Feeds:
Posts
Comments

Archive for May 8th, 2007

I stole this from Chicory. I say stole, because she didn’t tag me. I feel left out. Hollow. Abandoned, even. But we’ll leave that behind, and move along. Had I been tagged, the instructions would have been to tell you 7 things that you probably don’t know about me. So we’ll just pretend that Chicory lurves me enough to tag me, and that you lurve me enough to care, and I’ll tell you anyway, unless you’re Izzybella, in which case you already know these things. Except #6, because I haven’t told anyone #6, because it just happened last night and ugh.

  1. When I eat cupcakes, I eat them from the bottom to the top.  I peel off the paper, and hold it carefully so that the frosting is on the bottom and the cakey part is on the top. And I nibble the cakey part away until there’s a nice thin layer of cake and, if I’m lucky, a nice thick layer of frosting. And then I eat that. And if, perchance, it happens to be a filled cupcake (o bliss), I eat around the filling while I’m nibbling away the cake, so that there’s a nice thin layer of cake and a nice thick layer of frosting surmounted by a blop of filling. I then eat the thin layer of cake and the thick layer of frosting until there’s one large bite left of filling, frosting, and cake, upon which I shove it into my mouth with a feeling of extreme pleasure.
  2. When it’s time to name a character, I spend a LOT of time looking up names and name meanings. Virtually no name in anything I write is without meaning. I can’t say no name, because occasionally I pick a name just because it sounds good, but those times are very rare.
  3. I was going to say that I blog a lot when I’m bored, sometimes even 3 times in a day, but I guess you probably already know that. And then I was going to say that I’ve been kind of bored today, but I guess you probably already know that, too. So I’ll tell you something else: when I was about 18 or 19, I thought the most romantic name for a baby girl was Genevieve Michelle, and the most romantic name for a boy was David Sebastian. It’s probably a good thing I didn’t get pregnant back then. Of course, I wouldn’t have minded getting pregnant any time afterwards, but it was not to be, alas.
  4.  If I don’t get enough solitude, I get positively cranky. My husband, whom I love dearly but who can be maddeningly clingy, now works from home. I’m concerned about this. Formerly I would retreat to Izzybella’s apartment when he was too clingy–I had my own key, and I could spend some time there in blissful solitude while she was at work or off with the parental units. But she no longer has her own place, and I no longer have a retreat. This is worrisome. I don’t like being cranky.
  5. I bruise incredibly easily. I tend to have bruises all up and down my arms and legs, and can rarely identify the cause of any of them. This got a little uncomfortable my first days at CPS; my supervisor said that one bruise on my arm looked like a handprint bruise, as if someone had grabbed my hand roughly, and put her hand around my arm to illustrate. Sure enough, it fit perfectly. I protested that no one had grabbed me there, and was blushing furiously until she laughed and told me she was kidding. I quickly learned to identify potential causes of bruises on other people, but my own bruises are too unformed for me to identify.
  6. Part of the pink coloration around my left nipple came off with the glue and scab from the incision. My left breast looks really funky anyway after the surgery, and now it looks even funkier. I’m very unhappy about it.
  7. Sssshhhh-don’t tell anyone, but I like to listen to Barry Manilow.

I’m tagging Wendy and Izzybella and Soleil, just ’cause.

Read Full Post »

The slowness of my recovery is wearisome. I know I’ve griped about it before, but bear with me (or don’t) while I gripe about it again.   I fully expected to at least be back to working full time the Monday after my Friday surgery. Instead I was barely up to half-days the Thursday after my Friday surgery. Then I was back to full time last Monday, a full week after my surgery.

Yesterday I had a 7:30 p.m. Juarez writers meeting to go to. When I got home from work at 4:30, Joe and I chatted about some things, then he took me out for Thai. I then went to Barnes and Noble and got a yummy new journal to keep my MoMentuM notes in and headed off to the meeting. After getting home around 10ish, I was so worn out it just wasn’t even funny. And today I’m still incredibly exhausted.

Fortunately, I don’t have any more evening plans until Sunday evening, when M. is coming over for dinner and a brainstorming session, so I’ve got plenty of time to relax and get ready for the next late evening. It’s just frustrating as all get-out that it’s taking me such a dreadfully long time to get back up to 100%!  Of course, I suppose in all fairness to myself, I must realize that prior to the scare I was going at least 150% or more.

However, there is a lot of work to be done on this next show. I’ve been doing a lot of research, trying to track down as many names and as much information on the victims as I can find. I’ve created a database and have been entering all the information I can find so it will be usable.  And I’m writing one scene myself and co-writing another scene. I’m also on the lobby display team, which is pretty time consuming. And, of course, I’m acting in the show. We’re now having writers meetings every Monday night, and rehearsals begin on June 18th.  I’ve got to get myself back up to speed by then!!

It is such a fantastic feeling to be involved with MoMentuM. I love the people I get to work with; I love the projects we work on; and I love the feeling of actually doing something besides going to work and going home and sitting on my ass.  I’m a part of something, and I contribute something unique to the mix, and it’s amazing.

I have no control over whether anyone ever reads a word I write, so sometimes my writing seems a little futile, yet I continue to write because I must. It’s like breathing, something that I do because I am. But writing is a solitary thing. I enjoy it nonetheless, and sometimes because of that very fact.  I like, though, having MoMentuM force me out of my little hermit crab shell.

I mentioned the research a little earlier. So far I’ve found more than 300 names of victims of violence in Juarez, more than 300 women, girls, infants who have been murdered. I’ve gotten 219 entered into my database. If you read the details of how they were killed and tortured, on the few for whom I’ve been able to find details, it would make you sick. Drowned in paint thinner. Stabbed 16 times. Body arranged in the shape of a cross. Deep bruises to the abdomen. Body decomposed so that cause of death was impossible to ascertain. Furthermore, there is a 10-year statute of limitations on murder in Mexico. Cases get held up until the statute of limitations has expired, and then they are never solved. There is no need.

Something is rotten in Ciudad Juarez.

Read Full Post »

(for the Scheherazade Project)

When I was a little girl, I liked to play with my Barbie dolls, and it seemed like everything in the Barbie world was pink.  I had a pink carrying case, with little pink clothes hangers to hold all my Barbie clothes. So when I see the color pink, I think about pretty, feminine things.

And then I see these pink crosses. They’re not pretty. They speak to me not of dainty femininity, but of gut-wrenching despair. They talk of loss so great that it is almost incomprehensible. It seems odd to me that they are pink. I think that they should be blackish-red, to match the blood that has been spilled out onto the desert sands.

But these pink crosses stand erect, bedecked with gay posies. Each cross stands for a woman, or a girl, or even a baby, for the predators don’t care how old or how young their victims are. And each cross tells a poignant tale of a life cut short, a story that can never be played out. The pretty flowers are plastic, or perhaps silk, so that they will have the durability that the human lives they commemorate did not.

Each cross has its own story to tell. They talk not just of the lives that were so brutally ended, but of the lives that were forced to continue without their daughters, without their sisters, without their mothers. They talk of corruption in the police force. They tell how women are deemed of little worth. They scream that something is dreadfully wrong.

Yet the government continues to put its fingers in its ears and pretend nothing is wrong. It closes its eyes and says it cannot see those pink crosses in the desert. There are no unsolved murders of innocent women and children. It says that perhaps troublemakers, drug dealers, whores might be killed, but they are only asking for trouble. Innocent women, no, they are in no danger.

And still the blood of these women, girls, cries from the sand, and their cries are terrible and their cries are loud, and they will be heard.

Read Full Post »