Uterine Adventures

It all began when my uterus got the mistaken idea that I was pregnant with the spawn of Satan. My uterus became fixated on the belief that it was only up to itself to rid the world of this demonic fetus that actually didn't exist. Thus every menstruation my uterus attempted to remove all vestiges of my insides in the belief that this would stop the imaginary devil-baby from entering the world. 

At first I just dealt with it. I mean, that's kind of womanhood. We are bonded together in this monthly ritual of un-fertilization that is at the least uncomfortable, and at the worst a little piece of hell on earth. So I just let my uterus do its' thing. But then early one morning I was gently asleep. 

 Then quite suddenly I wasn't. 

 It was here. The moment had come. My period was upon me. The pain builds up fast, so if you don't take a bucket full of pain-killers the moment you become conscious, you're out of luck. There is no hope. You will suffer. I quickly tried to find a water source. Water. Water and pills. I headed to the bathroom where the cool tiles beckoned to my sweat-covered body. Alas I did not make it, which can be considered pathetic, considering that the bathroom door is INCHES away from my door. But I didn't make it. I collapsed in the hallway, staring at the bathroom door in desperation, writhing in the fetal position and praying I would one day be found. 

My 11-year-old brother came around the corner, just looking for his backpack. He saw me. 

 His adult sister on the floor in pain-dazed delirium. I reached for him. "Medicine," I whispered. "I need medicine..." I gave him his instructions with all the severity of Gandalf giving Frodo the Ring. I told him what kind of medicine, what kind of bottle, what cupboard, and even what shelf. I watched him depart and fervently hoped he could accomplish the task.  

"Uh...Brianna?" He called softly when he returned, the demeanor on his face appropriate for a beloved and sadly delicate pet. "I couldn't find it. But I brought some of these." 

 I clawed at his arms, desperate to find the bottle I needed. Like Gollum going through Frodo's pockets. Where iss it?! Precioussss...

 But no. It was not meant to be. His armload was full of vitamins, children's allergy medicine, iron, calcium, anxiety medication. None of it was any use to me. I sent him away and dragged myself into the bathroom to lay my cheek against the cool floor, like Frodo after he loses a finger. My brother stared. 

 My sister is dying. 

Then, after several doctor's visits and analysis of my delusional uterus, everyone decided that birth control would help bring my uterus back to reality. 

I approached this next step with a budding excitement. Birth control. This is also a part of womanhood. There was a faint hope that maybe, just maybe, one day I would have sex. And if that was so, birth control would become a part of my life, as it is for nearly every other woman I know. So I did it. I tried it. 

Worst decision of my life. 

The factors against me were that I had never tried birth control before, I was babysitting 4 days straight, for four children ages 2-12. The other factor was that I am highly sensitive to medication. I once got a colonoscopy at 6 years-old and almost had to stay the night because no one could wake me up. 

But ignoring all this, I tried it, and 15 hours later (aka 4:00 am) I found myself thus:

 I was nauseous, dizzy, my head splitting with pain. So I simply circled the toilet with my arms and waited for it to go away. This would have been an ideal moment to have a Samwise in my life. I kept thinking of my friend who had told me, "That's the birth control I use, and I love it!" Oh the cruelty. 

Long after any food remained in my body I slunk back to bed, sweaty with a migraine and the feeling that someone had shoved their arm down my throat and pulled out my ilium. 

Then at 6:45 am the four-year-old found me. 

I stared at him. 

Please. Leave me alone to die. 

The poor bloke couldn't understand. "Come on, I'm hungry!" I was all, "I'm sick. I don't feel good." He just looked at me in confusion. "But I'm hungry." 

It took me 7 minutes to send my frantic text because I could only look at the screen for 3 seconds at a time. The walk downstairs to get him a piece of bread resulted in 10 minutes in the bathroom. And it wasn't even 7:00am. 

I soon found a replacement babysitter and was rescued by my mother ("The Eagles are coming!"). She tucked me into bed and lathered me with peppermint oil, which is supposed to help with nausea. I slowly was able to drift into a peppermint-induced sleep and woke up feeling like I would maybe recover. One day. It's either that or sail to the Undying Lands. 

Needless to say I will NOT be trying that again. 

Harry Potter and Three Key Things for Every Great Book

You could say I'm a little obsessed with Harry Potter. I've read them all multiple times and just started reading the 5th aloud to my brothers and the 7th for myself. While I was reading (by myself) yesterday one of my younger brother's asked, "So...what is it like (reading it again)? Do you learn more or something?"

I am the reader of the family and, while books are not uncommon, they aren't the blood of existence for my siblings, but they are for me. My brother's question made me wonder what it is about books that makes them so enjoyable, not only the first time but for the second or fifth time as well.

Here, I think, I are three key things in every great book:

1. There are some books where the language is beautiful and arranged so cleverly that you have to giggle every time you see the subtle play on words or the careful arrangement of adjectives. These are books that somehow use language to generate an entire aura, a mood that you live in while reading the book. These are the masters of their genre.

Samples from Harry Potter: The names, of authors, characters, books, and etc. as well as the spells and enchantments, the play of the name Voldemort. Look particularly at the beginning of books 1, 4, and 6 where the first chapter is removed from the rest of the book, with different characters and places, but how that one chapter functions almost like a solo-story where the language is particularly spot-on and the connections between people, objects, and adjectives function beautifully. Also, you will find, that descriptions grow with the series. The first book actually does not use that much description, but just enough to give the idea then let the reader take the wheel and picture it for him/herself. Then with each progressing year the details are slowly added so by the end of the series the images in your head are distinct and clear.

2. There are other books that resonate because of the story. The action, the conflict, the climax, the resolution. These are the books of adventure, of plot twists, of the pacing heart. They nab you and yank you down an exciting road that leaves you exhilarated and out of breath.

In Harry Potter, I think the excellence of the story is obvious. One thing I love are the things that span the connection of the years, like how Nearly Headless Nick smashes the vanishing cabinet in book 2 that Malfoy tries to fix in book 6. Then Mafalda Hopkirk, who is the woman who sends Harry his underage wizardry warning in book 2, is the same woman Hermione impersonates in book 7 when they sneak into the M.o.M. So much enjoyment.

3. There are books you love because of the characters. Though written by one human, somehow these characters expand out of the binding and become real and dimensional. They question, they hurt, they struggle and you love them fully because, somehow, miraculously through words alone, you know them.

The characters in Harry Potter are absolutely fabulous. The main trio all go through the growth of young kids becoming solid adults, but there's also the side characters that develop as well. Malfoy is my personal favorite, how he grows up trying to be the good his parents believed in, but then how hard it is and how he can't go back and they're all stuck but he doesn't want to do it anymore. He does what he can and is still kind of a jerk, but that just makes him more believable. Ginny is always great, how she's a small character, and shy, then becomes this total babe that all the guys are after. Molly Weasley, oh you just feel for her sometimes. And Snape. We can never forget him.

The best of books combine these three traits and use them to their fullest extent. Harry Potter is a work of magic, with clever word play and juxtaposition in a story that is intricate, layered, and involved, with characters that grow, change, and are honed into amazing people you can't leave behind. So yes, I am obsessed, but only because I have fabulous taste.

My Writing Thoughts and Quirks

I have become more and more attached to the idea of being a writer. And as such I have been trying to write. Alas there are difficulties with that process and I just thought I would share some of my findings. 

One of the hardest parts of writing, for myself, is all the work that happens before any writing actually takes place. Deciding on one chain of events and all the little necessary developments that happens in the plot is really tricky work. Most of my problem is that my plots are very fluid and tend to change daily. I have a hard time moving to paper before I have the plot down solid. I have done so much rewriting and I have thrown away hundreds of pages because I change my mind on how the story should be. Granted, the changes are always better and any writing is good practice. Still, it is heartbreaking to decide that 200 pages and 8 months of work wasn't good enough. Honing in on character developments and action placement takes a lot of mental orchestration. I can go weeks without writing a word, but once my mind is set I can sit down and write five pages of good stuff. I guess that's the payoff. More mental strain but (hopefully) less rewrites/reworks, plus fast work (when you finally get to it). 

I like to have a tactile keyboard--something textural that makes a sound. I can write long-hand, but I prefer the computer. It makes corrections easier and I can type faster than I can write. I also like the sound. Tappa-tappa-tappa. Makes me feel productive. 

I hardly ever write anything out before I start writing The Story. Occasionally I'll make a time line or a map, but mostly it's in my head. I think it's because I don't like any evidence left behind. I have written several really embarrassing stories, but no one would ever know. It was all digital and now deleted. Mwahaha. 

I can't write in a room with an open door. Closets or to the hallway. I need an enclosed space. Perhaps it's because I don't want distractions or I keep mistaking my clothes for people in my closet. Either way, doors have to be closed. 

My best work comes late at night. I've done stuff for the day, people are going to bed, settling in. It's allowed "me" time that no one wants or will interrupt. Unfortunately I also get tired so I don't write for very long. Like I'm almost asleep right now. 

There is a quote I think very accurate to the writing process. Samuel Johnson said, "A man will turn over half a library to make one book." For me, nothing could be more true. I read a lot  and when I'm writing I read more. Writing is like making a quilt with all that's in your head. You collect everything; books, stories, movies, photos, images, sensations, memories, textures, nuances, glances, smells, light, comfort, hurt. Everything, everything. You can never have enough. And once you have collected enough to fill your box of random scraps you go through and find the pieces you really like and others that touched you. You place them together, matching patterns and colors and blends and shapes, fitting it all together into this cohesive beauty. There are these long periods when I am not writing at all or even thinking about a story, but these are collecting periods, like a chicken carcass being boiled down into broth. I am stewing. Stewing, gathering, hoarding, searching. It's a strange sensation in itself because I can literally feel my brain stewing over all that it has and priming itself for some new work. There's a specific mood about it that will not be rushed. These periods feel the least productive. They are full of ambiguity and discontent and seeming laziness. But I have come to accept that these are important restocking periods, where your writer is digesting and stewing, gaining stores to supply the great energy required in creating a story. It's simply visiting the gas station on your way to Storyville. Whenever I try to rush it I end up writing crap. Don't rush, just read. 

I always ponder over my stories as I'm falling asleep. They tend to be my last and first thoughts of everyday. 

My moods are genre-specific. A certain mood for science fiction, another for fantasy. A unique one for adult fiction, a lighter one for young adult fiction. And since my mood changes I tend to have a developing story in every genre and I rotate which one I work on based on my mood. The further a story is developed the longer I stay in that mood, which is how I'm every able to get something down on paper. I doubt this is a very efficient way to write, but it's so natural to rotate like that that I don't quite know how to stop. 

I need lots of time to develop thoughts, characters, plots, and all that jazz. The thinking side of this work goes slowly. The actual writing goes much faster.  

The more edits and rewrites you do the less heartbreaking it is. Editing also needs distance. Everything needs serious reworking. Everything, but you can't do it adequately if you're too close to it. It needs time to just marinate in your mind before you take a scalpel to it. 

K, I'm really falling asleep. Hope you enjoyed. More later. After all. I'm going to be a writer now. I just need. More periods. .. ..... Goodnight. .. 

. 

Holiday Hero Photo Shoot!

Thimble Thor is back! Not only that but he hath broughteneth FRIENDS! 

Can you tell which fabulous duo of more-than-humanly-awesome more-than-humans are friends of Thimble Thor? 

On the left we have the small but dependable Capsule Captain of America! He has the trademark spangled shield to protect him from ferocious foes as well as the smashing hammer of his god-like friend. 
In the middle we have non other than our beloved Iron Minnie Man . He is posed for battle and looking ripped in his suit of make-believe metal. 
Our favorite Thimble Thor, God of smallish thunders-- such as stomach grumbles and burbly farts, is on the right hand side. 

 *Sigh* Don't they look fabulous posing for Christmas and other happy holidays that use lights as a mode of celebration? 

 H stands for Heroes (and holidays. And hammer). 

 Thimble Thor gets an illuminating close up that proves that his radiance is so great, us mere mortals are not even physically able to see it. 

 Iron Minnie Man gives us his best side, showing us his pretend-metal ripped-ness. He knows he looks that good. 

Our Capsule Captain, while great in a bind or an alien invasion, shies away from the lime and Christmas light, making us all the more desirous to get a better grip on his renowned gluteus. 

The Adventures of Thimble Thor!

Last weekend, whilst out shopping for not myself, I came upon this lovely creature in a box:

I realized instantly that this two and a half inches of man-plastic must be mine. I made the purchasings and christened him Thimble Thor (please read in a god-like voice). He is a hero of great renown and courage. 

 Here Thimble Thor finds himself in the nest of the Terrible Turkeys of Tinderland. While the turkeys eat plastic man-flesh as a rare delicacy, Thimble Thor was able to placate them with well-timed jokes about their distant relations, the Churning Chickens of Chickentalk. They giggled and gobbled and assisted Thimble Thor on the next step of his adventure. 

 Thimble Thor was almost lost in the tantalizing and near irresistible Sprinkles of Spankles. He succumbed to their succulent oblong shape and their bright, playful colors. But, as luck would have it, these particular Sprinkles create a certain magnetism that ultimately repelled Thor's hammer to such an extent that he was able to escape. 

 Here Thimble Thor teaches the Southern Gummi Tribe the correct protocol for ordering a Jimmy John's sandwich. May they never be sandwich-less again. 

Thimble Thor finished his great adventures with Shakespeare in the park. Here Thimble Thor reenacts Romeo's untimely death, much to the enjoyment of the Cinnabear audience. Juliet was played by Cinnaly Bore. 

Voila

I have been doing some soul searching of late and somehow I got the idea to do an art project. After much labor and many (many) days here is what I created:

It's a mixed-material collage that I entitled "The Tree of Knowledge". It's rather large, 4x4 feet. My dad saw me working on it and was like, "what's this for?" And I honestly have no idea. Most people when they decide to do something creative come up with a little something. But this piece here is impressive. 

If you have read some of my latest posts you will know that I have been struggling to figure out my life. I so desperately want to find my work, my calling, the thing that I do. It is remarkably frustrating because I so often think I have found it, only to be disappointed. I decide to be an actor and manage an audition a month without a single call back. I decide to be a writer and suddenly can't come up with anything to write. My wheels are spinning but I'm not getting anywhere. This project came mostly out of desperation. Nothing else seemed to be speaking to me and I thought of this and decided, why not? Might as well try it. It can't be any more of a failure than anything else I've done.

It took m several days to cut all these leaves out of paper. Since it's the tree of knowledge (of good and evil) I used scripture pages as well as pages from magazines and novels. I then soaked the pages in dye and stuck them on to little bits of wire. The fruit is made from styrofoam balls that I painted and sprinkled with glitter. 

The tree has a base of clay that I spread on the board, then I glued scraps from old baskets on top. The snake is made of plastic spoon heads that I painted. 

The ground is collaged magazine pages with a few rocks glued on top. 

The sky was made from plastic cups that I broke. 

All in all I was quite surprised by myself. I was dedicated and thorough. Even though I tired of it and lost my enthusiasm, I kept at it. My room was in complete disarray for weeks but I refused to put it away until I was done. 

It was a significant experience that I wasn't expecting. I really just threw myself into it without realizing the time and expense this would demand. However, I learned some very key things about myself in the process; first and foremost, I am much more of an artist than I originally believed. My need for creation is strong and large, and takes a lot to satisfy. Like, a lot. It won't work as a simple hobby. 

I was in the middle of gluing sticks on when all this discovery hit me. I was sizing up different sticks and placing them out. I stood back to get a better look and suddenly thought, "Oh my goodness. I am an artist." My next thought was, "Crap." 

I so badly want to be reasonable, to be secure. But I just--can't--do it. I try and can't. Perhaps that's what all this struggle has been about, denying this truth about myself. This is a scary thing. It feels far too insubstantial to put all my trust and my efforts into. Just to give this inner-artist my future. It's scary. 

But, it is also true that people succeed. Even crazy people. No matter what you do, if you are great at it, you can succeed. 

Not that this is an exact answer. I don't have my medium yet, but I finally feel like I'm in the ballpark. So... I'll keep trucking along, keep experimenting. Who knows what will come of it? 

Sometimes, k--lots of the times, I wish I was funnier. Or like... a spewing fountain of awesome things. The kind of person who when she opens her mouth the room goes quiet and the crowd waits with bated breath, thinking "Oh this is gonna be so freaking awesome!!"

But, alas, I am not this person. Instead when I want to tell a story (like last night while closing up shop with my coworker) I start too quietly and no one notices. So I have to try again, louder, which makes it come out like an accidental push on the car horn, startling us all. Then I proceed to wind my way through my tale, getting lost and sidetracked with random details, and when I notice how sidetracked I am it takes much forceful stuttering to get back on track. And by the time I finish the story we're all exhausted and confused, wondering what just happened.

It's probably not that bad. Last night was most likely aberrant (take that GRE!) because I was overdosed on jelly bellies and having a rough day due to my footwear and tight ponytail.