/2009+Apr+30+-+Churchill+Downs,+Soccer+009.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5334679417463093490" border="0" /></a>Today is two days before the 135th Kentucky Derby. A former Derby horse, Perfect Drift, grazes by a parking lot at Churchill Downs. If memory serves, he came in third in the 2002 race. I thought, how wonderful to have already completed your best run!<br /><div style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><br />— Jeanne Hammond</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Screenwriter</span><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">_____________________________________________<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Westlake Village, California</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">United States<br /></span><span style="font-style: italic;">GMT - 8</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">(8 a.m. local time)</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPmVJu_BflKz8uWjA9S3waLx4iGRW2lFKvGSHqqXiZv2i7u_Db2p4AYuC4sLcdwwyTZFgIODR4H2OPLXHMZpfMf3MGzK4nES2wUp3UL8cFbrlj54OqrK83fBCgzBC9ZHdXZ7A2JLSlBXY/s1600-h/430+julia.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 439px; height: 530px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPmVJu_BflKz8uWjA9S3waLx4iGRW2lFKvGSHqqXiZv2i7u_Db2p4AYuC4sLcdwwyTZFgIODR4H2OPLXHMZpfMf3MGzK4nES2wUp3UL8cFbrlj54OqrK83fBCgzBC9ZHdXZ7A2JLSlBXY/s400/430+julia.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5334685422107078258" border="0" /></a>This image perfectly captures the last four years. Sunlight pouring out of the east, lighting the way to school (straight ahead for five blocks), or the ocean (turn right at the stop light).<br /><br />Every day without fail, we've walked this way, back pack and brown bag lunch in hand, Lucy on leash. You feel privileged to be so close to school that you can avoid carpool lines and frantic SUVs altogether, glad of the time you have with her to talk about the dreams she had the night before, and the ones she has for the rest of her life.<br /><br />With the all the <a href="http://pamelaschott.blogspot.com/2009/05/suspended-animation.html">uncertainty</a> you're currently facing, you feel even more profoundly these moments together as you push forward into a new day, pushing away thoughts of scarcity, of ruin and disappointment. <span style="font-style: italic;">This</span> is all there is. This moment, right now. Everything else is illusion. And for that you are so grateful.<br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-style: italic;">— Pamela Schott </span><span style="font-style: italic;"><br />Author, Screenwriter</span><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><div style="text-align: center;">_____________________________________________<br /></div></div><div style="text-align: right;"><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div></div></div><span style="font-style: italic;">Tikrit</span><span style="font-style: italic;">, Iraq</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">GMT </span><span style="font-style: italic;">+ 3</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">(7 p.m. local time)<br /></span><br /><p style="text-align: left;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDZ9bPrxX68p8JdPzzsfoh5VdtDYZjXwMwDCAsKfEc2i_jXQ_bM-GVXCkWmen81NJ6YixOtE2VeC0kKrqaMQlhPh485v9nKv1N4rPKAycPe1bbS_da_6MzhPhdOoiWlTN5Bba4HryWHFU/s1600-h/The+Battered+Feet+of+Mine.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 439px; height: 616px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDZ9bPrxX68p8JdPzzsfoh5VdtDYZjXwMwDCAsKfEc2i_jXQ_bM-GVXCkWmen81NJ6YixOtE2VeC0kKrqaMQlhPh485v9nKv1N4rPKAycPe1bbS_da_6MzhPhdOoiWlTN5Bba4HryWHFU/s400/The+Battered+Feet+of+Mine.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5334683975556585202" border="0" /></a>5 days, 4 runs, 30 miles. My soles are like alligator skin. I managed to get a blister on the arch of my foot. And I have a blister on a blister, on a blister that has now popped.<br /><br />But these aren't complaints; this is my reality. I'm a runner, and these things won't stop me.<br /><br /></p><div style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-style: italic;">— <a href="http://www.blog.artlaflamme.com/">Art La Flamme</a></span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Blogger/Army Serviceman</span><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">_____________________________________________<br /></div><br />Elsewhere in the world:<br /><br /><div style="text-align: right; font-style: italic;"><div style="text-align: left;">Panama Canal, Panama<br />United States<br />GMT - 8<br />(8 a.m. local time)<br /></div><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0l_YuJwn3ATFxRtXNM56lTYHfCKjBOccGG7hSgsBODrEczOUz1lsYWxPCCRshET3Cd1ExCDJVZp5t0Yt7UZqupWnHbq8xX2m7Qlg2RfhngM0Hft-IBKpmHeT0xP2KM2tqZJaZOeV0cPU/s1600-h/430+Panama+Canal.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 423px; height: 256px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0l_YuJwn3ATFxRtXNM56lTYHfCKjBOccGG7hSgsBODrEczOUz1lsYWxPCCRshET3Cd1ExCDJVZp5t0Yt7UZqupWnHbq8xX2m7Qlg2RfhngM0Hft-IBKpmHeT0xP2KM2tqZJaZOeV0cPU/s400/430+Panama+Canal.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5334681601825201426" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><br /><br /><br />Australian Station<br />Antarctica<br />GMT + 4<br />(8 p.m. local time)<br /><br /><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7XDxrXO0IL224QKM6MrrtL_K-Mwk_9DIG6s5QqdInWx9SZs00gN4Iavd_8K3Tvs2WBn5L9mbKPOQZv2UxJQYAcF09DAeEFcFOgTs7JXyT5nZ7VksnvvAjLlyILN1MKebVumwsYHk7_Wk/s1600-h/430+Antarctica.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 436px; height: 341px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7XDxrXO0IL224QKM6MrrtL_K-Mwk_9DIG6s5QqdInWx9SZs00gN4Iavd_8K3Tvs2WBn5L9mbKPOQZv2UxJQYAcF09DAeEFcFOgTs7JXyT5nZ7VksnvvAjLlyILN1MKebVumwsYHk7_Wk/s400/430+Antarctica.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5334681527607409138" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><br />Abbey Road<br />London, England<br />United Kingdom<br />GMT<br />(4 p.m. local time)<br /></div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwSF6RjmBsmPxjUNmL8TlL7echaDzlcn5f-XATXSDQYYYR0QEcg26BHpOwxuv2aLWcOJOrdFZrO-zpixfYm0AksFt5wRwouIPFKXivgt_JZa2zwjsW7D76eJlzAKYxCgYLVXW99J1a40s/s1600-h/430+Abbey+Road.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 437px; height: 321px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwSF6RjmBsmPxjUNmL8TlL7echaDzlcn5f-XATXSDQYYYR0QEcg26BHpOwxuv2aLWcOJOrdFZrO-zpixfYm0AksFt5wRwouIPFKXivgt_JZa2zwjsW7D76eJlzAKYxCgYLVXW99J1a40s/s400/430+Abbey+Road.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5334681392055368866" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: left;">Paris, France<br />GMT + 1<br />(5 p.m. local time)<br /></div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwTTlBLNKyJs5vKnbO55sOqCTrVZC3yzA_aUC83R-Z-mE7TZcsM5l-iKMst5-e8SurqwMUCAiXSRA9-sTtfGHTxSZpkKiQFalu9b_34KcJsB3bq0HR46wyVhCLiN7TlQwY7GQu1igYezg/s1600-h/430+Paris.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 437px; height: 350px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwTTlBLNKyJs5vKnbO55sOqCTrVZC3yzA_aUC83R-Z-mE7TZcsM5l-iKMst5-e8SurqwMUCAiXSRA9-sTtfGHTxSZpkKiQFalu9b_34KcJsB3bq0HR46wyVhCLiN7TlQwY7GQu1igYezg/s400/430+Paris.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5334681670910984146" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></div>Pamela Schotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13305551262035819359noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3578447199600774076.post-28283561070904675312009-05-11T09:36:00.000-07:002009-06-17T10:44:31.581-07:00suspended animation<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5HET5g6FwLJuGcX9erqJy2bUepRU3mboinAUaiGd1J8p6wvV7nOrpZYTR3lKISXHQnKqqNJB-bZV_DG4xOVqrE35uzrb3UYB12PVtiCDiOdhXgpi8t3Ls55nHelXp5Y8YevGWwOQNTKM/s1600-h/under+the+olive+tree.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 391px; height: 521px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5HET5g6FwLJuGcX9erqJy2bUepRU3mboinAUaiGd1J8p6wvV7nOrpZYTR3lKISXHQnKqqNJB-bZV_DG4xOVqrE35uzrb3UYB12PVtiCDiOdhXgpi8t3Ls55nHelXp5Y8YevGWwOQNTKM/s400/under+the+olive+tree.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5334620230518516786" border="0" /></a>A couple of weekends ago, you took a trip to the nursery to purchase some annuals. On the face of it, buying the flowers was a necessity: the yard was starting to look long in the tooth, abandoned, as if its owners had already begun checking out, moving on. A sprinkle of color underneath the olive tree would suffice — some reds and whites and a dash of impatiens whose petals resembled an Orange Creamsicle seemed to make all the difference in the world. And while it was true that the neglected-looking yard did need sprucing up, the need to plant flowers went beyond aesthetic.<br /><br />In truth, you needed to get your hands dirty. To immerse limbs, elbows-deep, into the soil. To feel the gritty earth under your fingernails and the breeze on your back as you knelt in the olive's shade and recommitted yourself to this place you call home.<br /><br />Since August, you have been trying to restructure the mortgage with your bank so that you can keep the house, keep raising your children here, keep one foot in the community you crossed the country to be a part of. 2008 was a tough year for your family in every way, a year defined by loss and limbo — loss due to the death of your mother-in-law, the slow demise of a business, and with it, the majority of your savings that has resulted in a limbo-like state of existence, a place where you register sound through cotton-ball ears and observe things with blurred intensity.<br /><br />The soil was rocky and root laden, and much less yielding than you had imagined it would be. You were surprised by this, taken back by the effort it took to dig a hole a few inches down and around, the way your hand cramped as it grasped the trowel. But what were you expecting? Sandy soil that submitted to the trowel's blade without protest so that you could cleave and dice to suit your intentions? Well, yes. But the displacement of the earth was only temporary, and for a greater gain. Once the flowers were firmly in the ground, all would be returned to as it had been, only now, where once there was only the dirt itself, there would be life. Color. Cheer.<br /><br />And maybe that's what these past nine months have been about as well. A digging up, displacement, and turning over of the rocky bits, a slicing through of shallow roots, a clearing away of sorts so that something vibrant might take its place, however temporarily (the flowers are, remember, annuals, which means that in time, they will have to be dug out and replaced, too).<br /><br />Who knows? From this vantage point, all you can do is observe, and wait, and appreciate. And while you'd prefer knowing, would welcome a clear path (stay? go? where? and when?), what you do know for certain is that objects in a state of suspended animation are supported. Something sustains them, keeps them functioning, alive, until it's time to reanimate.<br /><br />You're waiting to be reanimated. To take root and thrive. To bounce with color and cheer. You know it's coming. This season will turn, and you will go on.Pamela Schotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13305551262035819359noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3578447199600774076.post-86484188873965423342009-04-27T13:46:00.000-07:002009-04-30T13:39:49.572-07:00date stamp: earth day 2009, 3pm gmtDate stampers from around the world came together on April 22, 2009 at 3pm gmt to commemorate Earth Day. Following are photos of what each was doing when the time came to snap.<br /><br />Interesting how each was able to bring their image back around, no matter how mundane, to tie it in with the day's theme. Just goes to show how important the Earth is, this place we call home. How central it is to our everyday existence.<br /><br />No long introduction to this date stamp as I thought the following verse from Anthony Newley's and Leslie Bricusse's "Feelin' Good" (made popular by Rat Packer Sammy Davis, Jr.) sums things up best:<br /><br />Birds flying high, you know how I feel<br />Sun in the sky, you know how I feel<br />Reeds driftin' on by, you know how I feel<br />It's a new dawn<br />It's a new day<br />It's a new life for me<br />And I'm feeling good.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Featured Photo<br /></span>The Earth gets the honor this time around, natch. Who better besides?<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTcS3oKyBML49haFMte0xEdjKm-aBo5zSgnFcm1J5qhpUebUNvg8x5hcK6GCIXen4wqXOZIZT4Meu8x4G7tJU5W-U7j8YhQ8wN-YoQ8v1LdtO6njfvukfIRnt9f4uF7_iY67I-MTPAoe8/s1600-h/422+world+sunlight.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 554px; height: 307px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTcS3oKyBML49haFMte0xEdjKm-aBo5zSgnFcm1J5qhpUebUNvg8x5hcK6GCIXen4wqXOZIZT4Meu8x4G7tJU5W-U7j8YhQ8wN-YoQ8v1LdtO6njfvukfIRnt9f4uF7_iY67I-MTPAoe8/s400/422+world+sunlight.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5330253848285741874" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;">________________________________________________<br /></div><span style="font-style: italic;"><br />London, England<br />GMT<br />(3 p.m., local time)<br /></span><span><br /></span><div style="text-align: left;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtLwlSlSzThGx3DjSp6jyfqkpX25qVARNg6IBto52sL4UXfTTXQo-CAjOHoqdNdQsO73d6kMMwzRGsrad7rqUF8tqmLxVcx0AOh89gjgsOKh8zWiSaLzl4fk1QaT8dJe3ZpxsWdpvkNEs/s1600-h/422+Radmall.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 408px; height: 544px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtLwlSlSzThGx3DjSp6jyfqkpX25qVARNg6IBto52sL4UXfTTXQo-CAjOHoqdNdQsO73d6kMMwzRGsrad7rqUF8tqmLxVcx0AOh89gjgsOKh8zWiSaLzl4fk1QaT8dJe3ZpxsWdpvkNEs/s400/422+Radmall.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5329477041773484162" border="0" /></a><span><br />As it's Earth Day, I thought it appropriate to visit a garden centre. This is one of a dozen that line a country road, close to where I live. I was on the look-out for an olive tree for a birthday gift, but got side-tracked by this colourful display in one of the glasshouses.<br /><br />The English have been regarded as a nation of gardeners, and we certainly enjoy terra-forming our own patches of earth!</span><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><span style="font-style: italic;"></span><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-style: italic;">— <a href="http://www.inwardeye.eu/">Kathryn Radmall</a></span><br /></div><div style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-style: italic;"> Screenwriter</span><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">________________________________________________<br /></div><br /></div><div style="text-align: right;"><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-style: italic;">London, England</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">U</span><span style="font-style: italic;">nited Kingdom</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">GMT</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">(3 p.m. local time)</span><br /></div><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span><div style="text-align: left;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7Bxk8DCtXMFrk0rjgfMgfTfNvA6RQ2-RJKZvxXbHhdN7M3yYp-9stEvUl5HqXMG5GFjg-pJ1e0BaGRGIj4v6-a15c4b6vCvgFLKPUYkLCelD4fUVWgx5IF2cexRiKI8XnhLbmBEgKCdY/s1600-h/422+London.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 408px; height: 306px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7Bxk8DCtXMFrk0rjgfMgfTfNvA6RQ2-RJKZvxXbHhdN7M3yYp-9stEvUl5HqXMG5GFjg-pJ1e0BaGRGIj4v6-a15c4b6vCvgFLKPUYkLCelD4fUVWgx5IF2cexRiKI8XnhLbmBEgKCdY/s400/422+London.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5329477291668456306" border="0" /></a><br />The view from just outside my writing shed. Looks like we're set for a warm April...<br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span><br /></span></div></div><div style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-style: italic;">— </span><a style="font-style: italic;" href="http://lockandloadbridesofchrist.blogspot.com/">Elinor Perry-Smith</a><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Screenwriter, </span><span style="font-style: italic;">Blogger</span><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">________________________________________________<span style="font-style: italic;"><br /><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Dorset, England</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">United Kingdom</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">GMT</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">(3 p.m. local time)</span><br /></div><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"> <div style="text-align: left;"><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDIfw-VbNcPoFQyBunJn24fcpgIgORkSRa0_wVytYd-YtYGA8esNYHIpkxKlimI9P3zw29Ix8SmamOIbxyLVVkiiOX9quK9q_QXjUP09F_SxfiAi7Gi2P726WMnUcZgLTQIppnEQCzl2A/s1600-h/422+dorset.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 409px; height: 545px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDIfw-VbNcPoFQyBunJn24fcpgIgORkSRa0_wVytYd-YtYGA8esNYHIpkxKlimI9P3zw29Ix8SmamOIbxyLVVkiiOX9quK9q_QXjUP09F_SxfiAi7Gi2P726WMnUcZgLTQIppnEQCzl2A/s400/422+dorset.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5329477975364426674" border="0" /></a><br />Family cat Twinkle wondering here if he left the gas on... All our cats have stories attached on how they came to be with us; Twinkle's works like this. Friend of the family gets female cat from a charity; I say to her: "That cat's pregnant." "No it's not..." She replies breezily... Four weeks later, kittens are exploding out of said charity cat, Friend rings in a frenzy: "Take one, will you?" "I already have a cat." I say. "Take it or I'm putting it in the nearest well!" hysterical friend replies... A couple of weeks later, Twinkle arrives. Turns out he's misogynistic and hates women. Sigh.<br /></div> <div style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><br />— <a href="http://lucyvee.blogspot.com/">Lucy V. Hay</a></span><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span><span style="font-style: italic;">Screenwriter, Blogger<br /><br /><br /><br /></span></div>________________________________________________<br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: right;"><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Edinburgh, Scotland</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">United Kingdom</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">GMT</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">(2 p.m. local time)</span><br /></div><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSnSyqOfLle95U38JNHx3iNgT1yfv1tIDuy29Ywc1jtDq8sORWpSo42qR1EcCsbpHzAflKkVXXB9_ks5tAgmr13kAA6DR4HGLEOuGmeYrhUVjzRSepuQxH3xDpt7Z8CtRO4w0yyW0HwAo/s1600-h/422+Scotland.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 410px; height: 276px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSnSyqOfLle95U38JNHx3iNgT1yfv1tIDuy29Ywc1jtDq8sORWpSo42qR1EcCsbpHzAflKkVXXB9_ks5tAgmr13kAA6DR4HGLEOuGmeYrhUVjzRSepuQxH3xDpt7Z8CtRO4w0yyW0HwAo/s400/422+Scotland.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5329849022113936498" border="0" /></a><br />With Earth Day and the new UK Budget the hot topics of the day, a photo of new green shoots in my little indoor garden seemed appropriate.<br /></div><div style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><br />— </span><a style="font-style: italic;" href="http://www.landerson.co.uk/">Laura Anderson</a> <span style="font-style: italic;"><br />Freelanc</span><span style="font-style: italic;">e Writer and </span><span style="font-style: italic;">Filmmaker</span><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">________________________________________________<br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Toronto, Ontario</span> <span style="font-style: italic;"><br />Canada</span> <span style="font-style: italic;"><br />GMT -5</span> <span style="font-style: italic;"><br />(10 a.m. local time)</span><br /></div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKpUVHpnRueLxwL0SFr1fdc205OG9sq7RQdfT4wYQa3p2UHJfiwkufCROpbgjc3xRXytU-sr6noE9Y6LhVmwoOx8xFR72T26rGy04R2Simcc7gauYtbBPKtndsaCcixyRJa8S6OjrBQQM/s1600-h/422+canada.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 407px; height: 229px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKpUVHpnRueLxwL0SFr1fdc205OG9sq7RQdfT4wYQa3p2UHJfiwkufCROpbgjc3xRXytU-sr6noE9Y6LhVmwoOx8xFR72T26rGy04R2Simcc7gauYtbBPKtndsaCcixyRJa8S6OjrBQQM/s400/422+canada.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5329479397902678578" border="0" /></a><br />So with the best laid plans I set out to take my date stamp photograph on Earth Day 2009, casually stepping into my condo elevator. A beautiful urban park awaits where I intend to contrast the curves and soft edges of nature against the cold jagged lines of the cityscape...<br /><br />THUNK... the elevator stops! There's power, but the damn thing just isn't moving.<br /><br />Not to panic, just a temporary glitch is all. I mean when was the last time someone was trapped in one of these things?<br /><br />The seconds turn into minutes and the minutes start to pile up. I press the emergency call button, but it does nothing.<br /><br />As the Jeopardy theme song starts to play over and over in my head, thoughts of all the bad things that could happen creep into my brain.<br /><br />10 minutes have elapsed. A very long time when left alone with your irrational thoughts.<br /><br />I press every button on the panel, which does nothing other than make me feel even less in control.<br /><br />Just as I start looking for a hatch in the roof, the things starts up again!<br /><br />Wait... this is it... this is my earth day!<br /><br />I snap the shot, and whether it be the glass and chrome messing with the exposure or the aura of my shot nerves, it pretty well represents where my head is at.<br /><br />Down to the front desk where I find out a fuse has blown, and then back up 14 flights of stairs...<br /><br /><div style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-style: italic;">— <a href="http://www.screenwritersedge.com/">Svet Rouskov</a></span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Screenwriter</span><br /></div></div>________________________________________________<br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: right;"><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-style: italic;">New York, New York</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">United States</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">GMT - 5</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">(10 a.m. local time)</span><br /></div><br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: right;"><div style="text-align: left;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7_LuYCIu4si-oTTkjKlJSSgrepMXZ717Y5UrCqGWhsuqKDNbFHd7BTHOnKrAIiwoVT3bgyrHMypqh4HTtpr8xdDnsVfDdj7WJNj5vDlw7XXXJAaIt-AIqv9Ae0JeCX1jWlPkT0iUTHqk/s1600-h/422+new+york.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 405px; height: 303px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7_LuYCIu4si-oTTkjKlJSSgrepMXZ717Y5UrCqGWhsuqKDNbFHd7BTHOnKrAIiwoVT3bgyrHMypqh4HTtpr8xdDnsVfDdj7WJNj5vDlw7XXXJAaIt-AIqv9Ae0JeCX1jWlPkT0iUTHqk/s400/422+new+york.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5329480192713450690" border="0" /></a>I had a couple of things to choose from, as I snapped pictures whilst walking to the subway to work, but I figured I'd go with this one. I was really hoping to get a shot of a tree-lined block with the large, clear plastic recycling full of stuff next to them. Sort of a nature and people in harmony pic, but of course, the bags were gone, come morning, so I thought I'd capture this instead. There is hope for us!<span style="font-style: italic;"><br /><br /></span></div><span style="font-style: italic;">— <a href="http://www.mkwriter.com/">Mrinalini Kamath</a></span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Playwright, Filmmaker</span><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">_____________________________________________<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: right;"><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Raleigh, North Carolina</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">United States</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">GMT - 5</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">(10 a.m. local time)</span><br /></div><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /><br /></span><div style="text-align: left;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYTmGkO7lFA_jd62TPeijJu299s5qA2KEstsS9HVVa9lu9vTTyIkl-5e1lwY2pSP8dwt6ATOb-SSiP4h9g3y1NBblVDV-lTOC-uKAnztTum0_kkG6j8ewCM97d8AOety0JtPtGeSf3TlQ/s1600-h/422+raleigh1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 409px; height: 342px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYTmGkO7lFA_jd62TPeijJu299s5qA2KEstsS9HVVa9lu9vTTyIkl-5e1lwY2pSP8dwt6ATOb-SSiP4h9g3y1NBblVDV-lTOC-uKAnztTum0_kkG6j8ewCM97d8AOety0JtPtGeSf3TlQ/s400/422+raleigh1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5329850420063727778" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihWdPpEk77lJmRDqFEw85B70hCkxbjA-16CO_CAewYX2yyZ-dQC52vKH8bSCEMT_HQ3HrEBZUJv-xE3wIn8WJt09Wu4STOMrgAcvhJ7FvbXvmgLP7gTpbR4JA70Sehg1dw2gZpg0HdEXo/s1600-h/422+raleigh2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 408px; height: 280px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihWdPpEk77lJmRDqFEw85B70hCkxbjA-16CO_CAewYX2yyZ-dQC52vKH8bSCEMT_HQ3HrEBZUJv-xE3wIn8WJt09Wu4STOMrgAcvhJ7FvbXvmgLP7gTpbR4JA70Sehg1dw2gZpg0HdEXo/s400/422+raleigh2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5329850115839404418" border="0" /></a>Partly cloudy, windy, and a tad chilly. A Canadian goose calmly cruises a small pond surrounded by green budding trees, beautiful flowers, and croaking frogs and I have stepped back in time 100 years. Then I turn, face reality -- a gaggle of cars floats on a sea of asphalt and I realize – I was born 100 years too late.<br /><br /><br /></div></div><div style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-style: italic;">— </span><a style="font-style: italic;" href="http://www.schererjoyofwriting.com/">Michael Scherer</a><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Screenwriter</span><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"> _____________________________________________<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Louisville, Kentucky</span><span style="font-style: italic;"><br />United </span><span style="font-style: italic;">States<br /></span><span style="font-style: italic;">GMT - 5</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">(10 a.m. local time)<br /></span></div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2cO3C4eMEmE5e_h6fe19Uu-iugjuxpj-m2la-r1Ub4OQoeRuW0ZBbnvnYT0Q2OcZu3Cghhl630Z0IcgyXgFZhEciO5JtH640LnfCt3WmCAOf_27AmricM5ZmT90fPZyVtVGuD7ZQm9xQ/s1600-h/422+Louisville.png"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 406px; height: 495px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2cO3C4eMEmE5e_h6fe19Uu-iugjuxpj-m2la-r1Ub4OQoeRuW0ZBbnvnYT0Q2OcZu3Cghhl630Z0IcgyXgFZhEciO5JtH640LnfCt3WmCAOf_27AmricM5ZmT90fPZyVtVGuD7ZQm9xQ/s400/422+Louisville.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5329850829469309154" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="text-decoration: underline;"></span>This Earth Day at the appointed hour I was on the phone with my mother, who is 80 and recently widowed. I could not in conscience cut the conversation short, as she is living in a new apartment, having recently lost my Dad, and having just sold the farm where she had lived with him for 40 years. But afterwards I rummaged for pictures of the old place to scan and share.<br /><br />In 1970, John and Alice moved Upstate, with their four teenaged children, from Westchester County outside of New York City. My father’s elfish smile and salute in this picture is characteristic: he felt free. At 43 he had left the corporate world to live “off the land.” For forty years, he and my mother enjoyed long thaws, late springs and short growing seasons—that is, a vitality and happiness that seemed connected to a friendship they cultivated with the earth. So on this Earth Day I wish to salute them with a scrapbook shot. My hope is that we all find our parcel of earth to befriend.<br /><div style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><br />— Jeanne Hammond</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Screenwriter</span><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">_____________________________________________<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Westlake Village, California</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">United States<br /></span><span style="font-style: italic;">GMT - 8</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">(7 a.m. local time)<br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCq-Y5rn67rD-tK9h7ajS0QL8PfUs1DlYfYEt34kXkpAn9iTywDhM1q9otYJxowhEdPyc0u6Vopk1AvMs-MvbY0XtXKVo2_wt-Yvh5fYbfVWqeGF0qETRRU7d8xLbveKRc7JrMTEmcwsM/s1600-h/wlv+4.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 409px; height: 545px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCq-Y5rn67rD-tK9h7ajS0QL8PfUs1DlYfYEt34kXkpAn9iTywDhM1q9otYJxowhEdPyc0u6Vopk1AvMs-MvbY0XtXKVo2_wt-Yvh5fYbfVWqeGF0qETRRU7d8xLbveKRc7JrMTEmcwsM/s400/wlv+4.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5329852097803522322" border="0" /></a><br />Finally a date stamp in which the sun makes an appearance.<br /><br />This is the view from your bedroom window, what you wake up to every morning: the trees that boarder your property just a few feet from where the Santa Monica Mountains begin their 12-mile bump and grind — sporadic undulations that somehow manage to look elegant, effortless as they tumble into the Pacific Ocean; the egg yolk sunshine that spills over into a plate of blue sky; the trees that serve as the hummingbirds' embarcadero from which they can determine their next moves.<br /><br />The morning is alive, vibrant, a perfect start to Earth Day. As the hours unwind, your mind is never far from what it is you're marking today, and you feel safe, and comforted, and well taken care of. She may be ailing, your Mother Earth, infected by greed and ignorance, but on a day like today, you cannot but believe that she will make a full recovery. Under the ministries of those who have a finger on her pulse, who can tell when her temperature's running too high and her resources too thin, and who are willing to do what it takes to nurse her back to health, you believe she'll be around, alive and kicking, for a good long time to come.<br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-style: italic;">— Pamela Schott </span><span style="font-style: italic;"><br />Author, Screenwriter</span><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">_______________________________________________<br /><br /><div style="text-align: right;"><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Beijing, China</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">GMT + 8</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">(11 p.m. local time)</span><br /></div><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: left;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNlQbCal9c8x3g-iUvtMNssCc4dEcWZ4yQxc55wiYenTJGSExyoDaet2xTsrpyG2PDy_lWuXWRmNY-jQzeoyaUHV1mR5M6j4Lf9HSVM8ToANWZ9fNSDizekeVmV2lJ9so49l7GY8Po5cc/s1600-h/422+shanghai.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 408px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNlQbCal9c8x3g-iUvtMNssCc4dEcWZ4yQxc55wiYenTJGSExyoDaet2xTsrpyG2PDy_lWuXWRmNY-jQzeoyaUHV1mR5M6j4Lf9HSVM8ToANWZ9fNSDizekeVmV2lJ9so49l7GY8Po5cc/s400/422+shanghai.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5329852640990143586" border="0" /></a><br />My 4 year-old came home from preschool today wearing this paper medallion around his neck. I ask him what it is for. He says, "Earth Day." I then ask what Earth Day is about. "We have to do nice things for the earth," he says.<br />"Like what?"<br />He replies, "Like planting vegetables. I planted chives in school with Jamie."<br />"What other nice things do we do for the earth?" I prompt.<br />"I know, we recycle!" he exclaims. He adds, "We do nice things cause the earth gives us everything we need."<br /><br />I hope it's an idea that he'll carry with him always and act on accordingly.<br /></div><div style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><br />— Ginley Regencia</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"> </span></div></div></div>_______________________________________________<br /><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Royal Ville<br />Singapore<br /></span><span style="font-style: italic;">GMT + 8</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">(11 p.m. local time)<br /><br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitygiVDIAEanxHkEPDGIZoWljNbu-E0M9uGolm0r8-XmVJj7L9mTH25z750CCRxcDwV4uJ6H7JA5y0fmE6Rh3L64HJldXHfLoLS88yq1C0t6Ci1MvbTI9p2q6yssZqZQZ6gM1CcazO86Y/s1600-h/422+singapore.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 407px; height: 305px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitygiVDIAEanxHkEPDGIZoWljNbu-E0M9uGolm0r8-XmVJj7L9mTH25z750CCRxcDwV4uJ6H7JA5y0fmE6Rh3L64HJldXHfLoLS88yq1C0t6Ci1MvbTI9p2q6yssZqZQZ6gM1CcazO86Y/s400/422+singapore.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5329853579515730514" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: left;">Here I was ready to climb into my comfortable bed for a quick Vanity Fair read before sleep and what do I find? My magazine hijacked by my cat...who happens to think he owns the bed AND my magazine! Or is it the image of Gisele Bundchen on the cover that's got him all cosy and purring so loudly that the whole room seems to reverberate? If only everyone in the world could be and feel as content as this creature...<br /><br /></div></div><div style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-style: italic;">— Sonia Marzuki<br />Freelance Writer, PR Consultant<br /></span><div style="text-align: center;">_____________________________________________<br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div></div></div><span style="font-style: italic;">Tikrit</span><span style="font-style: italic;">, Iraq</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">GMT </span><span style="font-style: italic;">+ 3</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">(6 p.m. local time)<br /><br /></span><div style="text-align: right;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoky6X8ZrMFMpgBq4sH0J7RJyUZa26TqsOPY2LT2_02qlBnIBK9wSwaWszs2ZOoC_g8t2VUY7DLbibLRDsMJsVlxAqH0mEyhLaeOiEOI0EVXmQl0M3M1YtfVd9v4A_IG7Zv2TSh96OKEw/s1600-h/422+tikri.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 410px; height: 307px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoky6X8ZrMFMpgBq4sH0J7RJyUZa26TqsOPY2LT2_02qlBnIBK9wSwaWszs2ZOoC_g8t2VUY7DLbibLRDsMJsVlxAqH0mEyhLaeOiEOI0EVXmQl0M3M1YtfVd9v4A_IG7Zv2TSh96OKEw/s400/422+tikri.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5329854051362983682" border="0" /></a></div><p style="text-align: left;">The walls.<br /><br /></p><div style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-style: italic;">— <a href="http://www.blog.artlaflamme.com/">Art La Flamme</a></span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Blogger/Army Serviceman</span><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">_____________________________________________<br /></div><br />Elsewhere in the world:<br /><br /><div style="text-align: right; font-style: italic;"><div style="text-align: left;">Panama Canal, Panama<br />United States<br />GMT - 8<br />(7 a.m. local time)<br /></div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiD2n5a6eV7KhUgltuHxRkVQeUG430MfFT3_7yroLTdFK6u0d34hQl6vgd7RsTKeIyCiC5Tzd7ta-Yt6qmA9Uw3owiDebDayZbr63oMps8t8WpNrUthvNyXCqvj5d8fJr9KFFODThZOBk8/s1600-h/422+Panama+Canal.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 407px; height: 295px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiD2n5a6eV7KhUgltuHxRkVQeUG430MfFT3_7yroLTdFK6u0d34hQl6vgd7RsTKeIyCiC5Tzd7ta-Yt6qmA9Uw3owiDebDayZbr63oMps8t8WpNrUthvNyXCqvj5d8fJr9KFFODThZOBk8/s400/422+Panama+Canal.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5329856352577728850" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><br /><br /><br />Australian Station<br />Antarctica<br />GMT + 4<br />(7 p.m. local time)<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRX0k3RYyxTaZUh3Y1ShCmWKad7z-fCMl4AKO0me69wEkex37PC-ADka1VWYm2wu7WhsofHlacEr5eqoPWgPgcoVvynq-_WLguZ2aJFai5tdBTQCu0O5V1jg_j0YJBROBT18zLfz0dOIQ/s1600-h/422+Antarctica.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 409px; height: 326px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRX0k3RYyxTaZUh3Y1ShCmWKad7z-fCMl4AKO0me69wEkex37PC-ADka1VWYm2wu7WhsofHlacEr5eqoPWgPgcoVvynq-_WLguZ2aJFai5tdBTQCu0O5V1jg_j0YJBROBT18zLfz0dOIQ/s400/422+Antarctica.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5329856540111317938" border="0" /></a><br /></div><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><br />Abbey Road<br />London, England<br />United Kingdom<br />GMT<br />(3 p.m. local time)<br /></div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRAj9nGk6TsPrsbUSPNi6Z-yUaTrfXoKEbAWSZwJ-gABTm4Gz9TB1nQH8Whodt-x-tbdwqc_QODb_1StKFwD7Q_FnX7XE2ZzLzVa3gFbOhZSjQx52LLTigyGX2pqrB2ZCuhsSfK7a1P9g/s1600-h/422+Abbey+Road.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 406px; height: 296px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRAj9nGk6TsPrsbUSPNi6Z-yUaTrfXoKEbAWSZwJ-gABTm4Gz9TB1nQH8Whodt-x-tbdwqc_QODb_1StKFwD7Q_FnX7XE2ZzLzVa3gFbOhZSjQx52LLTigyGX2pqrB2ZCuhsSfK7a1P9g/s400/422+Abbey+Road.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5329856766819088434" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;">Venice Grand Canal, Italy<br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">GMT +1<br />(4 p.m. local time)<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgetfs4PJ9OexYYk0NJ17kdzlDaZSrAgxTB3SE8zQMQW6AlyJQ5U8iEMYNh_dDPkT6PYlIbjcV0UzhJLxI1oPQ44TTvi3OJEbHni4kxiQO14VDecvqev03LepmUtebcTO5jo7xtXRzmK50/s1600-h/422+venice.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 407px; height: 269px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgetfs4PJ9OexYYk0NJ17kdzlDaZSrAgxTB3SE8zQMQW6AlyJQ5U8iEMYNh_dDPkT6PYlIbjcV0UzhJLxI1oPQ44TTvi3OJEbHni4kxiQO14VDecvqev03LepmUtebcTO5jo7xtXRzmK50/s400/422+venice.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5329856988953249746" border="0" /></a><br /><br /></div><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;">Paris, France<br />GMT + 1<br />(4 p.m. local time)<br /></div><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTITtMP7x3l0B1HTku7feottajdfz6QjEbhH2L90DKrvBJPzsFiH-byPaWYgkgJlk_t6f7ZSlXCiGcA2WRJGRFjvEaYRoA-509WxmqHyZi6rFOWxlqUG_58S4wLcgy0wTg9GfEJQ8K8HQ/s1600-h/422+Notre+Dame.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 411px; height: 326px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTITtMP7x3l0B1HTku7feottajdfz6QjEbhH2L90DKrvBJPzsFiH-byPaWYgkgJlk_t6f7ZSlXCiGcA2WRJGRFjvEaYRoA-509WxmqHyZi6rFOWxlqUG_58S4wLcgy0wTg9GfEJQ8K8HQ/s400/422+Notre+Dame.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5329857196687090450" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></div>Pamela Schotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13305551262035819359noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3578447199600774076.post-27526481194021546922009-04-20T12:37:00.000-07:002009-05-20T09:17:06.439-07:00I. they. we.I woke up about two weeks ago with an epiphany, the sort of long-time-coming realization that alerted me to the fact that the inevitable was taking place under my watch. That time was marching forward with a slow but steady, relentless, ruthless determination, and taking my children with it.<br /><br />They were eagerly looking forward to spring break, worn out as they were from the day-to-day demands and dramas of school and homework and dance class and performance rehearsal. So they would have settled for our usual spring break fare of staying up late and sleeping in late, would have been as content as kittens to let the days unfold in no particular order.<br /><br />We were accustomed to approaching spring break in this way, preferring to save the trips for summer vacation, when we could anticipate and savor and rest and recover without the buffer of school obligations behind and in front of us, leaving us feeling as though our break was nothing more than a parenthetical breath-catching before we took the next obligatory plunge.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">*<br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;">I wanted this spring break to be special, to give them something other than what they were used to, to show them how to savor not just a chunk of time, but the morsel-size moments that it consists of, like tucking into a tremendous meal, one silver spoonful at a time.<br /><br />They staggered into spring break bleary-eyed and exhausted, hungry first for sleep, the basics. 10 days yawned before them, and they were anxious to find a patch of restorative sunlight on the floor by the window to curl up in, to doze and dream and forget in, to slowly, leisurely reclaim what Obligation had taken from them.<br /><br />We planned it all out in advance. Each night at dinner, one girl would draw a slip of paper from a basket, on which would be written the next day's activity, culminating in a short trip to Santa Barbara — a thick, fine bow to put on what we hoped would be a worthy spring break.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">*<br /></div><br />I had been mentally preparing a week's worth of girl dates, changing out one idea for a better one, hoping to strike a balance between mere consumption and active participation, knowing that they, like every kid out there who feeds at their country's trough of plenty, need to learn how to slow down. Observe. Appreciate. Savor.<br /><br />They embraced the idea, thrilled (relieved?) at the thought of only knowing what was coming the next day, that they, like recovering addicts, were only required to take it in one day at a time, to deal with the day on its own terms, safe in the knowledge that they would be taken care of.<br /><br />We started out with manicures and mini-massages at the nail salon, washed down with frappuccinos from Peet's Coffee. Nothing extravagant or earth shattering. But later, at dinner, as the girls recalled for Dad the day's outing, we were delighted to hear that this spring break had already been judged The Best Spring Break Ever.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkuMuCMyjhZ2cYaADGDYKPgQm9OhOjWSMTWZvtNFzoqsgSTIGqwrm-mq9_TnQX9wHNMD7fQNuqkdOu9ApYp9luSdbxuPn3TFdqO3LRi3Iu6JyLTfYSdvqqkmkr-i_4nBMzA4uGKAXFRh0/s1600-h/MyPicture.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 448px; height: 336px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkuMuCMyjhZ2cYaADGDYKPgQm9OhOjWSMTWZvtNFzoqsgSTIGqwrm-mq9_TnQX9wHNMD7fQNuqkdOu9ApYp9luSdbxuPn3TFdqO3LRi3Iu6JyLTfYSdvqqkmkr-i_4nBMzA4uGKAXFRh0/s400/MyPicture.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5326884810364872354" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">*<br /></div><br />I read recently that the average American child receives 70 toys a year (a statistic from 2005). Which means that some, obviously, receive much less, but others, much, much more. Where we live, we witness the much, much more factor on a daily basis. How do you stem that tide? How do you express the value of things earned and anticipated — or given from out of the blue, with no expectation, no demand? How do you communicate to your child her worth without the assist of empty props, when all around her she sees stuff paraded and then tossed aside in favor of newer, better, and is told that her good comes from these goods?<br /><br />They passed the week in a state of dizzy expectation and fat-cat satiation, one 24-hour period at a time. After the manicures, there was a picnic and a trip to the bookstore, and frozen yogurt and a trip to the mall to window shop for graduation ideas, and yoga class (to balance things out) and fruit smoothies. The day before our trip to Santa Barbara, their task was to plan, shop for, and prepare dinner and dessert for Dad who would be taking a rare, three-day weekend to catch the last of the spring break fun.<br /><br />We sat down that night to a homemade pizza (what else would he have wanted?), piled ridiculously high with squash and tomatoes and chicken carmelized with apples and red onion, plus mushrooms and sausage and garlic — and cheese. Lots of cheese. Two pieces of our monsterpiece, and even Josie (aka "The Stomach") had called it quits. So it was nothing short of heroic — a miracle, even — when we all polished off a piece of pudding pie.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">*<br /></div><br />I enjoy the quiet when they're gone, but I know that soon enough, I'll have more quiet on my hands than I'll know what to do with. Or maybe not. Maybe that Other Life, the life I've been weaving and wondering about since forever will start to unfold, to fill the space left when they have moved on. But it's days like this, with childhood making a break for it, that I wish we could have more of spring break, or that summer would hurry up and get here, already.<br /><br />They are back into their routine, with final school projects and rehearsals, and then dress rehearsals, and performances all looming large. This is their busiest time, these last five weeks before school lets out. But they're ready for it, up for the challenge. The break was a good one.<br /><br />We learned something over the past 10 days, something about slowing down and looking up, about tasting and anticipating, something about smelling roses along the way.<br /><br />I hope it stays with them.<br /><br />They do, too.<br /><br />We all want this kind of spring in our step to last, after all.<br /><br />---<br /><br />Spring Break Photos<br />Santa Barbara, California<br />April 17, 2009<br /><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMi-VI9M-Vzm-oZmZAqH1Q8ZSdcXfRrexcwupW8bXKTaa_wgA7HZXJ-AXInyMDP47B7B4B3XQSaKqAZOskZ3SrsJwJgXqQ5qYaPC67GR_KIIc8AWe4SOpFleO0EHOv8gOrNV_NdeqPq9w/s1600-h/PICT0009.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMi-VI9M-Vzm-oZmZAqH1Q8ZSdcXfRrexcwupW8bXKTaa_wgA7HZXJ-AXInyMDP47B7B4B3XQSaKqAZOskZ3SrsJwJgXqQ5qYaPC67GR_KIIc8AWe4SOpFleO0EHOv8gOrNV_NdeqPq9w/s400/PICT0009.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5326883429388013554" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">At a cafe.</span></div><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjToNgELnqm4zTSOhF9rqKXxyxc4x49ZsDQnSeOi_xFufH50lLhdy9BzYTq6S4T5Pzcirrjq_Uzy-oJBQgLpweQVzwcfMZCzUjaIqN5CWCxRWuczKqUz9zvTn_vNokwT_WL6XqQMUUdpU/s1600-h/PICT0008.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 295px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjToNgELnqm4zTSOhF9rqKXxyxc4x49ZsDQnSeOi_xFufH50lLhdy9BzYTq6S4T5Pzcirrjq_Uzy-oJBQgLpweQVzwcfMZCzUjaIqN5CWCxRWuczKqUz9zvTn_vNokwT_WL6XqQMUUdpU/s400/PICT0008.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5326883663728062082" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;"><br />Off State Street, a block from the ocean. The stories this door could tell.</span></div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEji-Z-e1KHIf9rj_AHafFMIQwxkWOHPaC5-sTqbj8rclk1C5zu80o_DocEMfZ3FmD8D9F0D96vbTBxdMx0GA_e0Qc2Ys-0cDOlRHLEZeoLQzlS5Bd-Qj6wU_s05_ar29D56zc0DRGIQ7vc/s1600-h/PICT0011_2.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 271px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEji-Z-e1KHIf9rj_AHafFMIQwxkWOHPaC5-sTqbj8rclk1C5zu80o_DocEMfZ3FmD8D9F0D96vbTBxdMx0GA_e0Qc2Ys-0cDOlRHLEZeoLQzlS5Bd-Qj6wU_s05_ar29D56zc0DRGIQ7vc/s400/PICT0011_2.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5326884020345229890" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;"><br />Carpinteria, just down the freeway from Santa Barbara. The sun was so bright that day that it washed the color out of the sky. Or that's what you'd think, looking at this picture. Actually, it was true blue. My camera just wasn't up to snuff.</span><br /></div></div></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSCS9L1b9BEUr2F3euud7KjYWppI5ZasCZeNQXCsvvofySj0elzgz7BPLwy7iELql21OW4IFL24fjDA5nIAJGQx7QB7YuSs6rIxrP9LyBC3-QIZC7fTUQG7eHrHGiixQ5UAk2Ep3HmfLA/s1600-h/PICT0009.JPG"><br /></a>Pamela Schotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13305551262035819359noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3578447199600774076.post-23734446526001234222009-04-08T15:58:00.000-07:002009-04-08T16:08:15.306-07:0024h world: the march video edition now onlineWe combined March date stamps to create an awesome retrospective video for 24h World, complete with photos, voiceover, original music courtesy of <a href="http://www.soundclick.com/bands/default.cfm?bandID=648347">this guy</a>, and ticker-tape headlines from around the globe.<br /><span style="display: block;" id="formatbar_Buttons"><span class="on" style="display: block;" id="formatbar_CreateLink" title="Link" onmouseover="ButtonHoverOn(this);" onmouseout="ButtonHoverOff(this);" onmouseup="" onmousedown="CheckFormatting(event);FormatbarButton('richeditorframe', this, 8);ButtonMouseDown(this);"><img src="http://www.blogger.com/img/blank.gif" alt="Link" class="gl_link" border="0" /></span></span><br />It's included in the blog entries for the March 21 date stamp (scroll down till you see the video), and you can check it <a href="http://pamelaschott.blogspot.com/2009/03/date-stamp-2-pm-gmt-march-21-2009.html">here</a>.<br /><br />Next date stamp to be announced soon.Pamela Schotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13305551262035819359noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3578447199600774076.post-47854165123482515702009-03-23T13:48:00.000-07:002009-04-07T14:03:40.342-07:00date stamp: 2 p.m. gmt, march 21, 2009Spring. For those of us blogging in the Western Hemisphere, finding signs of spring was the central theme for this date stamp.<br /><br />It wasn't always easy.<br /><br />Date stampers in the United Kingdom seemed to have the best luck capturing photos and impressions of warm weather and welcoming flowers and (off)spring bouncing on trampolines and celebrating Mother's Day. One lucky Londoner chased spring to a little-known harbor in Morocco, where her efforts were rewarded in the most refreshing way.<br /><br />West of them, spring received a chillier reception, where frost greeted the morning in New York, and a good, strong cup of coffee was the order of the day in Raleigh, North Carolina.<br /><br />Up north in Toronto, spring seemed to awaken the Muse for one screenwriter, who promptly, wisely, answered the call.<br /><br />In Louisville, Kentucky, a young woman on the verge of adulthood prepared for one of spring's most venerated rites of passage in the Christian world, while three thousand miles west of there, in California, a child slept through the small hours. Like spring, she is only just beginning to awaken to her beauty and power and potential.<br /><br />In Beijing, bicycles bowed to the bossy, blustery winds that are a regular visitor at this time of the year, as the tropics of Singapore put things back to right in the wake of a tremendous thunderstorm.<br /><br />But perhaps the most stirring signs of spring were to be found in Tikrit, Iraq, where wildflowers managed, against arid odds, to push through the soil surrounding a helo pad on an American Army base.<br /><br />That flowers can bloom in a desert, during a drought, from soil that's been drenched in decades of aggression and destruction and uncertainty seems a courageous thing, and may be the best indicator that spring and all its promises are indeed on the way.<br /><br />Check out the compilation video of date stamps for the month of March, 2009, and then read what the bloggers had to say about spring in their part of the world.<br /><br /><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dwT0H3EII1wKkC0hkAWLJgHBsgGDr3s9fYVvKoSzjT_V_dnt_jiuynufbSKQrT3LfTyoTRpDJU7VG-nPXDwiA' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe><br /><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">________________________________________________<br /></div><span style="font-style: italic;"><br />Inswaume Harbour<br />Morocco, Africa<br />GMT<br />(2 p.m., local time)<br /><br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNP4yXsuWFSV71pSuT6mqJ4JalR32ze5ptRRDQWUGkf0Y5EnXYq3Nf3mJk4ODE0j2G3kOS_P2n9zZUVmydibYSGmFeH-gXfDrbVqb7nm16rojHIs3AilpMKQTgD5KFs4x93F0-Hm6jJXk/s1600-h/Howie+321.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 428px; height: 570px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNP4yXsuWFSV71pSuT6mqJ4JalR32ze5ptRRDQWUGkf0Y5EnXYq3Nf3mJk4ODE0j2G3kOS_P2n9zZUVmydibYSGmFeH-gXfDrbVqb7nm16rojHIs3AilpMKQTgD5KFs4x93F0-Hm6jJXk/s400/Howie+321.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5317225954358215522" border="0" /></a><br /><span><br /></span><div style="text-align: left;"><span>We've all just come out of the water after surfing at Inswaume — a really other worldly harbour, where the waves break against the harbour wall and go all the way in to the shore — I just rode a wave pretty much all the way in — a fantastic rush!</span><br /></div><span><br /></span><span style="font-style: italic;"></span><div style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-style: italic;">— <a href="http://www.myspace.com/everythingtodancefor">Pearl Howie</a></span> <span style="font-style: italic;"></span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Screenwriter, Filmmaker</span><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">________________________________________________<br /><br /></div><span style="font-style: italic;">London, England</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">U</span><span style="font-style: italic;">nited Kingdom</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">GMT</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">(2 p.m. local time)</span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: right;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqdTvUnW9ajggtySzycnbpF6MVe7LEZuYtXTVHTEuyJVymKwA6wWrr_5Y0j7681oOu3zXYk83fciqX2IJkVq037PeessbSVtPySOypxqPoTp4E81zrEiWCFyRkRuC43fHE7SXDLFVKTc8/s1600-h/Radmall.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 427px; height: 564px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqdTvUnW9ajggtySzycnbpF6MVe7LEZuYtXTVHTEuyJVymKwA6wWrr_5Y0j7681oOu3zXYk83fciqX2IJkVq037PeessbSVtPySOypxqPoTp4E81zrEiWCFyRkRuC43fHE7SXDLFVKTc8/s400/Radmall.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5316897491595888402" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span><div style="text-align: left;">I think these daffodils must be camera-shy. Believe me, they turned their heads away the moment the shutter clicked. Must be that hybrid variety called "No publicity!"</div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><blockquote></blockquote></div><div style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-style: italic;">— <a href="http://www.inwardeye.eu/">Kathryn Radmall</a></span><br /></div><div style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-style: italic;"> Screenwriter</span><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">________________________________________________<br /></div><br /></div><span style="font-style: italic;"></span><div style="text-align: right;"><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-style: italic;">London, England</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">U</span><span style="font-style: italic;">nited Kingdom</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">GMT</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">(2 p.m. local time)</span><br /></div><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span><div style="text-align: left;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggiTCx5yXfVZrK7I-gGSbHO-fz44508YfXnBqehwrB93MaiLXgEbF8PIgLwAkyJCBHrZTBLj_0EUorF03DiYW44E8euZXMlnp-AdnEoHq5cM1aC5-JyxtH9ywMXDW8UfTnUyiJk596zDI/s1600-h/stained+glass+roof.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 426px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggiTCx5yXfVZrK7I-gGSbHO-fz44508YfXnBqehwrB93MaiLXgEbF8PIgLwAkyJCBHrZTBLj_0EUorF03DiYW44E8euZXMlnp-AdnEoHq5cM1aC5-JyxtH9ywMXDW8UfTnUyiJk596zDI/s400/stained+glass+roof.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5316896214122385330" border="0" /></a><br />Crystal Palace, Spanish sky.<br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span><br /></span></div></div><div style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-style: italic;">— </span><a style="font-style: italic;" href="http://lockandloadbridesofchrist.blogspot.com/">Elinor Perry-Smith</a><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Screenwriter, </span><span style="font-style: italic;">Blogger</span><br /></div><span style="font-style: italic;"></span><div style="text-align: center;">________________________________________________<span style="font-style: italic;"><br /><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Dorset, England</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">United Kingdom</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">GMT</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">(2 p.m. local time)</span><br /></div><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"> <div style="text-align: left;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRS6JrOv81Epd2SvgI_z78nZPxAiMfPTQP5NNp4iZbAxh942mKmgoiXkWgJ8cSPcfkoenjdsR3VtR6dvLVlr5Lws48MG7mJPsOfb_hN0rnWv_oZ0c67FcS5dmTs5hwjaZ0lKkQXI3OsMo/s1600-h/Hay+321.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 422px; height: 316px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRS6JrOv81Epd2SvgI_z78nZPxAiMfPTQP5NNp4iZbAxh942mKmgoiXkWgJ8cSPcfkoenjdsR3VtR6dvLVlr5Lws48MG7mJPsOfb_hN0rnWv_oZ0c67FcS5dmTs5hwjaZ0lKkQXI3OsMo/s400/Hay+321.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5316898130592660242" border="0" /></a><br />Proof it's night on impossible to get a bunch of kids to smile, all at the same time... A rare glimpse of my kids Lilirose, 2 (front) and Alf, 10 (the dodgy/evil one at the back in the mustard striped shirt) with their friends (left to right) Jack, 6, Charlie, 10, Kimberley, 12 and Liam, 8. It's a fantastically sunny day here in Dorset and the kids are spending all their time on the trampoline and hitting each other with sticks. As all children should.<br /></div> <div style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><br />— <a href="http://lucyvee.blogspot.com/">Lucy V. Hay</a></span><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span><span style="font-style: italic;">Screenwriter, Blogger</span><span style="font-style: italic;"></span></div>________________________________________________</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: right;"><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Edinburgh, Scotland</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">United Kingdom</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">GMT</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">(2 p.m. local time)</span><br /></div><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimnJbbwrylT5uwbR0sTwuDH11JnznnmOQOlW8VIXxjUb72kloLOcCAW2ZjfN8VsPQpTg6-QIyD3or6kyIoPHeOjQEAbzJ6eJabJDiqUbViEyCzLHG2KaCpWycLc6lu1_Ase0_kFws6mF4/s1600-h/Anderson+321.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 426px; height: 282px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimnJbbwrylT5uwbR0sTwuDH11JnznnmOQOlW8VIXxjUb72kloLOcCAW2ZjfN8VsPQpTg6-QIyD3or6kyIoPHeOjQEAbzJ6eJabJDiqUbViEyCzLHG2KaCpWycLc6lu1_Ase0_kFws6mF4/s400/Anderson+321.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5316898642376539362" border="0" /></a><br />The start of spring heralds a weekend of birthdays and family visits for this household. We bought this beautiful plant from a local florist as a present, and it looked so lovely that it made me wish I'd bought one for myself!<br /></div><div style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><br />— </span><a style="font-style: italic;" href="http://www.landerson.co.uk/">Laura Anderson</a> <span style="font-style: italic;"><br />Freelanc</span><span style="font-style: italic;">e Writer and </span><span style="font-style: italic;">Filmmaker</span><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">________________________________________________<br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Toronto, Ontario</span> <span style="font-style: italic;"><br />Canada</span> <span style="font-style: italic;"><br />GMT -5</span> <span style="font-style: italic;"><br />(9 a.m. local time)</span><br /></div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLTix1R-FgfIBqI64gG5BAncK-Dg7AJEyHajknH-iIX3kqGh1elysyK1m3oHiuKvvOJYWsO0j8-GNA3TPTQfeKXpowhyBKy5nBa_Y6pC8T9osqKqDM9SfKL27fVmS9tECWYTzgh6FFNJw/s1600-h/Rouskov+321.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 423px; height: 290px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLTix1R-FgfIBqI64gG5BAncK-Dg7AJEyHajknH-iIX3kqGh1elysyK1m3oHiuKvvOJYWsO0j8-GNA3TPTQfeKXpowhyBKy5nBa_Y6pC8T9osqKqDM9SfKL27fVmS9tECWYTzgh6FFNJw/s400/Rouskov+321.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5316899521008963746" border="0" /></a><br />Inspiration is a tricky thing. Being that a lot of 'date stampers' are writers/artists, it's probably not hard to understand how tough that can be sometimes. So on a day when I had picked out an interesting architectural subject to photograph, I instead got dragged back to my friend/enemy/lover - my laptop, and started writing. Alas, an interesting picture was replaced by a mundane one... Hope the script doesn't turn out that way...<br /><div style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-style: italic;">— <a href="http://www.screenwritersedge.com/">Svet Rouskov</a></span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Screenwriter</span><br /></div></div>________________________________________________<br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: right;"><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-style: italic;">New York, New York</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">United States</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">GMT - 5</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">(9 a.m. local time)</span><br /></div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilfEZCHFjH1T4EEBDhZILEXjPEQnJnfzWZsF-tLUMtTHMhUIARvGWhgLpmQr39vKorrm2WInYmEj63NIUJo9c1fTd9e-vtHaywbNYKUr9kejqksQpktZrwNyJAM1xwDrmrXkQUHda9RrU/s1600-h/Kamath+321.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 425px; height: 277px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilfEZCHFjH1T4EEBDhZILEXjPEQnJnfzWZsF-tLUMtTHMhUIARvGWhgLpmQr39vKorrm2WInYmEj63NIUJo9c1fTd9e-vtHaywbNYKUr9kejqksQpktZrwNyJAM1xwDrmrXkQUHda9RrU/s400/Kamath+321.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5316899780007813522" border="0" /></a><br /></div><div style="text-align: right;"><div style="text-align: left;">Since the theme for this date stamp is "spring," I thought I'd give it an ironic twist, just like Mother Nature did. In the New York/NJ area, the first day of spring was punctuated by... snow. Yep — big, wet, white flakes of snow. Nothing stuck (at least in New York) but it really was something, to wake up on the first day of spring, look out the window and see snow. The next day was sunny and snowless, but as you can see from the picture, there's still not a whole lot of evidence of spring. The frost still clings to the pachysandra in my parents' backyard in NJ, and the only plants with buds are inside the house — so much for spring having sprung!<span style="font-style: italic;"><br /><br /></span></div><span style="font-style: italic;">— <a href="http://www.mkwriter.com/">Mrinalini Kamath</a></span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Playwright, Filmmaker</span><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">_____________________________________________<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: right;"><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Raleigh, North Carolina</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">United States</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">GMT - 5</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">(9 a.m. local time)</span><br /></div><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /><br /></span><div style="text-align: left;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDSXzKERWgTuub_QjaujRGeVNptXKAt0z8dVB65772h0yx0IYNRqIC-hE1zU_NOVA3UfDwsO-rEx3iwuRDeo1hyphenhyphenf7IZ27HtnNid0ocU6-Mrr3rOrelluErmYGbZzhGXe_MR9LBYBRglmw/s1600-h/Scherer+321.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 424px; height: 268px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDSXzKERWgTuub_QjaujRGeVNptXKAt0z8dVB65772h0yx0IYNRqIC-hE1zU_NOVA3UfDwsO-rEx3iwuRDeo1hyphenhyphenf7IZ27HtnNid0ocU6-Mrr3rOrelluErmYGbZzhGXe_MR9LBYBRglmw/s400/Scherer+321.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5316900038579325666" border="0" /></a><br />The first day of Spring in Raleigh, North Carolina – a balmy 39°F (4°C) – sunny and bright and beautiful. And although today is gorgeous, people remain indoors with their coffee and pastry and friends.<br /><br />And to look at the parking lot – a packed parking lot at that – you gotta ask yourself: Where’s the recession?<br /><br />Anyway, I’m back inside, ready to write – with my coffee and pastry surrounded by a sea of familiar faces.<br /></div></div><span style="font-style: italic;"></span><div style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-style: italic;">— </span><a style="font-style: italic;" href="http://www.schererjoyofwriting.com/">Michael Scherer</a><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Screenwriter</span><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"> _____________________________________________<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-style: italic;"></span><span style="font-style: italic;">Louisville, Kentucky</span><span style="font-style: italic;"><br />United </span><span style="font-style: italic;">States<br /></span><span style="font-style: italic;">GMT - 5</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">(9 a.m. local time)<br /></span></div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDkJbNzLdemz4xYa01le-R0UePy4KO64Te9pZyJHmXTX-y1vg2U_9Bgw1macp68R-t9SAV4QKlwRgzg-I8bHK7eWNbxNdHOWOsetibMrqvV-TfMalOSwRRr8GwfKY7D3KTu6-Xs3-HeSg/s1600-h/Hammond+321.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 423px; height: 309px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDkJbNzLdemz4xYa01le-R0UePy4KO64Te9pZyJHmXTX-y1vg2U_9Bgw1macp68R-t9SAV4QKlwRgzg-I8bHK7eWNbxNdHOWOsetibMrqvV-TfMalOSwRRr8GwfKY7D3KTu6-Xs3-HeSg/s400/Hammond+321.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5317179835618074370" border="0" /></a><br />One rite of spring is sacramental: Confirmation at the Cathedral of the Assumption. My daughter is listening to Sister Lisa instruct her and twelve other teens who will receive the sacrament of Confirmation at the Easter Vigil in two weeks. There is a cozy feeling here, this morning; it is a gathering of dear friends, who are either parents or sponsors of these fledgling Christians. And in joy, I fly out the doors in time to catch the sonorous toll of ten strokes from the chiming clock tower of this dear Church. <span style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span><div style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><br />— Jeanne Hammond</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Screenwriter</span><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">_____________________________________________<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Westlake Village, California</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">United States<br /></span><span style="font-style: italic;">GMT - 8</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">(6 a.m. local time)<br /></span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjucem6gZM-trBSKt4Tpbk20JNkSPr3qqT3pQSNH0tCq5S3v8Jz8Tz1WKp0iUVR7jD4ToS2VqeB2c6rjH-TKM2kD3OESIN4m6ZJ8RFCDT4q890QyxmY8e6G_cV0MZmBltsz1zY3l9OOiYE/s1600-h/WLV+321.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 423px; height: 243px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjucem6gZM-trBSKt4Tpbk20JNkSPr3qqT3pQSNH0tCq5S3v8Jz8Tz1WKp0iUVR7jD4ToS2VqeB2c6rjH-TKM2kD3OESIN4m6ZJ8RFCDT4q890QyxmY8e6G_cV0MZmBltsz1zY3l9OOiYE/s400/WLV+321.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5316900328752989810" border="0" /></a><br />A few more date stamps now, and you will have the benefit of sunlight to work with. For the time being, your part of the world is still asleep at 2 p.m. GMT, and as much as you prefer the warmth and comfort of your bed at this time of day, you're glad you didn't miss this moment.<br /></div><div style="text-align: right;"><div style="text-align: left;"><br />At ten years of age, she is still a child, but you see signs of the young woman she will be stirring. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFMd4MdorRVoCjap3975j9dUSK23jRYXZ6POS3IMyjcRlSnnCaLFnzLPm7mc7d3OTXwJo4pNb4DsmpJ1oes7kD_GUO1k2l-Fpix4W7xnUPpxpw871Ru-kAK_U0_4_oAZk56cmPcq7JUxU/s1600-h/Mercedes+321.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 424px; height: 316px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFMd4MdorRVoCjap3975j9dUSK23jRYXZ6POS3IMyjcRlSnnCaLFnzLPm7mc7d3OTXwJo4pNb4DsmpJ1oes7kD_GUO1k2l-Fpix4W7xnUPpxpw871Ru-kAK_U0_4_oAZk56cmPcq7JUxU/s400/Mercedes+321.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5316900900969641874" border="0" /></a>Like spring, the seeds have been planted, are already taking root. It is only a matter of time.<br /><br />She is both thrilled and terrified, knowing that she will not be a little girl for much longer. Maybe that's why she is not ashamed to be seen here, clinging to her favorite bear, Mercedes. In truth, the bear could use a good spin through the washing machine, but she won't even entertain the idea. Mercedes has nursed her through flus and tears and the passing of her grandmother, and in her eyes, the bear wears these memories in the folds of her sleeves and the crust on her coat. That's where her childhood lingers.<br /><br />Fair enough. It's the springtime of her life, after all, and you want her to savor every last second of it.<br /></div><span style="font-style: italic;">— Pamela Schott </span><span style="font-style: italic;"><br />Author, Screenwriter</span><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">_______________________________________________<br /><br /><div style="text-align: right;"><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Beijing, China</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">GMT + 8</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">(10 p.m. local time)</span><br /></div><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: left;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3s8NB3X_EMHFweRQITu3pHuzdONwT0uq5bohesPEJAnlEiGrXkerFbsCk3k9sxm2HcKhOl-Zaw4iHIJ18GQMohD3qqhLZWacsTYcs8s8WKfETPm_uv2scL3VnbsBgsvRKO35tAN_PMeU/s1600-h/Shanghai+321.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 426px; height: 376px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3s8NB3X_EMHFweRQITu3pHuzdONwT0uq5bohesPEJAnlEiGrXkerFbsCk3k9sxm2HcKhOl-Zaw4iHIJ18GQMohD3qqhLZWacsTYcs8s8WKfETPm_uv2scL3VnbsBgsvRKO35tAN_PMeU/s400/Shanghai+321.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5316905850621316610" border="0" /></a><span><br />AT THE CROSSROADS... What constantly strikes me about China — in the eight months that I've lived here — is the seeming incongruity of things. Tonight, on a wide avenue lined with four- and five-star hotels, lie a row of bicycles blown down by Beijing's strong spring winds. This could be any street in any international city, with its high-end boutiques and ornate facades. Yet there are these dusty bikes that have fallen on each other, occupying the median that separates the main road from the bicycle lane. Perhaps it's the only place bicycles are allowed to park. Do the bike-riders work in one of the hotels or restaurants in the area? Bicycles are still the mode of transport for many people. On this upscale, and impersonal boulevard, just a couple of blocks away from The Forbidden City and Tiananmen Square, I wonder about such people. They are not unlike myself, buffeted by the winds of change.</span></div><div style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><br />— Ginley Regencia</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"> </span></div></div></div>_______________________________________________<br /><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Royal Ville<br />Singapore<br /></span><span style="font-style: italic;">GMT + 8</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">(10 p.m. local time)</span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjNBGD_rdyelNyV0-1OBzDb8NwRNnjnX_cr66y4Va7zAGYqshQAySYgDs7lt32K7eLSuxNppdAQvh94ztg2EBXeYR88EsoY865e1W3tBFRiJ4LX0z6J71Mm0vUAOgzv-O-oLoBdasszAU/s1600-h/Marzuki+321.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 423px; height: 387px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjNBGD_rdyelNyV0-1OBzDb8NwRNnjnX_cr66y4Va7zAGYqshQAySYgDs7lt32K7eLSuxNppdAQvh94ztg2EBXeYR88EsoY865e1W3tBFRiJ4LX0z6J71Mm0vUAOgzv-O-oLoBdasszAU/s400/Marzuki+321.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5316901218502213170" border="0" /></a><br />The first day of spring... Well, no such thing in the tropics really! The night is cool from the afternoon's monster thunderstorm, we're lounging around watching TV and digesting our dinner, while our cat ponders the state of the world around him. Could he be secretly coming up w/ solutions to the world's economy? Or is he possibly plotting an attack on one of our ankles? Or... am I just a tad bored that I'd be thinking about what that little brain could be doing at this very moment? Time for bed methinks!</div></div><div style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-style: italic;">— Sonia Marzuki<br />Freelance Writer, PR Consultant<br /></span><div style="text-align: center;">_____________________________________________<br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div></div></div><span style="font-style: italic;">Tikrit</span><span style="font-style: italic;">, Iraq</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">GMT </span><span style="font-style: italic;">+ 3</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">(5 p.m. local time)</span><br /><div style="text-align: right;"><br /></div><p style="text-align: left;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDaM3doMiwrDcB1o02VKxvT-BytEeEwCGuTrnHcdqpNII4oE_HXQBDl67S8HhR5OfPmNBRIKo7hoG6KVpD2Lh1CKx8RgqkaieBKAzkwbFSYQAdM4dEtZpkNq9qbgP-Jy_VXWEoy40hb-c/s1600-h/Iraq+3.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 424px; height: 317px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDaM3doMiwrDcB1o02VKxvT-BytEeEwCGuTrnHcdqpNII4oE_HXQBDl67S8HhR5OfPmNBRIKo7hoG6KVpD2Lh1CKx8RgqkaieBKAzkwbFSYQAdM4dEtZpkNq9qbgP-Jy_VXWEoy40hb-c/s400/Iraq+3.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5316901504109292146" border="0" /></a><br />On this, the first full day of spring, it’s hard to find signs of the season, partly for being in Iraq, party for being in the middle of a drought. I looked high and low, and found these flowers out by a helo pad, flowers tall enough to gently sway in the breeze.</p><div style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-style: italic;">— <a href="http://www.blog.artlaflamme.com/">Art La Flamme</a></span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Blogger/Army Serviceman</span><br /></div><span style="font-style: italic;"></span><div style="text-align: center;">_____________________________________________<br /></div><br />Elsewhere in the world:<br /><br /><div style="text-align: right; font-style: italic;"><div style="text-align: left;">Panama Canal, Panama<br />United States<br />GMT - 8<br />(6 a.m. local time)<br /></div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoiT1vOd9MMBbNZPploao6qmRLg7aHRj7_DnA4iZLWGFNUQePzv7guOS3jNxyX13c9WVeP-23H_9oOgVtYy2fxGepcFY3926ub2r9mEApNz8gdZJLW2PGTiSZP_xwSiAxhNkySy8hQnNI/s1600-h/Panama+Canal+321.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 422px; height: 246px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoiT1vOd9MMBbNZPploao6qmRLg7aHRj7_DnA4iZLWGFNUQePzv7guOS3jNxyX13c9WVeP-23H_9oOgVtYy2fxGepcFY3926ub2r9mEApNz8gdZJLW2PGTiSZP_xwSiAxhNkySy8hQnNI/s400/Panama+Canal+321.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5316902372640408722" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><br />Australian Station<br />Antarctica<br />GMT + 4<br />(6 p.m. local time)<br /></div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzF9ue3KMj3CgTiY3Oy-PC9xUaMJDiIX34zRE9s1pSm9GrfmMQIU4WaCp_IgNnXeLoChYufdW_7RAjfHYpQCKpnZS-hv35QG5QIuC5J1TVccwU_pArTeKtqbx_18urcxaw088b4t_VTFA/s1600-h/Antarctica+321.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 423px; height: 337px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzF9ue3KMj3CgTiY3Oy-PC9xUaMJDiIX34zRE9s1pSm9GrfmMQIU4WaCp_IgNnXeLoChYufdW_7RAjfHYpQCKpnZS-hv35QG5QIuC5J1TVccwU_pArTeKtqbx_18urcxaw088b4t_VTFA/s400/Antarctica+321.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5316902886286964690" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><br />Abbey Road<br />London, England<br />United Kingdom<br />GMT<br />(2 p.m. local time)<br /></div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNc4vMjvVlSIhGneZl_7k055OX_DZz8z5JAJhw_jAr_y5XDelkd5tUsfl_PiBAbXhBIbLyt_GqJQ-fikWUhCAtoCfcShxsK69L3FqYC1cg1kyG2aDa_EwwmxW5Hhvdw60w9MJD2nwLtWE/s1600-h/Abbey+Road+321.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 423px; height: 312px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNc4vMjvVlSIhGneZl_7k055OX_DZz8z5JAJhw_jAr_y5XDelkd5tUsfl_PiBAbXhBIbLyt_GqJQ-fikWUhCAtoCfcShxsK69L3FqYC1cg1kyG2aDa_EwwmxW5Hhvdw60w9MJD2nwLtWE/s400/Abbey+Road+321.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5316903563615881666" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;">Venice Grand Canal, Italy<br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">GMT +1<br />(3 p.m. local time)<br /><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgRp8BHHonu6vUWyyCd7MRkwWnpMc99W9cUNvl_KtjblxHQt3gdOkXNO6ZDfPyDsaTuMRo8eTlibojesP7XnM0vFNRckVFZZXDYwahf-8ZurqZYs7FapFg0dxSb6ooI9eW1n_1ysd8jDI/s1600-h/Venice+321.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 425px; height: 270px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgRp8BHHonu6vUWyyCd7MRkwWnpMc99W9cUNvl_KtjblxHQt3gdOkXNO6ZDfPyDsaTuMRo8eTlibojesP7XnM0vFNRckVFZZXDYwahf-8ZurqZYs7FapFg0dxSb6ooI9eW1n_1ysd8jDI/s400/Venice+321.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5316903996181452674" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;">Paris, France<br />GMT + 1<br />(3 p.m. local time)<br /></div><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUezdiaGnKRL3MPqmf-JdUI3MrnJbIQACMJQz-rbCIWTeNHyDfIBb_ykvzNE4aKMR9eKaaPzFoJlV5RB7rAh9BXJH-GYINN9xanADzewYalc0_4NosL26LBZcYCJOqF74BgiAOHoq3nSE/s1600-h/Paris+321.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 426px; height: 337px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUezdiaGnKRL3MPqmf-JdUI3MrnJbIQACMJQz-rbCIWTeNHyDfIBb_ykvzNE4aKMR9eKaaPzFoJlV5RB7rAh9BXJH-GYINN9xanADzewYalc0_4NosL26LBZcYCJOqF74BgiAOHoq3nSE/s400/Paris+321.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5316904575897521074" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></div>Pamela Schotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13305551262035819359noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3578447199600774076.post-86995426903324377182009-03-23T09:15:00.000-07:002009-06-17T10:45:00.208-07:00jealousYou are jealous of Spring.<br /><br />Every year at this time, you find her blushing at the thresholds of your doors, catch glimpses of her through your windows and screens, and the feeling returns.<br /><br />She is vibrant and passionate and easy, Spring. Ready to get it on, to procreate, recreate, duplicate her beauty, to infuse everything around her with life and potential and the promise that all will continue on.<br /><br />Spring greets the day before the sun has even decided it's time for another go 'round, and lingers long enough in the evening sky to make the thought of setting seem somehow misguided.<br /><br />Spring is soft and loud and looks perfect in every shade of green, but especially the light ones. She is the life of the party, the belle of the ball, the first to arrive and last to leave. She is fast and loose and fragrant, and if you could bottle her, you would be the wealthiest woman in the world.<br /><br />Instead, where Spring is light and lithe, you look lethargic. As Spring gets a jump on the sun, you pull the duvet up over your eyes and mentally bargain with the day for five. more. minutes. As she explodes on the scene in all her effortless, ineffable morning glory, you are busy scrubbing and exfoliating and rouging and tweezing, and worrying that you'll not get away with ignoring your roots for much longer. (Spring's roots do not have this problem.) And while she is busy filling heads with her fever, you are rifling through a tired wardrobe, deliberating between sweat pants or shorts, depending on how well your legs survived the winter.<br /><br />But she's infectious, Spring, and eventually, eventually, she gets to you. And after a while, you find yourself rising with the sun and lingering at the end of the day, watching the shadows grow and wishing it could last. You grow lighter, and more carefree. You smile more at strangers, and take deep breaths of intoxicating air, and you're the better for it.<br /><br />When this finally happens, when you feel vibrant and passionate and easy again, you know that you have caught Spring's fever, too. And little by little, jealousy gives way to something lasting and profound and true.<br /><br />Something that looks a lot like gratitude.Pamela Schotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13305551262035819359noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3578447199600774076.post-21399006987995854082009-03-16T14:32:00.000-07:002009-04-06T21:39:35.642-07:00date stamp: gmt 1 p.m., march 13, 2009Friday the 13th.<br /><br />The 24h World Project chose this date for our second date stamp installment as a sort of social experiment: What was happening, the world over, on a day when superstitions supposedly run their highest, when sidewalk cracks and ladders are dutifully avoided, umbrellas opened out of doors, and black cats shunned?<br /><br />In short, everything and nothing.<br /><br />As you'll read from the following observations and see in some breathtaking imagery, life around the world went on as usual.<br /><br />Children were reprimanded in China as trash was left on the streets of Manhattan.<br /><br />In Manchester, traffic chugged and circulated and belted exhaust, while in Singapore, Irish expats chugged pints of Guiness at an early St. Patrick's Day celebration.<br /><br />Stacks of water bottles waited to be distributed to thirsty servicemen in the parched, arid Middle East, as rain sprinkled an industrial complex in Raleigh, North Carolina.<br /><br />Spring blushed in Louisville, Kentucky, while east and west of there, one blogger left the dark confines of a film festival theatre to mark the moment in Scotland, and this writer awoke in the dark in California to do the same.<br /><br />And criss-crossing the world once again, in a city of over 700,000 citizens, an 800-year-old monument to a beloved wife was noted for its beauty by an appreciative Londoner even as the sun prepared its descent in the evening sky in a lonely place on Earth called Antarctica.<br /><br />Just another ordinary day in an extraordinary world. Following are some of the images and observations from artists who stopped the clock at 1 p.m. GMT on March 13, 2009 to notice and take notes.<br /><br />A webcam image of Abbey Road in London kicks things off:<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTzaTxxi2Da3Cfu739D35REQjoM24HAZPNeEdC-whH1VLZfb9CMXUxfi8bnITxU5ZuB1TcKpOMUaelbaHDNR7N60sGVXhnbFN65Sl6fhCSeIwELRFWAOFgtYDVvy54ek3dO8E7_2VR14Y/s1600-h/Abbey+Road+3.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 436px; height: 319px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTzaTxxi2Da3Cfu739D35REQjoM24HAZPNeEdC-whH1VLZfb9CMXUxfi8bnITxU5ZuB1TcKpOMUaelbaHDNR7N60sGVXhnbFN65Sl6fhCSeIwELRFWAOFgtYDVvy54ek3dO8E7_2VR14Y/s400/Abbey+Road+3.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5314023948054355090" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></span><div style="text-align: center;">_______________________________________________<br /></div><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-style: italic;">London, England</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">U</span><span style="font-style: italic;">nited Kingdom</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">GMT</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">(1 p.m. local time)<br /><br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvkAnldoNt_2GMMOi7OD9JaegwdKnAQugOeCfYfKWAVH8hW8S0P9bbz0WRjS2jk5J9RhzY-CYWBpRhmvdD6Laq58QkN2TGTtxBq1lFSqTJz9C8CBxmpcGugtK4SWaSZ7zjlb3epKxpTLs/s1600-h/Howie+313.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvkAnldoNt_2GMMOi7OD9JaegwdKnAQugOeCfYfKWAVH8hW8S0P9bbz0WRjS2jk5J9RhzY-CYWBpRhmvdD6Laq58QkN2TGTtxBq1lFSqTJz9C8CBxmpcGugtK4SWaSZ7zjlb3epKxpTLs/s400/Howie+313.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5317229113207486594" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span>I was only going to make a few, but then I kept seeing reports on the work Comic Relief is doing in Africa, and... well let's just say my cupboard got emptied out!</span><br /></div><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span><div style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-style: italic;">— <a href="http://www.myspace.com/everythingtodancefor">Pearl Howie</a></span> <span style="font-style: italic;"></span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Screenwriter, Filmmaker</span><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">_______________________________________________<br /><br /></div><span style="font-style: italic;">London, England</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">U</span><span style="font-style: italic;">nited Kingdom</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">GMT</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">(1 p.m. local time)</span><br /></div></div><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiH9jLuKvyYUQVz0kD7OUvtp6v8SPQaCtpKVVKOpSQh_wQ0kfH5RpZLMZIaWVxmxVW4vwxRqxkGT8Y0oFHqr_yBDYnTMz8bKRos9ZKNV3RQEyz5nk79igtbiTePsX1qTjbrRy587UpWTP0/s1600-h/London+3.13.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 437px; height: 601px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiH9jLuKvyYUQVz0kD7OUvtp6v8SPQaCtpKVVKOpSQh_wQ0kfH5RpZLMZIaWVxmxVW4vwxRqxkGT8Y0oFHqr_yBDYnTMz8bKRos9ZKNV3RQEyz5nk79igtbiTePsX1qTjbrRy587UpWTP0/s400/London+3.13.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5314012159873398306" border="0" /></a><br />Well, not wanting to tempt fate on this traditionally inauspicious date, I decided not to stray too far from my front door.<br /><br />This is an Eleanor Cross, one of a series of monuments built by King Edward I in memory of his first wife, Eleanor of Castile who died in 1290.<br /><br />Seven hundred years' worth of wind and rain played havoc with poor Eleanor's carved features, so the current trio of statues are fibreglass replicas from the 1970s. For a time, the originals were housed in the public library. I only wish I'd been old enough to handle a camera back then. Having a medieval queen, of Amazonian proportions, in triplicate, standing guard over the reference section was quite a sight.<br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-style: italic;">— <a href="http://www.inwardeye.eu/">Kathryn Radmall</a></span><br /></div><div style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Screenwriter<br /><br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLVFCKuXguxRmcol_ybTuXPvWM9oezuTJTDGij6I44AhcW2pb8xRxXqElof2_6km24taBwp9fIkPQxmwvtyBdy_85nxDQcF9qX5CIcstlnIVdgLhqfmXBISuzYT9Y_Dp5UZXGfpj0qssw/s1600-h/Radmall+3.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 437px; height: 286px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLVFCKuXguxRmcol_ybTuXPvWM9oezuTJTDGij6I44AhcW2pb8xRxXqElof2_6km24taBwp9fIkPQxmwvtyBdy_85nxDQcF9qX5CIcstlnIVdgLhqfmXBISuzYT9Y_Dp5UZXGfpj0qssw/s400/Radmall+3.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5314011797755913058" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /><br /><br /><br /></span><span style="font-style: italic;">I love this image, and couldn't resist isolating some of the details. You could lose yourself in London over little things such as these.</span><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><br />— P.S.</span><br /></div></div></div><div style="text-align: center;">________________________________________________<br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Manchester, England</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">United Kingdom<br /></span><span style="font-style: italic;">GMT</span><span style="font-style: italic;"><br />(1 p.m. local time)</span><br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: right;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgk2H7Qwiun0VdRQ8o_rB3-X-YwM9880kJzQPIai5H1dHeOk5jHbGAjz68mJnfgGQoUoGCtcHxobMJHIO9RUwxxz7Ug-h3AsrnA1aR1sGJ0YCEUvgTiLM0lsUhteRsHgWHEeaCa4SHeUtk/s1600-h/Manchester+3.13:3.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 437px; height: 581px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgk2H7Qwiun0VdRQ8o_rB3-X-YwM9880kJzQPIai5H1dHeOk5jHbGAjz68mJnfgGQoUoGCtcHxobMJHIO9RUwxxz7Ug-h3AsrnA1aR1sGJ0YCEUvgTiLM0lsUhteRsHgWHEeaCa4SHeUtk/s400/Manchester+3.13:3.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5314015372062812754" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /><br /><br />— Peter Spencer</span> <span style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span><span style="font-style: italic;">Screenwriter</span><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">_____________________________________________<br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Edinburgh, Scotland</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">United Kingdom<br /></span><span style="font-style: italic;">GMT </span><span style="font-style: italic;">+1</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">(2 p.m. local time)<br /></span></div><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpuUTN-FvWnG7aFJtSZyIuM3UxvP9aeVaaSDn5ZXH4qrTwlSOxzWveJOthwUlWuUGMsgjObGs9vGVIlvRWILga4e-yYWxx9Rwgh282s2hGt0FYwU0C78EEPIErpCxc2Tmy0Yttg05sBcQ/s1600-h/Anderson+Scotland+3.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 438px; height: 308px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpuUTN-FvWnG7aFJtSZyIuM3UxvP9aeVaaSDn5ZXH4qrTwlSOxzWveJOthwUlWuUGMsgjObGs9vGVIlvRWILga4e-yYWxx9Rwgh282s2hGt0FYwU0C78EEPIErpCxc2Tmy0Yttg05sBcQ/s400/Anderson+Scotland+3.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5314016884528675314" border="0" /></a><br />I nipped out of a dark screening of experimental short films to take this, and was instantly dazzled by the light and colour of the real world. After taking the photo I had a choice to make: go back to into the blackness or stay in the sunlight. Sunlight - and a strong coffee - won!<br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-style: italic;">— </span><a style="font-style: italic;" href="http://www.landerson.co.uk/">Laura Anderson</a> <span style="font-style: italic;"><br />Freelanc</span><span style="font-style: italic;">e Writer and </span><span style="font-style: italic;">Filmmaker</span><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">________________________________________________<br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Toronto, Ontario</span> <span style="font-style: italic;"><br />Canada</span> <span style="font-style: italic;"><br />GMT -5</span> <span style="font-style: italic;"><br />(8 a.m. local time)</span><br /></div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqD1Fg8dONqHZbOM1V992e-svdM1HUw8d7qEdEh78JQ4rw4x6UYdZ-Rl7hGn3UyBGMsNvsr_kv4FsDrVVKAm_qSDa0zECQ8AuIPtARhd4ZrYhrtzvWAsAu85trCD7iwHMzA6OZ8hbGGD8/s1600-h/Canada+3.13.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 436px; height: 326px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqD1Fg8dONqHZbOM1V992e-svdM1HUw8d7qEdEh78JQ4rw4x6UYdZ-Rl7hGn3UyBGMsNvsr_kv4FsDrVVKAm_qSDa0zECQ8AuIPtARhd4ZrYhrtzvWAsAu85trCD7iwHMzA6OZ8hbGGD8/s400/Canada+3.13.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5314226113086544306" border="0" /></a><br />Like a science experiment gone awry, an ice crystal seems to be growing out of the Royal Ontario Museum. A beautiful, yet constant reminder that winter is either here, or on its way. Not to worry though, this crystal won't melt on this -10 celsius morning.<br /><div style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-style: italic;">— <a href="http://www.screenwritersedge.com/">Svet Rouskov</a></span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Screenwriter</span><br /></div></div><div style="text-align: center;">________________________________________________<br /></div><span style="font-style: italic;"><br />New York, New York</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">United States</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">GMT - 5</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">(8 a.m. local time)</span><br /></div><div style="text-align: right;"><br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: right;"><div style="text-align: left;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkip3CqFgNdoGQE_VTFb2WQf8gTjzccu9Fxj5k7vtYd4Jl-DoTP8vfte3OeHToznURRzovG85Gb2wcNLVpxOVoEZztJZ5Jv4wG52wHm60FNiYCRq5BSpPFh_PZd0TpgHTVvWgEk4K599A/s1600-h/Kamath+3.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 436px; height: 327px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkip3CqFgNdoGQE_VTFb2WQf8gTjzccu9Fxj5k7vtYd4Jl-DoTP8vfte3OeHToznURRzovG85Gb2wcNLVpxOVoEZztJZ5Jv4wG52wHm60FNiYCRq5BSpPFh_PZd0TpgHTVvWgEk4K599A/s400/Kamath+3.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5314018198857037522" border="0" /></a><br />I got up, went out and took a couple of pictures in my neighborhood and was set to write about how diverse my neighborhood is and how wonderfully different this is from where I grew up. But on my way back to my apartment, at roughly 8:15, I walked past this pile of trash. Now, I have walked past many piles of trash in New York and seen a wide variety of things being thrown away, but I'm pretty sure this is the first time I've ever seen a pair of crutches being thrown, and I had to take a picture. Not just because it was the first time I'd seen a pair of crutches lying on a trash pile, but because I thought that this is a wonderful illustration of the type of minutiae that can inspire an idea and blossom into a story. So much of what writers do comes from this - a snatch of conversation, an image, a name, a place. Those crutches struck me as being the end of the story. Or perhaps the beginning.<br /></div><span style="font-style: italic;">— <a href="http://www.mkwriter.com/">Mrinalini Kamath</a></span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Playwright, Filmmaker</span><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">_____________________________________________<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: right;"><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Raleigh, North Carolina</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">United States</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">GMT - 5</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">(8 a.m. local time)</span><br /></div><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhe0LUqGyM_ABK5SGe2JcMZ__jyQjzYLm8p8cUqLQ6q3fVInbTamLVIUy_1ZApik3LhsFA8RQ1oM9VZz6S_4lsjo5kGPTrcYNIo4jOE8b7gN4eNWgDd7sdCN6DXO4sTWVvF2juNDcVsttg/s1600-h/mikeScherer+3.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 436px; height: 292px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhe0LUqGyM_ABK5SGe2JcMZ__jyQjzYLm8p8cUqLQ6q3fVInbTamLVIUy_1ZApik3LhsFA8RQ1oM9VZz6S_4lsjo5kGPTrcYNIo4jOE8b7gN4eNWgDd7sdCN6DXO4sTWVvF2juNDcVsttg/s400/mikeScherer+3.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5314018913896369010" border="0" /></a><br />No one works in their cubbies any more — they all seem to be away at meetings — day long meetings. Seems people have meetings just to plan other meetings — it’s a way of life, a new culture.<br /><br />It’s rainy and cold outside and I wish I was home curled up with a book – on the sofa – anxiously waiting for the heaviness of sleep take over my eyes. Unfortunately — or fortunately based on today’s economy — I’m stuck at work.<br /><br />And even though it is Friday the 13th, it is Friday, and that means the weekend is here and I will be able to write. I work for the weekends – I work to write.<br /><br /></div><span style="font-style: italic;"></span><div style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-style: italic;">— </span><a style="font-style: italic;" href="http://www.schererjoyofwriting.com/">Michael Scherer</a><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Screenwriter</span><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"> _____________________________________________<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Louisville, Kentucky</span> <span style="font-style: italic;"><br />United </span><span style="font-style: italic;">States<br /></span><span style="font-style: italic;">GMT - 5</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">(8 a.m. local time)<br /></span></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: left;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEha3Rgyl62e5OdrGq3uZdrRj1b6F7itmfLHS9t5PW3_E-UiV-s9TYJ_TXehFVP8ZOmVEniYUlIg7ypHyfVJ8yXAEGUc3epYcZSaND2MqR5yJpOPgGIh9zF8F7CrQAs7swrSmdyZx2Lwuko/s1600-h/Louisville+3.13:1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 436px; height: 580px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEha3Rgyl62e5OdrGq3uZdrRj1b6F7itmfLHS9t5PW3_E-UiV-s9TYJ_TXehFVP8ZOmVEniYUlIg7ypHyfVJ8yXAEGUc3epYcZSaND2MqR5yJpOPgGIh9zF8F7CrQAs7swrSmdyZx2Lwuko/s400/Louisville+3.13:1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5314020355712351778" border="0" /></a><br />One sign that all will be well is spring! The season that surprises us a bit, jolts us out of our cold gloom. If the trees can smile, so can I. Hope may recede for a season, but it comes around!<br /></div></div><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span><div style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-style: italic;">— Jeanne Hammond</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Screenwriter</span><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">_____________________________________________<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Westlake Village, California</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">United States<br /></span><span style="font-style: italic;">GMT - 8</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">(5 a.m. local time)<br /></span></div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQiZfY-5f847ou3_WRnbtmWjfVSjayT-QfOqU5eDijrJ19ZLxJcvIsclVGYFCvh_laex9vrmOWJx-NZ3zepVlGxGT4EC6hw6F3loDDqhGUvf1tP0JXiPK1ZxWxjxNGxp4bSY-y1r4y_lY/s1600-h/WLV+313.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 438px; height: 326px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQiZfY-5f847ou3_WRnbtmWjfVSjayT-QfOqU5eDijrJ19ZLxJcvIsclVGYFCvh_laex9vrmOWJx-NZ3zepVlGxGT4EC6hw6F3loDDqhGUvf1tP0JXiPK1ZxWxjxNGxp4bSY-y1r4y_lY/s400/WLV+313.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5314023555584276402" border="0" /></a><br />Another date stamp in the pitch of night. Even with the clocks moving forward this week, you're still in darkness.<br /><br />The nightstand is an easy subject (at least this time you're not trudging around in the frosty front yard for a photo).<br /><br />It's the last thing you see when you close your eyes, and the first thing you encounter the next morning. On nights when ideas override the shut-off valve, and your mind is racing, it's also where your gaze falls most frequently until sleep slips in again. What better place, then, to leave a reminder of something you have been working for for most of your adult life, to see it realized in a tangible way, until it actually does become real?<br /><br />A jacket cover for <span style="font-style: italic;">Music from a Scorched Earth</span>, your first work of long-form fiction, sits on the nightstand, waiting to see the light of day.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-style: italic;">— Pamela Schott </span><span style="font-style: italic;"><br />Author, Screenwriter</span><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">_______________________________________________<br /><br /><div style="text-align: right;"><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Shanghai</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">China</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">GMT + 8</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">(9 p.m. local time)</span><br /></div><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span><div style="text-align: justify;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-Epg3QQbtiGUCH6wKGo0keaeEqS7_p32FM1AJrtjN8y9LZ2pQQ5xePVik215DGfvq829c9qkCThKCOyPKQCKG7ZiUXCllxgEexe62RYjhol6bVLcI0XEecuDe7r-FhjTj9Uyo6x-FGz8/s1600-h/Shanghai+3.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 437px; height: 326px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-Epg3QQbtiGUCH6wKGo0keaeEqS7_p32FM1AJrtjN8y9LZ2pQQ5xePVik215DGfvq829c9qkCThKCOyPKQCKG7ZiUXCllxgEexe62RYjhol6bVLcI0XEecuDe7r-FhjTj9Uyo6x-FGz8/s400/Shanghai+3.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5314197939905120210" border="0" /></a><span><br />GROWING PAIN: Our son really tested his limits this week — to the point of being irresponsible. Pushing boundaries is how we grow as people. Certainly, our family's move to Shanghai from Louisville, Kentucky, nearly eight months ago, has taken us out of our comfort zone. I just wonder if the transition has hastened our eldest child's impulse to see exactly how much he can get away with. Or, is this not such unusual behavior for a ten-year-old boy in fifth grade? It wasn't typical of our son — until the last couple of weeks anyway. We've already taken privileges away, seemingly to no avail. Now, at bedtime on a Friday night, Dad tells him that he's losing something that's not easily won back — our trust.<br /></span><div style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-style: italic;">— Ginley Regencia</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"> </span></div></div></div>_______________________________________________<br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Royal Ville<br />Singapore<br /></span><span style="font-style: italic;">GMT + 8</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">(9 p.m. local time)<br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8SF4FTG_xl4ftTU2hbEzJFn9T6TZiMOEaBf71b2MIQ5DxhxI7aXldRhTKXO5LyGRnyL5Q8y51igsIWbNEQdPHou05FjD7epDsoUR9VkMp8-j8x4mbW2RPkOZohxUhKvkiBIkWzXTe4Hk/s1600-h/Singapore+3.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 437px; height: 327px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8SF4FTG_xl4ftTU2hbEzJFn9T6TZiMOEaBf71b2MIQ5DxhxI7aXldRhTKXO5LyGRnyL5Q8y51igsIWbNEQdPHou05FjD7epDsoUR9VkMp8-j8x4mbW2RPkOZohxUhKvkiBIkWzXTe4Hk/s400/Singapore+3.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5314025317570890786" border="0" /></a><br />Here I am sitting in a posh ballroom, celebrating St. Pat's with my Irish husband and the Singapore chapter of the St. Patrick's Society. Everyone's all dressed to the nines, we've dined on amazing 5-star gourmet cuisine, the Irish dancers have brilliantly strutted their stuff and a good few have put in their bids in the silent auction for assorted art pieces, memorabilia and Persian carpets. So... recession? What recession? Well, I suppose we can all forget that for now thanks to St. Pat. Ah Guinness! How did I come to love thee? Oh never mind! <span style="font-style: italic;">Slainte!</span></div></div><div style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-style: italic;">— Sonia Marzuki<br /></span><div style="text-align: center;">_____________________________________________<br /></div><br /></div></div><span style="font-style: italic;">Tikrit<br />Iraq<br /></span><span style="font-style: italic;">GMT </span><span style="font-style: italic;">+ 3<br />(4 p.m. local time)</span><br /><p style="text-align: left;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMRUnK0UpS9Lu3TF1gGwSB-I7kTKgYu9rnlEj2JU3iAMfivN03rnUqzYJsXTvRt2KbTs-qVf6OILG0DS7EJKpKGjfsx3ZvXpzAwmBTXdwSxOWMcFaOCoxa2utVY1O9AglDqKf48Gu-vGI/s1600-h/Iraq+313.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 440px; height: 335px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMRUnK0UpS9Lu3TF1gGwSB-I7kTKgYu9rnlEj2JU3iAMfivN03rnUqzYJsXTvRt2KbTs-qVf6OILG0DS7EJKpKGjfsx3ZvXpzAwmBTXdwSxOWMcFaOCoxa2utVY1O9AglDqKf48Gu-vGI/s400/Iraq+313.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5314207477572798370" border="0" /></a><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;">I find great irony with this — water collecting dust. Partially because I’m in Iraq, and partially because there’s a drought on.</p><div style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-style: italic;">— <a href="http://www.blog.artlaflamme.com/">Art La Flamme</a></span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Blogger/Army Serviceman</span><br /></div><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /><br /></span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Elsewhere in the world:<br /><br /><div style="text-align: right;"><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: right;"><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: right; font-style: italic;"><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: left;">Panama Canal, Panama<br />United States<br />GMT - 8<br />(5 a.m. local time)<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhP7QqQ8C04ToygMarFzPvrgFb3gPJPPL0-iN3hv5KFxY2JCz_K5wWK0Nm-0Jo5DS_gvpk8in3hW4kTLaVWxFrZhNSS9ko0j_eO20Zl72pewMT5nsAm4jkERC_OGPnnJzRvmm6f5GrF-DE/s1600-h/Panama+Canal+313.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 437px; height: 263px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhP7QqQ8C04ToygMarFzPvrgFb3gPJPPL0-iN3hv5KFxY2JCz_K5wWK0Nm-0Jo5DS_gvpk8in3hW4kTLaVWxFrZhNSS9ko0j_eO20Zl72pewMT5nsAm4jkERC_OGPnnJzRvmm6f5GrF-DE/s400/Panama+Canal+313.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5314208907080138930" border="0" /></a><br /></div><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><br /><br /><br />Australian Station,<br />Antarctica<br />GMT + 4<br />(5 p.m. local time)<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMrY6AYnem8exvWYcIl5Coz5ycdbvU9SAhTn5LMTr1xlcIbWF2vJtLnKDJqCkLwp0JdkR68eSYUO0UlGt2xOzJD9xCVjDLRgYUH9B3kRRrb7lyKWNymWLJTn9-ipXqYtpJ5vTuCEy10Vc/s1600-h/Antarctica+313.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 437px; height: 349px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMrY6AYnem8exvWYcIl5Coz5ycdbvU9SAhTn5LMTr1xlcIbWF2vJtLnKDJqCkLwp0JdkR68eSYUO0UlGt2xOzJD9xCVjDLRgYUH9B3kRRrb7lyKWNymWLJTn9-ipXqYtpJ5vTuCEy10Vc/s400/Antarctica+313.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5314212886212540706" border="0" /></a><br /></div><br /><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: right;"><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><br />Venice Grand Canal<br />Italy<br />GMT +1<br />(2 p.m. local time)<br /></div></div><div style="text-align: right;"><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzl6rDYdQNeyfBOZiO3LwEUx_1nSbzWowYOsdp4Y_QW5HkwOj4XS_YqBQjhghOll6H62kGfuctRS1qnUJUegXjMjTTlStMW_mtfA8MC1ohq_wmAgxk6QdGlxkx1-YdMfD9CYOpxa66sSk/s1600-h/Venice+313.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 438px; height: 292px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzl6rDYdQNeyfBOZiO3LwEUx_1nSbzWowYOsdp4Y_QW5HkwOj4XS_YqBQjhghOll6H62kGfuctRS1qnUJUegXjMjTTlStMW_mtfA8MC1ohq_wmAgxk6QdGlxkx1-YdMfD9CYOpxa66sSk/s400/Venice+313.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5314209404816658242" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Paris<br />France<br />GMT + 1<br />(2 p.m. local time)<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9uvfWZUtFvTAGnPe1yLQg1SvmZSE7VPZm43bvjOtw2uFPvFixGY52-kosD6Y-Zzw0NUjZg6HZlKMfTBXmYmxo71vmzlKLqPluKvtX677uwRdfvJdlFH7jfna8lVXpAaaO9BKGChsxhNw/s1600-h/Notre+Dame+313.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 439px; height: 347px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9uvfWZUtFvTAGnPe1yLQg1SvmZSE7VPZm43bvjOtw2uFPvFixGY52-kosD6Y-Zzw0NUjZg6HZlKMfTBXmYmxo71vmzlKLqPluKvtX677uwRdfvJdlFH7jfna8lVXpAaaO9BKGChsxhNw/s400/Notre+Dame+313.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5314211095907896514" border="0" /></a><br /></div><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></div></div></div></div><br /></div></div><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span></div><br /></div></div></div>Pamela Schotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13305551262035819359noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3578447199600774076.post-91318931576545337692009-03-12T09:40:00.000-07:002009-06-17T10:45:21.533-07:00(re)orientationLast night was orientation for all incoming freshman at the local high school. "Surreal" does not describe the feeling of sitting on the bleachers in the gym, surrounded by pennants in Warrior colors and anxious, acne-ridden kids, doused in fluorescent lighting, knowing (but not yet fully comprehending) that you're here for <span style="font-style: italic;">your kid</span>. Your baby.<br /><br />Joining <a href="http://www.facebook.com/people/Pamela-Lockwood-Schott/668246531">Facebook</a> recently probably doesn't help, because it has brought an immediacy to high school — your high school — that you haven't felt in over 20 years. Friends, acquaintances, people you knew in passing, people you wanted to know — they're all there, suddenly, their lives open to you with the swipe of a finger across the track pad, looking just about how you remembered them, with kids of their own, and jobs and mortgages and... grown up stuff.<br /><br />You loved high school, loved your classes and friends, loved going to the games and watching football practice, loved being a part of a community of people at a time when the world was <span style="font-style: italic;">right there</span>, at your fingertips, waiting for you to explode into it, to wake up to your potential, to turn everything to gold with your touch, simply because you believed it was possible.<br /><br />Now, it's your daughter's turn, and you want the same — better — for her. You want her to feel connected, unlimited. You want her to know the heartache of a major crush, and the comfort that comes with sharing that ache with a close friend. You want her to thrill at the smell of new textbooks and the first shavings from a pencil, and to know that it's okay to geek out over stuff like this. You want her to look forward to her classes and to find that teacher who will find something in her, and seek her out, and send her on a life path that she will follow until it's physically impossible for her to do so anymore.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMfzARG1-5V6sfOG2k_t_10leSnFmzupyJPs60U7lMDbdj8DPED-6vHz28wwqN9cIlyzY78aUd8zO4UVwzsxgyJe1ryYaHqj4OP5bpc3ygwVsfofHypw4d14BJszYCzniLnUlT24cDq9k/s1600-h/Josie.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMfzARG1-5V6sfOG2k_t_10leSnFmzupyJPs60U7lMDbdj8DPED-6vHz28wwqN9cIlyzY78aUd8zO4UVwzsxgyJe1ryYaHqj4OP5bpc3ygwVsfofHypw4d14BJszYCzniLnUlT24cDq9k/s400/Josie.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5312352442305049282" border="0" /></a>In a matter of months, she'll walk that campus for the first time as a freshman, moving forward into her own future, little by little, moving away from childhood, more and more. Already, you're talking about what courses she should take to prepare for a UC school, which means that college will probably come faster than anything that's come before. She's excited and terrified and ready and reluctant, and so are you. Her orientation last night marked the being of yet another reorientation in your life, and all you can do is cross your fingers, take a deep breath, and say "thank you." For what is, what has been, and what is surely to come.Pamela Schotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13305551262035819359noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3578447199600774076.post-7519929138677172482009-03-11T13:53:00.001-07:002009-03-12T10:42:40.332-07:00how to attract financial abundance into your lifeEvery now and again, I step out of the observing writer mode on the blog to recommend things I've heard, read, and, um... observed that I think will resonate with my readers.<br /><br />This morning, I heard author and radio show host Peggy McColl interview Marci Shimoff, the author of "Campbell's Soup for the Woman's Soul," which became a NYT bestseller within a week of its release and has sold over 30 million copies.<br /><br />You can hear the interview again today as it's rebroadcast. Check the <a href="http://www.hayhouseradio.com/day_by_day.php">schedule</a> for show times, or sign up to listen again at any time from the archives.<br /><br />I think the gist of Peggy's message, week to week and show to show, is that abundance flows from happiness, and happiness is rooted in gratitude (hence the name of this here blog). The mere act of noticing what there is around you to be thankful for can turn your life around in the most amazing ways.<br /><br />Anyway, there's much written by Peggy and others on attracting abundance, so I'll leave it to the pros. If you're looking for a great resource for activating the "on" switch for your life, check her out on Hay House Radio. In fact, browse their list of shows and give other writers a listen. Dr. Wayne Dyer is on there, as is Marianne Williamson, Robert ("The Hottie") Ohotto, and one of my favorite life coaches, Michael Neill of Genius Catalyst fame.<br /><br />Leaving you until next time with words from the inestimable Mr. Neill: "If you're doing things in order to be happy, you're doing them in the wrong order."<span style="text-decoration: underline;"></span>Pamela Schotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13305551262035819359noreply@blogger.com0