gr@itude

music from a scorched earth

2009-11-22T14:39:00.000-08:00

Following is the pitch I'm using for my newest/oldest screenplay, MUSIC FROM A SCORCHED EARTH.

To, you know, answer the question, "What have you been up to?" and, hopefully, account for the long absence from this blog.

(Hi!)

---

Music expresses that which cannot be said and on which
it is impossible to be silent.

— Victor Hugo

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

as it was written

2009-10-19T20:18:00.000-07:00

I recently had the great fortune of receiving the galleys of a novel by Sujatha Hampton for her début work of fiction entitled, "As It Was Written," due out in February of 2010 from Thomas Dunne Books.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Who writes like that? Too enormous a thought for such a simple slice of the hushed and gentle night. It's turns of phrases such as these, simple, elegant, profound, that keep writers glued to their chairs, staring for hours on end, listening — praying — 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.

"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.

first homecoming

2009-10-17T18:36:00.000-07:00

Johannah had her first prom tonight, something she began preparing for weeks ago when she decided she wanted to design her own dress.

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.

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.

A pair of killer heels and a pedi finished off the look.

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.

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.

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.

That's what I'm hoping for, anyway.

relative irrelevance

2009-10-05T11:08:00.000-07:00

"To have a child... is to decide forever to have your heart
go walking around outside your body."

— Elizabeth Stone

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

But it's not about sidestepping at all, but rather stepping back, 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.

The apart 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.

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 A Prairie Home Companion or Mystery Theatre 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.

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."

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.

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 what she's sharing, it's that 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.

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.

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.

Because for all she does and does not say, she needs me. She'll always need me. And for that, I'm grateful.

easiest. diet. ever.

2009-09-14T10:28:00.000-07:00

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?

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:

grown at least three inches;
lost about 10 pounds; and
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.

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?).

Check it:

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.

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.

Well played, Samsung.

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.

friday night lights

2009-09-09T11:43:00.000-07:00

It'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 anything 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.

...

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 The Joshua Tree 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-Famolare footwear, who let me know in no uncertain terms that this look? (the hair, not the latex) — yeah, it was fashioned for super villain Ursa (Superman II) 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.

(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, She's so fine now will no longer be considered praise. I hope.)

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.

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.

He must have known.

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 fine, 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.

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. He was all there.

Except, he wasn't.

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.

...

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.

But mostly, I wallowed.

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.

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.

Happy Anniversary, Jeremy.

* This is the way the relish happened:

At the condiments stand.

Julia: Daddy likes relish, Mom. Don't forget.
Me: Yeah. I know. We've been married for 16 years, remember? I got the condiments thing down. Leave it to me, kid.

Later.

Him: There was relish on my cheeseburger.
Me: I know! I got it for you.
Him: Who puts relish on a cheeseburger?
Me: You do! You put relish on a cheeseburger! You love relish.
Him: On hotdogs.
Me: Oh.
Him: I can't say I've ever had relish on a cheeseburger.
Me: You ate it all, though, right?
Him: ...
Me: ...
Me: Happy Anniversary!

date stamp: 8 p.m. gmt, june 29, 2009

2009-07-28T20:37:00.000-07:00

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.

______________________________________________

Manchester, England
GMT
(8 p.m., local time)

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.

The closed pub, credit crunch symbol of the UK.

— Peter Spencer
Screenwriter

_____________________________________________

Toronto, Ontario
Canada
GMT -5
(3 p.m. local time)

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.

— Svet Rouskov
Screenwriter

_____________________________________________

New York, New York
United States
GMT - 5
(3 p.m. local time)

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!

— Mrinalini Kamath
Playwright, Filmmaker

_____________________________________________

Raleigh, North Carolina
United States
GMT - 5
(3 p.m. local time)

Mondays.

I hate Mondays.

And when I see this sign I know I’m one-third of the way
home with only fifty more miles to go. Seventy-five miles
each way. One-hundred-fifty miles a day. Just to work.

It’s really not so bad though and I do love the drive home.
An opportunity to unwind. An opportunity to think.
To think about writing. To think about my latest screenplay.
To plan my writing Weekend. I work for the weekend. I live for the weekend. But I still hate Mondays.

— Michael Scherer
Screenwriter

_____________________________________________

Louisville, Kentucky
United States
GMT - 5
(3 p.m. local time)

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!

— Jeanne Hammond
Screenwriter

_____________________________________________

Westlake Village, California
United States
GMT - 8
(12 p.m. local time)

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.

— Pamela Schott
Author, Screenwriter

_____________________________________________

Tikrit, Iraq
GMT + 3
(11 p.m. local time)

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.

— Art La Flamme
Blogger/Army Serviceman

_____________________________________________

Elsewhere in the world:

Abbey Road

London, England
United Kingdom
GMT
(8 p.m. local time)

_____________________________________________

Venice
Grand Canal
Italy

GMT +1
(9 p.m. local time)

_____________________________________________

Paris, France
GMT + 1
(9 p.m. local time)

2:27 on a sunday afternoon in june

2009-06-28T17:25:00.000-07:00

Hot 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.

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.

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...

...as well as a few others, whose purpose at the school you can only guess at.

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.

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:

At the back of the property, behind the barns and storage units and ancient trucks

and storybook tractors

and tools designed to measure and gauge

stretches this bridge:

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

love its quiet importance which must ignore the fact of the empty creek bed, below, in order to justify its existence.

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.

You and your companion don't have as much tolerance for the heat, however

and after a while, it was time to cross another hopeful bridge home.

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.

The doll is long gone, but to this day, you can't pass a lavender bush without calling it to mind.

You stopped once more to appreciate this symmetry, purchased with your Home Owner's Association dues

and a neighbor's drought-tolerant yard featuring a gaggle of hens and chicks plants

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

as they waited for your return.

date stamp: 7 p.m. gmt, june 17, 2009

2009-06-23T14:32:00.000-07:00

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 here.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Happy Birthday, Sara Jean Kernan Lockwood. This date stamp's for you.

________________________________________________

London, England
GMT
(7 p.m., local time)

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.

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.

— Kathryn Radmall

Screenwriter

________________________________________________

Manchester, England
GMT
(7 p.m., local time)

Note: Peter Spencer took these photos while on holiday just north of London.

Somewhere near Milton Keynes on a summer's evening.

— Peter Spencer
Screenwriter

_____________________________________________

Raleigh, North Carolina
United States
GMT - 5
(2 p.m. local time)

Mike Scherer was also on vacation for this date stamp, reporting in from Manistee, Michigan.

Do guy-birds ogle the females as they work on their tans? Do they fantasize about ‘making it’ with their favorite chick?

Do girl-birds scope out the guys on the sly -- score them on a scale from one to ten -- then giggle amongst themselves?

Did any of this posturing and preening and posing result in any long-term relationships?

Shrug.

All I know: this beach has gone to the birds.

Happy 73rd Sara Lockwood!

— Michael Scherer
Screenwriter

_____________________________________________

Louisville, Kentucky
United States
GMT - 5
(2 p.m. local time)

It seems almost no one stayed put for this date stamp. Here's Jeanne Hammond's report from South Bend, Indiana.

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.

_____________________________________________

Westlake Village, California
United States
GMT - 8
(11 a.m. local time)

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.

At least from this dog's perspective.

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.

— Pamela Schott
Author, Screenwriter

_____________________________________________

Tikrit, Iraq
GMT + 3
(10 p.m. local time)

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.

— Art La Flamme
Blogger/Army Serviceman

_____________________________________________

Elsewhere in the world:

Australian Station
Antarctica
GMT + 4
(11 p.m. local time)

_____________________________________________

Abbey Road
London, England
United Kingdom
GMT
(7 p.m. local time)

_____________________________________________

Venice
Grand Canal
Italy

GMT +1
(7 p.m. local time)

_____________________________________________

Paris, France
GMT + 1
(8 p.m. local time)

father's day #15

2009-06-21T15:49:00.000-07:00

Fifteen 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.

We kicked off Father's Day celebrations at Peet's Coffee with pastries and frappuccinos,

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.

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.

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.

Then, in keeping with company by-laws, took a handful of Silly Photos to add to our collection of 16 years:

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,

and these on a turnout on Kanan Road, overlooking Malibu:

Back through a tunnel with K.T. Tunstall on the stereo, the girls holding their breath and a wish

as gravity and gratitude pulled us down into the valley, back towards the home that he makes possible.

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.

Happy Father's Day 2009, JMS.

Love,
PJ&J

this and that

2009-06-16T20:50:00.001-07:00

Summer. Finally.

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 finally summer.

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.

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.

Exciting? Not at all. Glamorous? Snort. NO.

But... perfect? Wonderful? Fantastic? Aw, yeah.

Here's what the perfectwonderfulfantastic day called Today looked like:

Jules and I dropped by Westlake High School to turn in the registration form for Orientation Week, which Jo will be attending in August.

(Aside: Is it right that I have a high schooler? That is not a rhetorical question.)

Anyway, while waiting for the office to open from lunch, I found this:

I love the man v. nature feel of this photo.

(Though am not entirely sure what the circle-y concrete thing at the entrance to school is for.)

(Maybe they will explain at orientation?)

(Highly unlikely, but I can't possibly be the only parent that has wondered.)

(Or maybe I am.)

(That's just how I roll.)

And snapped this:

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.

Sur. real.

Still waiting for the office to open:

Nothing much to say about this photo, except that I am crazy about this kid.

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:

The first envelope read, "I think I'll like..." Leggs McGee opened that one, and found the airline tickets to San Francisco.

Julia's envelope finished the sentence with "...defying gravity!":

but it still took them a couple of seconds to realize that we'll be going up there to see Wicked at the Orpheum.

(You'd think the lyrics reference would have been an obvious giveaway.)

(Especially considering that they were both in a production of Wicked a few years back.)

(And that's ALL WE PLAYED in the car for about three months.)

(Not that I'm complaining — it's my favorite show that we've done.)

(But still.)

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.

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.

grey matters

2009-06-08T13:25:00.000-07:00

I 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.

But I just don't have it in me.

(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.)

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.

And so I turn, like many bloggers before me in need of material, to The List.

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 anything 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.

(Did I mention I've been bed ridden for over a week?)

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.

1. Snippets of 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:

Close every door to me/
Hide all the world from me/
Bar all the windows/
And shut out the light/

If my life were important I/
Would ask will I live or die/
But I know the answers lie/
Far from this world/

Close every door to me/
Keep those I love from me/
Children of Israel/
Are never alone/
For I know I shall find/
My own peace of mind/
For I have been promised/
A land of my own.

(God. Drama much?)

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.

3. I am no longer green, as Julia observed about two days ago.

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.)

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?

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.

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.

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?

9. I may be — may be — at the half-way point in "Music from a Scorched Earth."

10. Which is nothing to sneeze at.

11. Except I thought I'd have a first draft done by now.

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.

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.

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.

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?

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 dooce is about to go into labor, and Pamela Ribon (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.

Back more when the meds kick in, the bacteria (virus?) kicks out, and I have successfully exorcised show tunes from my addled brain.

date stamp: 6 p.m. gmt, may 30, 2009

2009-06-05T16:46:00.000-07:00

This 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.

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.

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.

Here, then, is a look at May 30, 2009, from the perspective of 6 p.m. GMT:

________________________________________________

London, England
GMT
(6 p.m., local time)

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.

As the saying goes "Dogs have owners. Cats have staff."

— Kathryn Radmall

Screenwriter

________________________________________________

Toronto, Ontario
Canada
GMT -5
(11 a.m. local time)

'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?

So on a lovely Saturday afternoon I find myself at a good friend's house for a barbeque.

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.

We are serious mechanics... look hard and you will notice the beer in my hand.

All in all, a perfect summer day.

— Svet Rouskov
Screenwriter

________________________________________________

Manchester, England
GMT
(6 p.m., local time)

From the road it's just another church.

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.

It was hit during WW2. All that remains is the front. Complete. Intact. Perfect.

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.

Oh yeah, Stockport Zombie hunters. Okay, one day I'll get a good title!

— Peter Spencer
Screenwriter.

________________________________________________

New York, New York
United States
GMT - 5
(1 p.m. local time)

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.

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.

— Mrinalini Kamath
Playwright, Filmmaker

_____________________________________________

Raleigh, North Carolina
United States
GMT - 5
(1 p.m. local time)

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.

Happy Birthday, Art LaFlamme.

— Michael Scherer
Screenwriter

_____________________________________________

Westlake Village, California
United States
GMT - 8
(10 a.m. local time)

First pair of pointe shoes: a dream finally realized.

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.

— Pamela Schott
Author, Screenwriter

_____________________________________________

Royal Ville
Singapore
GMT + 8
(2 a.m. local time)

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!

— Sonia Marzuki
Freelance Writer, PR Consultant

_____________________________________________

Tikrit, Iraq
GMT + 3
(9 p.m. local time)

Note: Art La Flamme is on leave from his duties in Tikrit, Iraq.

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.

— Art La Flamme
Blogger/Army Serviceman

_____________________________________________

Elsewhere in the world:

Australian Station
Antarctica
GMT + 4
(10 p.m. local time)

_____________________________________________

Abbey Road
London, England
United Kingdom
GMT (6 p.m. local time)

_____________________________________________

Venice
Grand Canal
Italy

GMT +1 (6 p.m. local time)

_____________________________________________

Paris, France
GMT + 1
(7 p.m. local time)

showtime

2009-05-29T08:46:00.000-07:00

Posting 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.

(When they are in tune.)

(Also? When they are not chewing gum.)

(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.")

(Which is a real show-stopper, complete with kick line.)

Back soon, certain as the sun.

date stamp: 5 p.m. gmt, may 20, 2009

2009-05-26T13:57:00.000-07:00

Helen 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.

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.

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.

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."

Say hello, then, to a great and noble world as it was observed on May 20, 2009:

________________________________________________

London, England
GMT
(5 p.m., local time)

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.

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.

— Kathryn Radmall

Screenwriter

________________________________________________

Edinburgh, Scotland
United Kingdom
GMT
(5 p.m. local time)

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!

— Laura Anderson
Freelance Writer and Filmmaker

________________________________________________

Toronto, Ontario
Canada
GMT -5
(10 a.m. local time)

An unremarkable moment for this date stamp...
In a regular hum-drum meeting...
Looking out a window and wondering...
'Is there more to life than this?'
'Are we alone in the Universe?'
'What is our purpose in this life?'
'I wonder what's for dinner?' ... and back to work I go.
________________________________________________

Manchester, England
GMT
(5 p.m., local time)

As captured by Peter Spencer, Screenwriter.

________________________________________________

New York, New York
United States
GMT - 5
(12 p.m. local time)

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.

— Mrinalini Kamath
Playwright, Filmmaker

_____________________________________________

Raleigh, North Carolina
United States
GMT - 5
(12 a.m. local time)

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.

— Michael Scherer
Screenwriter

_____________________________________________

Louisville, Kentucky
United States
GMT - 5
(12 a.m. local time)

Fullness of day met vulnerably, its loveliness revealed as an orange, peeled and sectioned, through threshold and window lattice. Mouths of words
sweetening home.

— Jeanne Hammond
Screenwriter

_____________________________________________

Westlake Village, California
United States
GMT - 8
(9 a.m. local time)

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.

— Pamela Schott
Author, Screenwriter

_____________________________________________

Beijing, China
GMT + 8
(1 a.m. local time)

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.

— Ginley Regencia

_______________________________________________

Royal Ville
Singapore
GMT + 8
(1 a.m. local time)

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.

— Sonia Marzuki
Freelance Writer, PR Consultant

_____________________________________________

Tikrit, Iraq
GMT + 3
(8 p.m. local time)

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.

— Art La Flamme
Blogger/Army Serviceman

_____________________________________________

Elsewhere in the world:

Panama Canal, Panama
United States
GMT - 8
(9 a.m. local time)

Australian Station
Antarctica
GMT + 4
(9 p.m. local time)

Abbey Road
London, England
United Kingdom
GMT
(5 p.m. local time)

Venice Grand Canal, Italy

GMT +1
(5 p.m. local time)

Paris, France
GMT + 1
(6 p.m. local time)

date stamp: 4 p.m., april 30, 2009

2009-05-11T14:02:00.000-07:00

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.

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.

London, England
GMT
(4 p.m., local time)

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.

— Kathryn Radmall

Screenwriter

________________________________________________

Edinburgh, Scotland
United Kingdom
GMT
(4 p.m. local time)

I spent the day writing and doing admin tasks, taking breaks to stare out of the window and up at the clouds.

— Laura Anderson
Freelance Writer and Filmmaker

________________________________________________

Manchester, England
GMT
(4 p.m., local time)

As captured by Peter Spencer, Screenwriter.

________________________________________________

New York, New York
United States
GMT - 5
(11 a.m. local time)

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.

— Mrinalini Kamath
Playwright, Filmmaker

_____________________________________________

Raleigh, North Carolina
United States
GMT - 5
(11 a.m. local time)

Another day — another 50¢ (and that’s before taxes).

— Michael Scherer
Screenwriter

_____________________________________________

Louisville, Kentucky
United States
GMT - 5
(11 a.m. local time)

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!

— Jeanne Hammond
Screenwriter

_____________________________________________

Westlake Village, California
United States
GMT - 8
(8 a.m. local time)

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).

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.

With the all the uncertainty 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. This is all there is. This moment, right now. Everything else is illusion. And for that you are so grateful.

— Pamela Schott
Author, Screenwriter

_____________________________________________

Tikrit, Iraq
GMT + 3
(7 p.m. local time)

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.

But these aren't complaints; this is my reality. I'm a runner, and these things won't stop me.

— Art La Flamme
Blogger/Army Serviceman

_____________________________________________

Elsewhere in the world:

Panama Canal, Panama
United States
GMT - 8
(8 a.m. local time)

Australian Station
Antarctica
GMT + 4
(8 p.m. local time)

Abbey Road
London, England
United Kingdom
GMT
(4 p.m. local time)

Paris, France
GMT + 1
(5 p.m. local time)

suspended animation

2009-05-11T09:36:00.000-07:00

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.

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.

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.

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.

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).

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.

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.

date stamp: earth day 2009, 3pm gmt

2009-04-27T13:46:00.000-07:00

Date 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.

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.

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:

Birds flying high, you know how I feel
Sun in the sky, you know how I feel
Reeds driftin' on by, you know how I feel
It's a new dawn
It's a new day
It's a new life for me
And I'm feeling good.

Featured Photo
The Earth gets the honor this time around, natch. Who better besides?

________________________________________________

London, England
GMT
(3 p.m., local time)

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.

The English have been regarded as a nation of gardeners, and we certainly enjoy terra-forming our own patches of earth!

— Kathryn Radmall

Screenwriter

________________________________________________

London, England
United Kingdom
GMT
(3 p.m. local time)

The view from just outside my writing shed. Looks like we're set for a warm April...

— Elinor Perry-Smith
Screenwriter, Blogger

________________________________________________

Dorset, England
United Kingdom
GMT
(3 p.m. local time)

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.

— Lucy V. Hay
Screenwriter, Blogger

________________________________________________

Edinburgh, Scotland
United Kingdom
GMT
(2 p.m. local time)

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.

— Laura Anderson
Freelance Writer and Filmmaker

________________________________________________

Toronto, Ontario
Canada
GMT -5
(10 a.m. local time)

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...

THUNK... the elevator stops! There's power, but the damn thing just isn't moving.

Not to panic, just a temporary glitch is all. I mean when was the last time someone was trapped in one of these things?

The seconds turn into minutes and the minutes start to pile up. I press the emergency call button, but it does nothing.

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.

10 minutes have elapsed. A very long time when left alone with your irrational thoughts.

I press every button on the panel, which does nothing other than make me feel even less in control.

Just as I start looking for a hatch in the roof, the things starts up again!

Wait... this is it... this is my earth day!

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.

Down to the front desk where I find out a fuse has blown, and then back up 14 flights of stairs...

— Svet Rouskov
Screenwriter

________________________________________________

New York, New York
United States
GMT - 5
(10 a.m. local time)

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!

— Mrinalini Kamath
Playwright, Filmmaker

_____________________________________________

Raleigh, North Carolina
United States
GMT - 5
(10 a.m. local time)

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.

— Michael Scherer
Screenwriter

_____________________________________________

Louisville, Kentucky
United States
GMT - 5
(10 a.m. local time)

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.

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.

— Jeanne Hammond
Screenwriter

_____________________________________________

Westlake Village, California
United States
GMT - 8
(7 a.m. local time)

Finally a date stamp in which the sun makes an appearance.

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.

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.

— Pamela Schott
Author, Screenwriter

_______________________________________________

Beijing, China
GMT + 8
(11 p.m. local time)

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.
"Like what?"
He replies, "Like planting vegetables. I planted chives in school with Jamie."
"What other nice things do we do for the earth?" I prompt.
"I know, we recycle!" he exclaims. He adds, "We do nice things cause the earth gives us everything we need."

I hope it's an idea that he'll carry with him always and act on accordingly.

— Ginley Regencia

_______________________________________________

Royal Ville
Singapore
GMT + 8
(11 p.m. local time)

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...

— Sonia Marzuki
Freelance Writer, PR Consultant

_____________________________________________

Tikrit, Iraq
GMT + 3
(6 p.m. local time)

The walls.

— Art La Flamme
Blogger/Army Serviceman

_____________________________________________

Elsewhere in the world:

Panama Canal, Panama
United States
GMT - 8
(7 a.m. local time)

Australian Station
Antarctica
GMT + 4
(7 p.m. local time)

Abbey Road
London, England
United Kingdom
GMT
(3 p.m. local time)

Venice Grand Canal, Italy

GMT +1
(4 p.m. local time)

Paris, France
GMT + 1
(4 p.m. local time)

I. they. we.

2009-04-20T12:37:00.000-07:00

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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?

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

I hope it stays with them.

They do, too.

We all want this kind of spring in our step to last, after all.

---

Spring Break Photos
Santa Barbara, California
April 17, 2009

At a cafe.

Off State Street, a block from the ocean. The stories this door could tell.

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.

24h world: the march video edition now online

2009-04-08T15:58:00.000-07:00

We combined March date stamps to create an awesome retrospective video for 24h World, complete with photos, voiceover, original music courtesy of this guy, and ticker-tape headlines from around the globe.

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 here.

Next date stamp to be announced soon.

date stamp: 2 p.m. gmt, march 21, 2009

2009-03-23T13:48:00.000-07:00

Spring. For those of us blogging in the Western Hemisphere, finding signs of spring was the central theme for this date stamp.

It wasn't always easy.

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.

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.

Up north in Toronto, spring seemed to awaken the Muse for one screenwriter, who promptly, wisely, answered the call.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

________________________________________________

Inswaume Harbour
Morocco, Africa
GMT
(2 p.m., local time)

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!

— Pearl Howie
Screenwriter, Filmmaker

________________________________________________

London, England
United Kingdom
GMT
(2 p.m. local time)

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!"

— Kathryn Radmall

Screenwriter

________________________________________________

London, England
United Kingdom
GMT
(2 p.m. local time)

Crystal Palace, Spanish sky.

— Elinor Perry-Smith
Screenwriter, Blogger

________________________________________________

Dorset, England
United Kingdom
GMT
(2 p.m. local time)

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.

— Lucy V. Hay
Screenwriter, Blogger

________________________________________________

Edinburgh, Scotland
United Kingdom
GMT
(2 p.m. local time)

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!

— Laura Anderson
Freelance Writer and Filmmaker

________________________________________________

Toronto, Ontario
Canada
GMT -5
(9 a.m. local time)

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...

— Svet Rouskov
Screenwriter

________________________________________________

New York, New York
United States
GMT - 5
(9 a.m. local time)

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!

— Mrinalini Kamath
Playwright, Filmmaker

_____________________________________________

Raleigh, North Carolina
United States
GMT - 5
(9 a.m. local time)

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.

And to look at the parking lot – a packed parking lot at that – you gotta ask yourself: Where’s the recession?

Anyway, I’m back inside, ready to write – with my coffee and pastry surrounded by a sea of familiar faces.

— Michael Scherer
Screenwriter

_____________________________________________

Louisville, Kentucky
United States
GMT - 5
(9 a.m. local time)

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.

— Jeanne Hammond
Screenwriter

_____________________________________________

Westlake Village, California
United States
GMT - 8
(6 a.m. local time)

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.

At ten years of age, she is still a child, but you see signs of the young woman she will be stirring. Like spring, the seeds have been planted, are already taking root. It is only a matter of time.

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.

Fair enough. It's the springtime of her life, after all, and you want her to savor every last second of it.

— Pamela Schott
Author, Screenwriter

_______________________________________________

Beijing, China
GMT + 8
(10 p.m. local time)

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.

— Ginley Regencia

_______________________________________________

Royal Ville
Singapore
GMT + 8
(10 p.m. local time)

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!

— Sonia Marzuki
Freelance Writer, PR Consultant

_____________________________________________

Tikrit, Iraq
GMT + 3
(5 p.m. local time)

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.

— Art La Flamme
Blogger/Army Serviceman

_____________________________________________

Elsewhere in the world:

Panama Canal, Panama
United States
GMT - 8
(6 a.m. local time)

Australian Station
Antarctica
GMT + 4
(6 p.m. local time)

Abbey Road
London, England
United Kingdom
GMT
(2 p.m. local time)

Venice Grand Canal, Italy

GMT +1
(3 p.m. local time)

Paris, France
GMT + 1
(3 p.m. local time)

jealous

2009-03-23T09:15:00.000-07:00

You are jealous of Spring.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Something that looks a lot like gratitude.

date stamp: gmt 1 p.m., march 13, 2009

2009-03-16T14:32:00.000-07:00

Friday the 13th.

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?

In short, everything and nothing.

As you'll read from the following observations and see in some breathtaking imagery, life around the world went on as usual.

Children were reprimanded in China as trash was left on the streets of Manhattan.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

A webcam image of Abbey Road in London kicks things off:

_______________________________________________

London, England
United Kingdom
GMT
(1 p.m. local time)

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!

— Pearl Howie
Screenwriter, Filmmaker

_______________________________________________

London, England
United Kingdom
GMT
(1 p.m. local time)

Well, not wanting to tempt fate on this traditionally inauspicious date, I decided not to stray too far from my front door.

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.

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.

— Kathryn Radmall

Screenwriter

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.

— P.S.

________________________________________________

Manchester, England
United Kingdom
GMT
(1 p.m. local time)

— Peter Spencer
Screenwriter

_____________________________________________

Edinburgh, Scotland
United Kingdom
GMT +1
(2 p.m. local time)

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!

— Laura Anderson
Freelance Writer and Filmmaker

________________________________________________

Toronto, Ontario
Canada
GMT -5
(8 a.m. local time)

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.

— Svet Rouskov
Screenwriter

________________________________________________

New York, New York
United States
GMT - 5
(8 a.m. local time)

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.

— Mrinalini Kamath
Playwright, Filmmaker

_____________________________________________

Raleigh, North Carolina
United States
GMT - 5
(8 a.m. local time)

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.

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.

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.

— Michael Scherer
Screenwriter

_____________________________________________

Louisville, Kentucky
United States
GMT - 5
(8 a.m. local time)

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!

— Jeanne Hammond
Screenwriter

_____________________________________________

Westlake Village, California
United States
GMT - 8
(5 a.m. local time)

Another date stamp in the pitch of night. Even with the clocks moving forward this week, you're still in darkness.

The nightstand is an easy subject (at least this time you're not trudging around in the frosty front yard for a photo).

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?

A jacket cover for Music from a Scorched Earth, your first work of long-form fiction, sits on the nightstand, waiting to see the light of day.

— Pamela Schott
Author, Screenwriter

_______________________________________________

Shanghai
China
GMT + 8
(9 p.m. local time)

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.

— Ginley Regencia

_______________________________________________

Royal Ville
Singapore
GMT + 8
(9 p.m. local time)

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! Slainte!

— Sonia Marzuki

_____________________________________________

Tikrit
Iraq
GMT + 3
(4 p.m. local time)

I find great irony with this — water collecting dust. Partially because I’m in Iraq, and partially because there’s a drought on.

— Art La Flamme
Blogger/Army Serviceman

Elsewhere in the world:

Panama Canal, Panama
United States
GMT - 8
(5 a.m. local time)

Australian Station,
Antarctica
GMT + 4
(5 p.m. local time)

Venice Grand Canal
Italy
GMT +1
(2 p.m. local time)

Paris
France
GMT + 1
(2 p.m. local time)

(re)orientation

2009-03-12T09:40:00.000-07:00

Last 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 your kid. Your baby.

Joining Facebook 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.

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 right there, 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.

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.

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.

how to attract financial abundance into your life

2009-03-11T13:53:00.001-07:00

Every 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.

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.

You can hear the interview again today as it's rebroadcast. Check the schedule for show times, or sign up to listen again at any time from the archives.

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.

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.

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."

finding the "recess" in the recession

2009-03-10T09:23:00.000-07:00

Strange things have been happening recently, things that, just a few months ago, would have seemed impossible — assuming they would have ever even crossed your radar. Things that have brought a sigh of relief, room to breathe, a welcome break from the rat race.

In fact, the rat race? Someone called it. And it's over — if not officially and forever, at least for the time being.

And it's all due to the recession.

Granted, this global shift in the financial markets has been no picnic, and there are many thousands of people whose worlds have been thrown into turmoil (you yourself have seen your investments nearly wiped out this year). We've all tasted a heady cocktail of ignorance, greed, and an incapacitating fear, and know from experience that it doesn't go down easy.

But there is an upside to this downturn, something to be gained from staggering losses, insight after blind faith. Because in an unexpected way, after the dust has settled on the destruction left by the recession, and even sometimes when you're still in the thick of things, it is possible to take a break, take a breath, and take it easy for a while.

It's possible, in other words, to find the recess in the recession.

In your own experience, this global contraction has forced you to look at things differently, to prioritize, to examine your list of material "must haves." It's like reaching that age when you no longer care about keeping up with the Joneses, only you're 40, not 50 or 60, or whenever that usually happens.

And you're glad of it. Happy to just... stop for while. For the first time in a long time — maybe forever — you don't feel the need to have be do more. For the first time, you are content, and from this feeling of well being, you're now able to have be do more for others who are in far more dire straits that you, those who don't know where their next meal is coming from, those who feel helpless, hopeless.

You don't know how long it will last, this feeling of contentment, of things being set to right, of order amidst the chaos. But you do know that this recession — this recess — has definitely left its mark. And in a strange and unexpected way, you're grateful.

Readers: Have you been able to find the recess in the recession? Comments are open for sharing your thoughts.

next 24h world date stamp: friday, march 13 1p gmt

2009-03-09T12:20:00.000-07:00

What would a 24h World date stamp be without Friday the 13th chiming in?

Next date stamp is set for this Friday, March 13 at 1p GMT. Charge up the camera, set the alarm clock, and get ready to take your best shot.

New to this whole date stamp thing? Check out the first installment in this year-long, international blogging experiment featuring some of the most talented writers the world over, right here.

Want to join in? All are welcome. Guidelines here.

Watch yer back, Friday the 13th. This time, all eyes'll be on you, when world'll be noticing, taking notes.

24h world date stamp: 12 p.m. gmt, 2.21.09

2009-02-27T19:06:00.000-08:00

And so it begins.

On February 21, 2009, at 12 a.m. Greenwich Mean Time, artists from around the globe participated in the first-ever 24h World date stamp. From pre-dawn darkness in Southern California to Singapore at sunset and all points in between, this group of writers and filmmakers and musicians — each of them artists, each embracing their art in their own unique way — recorded the moment in thought and imagery, snapping photos, noticing, taking notes. What follows is a sampling of some of the most poetic and whimsical and soul-searching collective recollections of this singular moment in time.

Here's the compilation video:

And here are the writers' thoughts and images in their entirety:

London, England
United Kingdom
GMT
(12 noon, local time)

The Tropic of Peckham.

— Elinor Perry-Smith
Screenwriter, Blogger

_______________________________________________

London, England
United Kingdom
GMT
(12 noon, local time)

It's lonely being green. Ventured out into the garden on this our first really sunny day after unusual amounts of snowfall. All the plants are looking very sorry for themselves, except for this Mexican Orange which defies the weather. It's like a huge shiny sunburst in the middle of twigs and dead leaves.

You just have to smile.

— Kathryn Radmall
Screenwriter

________________________________________________

London, England
United Kingdom
GMT
(12 noon, local time)

So finally a bit of sunshine in London. I jumped straight in the car to get a bit of fresh air. After all the snow it finally feels like spring is on the way - even saw a few pairs of shorts out and about. Tomorrow I am starting shooting a documentary as well, so there is a great feeling of things just beginning...

— Pearl Howie
Screenwriter, Filmmaker

________________________________________________

Manchester, England
United Kingdom
GMT
(12 noon, local time)

This is the Central Library in Manchester, and I was thinking, as I looked at it, of my youth. ... It actually was part of possibly my earliest TV memory - when a fight scene took place on the the roof of the library during an exciting episode of a TV series I remember very little about - the fight scene was the one thing that stood out and does so until this day. I remember being really thrilled by it, and being thrilled by the fact I had actually BEEN to the building on the TV screen.

Then I recall the many hours I spent there while researching my novel, FINAL TWIST. Aside from flying to the states to do research (the book was a conspiracy thriller about the killing of JFK), the central library was a valuable resource in that it houses many books that are out of print.

I have been to the theatre underneath the library, and I've been to the cafe under the library. You have to admit, that's some library.

— Peter Spencer
Screenwriter

_____________________________________________

Edinburgh, Scotland
United Kingdom
GMT
(12 noon, local time)

Dreary light, heavy clouds, and wind stronger than it has been for months. Feels like the perfect weather for snuggling on the sofa with a good book and a hot drink.

— Laura Anderson
Freelance Writer and Filmmaker

________________________________________________

Devon, England
United Kingdom
GMT
(12 noon, local time)

And they say Britain is a country of animal (bird?) lovers!!! Cats may be cute to us humans, but I guess we don't see them for the hardcore predators they really are...

— Lucy V. HayScreenwriter, Blogger

_____________________________________________

Carnegie Lake, New Jersey
United States
GMT - 5
(7 a.m., local time)

I'm based in New York, but this weekend, I am visiting my parents in New Jersey. I once read somewhere that water inspires creativity so sometimes, when I'm at my parents' place, I go to a lake near their house and stare at it for a while before writing. Today it brings back happy memories of a writers' retreat in Ohio, where I would plant myself with my laptop by a window that looked out onto the Olentangy River, and every 30 minutes or so, look up from the screen and see the calming waters.

Unfortunately, accompanying this great memory are worries about finances. Wondering about my job, wondering if I'll be able to make my next short film, if I'll ever find a liquor company that might be willing to sponsor it.

But enough about this - it's about the story, for the next couple of hours. This is the beauty of being a writer - you can escape this world at the scribble of a pen, taps on the keyboard. I'll think about my characters and their problems, not my own.

— Mrinalini Kamath
Playwright, Filmmaker

_____________________________________________

Raleigh, North Carolina
United States
GMT -5
(7 a.m., local time)

A deserted and quiet 07:00 a.m. Classical music plays in the background. The crowds haven’t arrived yet, only four early morning regulars sitting on the other side of the fireplace having a cup of Joe and rehashing last night’s basketball game.

People do come in dribbles and drabs – place their orders – leave. I often wonder: what are these people’s lives like? They seem to be unable or unwilling to sit, relax and enjoy.

I can’t write at home. Tried it many times, just can’t do it. Panera works for me. I can write here. My laptop is powered on and open and poised to take in four-plus hours of screenwriting -- and I’m ready.

— Michael Scherer
Screenwriter

_____________________________________________

Louisville, Kentucky
United States
GMT -5
(7 a.m., local time)

I know of nowhere else where people are so fond of walking in circles! Seneca Park, in the East End of Louisville has a level, paved 1.2 mile walking track, a pretty perfect ellipse in and about old trees, but open enough to see the width and nearly the length — unless, of course, it’s dark. This morning, it’s freezing (32 degrees) and there are all sorts of people out — some lithe ones in spandex staging a run, and dog walkers. I feel eccentric, in duffle coat, scarf and knit hat taking pictures of backsides in the dark, some with their running lights twinkling.

So much positive faith, that exercise is good, walking or running in circles especially therapeutic. And I a self-conscious observer, with the requisite coffee and donut — like the cop on a stake out. I am not much for running into what I can’t yet see: like the future. I want to be positive that all will be well: We will go around and come around. Yet I feel, even on the verge of sunrise, pensive for our land, our people. Still, so many neighbors’ eager to walk and to run this early gives me hope.

— Jeanne Hammond
Screenwriter

_____________________________________________

Westlake Village, California
United States
GMT -8
(4 a.m., local time)

You're awake before the alarm goes off, in and out of sleep that is fitful with the fear that you will miss the first date stamp.

As you are on the West Coast of the United States, 12 p.m. GMT means you've pulled the early straw — 4 a.m. your time. You get up in advance of this to make sure you've got the shot lined up and your thoughts in order (in spite of the fact that it's black as pitch outside, the second will prove to be more of a challenge). But when the magical hour arrives, your camera fails you (so much for dry runs the night before), and you find yourself stumbling around outside in the cold, MacBook Pro in hand, its built-in camera aimed at whatever you think might show up in the shot.

The streets are quiet, the neighbors asleep. And good thing, too. Because you look a little suspect tip-toeing around in the front garden with a laptop in hand.

You ultimately get the shot, though it's of questionable quality. What resonates and remains with you throughout the rest of that sleepy weekend is the fact that you knew (or hoped) that in all different parts of the world, other artists were out and about, noticing, taking notes. That you were coming together, behind, in front, and right in the middle of the sun as it rose and shone and set on the world.

And in that moment, you never felt so connected.

— Pamela Schott
Author, Screenwriter

_______________________________________________

Royal Ville
Singapore
GMT +8
(8 p.m., local time)

I'm so tired that I'm seeing double but at the same time, determined to soak in the pleasure of my me-time as I wait for my husband to come home and my daughter is blissfully asleep. The tv's got Die Hard 4.0 blasting away (piss-all to watch anyway!), an assortment of toys lie scattered as I still procrastinate about tidying up (hmmmm...maybe later!), I've prepped my sweet and sour fish for dinner (God I'm STARVING, hurry up and get home already Billy!) and of course, I'm catching up on the never ending shenanigans of Facebook. Meanwhile, there's always a niggling thought at the back of my mind (every Saturday night mind you) that I just want to go out and hang out and have a few gulps of adult beverages at one of my favourite watering holes in town... or more than one! So, nothing wild or out of this world, just another typical Saturday night.

— Sonia Marzuki

_____________________________________________

Marta, Italy
GMT +1
(1 p.m., local time)

After many days of rain in Italy today has finally made some head with the sun ... Mark is impatient waiting for the arrival of spring, one of his two favourite seasons together with the summer, to breathe the fragrances of nature all of these landscapes.

— Marco Pesci
Musician

Elsewhere in the world:

Panama Canal, Panama
United States
GMT -8
(4 a.m., local time)

Helsinki, Finland

GMT + 2
(2 p.m., local time)

Venice Grand Canal, Italy
GMT +1
(1 p.m., local time)

Paris, France
GMT +1
(1 p.m., local time)

Tossa del Mar, Spain
GMT +1
(1 p.m., local time)

and... go! 24h world is launched

2009-02-25T11:07:00.000-08:00

The world stands on the verge of massive change. From tectonic shifts in how we view ourselves as individuals and indistinguishable parts of a greater whole, to world market operating systems and our organic interaction with this place we all call home, by the time we're ready to turn the page on 2009, things are going to be very different.

Over the course of the next 52 weeks, the 24h World Project will seek to document this change in 24 unique date stamps noted in word and imagery by participants from all seven continents. Their submissions will be compiled into one video that will grow in length as the year grows in days, and available in full-text format in the pages of this blog.

The result? A look at who we are now, at the project's inception, and who we will be in 12 months' time, when the seeds sown in 2009 begin to emerge as the harvest of 2010.

This is us, the 24h World Project, noticing, taking notes.

It's time to begin.

Note: The first 24h World date stamp took place on February 21, 2009, at 12 noon GMT. The images and thoughts of those who participated from around the world will be compiled and released here in the next few days. Those who wish to join the project should email teamschott@roadrunner.com.

beautiful day

2009-02-21T11:53:00.000-08:00

Humbled.

You are humbled. And amazed. And so... alive.

The 24h World Project kicked off today at 12noon GMT. Because you live in California, you pulled the earliest shift (GMT -8), the one in which your part of the world still lay in complete darkness. And where you live was quiet, and still, and still at rest.

The first images and impressions, captured by bloggers from all around the world today at the exact same time, will be posted here soon and compiled into a movie that will grow with each additional hour that is added (1pm GMT will be next, and so on, until, by the end of a 12-month cycle, we've covered a full 24 hours).

In the meantime, here's a first look at what the world first looked like as February 21 dawned. It's humbling, isn't it? And amazing, this world that is so... alive.

24h world: first international event this saturday

2009-02-18T14:26:00.000-08:00

Quick Announcement:

The first 24h World virtual date stamp will take place this Saturday, February 21 at 12 noon GMT. Bloggers from across the United States and around the world have signed up to participate in this cross-continental effort to capture 2009 in thoughts and imagery, but there are still many countries not represented.

To participate, be sure to read the guidelines post below (dated February 17) and then email teamschott@roadrunner.com. All are welcome!

We'll be creating a short film that combines each blogger's photos and impressions and adding to it as the year progresses, so be watching this space.

Twenty-four hours. Seven continents. One world.
Bloggers noticing, taking notes.
24h World.

24h world: the skinny

2009-02-16T13:39:00.000-08:00

So, the cat's out of the bag.

For the past month or so, you've been cooking up a project with friends and acquaintances from around the world, talented writers and artists you've had the tremendous opportunity to engage with as owner of this site, generous individuals who share with you the passion and humility and perplexing dichotomy of being human in this wide and wonderful world.

The result? A social experiment that will run the length and breadth of this aforementioned world, a project that will date stamp, over the period of twelve months, twenty-four consecutive hours from the viewpoint of participants from every continent, complete with a photo of what was happening out there at a precise moment in time as well as the in here bits, the thoughts feelings emotions of the person capturing the moment, their goals and aspirations, and disappointments and setbacks — everything that makes life messy and beautiful at the same time.

gr@itude's task is to compile the images and feelings, to weave them into a compelling film that will grow with the year, change with the seasons, and serve as a true and faithful representation of life from around the world, told in increments and aspirations, memorable moments and successes and failures.

In other words, real time. You cannot wait.

The call is out now for more to sign on. Below are guidelines for the project, what it will take to make this a truly worldwide initiative. All are welcome, and all that is required is a digital camera, email, and a commitment to share a world view with the rest of the world.

Care to join us? Email teamschott@roadrunner.com to get on board.

Official Guidelines

In order to participate, we simply ask that you:

1. Have a camera and the ability to email photos.

2. Commit to capturing a snapshot of what’s going on at your assigned hour twice a month. This is important! You don’t want your country/state not represented because you weren’t available to take a picture! (☹)

3. Provide a brief (one to two sentence) summary caption of what you saw/felt/experienced at the exact the moment the shot was taken. (Just keep it tasteful, especially when after-hours shots are required!)

4. Email your snapshot and caption within two days of the date stamp so that it can be included in the video project.

5. Spread the news! Blog about the project (if you’re a blogger), Twitter it, email your friends, invite your family to log in and experience our 24h World as it happens.

6. Allow us full usage rights to your photos and captions (don’t worry; we’ll duly credit you, and will provide ways for people interested in who you are and what you do to reach you directly).

FIRST DATE STAMP:

February 21, 2009
12 noon GMT

craigslist help wanted, $35K!

2009-02-10T13:52:00.000-08:00

Normally, craigslist is like a big flea market: Sometimes you stumble upon a really good find, but most of the time, it's all just recycled crap. Someone wanting something for free or dirt cheap, someone wanting to get rid of their dirt-cheap crap for free. You drop in on occasion, sometimes to browse items for sale, sometimes just to see who is hiring for what, curious about your options, should you ever decide to hang up the writer hat and get a real job for a change.

Today was one of those drop-in days. And while you didn't stumble across any good finds, you did find an ad that calls for a nanny/assistant for a Malibu family of five (with pets), which was obviously placed by a wife/mother who is apparently just not that into the mom bit. How can you be so sure? Read what Malibu Mom writes:

NANNY WANTED FOR BUSY EXECUTIVE IN THE MALIBU AREA

Oops. Malibu Area Mom.

Temporary to possible Permanent

Monday - Friday 1:30pm - 9:30pm. Some occasional late evenings and/or weekends. The ideal candidate would be able to commit to these hours and be flexible.

Cool. An eight-hour day, but you'd get the mornings to yourself. Not bad.

She goes on:

The ideal candidate can multi task, plan ahead, problem solve and give plenty of nurturing love to 3 respectful and delightful children (9-14).

Hmmm. The ideal candidate sounds like... a mom. In fact, no matter how respectful 'n' delightful these three children are, no one could ever possibly give them the nurturing love they require but a mom. Preferably, the Mom, mom. (That means you, Malibu Area Mom.)

For clarity, Malibu Area Mom adds this:

My children are quite energetic, so we need someone with lots of energy.

Ohhhh. Those kind of kids. Still. Not a bad gig so far. Someone could make a nice living taking care of three energetic kids in the Malibu area.

Must have excellent organizational skills, oral and written communication skills. He/She should be skilled in Microsoft Word, Excel, Outlook.

Three kinds of skills? Malibu Area Mom wants someone with mad skills! This must be for the assistant part of the job. And, fair enough. You suppose most people who are of the age to care for three kids and double as an assistant to an executive would expect to know their way around the Microsoft Office Suite, no?

College degree is required.

Assuming you're still playing along, you may be thinking this job has promise. You're not exactly sure why anyone would need a college degree to do what she's described so far, but whatever. If Malibu Area Mom wants a degreed household employee, surely she's willing to pony up and pay what a college-educated employee is worth. And her kids deserve top drawer care.

(Just to be clear? You're not being facetious here. Her kids do deserve top drawer. The absolute very best. All kids do.)

Valid drivers license / insurance required.

Safety first!

CPR is a plus.

Er, wait. What? Back it up, Malibu Area Mom. You require a college degree, but CPR is "a plus"? Really? Because if you think about it, isn't it more important that your stand-in knows how to save an energetic life than whether or not he/she has read Milton?

This is where the funny feeling starts to settle in. And as it turns out, Malibu Area Mom is just warming up.

Picking up kids from school, organizing homework & study time, scheduling after school activities, supervise play, preparing kid meals, help get children ready for bed.

You get the picking up from school bit. And, okay, homework supervision is necessary, as is play supervision, and it's nice to sometimes be able to hand over that baton of responsibility. As a mother yourself, you can see where Malibu Area Mom is coming from, can understand needing additional help here and there. In fact, you had a nanny of your own when your family was younger, and you know how much you appreciated having someone there to share in the monumental, non-stop task of caring for children.

But meals and bedtime, every night? Just where are you, Malibu Area Mom? Where do you go?

Handle/coordinate personal activities and events, being aware when children are in and out of school; their holiday schedules and outside activities, schedule and arrange activities for children as requested.

Hello?

Make reservations, flights and car rental arrangements for vacations, as well as arrangements for appointments/reservations, i.e., doctors, hair cut, dinner, etc.

Of course, but --

Help with personal purchases ranging from clothes to home appliances.

Malibu Area Mom?

Order gifts for birthdays, anniversaries and holidays for friends and family.

MAM?

Handle/coordinate the maintenance, upkeep and cleaning of home, including appliances, managing the house, straighten house as needed.

OKAY. You GET IT already. SOMEONE needs to parent these children. But the question remains: Where are you, Malibu Area Mom?

Because what you're describing here, in very thorough detail, MAM, is, um, actually, your job.

Yours.

Let's just let that sink in for a second.

Because what's coming next is the real doozy.

We're talking now about the value you place on this position, Malibu Area Mom. The price you are willing to pay for the care and feeding and nurturing of your three children, the upkeep of your home, the smooth-running of your daily life, plus the extra touches. Like the gift buying, and the vacation planning, and all the other stuff that makes every moment a memory, every second something to savor.

All of this, to your way of thinking, is worth a paltry $35,000 per year.

Wow.

And, whoa.

And... why?

Granted, you could never really place a price on the value a mother brings to her family. But in this instance, you kinda have to try, because you're asking someone to step in your shoes and do your job. A job that you think is worth, oh, roughly $15 an hour. Why, Malibu Area Mom? Why would you so completely undervalue what you do? Do you have any idea how important your work is? How noble and honorable and necessary your job is? Could there be any more important, any more weighty a calling than to raise up three responsible, mature human beings?

No, MAM. There cannot.

Please, Malibu Area Mom. Rethink your drink. Not just in consideration of your future nanny/assistant (God bless him/her), but for you, and your energetic kids. You're worth so much more, and so are your children. What you bring to your family, and, by extension, the rest of the world, is something worth so much more.

But it's not something you can buy or sell or trade. And it's definitely not something you'll find on craigslist.

txting san francisco

2009-02-05T10:38:00.001-08:00

Author's note: Over the weekend, my husband and I flew up to San Francisco to celebrate our birthdays in the town where we met, fell in love, got married, and had a child. As this was the first time that we had left our two girls in the care of someone else for this long a period, there was an understandably hefty amount of phone calls exchanged to check in and reassure them that we were, in fact, planning on coming back home to them. Eventually. But not until we had eaten our collective weight in food, San Francisco style. One of the more delightful (and least anticipated) bi-products of the trip was the copious amount of texts exchanged with our 10-year-old daughter in particular, which inadvertently served as a date-stamp travelogue. Here, then, is a to-the-minute recap a few of our favorite highlights from the trip, as well as some of what happened at home while we were gone.

Friday
January 30, 2009

11:57:43 AM
@ Julia

Touchdown! We flew right over Malibu and home. It was so cool!

Normally, you prefer to fly out of Burbank, as it's more accessible from home, and getting into Oakland, and from there, San Francisco, is much easier. But this time, you thought you'd try LAX. This decision added nearly two hours to your travel time, but you're not complaining. Flying up the coast, following Highway 1, you gained a better perspective on the wild frontier you call home, this rough and rugged and righteous jewel at the edge of the continent, this swath of coast and desert and mountains, forged from violent volcanoes millions of years now dormant, that always pulls you back, pulls you back, no matter where in the world you go.

12:19:46
@ sister-in-law

We're here! We are both in a puddle!

What can you say about catching sight of the City skyline, huddled precariously on landfill at the edge of the Bay, as it comes into view from 10,000 feet? There's the Transamerica Pyramid, and 525 Market Street, your old building, and 555 California Street, the tallest building in the City. Over there is the Bay Bridge, a gigantic structure that somehow manages to be both elegant and utilitarian at the same time. In the center of the Bay is Alcatraz, and beyond that, the Golden Gate Bridge, bright and bold and noble. People save up their entire lives to see that bridge. You feel proud, and possessive (that's your bridge, this is your town), and eager to share it with anyone else who finds it just as achingly beautiful.

12:23:44 p.m.
@ sister-in-law
re: meeting up for Hunan

We are totally flexible and will work around your schedule. Are you driving or taking BART? We are just leaving SFO right now...

And so begins the food fest that will return you home feeling five pounds heavier and oh, so happy. In a city that claims more restaurants per capita than any other place in the U.S., the best Hunan you've found is above Broadway, on Sansome. You used to walk there after work with your boyfriend, before he was your husband, making the trek from Market Street, working up an appetite for meat pie and Chinese chicken salad and green beans.

But the Hunan reunion won't be for another seven hours. For now, you are content to ride the shuttle from the terminal to the new BART station. Happy to settle into your seat on the train, to smell the familiar, underground punch of electricity and humidity and humanity. Content to people watch while the train screams and shudders through the tunnels. Ecstatic when you finally climb above ground to the suburbs, where the sun is shining with blinding clarity, and the homes that march up and down the hillsides in tidy, Monopoly-style fashion look like ribbon candy — pink and yellow and green home-sweet-homes to thousands who are willing to pay the high price of living here.

12:23:56
from Susan (sister and your replacement for the long weekend)

I'm outside school right now. Have fun!

As your BART train burrows its way into downtown, you have to stop salivating a moment and wonder at the people in your life who grease the wheels, who graciously stand in when you need a rest from the heavy lifting.

393 miles south of where you are at this moment, Susan is picking up your oldest from school. It's no small thing to entrust the complexity of your life and the love at the center of that life to someone else. But with your sister, you don't have to think twice. She is there, waiting, as promised. School will be out soon, and your daughter will have someone to feed her and listen to the drama of her day and tell her how cool a kid she is — someone, that is, who will do her best to meet her every need.

You thank her with this:

1:32:36
@ Susan

Within seconds of getting off the Powell Street train, we were sampling tri tip, pizza, and quesadillas in the food area.

It was not a pretty sight. Neither you nor your husband had had anything yet to eat that day, which meant that blood sugar was understandably low. But that's a thin excuse for what happened, and you know it. Because even if you had stuffed yourself before setting foot in the Westin San Francisco Center food court, you still would have consumed the tri tip and pizza and quesadilla on offer. You're not crazy. You might not take a second pass through the court for additional bites of tri tip as you did this time around, but that's just pure speculation.

In the end, none of the generous vendors got your money that afternoon (though you would make up for it on Saturday). After much circling and debating and stomach growling, you "settled" on sharing a salad and sandwich from Bristol Farms.

Dessert (after-lunch dessert, remember, because this is still San Francisco and you are still on vacation) consisted of Beard Daddy cream puffs (plural, because you were sharing) and Peet's lattés, both of which proved the existence of a mighty God, and then it was time to check in to the hotel.

2:54:31
from Julia

I love you!!!

Enter the 10-year-old, complete with her big-as-the-ocean heart and passion for multiple exclamation marks. In her honor, you will give out more money than you usually do to the homeless that you meet, as you know that this is something she would beg you to do if she were there with you. She is on her way to dance class thanks to the gracious assistance of yet another person in your life. Checking in to the Hilton on Union Square, you mentally tick off another task successfully delegated, and wonder if you could get away with doing something like this more often.

4:20:52
@ Susan

We are at St. Dom's. Fr. Cassidy is still alive and kicking.

You almost talked yourselves out of it. The first Geary Street MUNI bus that passed you by was packed with commuters, and you weren't sure you were up for the balancing act that's required when you're standing on a bus that's throwing itself up and down hills with willful abandon. That was your commuter life, back when you worked for Wells Fargo and lived in Pacific Heights, and then Hayes Valley.

But you decided to give the next bus a shot. It was only just past four, after all — well ahead of rush hour.

So worth it.

It'd been a long time since you took the bus anywhere, and that's a shame. Because riding the bus in a big city grounds you, puts you eye at level with everyone else who's going your way, moves you into a meditative place as someone else gets to worry about the traffic and lights and getting there.

When you booked the trip, you decided that you wouldn't rent a car, that any place you wanted to visit this time through had to be reached by foot, taxi, or public transit. This skirted the ever-present challenge of finding and paying for parking. It also forced you to take San Francisco in on its own terms, to see things the way they were meant to be seen: deliberately. To jostle and sidestep, to join the hustle and flow.

The MUNI dropped you at Fillmore Street, which used to be the boundary line for your first apartment. You walked up the street, then down again, marveling at the number of chocolate shops, the coffee stores, the specialty home goods stores that are somehow managing to survive the current economic environment.

Then it was on to St. Dominics. This is where you were married, where you walked yourself down the longest church isle in the City, where you messed up your vows when you promised to take him to be your "wife-I-mean-husband!"

This is where your first child was baptized, and where your husband received the majority of his first sacraments. And so this is one of the first places you go when you're in the City, the place where you feel the most at home when you are a guest in town.

4:57:43 p.m.
@ sister-in-law

We're waiting for a bus out of the Presidio.

After St. Dom's, you make the five block hike up to where you used to live on Presidio. This area of town is residential, and it's a quiet afternoon. Tomorrow, the place will be buzzing with strollers and cyclists and power walkers with coffee in hand and a copy of the Chron tucked under one arm. For right now, though, you have the neighborhood to yourself.

This is where you want to end up. Eventually. Maybe after the girls are grown, or at least in high school. When you don't need a yard any more. Or a car, for that matter. When it's just the two of you again. And if you can't swing it before then, this is where you want to end out your days, writing, remembering.

5:53:54 p.m.
@ sister-in-law

We are walking to Sansome right now and will meet you there.

Back downtown now, dwarfed by towering steel and glass canyons in the grey half-light of a Friday evening. You take a walk past 525 Market Street, the building that once had a cheap cafeteria on the third floor where you'd go for lunch when you were broke and working as a legal secretary. It was during one of these lunch hours that you first laid eyes on your husband, and immediately determined that you needed to get a job in this place so that you could meet him. Lucky for you, that's exactly what happened.

With time to kill before meeting his sister and her husband, you take familiar back alleys to see if your favorite Dim Sum place is still there (it is), to see if there really is a grove of Redwood trees planted in front of the Transamerica Pyramid Building (there are), to peak into the steamy kitchens of hole-in-the-wall Vietnamese restaurants where the bang and clatter of silverware tossed about by busboys elbows deep in dishwater makes you glad to be alive.

Then it was on to Sansome Street, to wait outside on some steps near the restaurant, hungry and sore from walking, eager to see family, but content for the moment to just sit, and listen to City as it stirred awake to night life, and be.

Next post: Saturday shopping, massage, only-in-San-Francisco-theatre, food, and a shameful science experiment.

mean girls

2009-02-04T13:02:00.000-08:00

It's been very much on your mind recently. You're 40, not 14, but you feel just as you did back then, now that your oldest is going through her turn in junior high.

It all seems so unnecessary.

The bullying, the name calling, the eye rolling. The comments about her clothes, the suggestion that she not curl her hair in the morning, as that look is the domain of the most popular girl in the eight grade. The additional suggestion that she try and "dress normal," that is, tone down who she is to become one of them.

It is all bullshit.

You pick her up every day from school, this tall, leggy, knock-out of a girl/child — the one who has been sketching clothing designs since she could hold a crayon, the one who now turns heads wherever she goes, and has the boys competing for her attention — and you know before she releases the latch on the door that it's been another one of those days.

The worst of the vitriol comes from the angriest of girls.

(Do they know how transparent they are to outside observers? Do they know that, with every sneer and cutting remark, they shed light on a self-loathing that is so profound it moves you to think about it?)

There's the one who was born with a defect, who literally wears her shame on her sleeve. She is a pretty girl, but awful. Just awful. Spiteful and mean and consumed. She has manipulated her world to work things in her favor, brandishing her handicap like a weapon, defying anyone to short change her the pity she thinks she deserves.

(Probably not. Or, not yet, anyway. They can't possibly have that level of self awareness. If they did, they would be incapable of such behavior.)

The problem is, your daughter doesn't buy it. She doesn't sing in her key, doesn't fawn over her and tell her how cute she's dressed today. This only infuriates the girl, strengthens her resolve to publicly bring your daughter down, no matter the cost.

(The problem also is, your daughter thinks that she is in some way responsible for how this girl treats her. That she somehow deserves the abuse. Daily now, you remind her that she is only responsible for how she chooses to interpret what is said and done. That she has the ability to respond in a way that favors her self esteem. You wonder when this is going to sink in.)

There is another girl, a plain, unremarkable girl whose smart-ass, fuck-you attitude will not serve her well down the road. Last year, you had the school place restrictions on how close she could come to your daughter. Yeah. Like that. It didn't stop the harassment. You knew it wouldn't. But you also knew that to not go to the administration, to not bring to their attention what was going on, was to send a message to your daughter that she was not to make waves, speak out, stand up for herself when faced with abusive behavior. It was an exercise in self respect, a lesson in discerning what is and what is not acceptable in the big world.

Especially when it comes to being a woman.

These two are among the aggressors. There are others, the followers, those who stand idly by as the verbal vomit happens. They are perhaps the most disappointing, because you know some of them. Know their parents. Have carpooled with them, given them birthday gifts, watched them grow up. Where is their loyalty? Where is their own sense of self respect? Where is that little voice that reminds them that it is absolutely unacceptable for any girl, no matter what her social standing, to belittle another?

Of course, rationally, you know the answer, know about herd mentality, understand the stakes involved in standing apart from the pack. And you know these kids are probably doing the best that they can with the tools that they have. And so you smile at them when you see them, and wait for them to mature, and hold your daughter close after the day's storm has passed.

The others... Long after you've forgotten their names, or are able to place their faces, or even recall the harmful exchanges, long after your daughter has grown and matured and stepped into womanhood in the way you know she is capable of doing — will eventually do — these girls will probably still be there, in their eighth grade mode, with their petty judgments and massive self loathing.

Unless.

Unless grace happens. Unless something moves them, from within, or without. Unless their lives are shattered in such a profound way that to pick up and rebuild with what they had would make no sense. Better to start from scratch, from a new understanding, or from zero understanding, but a willingness to go from there.

And grace could happen. It's there. It's always there, waiting for any and all comers. Maybe your daughter will be the catalyst for grace. Maybe the dance that she's performing with them will be the turning point. Maybe in her graceful approach to getting through these last few months of junior high, head up, shoulders back, self esteem shaken but not destroyed, grace will move and find momentum.

You hope and pray that this is so. Because no matter how often you wish you could slap them around, mean girls need grace the most.

(Come to think of it, you could use a cupful yourself.)

40 under 40

2009-01-26T09:25:00.000-08:00

Saturday, and it's your 40th. You wake up to breakfast in bed, and two kids who think that birthdays are the coolest. thing. ever.

You don't mind the thought of being 40. In fact, you -- the wiser, more relaxed, more experienced you -- are actually looking forward to it.

(Oprah claims she hit her stride when she reached 40.)

(Which is all the more reason to jump in with both feet. Right?)

You're not much of a list maker, but at this junction, maybe a little shorthand recollection is a good idea. Like a mental measuring stick. Or a protractor. But not the metal kind, like you buy at Staples. The kind you're thinking of is the one you made with your hand, as a kid. You know, where you planted your thumb on the anchor point, then used your index finger to estimate your calculation.

This list is like your hand protractor: Start right... there. No -- over just a bit. There! Put your thumb right there. Perfect. That's your starting point. Now, hold your thumb steady and with your index finger, draw an invisible circle, as far around as you can make it go. That's right. Inside that invisible circle? That's what you've done, as well as what you've left undone. And from here, you can begin to plot out the next 40.

Here goes.

In your first 40 years...

1) you married one man
2) had two children, two businesses
3) and three mortgages
4) you closed one of the businesses after reaching your financial goal
5) you found an investor for the other business to help take it to the next level
6) just before Lehman Bros. collapsed, forcing you to put fast-track growth plans on hold
7) you did not go to kindergarten
8) except for that first day, when you decided that you'd rather stay at home and play with your little brother
9) but did eventually attend 10 different schools by the time you graduated high school
10) you grew up in a military family (hence number nine, above)
11) with five brothers
12) and three sisters
13) lived on Guam (number 10, above)
14) as well as in Oxford, England -- your choice
15) visited 28 or so states, at last count
16) and traveled abroad to Poland
17) and Portugal
18) and were asked to go to Paris to serve as editor-in-chief for an American youth magazine, an offer you declined because you were in love (see number one, above)
19) you played bass in two bands
20) wrote six screenplays
21) one of which has been optioned three times
22) two of which were developed by the A-list prod. co. responsible for Legally Blonde and 10 Things I Hate About You, among others
23) published articles in magazines and newspapers, and on the Internet
24) have been featured in Writer's Market -- a New York Times annual bestseller for aspiring writers
25) the same publication you have used since forever to pitch articles (see number 23, above)
26) you began writing your first novel, which you hope to pitch this spring
27) corresponded with Elie Wiesel on the subject of your novel, before it was a novel
28) wrote a two-act stage play
29) and helped to launch four grade school musicals
30) with the fifth one on its way
31) you studied to be a Third Order Dominican
32) before becoming completely disillusioned with organized religion
33) which actually strengthened your faith
34) you buried father-in-law
35) and, 14 years later, your mother-in-law, though not with your own hands
36) you started a chapter of Amnesty International in high school
37) and are still an active campaigner
38) you also stood out in the snow with your husband and two small children to protest, pre-invasion, the Iraq war
39) worked with Bobby Shriver
40) and cried like a baby when Barack Obama won the presidential election (!)

Okay, so. Fair enough. A good start. But it's nowhere near what you want to accomplish before you die.

Time to roll up the sleeves and get to work. Because you're expecting big things from the next 40 list, the 40 Over 40.

Tick, tock.

hello, world

2009-01-24T10:53:00.000-08:00

A handful of postings into this thing, and already the world is stopping by to check it out. Hello Canada, Spain, Singapore. Israel. The United States. The world at your fingertips.

(Israel? Really? How cool is that?)

This blog is changing things for you, bringing life into a more vivid perspective than you could have imagined, back when you started debating this entire undertaking.

Now, you consider things events situations more, you turn them over in your hand, look at them from every angle, take them apart, just to see how they work. And then, you try to put them back together on the page. To write about them in such a way that they will engage inspire encourage others. Whoever might be stopping by for a few minutes. To catch up. To size you up. Or debate you, challenge what you've written.

(What, if anything, will it mean for you, and how you approach this blog, knowing that you have readers from places as intriguing as Israel, among others?)

On the best of days, you write with a cup of coffee at your side. Peet's is preferable, but Starbuck's is closer. Whatever, you'd like to think that somewhere on the other end of this connection, whether just down the freeway, or to the north, or as far east and west of here as you can imagine, someone else is sipping a cup of their own coffee, looking over your shoulder as you take things apart.

(Only this: That you stay true to your integrity as a writer. That you stay present, noticing, taking notes. And that you be gracious and grateful. Always grateful.)

Hello, world, it's a song that we're singing. Come on, get happy.

sexy boots (no line on the horizon)

2009-01-21T15:18:00.000-08:00

Satellite radio in the car tuned to a pop station in the U.K., where you know the new U2 single will be on heavy rotation today, you wait for it: "Get On Your Boots," the first single from U2's newest offering, No Line on the Horizon, which has been four years in the making.

You wait for the song, then you wait for your impression of the song. It's been a long time, after all, and you want to savor the experience. Want to mark the date time place that it happened to you, this go 'round.

You've been with the band since just about the beginning. A freshman in high school is about as far back as you can remember understanding that it would be their music that made up the soundtrack to your life, but it could have been before then. Anyway, high school, and your sister discovered them first, gave a copy of the Boy album to Todd Gardner for a listen. He returned it a few days later with a "meh," and a shrug of his shoulders. You bet he's a die hard fan now.

So many years on, and you want it, this new album, to matter just as much as every other one before it has. Because U2 has always been the music in you, and you're afraid that if they don't matter anymore, then one of a few things has happened: They've either run their course (unthinkable), you've moved on (unimaginable), or you just don't care like you used to. Which, if you think about it -- if they've always moved you, have always been the back beat to your experiences, the metronome by which you mark your memories -- is kinda sad.

Because where are you then, when the soundtrack to your life goes mute, or stops playing altogether?

In "Get On Your Boots," you hear some familiar U2. It's not apparent at first, and then it is. Also some Beatles references? Maybe? The rest... you're not sure of yet. You'll take your time to make up your mind.

What you do like, at first pass, is this:

Women of the future/Hold the big revelations, and this: You don't know how beautiful you are, and this: Let me in the sound.

Which is exactly what you are wanting to happen, too.

rain, dry spells, and empty wells

2009-01-21T14:32:00.001-08:00

Rain moves you. Makes you want to create. To sit in your office, classical music on the iTunes, and write. Something profound. Poetic. Something that might move others, just as the rain moves you.

Rain features heavily in works of longing reaching redemption.

(Does this, by extension, mean all of your stories take place on rainy days?)

Songs about rain abound. Songs about singing dancing walking in the rain.

In movies, epiphanies happen in the rain. So do break ups, make ups.

(Yes, come to think of it. Or, a good many of your stories, or scenes within them, anyway.)

Rain evokes place, the poetry of places discovered, or yet to be. Maybe that's what makes the Irish, with their rains-every-day island, the poets that they are, or were. Yeats. Joyce. Swift. Wilde. And, following in their footsteps, Frank McCourt, U2. Even Lennon and McCarthy, both of whom were Irish grandsons. However they express it, whether through song or story, they are all, in the end, poets.

There are others, of course. Many others. Too many, after all, to count.

3pm on a Wednesday in SoCal, and you're waiting for the rain. Waiting for the inspiration that will come with it. Waiting to create. Bernstein wrote, "Inspiration is wonderful when it happens, but the writer must develop an approach for the rest of the time."

This is your rest of the time. This is your approach, what you use to jump-start the muse, maybe, if she exists, and if she's amenable to being jump started. Which you doubt.

But it's rare when it rains in this part of California, so you know to take Bernstein's observation to heart. Because most of the time, it's a desert out here. Dry and arid and... yeah. Dry. Which means that, if you're waiting on the rain alone, your well of inspiration's gonna run dry, too.

piano lessons

2009-01-19T11:19:00.000-08:00

Thirty years ago, you took piano lessons. You don't remember how long you kept it up, or if you were any good (except that your teacher told you you had "obedient fingers," for what it was worth), only that you approached the piano like you approached everything back then: with lists and schedules and the expectation that if you just applied yourself enough, and were disciplined enough, you would succeed.

For better or for worse, you use that approach to this day.

Working now on a piece of fiction about a young girl first setting out on a career in classical music, you are challenged to capture the essence of the piano lesson on paper, to evoke what it is like to not just play the instrument, but to experience it at the most basic level, where the senses are engaged. To place the reader on the piano bench, sheets of practice music at the ready, hands in position.

Your first pass at that exercise looks something like this:

"For her, the piano was an experience, something that was to be played and listened to, yes, but also understood on a tactile level — inhaled and stroked and consumed with the eyes. Finally, it was something that evoked memory and place, and longing and struggle and mastery, such that in the end, the entire experience was complex and complete, and infinitely satisfying.

She loved the high polish of a grand piano, loved that her image was reflected before her as she played, herself but not her Self, her emotions and expressions and clumsy and perfect fingering all mirrored back to her simultaneously, as though the experience was worth double the expression.

She loved the feel of the keys under the pads of her fingers, the cool of the ivory, long and flawless and weighted to precise specifications, and the shorter, angular black keys that her fingers sought out without assistance from her eyes, sliding over the front or side of each as she played them.

But most of all, she loved its smell, the warm, dusty, secretive scent that was immediate and intimate. Enveloped in an olfactory experience that was at once earthy and synthetic, she felt the world to be — literally — at her fingertips.

There was the intoxicating smell of coated veneer and zesty furniture polish that lingered in wood knots and felt fibers and the grooves of tightly-wound piano wire.

There was the warm and musty scent of felted wool, and the robust combination of a forest of wood from which the body of the piano, from legs to ribs, was constructed — spruce and maple and birch and walnut and sugar pine — as rich and comforting, as earthy and edible and elemental as anything she knew.

There was the tang of metal, of brass pedals and iron piano wire, heavy and solid and sustaining, like the depths of the earth from which they were mined."

And so it goes.

When you were ten, your mom drove you once a week from northern Marin into San Francisco, where you took lessons at the Flood Mansion on Broadway, in Pacific Heights. Twenty-nine miles and some change, each way, covering the entire length of one county and venturing well into another, to sit in that glorious building overlooking the Bay and wait your turn with the metronome.

Back at home, schedule in hand, you practiced your scales and Bach movements and the Beethoven etude (the one he composed for his wife), but with the mute on. Always with the mute on. House rules.

Looking back, you wonder at the lengths (driving to the City) and limitations (practicing with the mute on) involved with this time in your early development, and wonder if you don't unintentionally impose the same opposing conditions on present day aspirations. Could it be that you still set out with the best of intentions to obtain, experience, absorb at the highest level, only to put a damper on things in the in between times, when discipline and practice and just showing up ultimately serve to bridge the distance between dream and reality?

And if you believe that the world rests at your fingertips, then it certainly must be time to reconfigure the old approach, to not only cast your intentions as wide and far and high as you might dream, but to also ease your foot off the mute pedal so that you can experience every clumsy and perfect note you play con affetto — with emotion — and out loud. Very much out loud.

firsts (the second part)

2009-01-16T10:08:00.001-08:00

With the third trimester came the count down, the impatient toe-tapping, the ready-to-be-done feeling that kept you up at night, too uncomfortable to sleep in any position. Even though you were exhausted. Even though you knew you would be even more exhausted after it was all over.

You remember your first contraction, the slight ping of discomfort, and the nerve-wracking watching of the clock, waiting to feel something — anything — that might resemble another one. You didn't know. You had no idea that when the birthing process started in earnest, there would be no second guessing, no wondering if what you were feeling was curry-induced heartburn, or It.

You remember the day your husband purchased a beeper so that you could be in touch immediately. And you remember how, over time, as the baby growing inside of you made a big show of dropping into position, and then... nothing, not for another two weeks, you developed your own beeper shorthand — shorthand you use to this day, fifteen years on — exchanging numeric pages only the two of you could interpret.

You remember your first trip to the hospital when you were sure the contractions were for real this time, and the crushing disappointment you felt when they sent you back home with a checklist of signs and symptoms, and telephone numbers to call when things got serious. You remember your last visit to the OB, where you told him you were too tired to carry this child anymore, and begged to be induced.

And so you were, and so she came into the world in the middle of November on a crisp, cool day, a day much like the one some forty weeks earlier when you first began to grasp how complex the simple equation "two plus one is three" can be.

You'd think you'd remember more of the birth itself — the Pitocin, the hours of labor, the fact that you squeezed your husband's hands so tight with every contraction that he had to remove his wedding band. And while there are moments like these that stand out, what you most remember is the first time you held her, the first time you saw that swath of jet-black hair and her perfect, beautiful face. You remember wondering at how tiny she was, and how, just minutes after being born, she grabbed hold of your index finger with one hand, and held on tight.

And you remember the look on your husband's face as the nurse handed the baby to him, and how he cradled her in his arms, and rocked gently, back and forth, whispering her name, "Johannah."

Johannah would bring a world of firsts. Fifteen years on, and she still surprises. Now more than ever, as her next round of firsts looms (first car, first boyfriend, first prom, first job), reminding you of your own similar firsts (and how can it be time for her to experience these events, when it seems that you only just left them behind?), you feel a little out of control. You're not yet confident you can pull it off, this next phase of firsts, and you want time to feel your way.

Just like you did on that first day.

firsts (the first part)

2009-01-12T09:44:00.000-08:00

There are many firsts in a life, of course. Some you'd just as soon forget, but most that you are happy to remember.

Like a first kiss. Or the first time you saw the man that would one day be your husband. Or the day you first realized that you were carrying a child.

The first time that happened, you were still a student at the University of San Francisco — an older student (at 24) paying your own way through.

You had purchased a pregnancy test at a drug store near school, then taken it in a pink bathroom stall in the women's on Lone Mountain. Where you alone saw the pink line of confirmation, the pink line that drew the line between your then and your now, and all of your tomorrows. Little did you know that pink would be a recurring theme in the days and years ahead.

After, climbing the steps to your Logic class, you stopped on the landing, oblivious to the other students rushing to get to their next class, aware — very aware — that your life had suddenly, instantly, and irreversibly changed. Forever.

The confirmation came from the doctor's office a few days later, and when you called your husband, you broke down in tears. It wasn't supposed to happen like this. You two had it all planned out. You wanted a few years together, to be a couple, to be 20-somethings, to just... be. You weren't yet confident you could pull marriage — let alone parenthood — off, and you wanted time to feel your way.

Six months into saying "I do," and did you ever.

You picked your husband up early from his office downtown, the January sky an electric blue above the canyons of tall buildings in the Financial District, and cried some more on the drive back home. "We'll be okay," he kept saying, overwhelmed and excited and scared to death. "This is a good thing."

And you were, and it was.

You remember the first trimester, the nights when you fell asleep as soon as your head hit the pillow, the morning when suddenly, your favorite pair of jeans no longer fit. You remember the first ultrasound, where you and he saw something that resembled a baby, and heard the heartbeat. That unforgettable, underwater sound that let you know that life was growing thriving becoming inside you.

You remember the second trimester, the time when the secret you and your husband shared was visibly, officially, out of the bag. You remember the first time you felt your child kick, on a plane from San Francisco to Louisville, to attend your father-in-law's funeral. You remember the first pang of regret that someone close to you, someone whose own DNA would be replicated in the child you were carrying, would not be there to share in this new life, to watch it grow and thrive and become. You remember looking down at your swelling belly, seven months into the process, and wondering out loud how you were ever going to get that child out.

Firsts (the second part), next blog.

installation

2009-01-10T13:40:00.000-08:00

It's impossible to take it all in.

The Getty Villa, Malibu, at the edge of the continent. It's a perfect day — remnants of fog from the ocean, but mostly flawless blue sky, and warm, mid-70s warm — and you and a handful of other visitors, plus the docents, have the run of the place.

You can't possibly take it all in. No matter how you try, there's just too much there to gorge the senses on. You have your limits.

The first indulgence, the obvious one, is the antiquities collection: The David. Athena. Jewelry and pottery shards. Maybe it's the energy of the archetypes that overwhelms you, their power and promise, resonating in you. We all respond to archetypes, some harmonizing with us more than others. They are part of our collective story, the one that reminds us we are both human and divine.

But more than the collection, you are intrigued by the architecture, the flesh and bones of the place. At the Villa, the wall sconces and marble columns and color palette are every bit as engaging, and you understand that nothing less than this would do to hold such massive works of human achievement.

In earthen vessels, wealth untold.

A temporary installment, the work of pop artist Jim Dines, holds your attention for almost as long. There are the wooden sculptures of the Greek statuettes of dancing women, painted wood female figures Dine has reinterpreted from his vantage point. And there is the sculpture of the poet's head, massive in the center of the room, every feature and flaw writ large for inspection.

But it is the poetry on the wall that catches your attention, the charcoal inscription of the verses of "The Flowering Sheets," in Dines' own hand, read on a loop in Dines' voice, that stops you. So you stand among the sculptures, diminutive next to the dancers and the artist's head, and read along with him, getting into his brain, thinking his thoughts, seeing things through his eyes.

It still hasn't settled in yet, the experience. And there is more to experience that you had to leave behind. Like after a decadent meal, in which you push the plate away reluctantly, knowing there is more to savor, knowing, too, that one more bite will ruin the entire evening. You leave wanting, until you realize that you already have it all.

Next time, when you've cleared some space and made room, it'll be there. Apart from sharing his collection, Mr. Getty has also shared something of equal value to you: The realization that great wealth is possible. The understanding that money is not, as you were led to believe, the root of all evil, but, in fact, a blessing. And the dawning idea that you have some major reconstruction to do — the excavation of a few deep-seeded beliefs, the installation of others that will better serve you, down the road — if you are going to be able to take it all in, to house the wealth of treasure you're only just beginning to awaken to.

very much alive

2009-01-07T13:50:00.000-08:00

His mother passed away in August.

After living with a cancer that started in her breast and would eventually make its way into her bones, and, ultimately, the space between her bones, she was dying of cancer very quickly, and you and the rest of the family had left only a space of weeks. Weeks in which to assemble and remember and plan. Weeks in which to come to grips with something you knew was on its way, but weren't quite sure how it would look when it finally arrived. Weeks in which to celebrate one life, and, by extension, every other life that flowed from it.

Now that she is gone, you know what happens after you die. You live. You love. You look after those you have left behind.

His mother is very much alive.

You see her name in the label on a jacket in the chair next to yours, saving a seat during intermission at the theatre where her granddaughters were performing, and you know she is there. She watched them dance as little girls, laughed like a little girl herself when they would wiggle and squirm on her knees in time to music, long before they could stand on their own, let alone dance. She is watching them still.

You see her in the ladybug that lands on your shoulder and stays a while at the precise moment when you are missing her, and you know that this is her way of winking at you, letting you know she is there. You get it, because when she was healthy, she would visit nursing homes dressed as Ladybug the Clown. It was her way of staying in touch with those who might otherwise find themselves alone. She still stays in touch.

And you see her in the legacy she left behind. Growing up, she did not have it easy. While the world outside struggled through the Great Depression, her little world was ruled by a woman whose own arguable great depression raged, undiagnosed. But, to the extent that she could, she left both depressions behind, choosing instead to raise her six children in a world of creativity and spontaneity and laughter. Mostly laughter.

This legacy, it's very much alive in her youngest son, your husband. You see it in the way he treats you, the way he treats your daughters. Before you knew his mother, you sensed her legacy. You saw signs of it in the bond he shared with her, a bond made of respect and friendship and love, a bond unlike any other you had seen between a mother and son. Sensing this in the early stages of your relationship with him, before children and mortgages and the day-to-day details that come with putting a new family together, you knew you were going to be okay with him.

She was not perfect, and you often butted heads. She introduced your children to Ho-Hos and soap operas (and the occassional soap opera ho) at a time when you would have preferred to curb their intake of sugar and mainstream media. But none of that matters now. What she gave to them, the time she spent with them, that's what lingers. That's what they miss, what you miss, too, as they pass their first Holiday season with her not here, at least not in the old sense.

In the new sense, you know -- they know -- she is here. Eckhart Tolle once noted that the opposite of death is not life, but birth. Life goes on. Her life goes on.

She is very much alive.

why do you write?

2009-01-05T11:45:00.001-08:00

You write because it's one of the few productive things you can do in bed, without reproducing.

You write because you love words, the shape of them, the way they fall on the page, with left-justifieds and ragged rights. You love the shape of the letters within the words themselves, like how the 'd' and 'b' in "bedbug" stand back to back, mirror images of each other. You love the incongruent pairing of words, like "horseradish." And you love words that sound like what they mean, like "tintinnabulation." Especially "tintinnabulation."

You write because you want to find the through line of your own life story. It's like a big, messy ball of yarn at this point, your through line, a ball that will demand your full attention at times when you wrestle with the tangled and thread-bare parts. At other times, the yarn will give way with a simple tug, and it will be easy to see where it begins, and where it ends. But more often than not, you'll be wrestling and detangling. Writing is that unravelling process that helps you tease out the knots. If you're patient, what you're left with, the through line, can then be made into something of value. Something for yourself that you can use to keep warm, or something for someone else, to be given as a gift.

You write because you remember. You remember that sixth grade paper, the one where you wrote a morality story about two characters named Choosey and Chances, the one Mrs. Rushton awarded an A +++ with big red, enthusiastic letters. You remember your eighth grade teacher, Ms. Nu, the one who was in love with Carl Yastrzemski, the one who encouraged you to enter an essay contest commemorating the anniversary of the Golden Gate Bridge. And you remember two college profs who encouraged your talent (Dr. Leiva) and challenged you to do something with it (Dr. Alyeto). You remember, and you honor them with your writing.

You write because you don't want to take anything for granted, the day-to-day details, the life-changing events. You want a record. Something to jog the memory down the road, something to show for the minutes and hours, the days and weeks and months, the years that you spent breathing and taking up space, also loving and giving of yourself.

You write because it's mostly hard to do well, and you love a challenge, but also because you love those rare instances when the page opens up for you, the words come, of their own volition, and line themselves up -- a perfect assembly of left justifieds and ragged rights, and all shapes and sizes and manner of words this consists of.

Most of all, you write because it keeps you sane. It keeps you on an even keel. It makes you a better wife/mother/human. And considered from this perspective, you write because you have to.

sleeping pill

2009-01-05T09:18:00.000-08:00

She is like a sleeping pill.

He leaves the bed every morning at 5:45, throwing back the layers of duvet and afghan and top sheet, inadvertently inviting the biting cold in. He's good about it, though. Before he hits the shower, he'll make sure the duvet and afghan and top sheet are all back into place, make sure that you are warm and safe until it's your turn to face the morning chill.

5:50, and the shower is running. This is what must wake her. The sound of the shower, or the fan he turns on to whisk away moisture that, if left to cling to the marble and glass, will encourage a colony of mold to take up residence. The fan is necessary, but loud, and it's probably what stirs her from her underneath her own duvet, in her little bed at the other end of the house, what sends her running through pre-dawn darkness down the carpeted hallway.

Now it's her turn to throw back the covers, but you don't mind. She is like a sleeping pill. Spooning you with one arm wrapped across your waist, knees tucked up into your wheelhouse, she is warm and soft and delicious, and within minutes of the interruption, you drift back to sleep, knowing that this next hour will be the best of the night.