25 Random Things...quotations from my little ghost story DUSTY WATERS

Dusty Waters is now for sale through CreateSpace, my E-store address is:

https://www.createspace.com/3334912

Now...here's 25 Random Quotations from Dusty Waters...


1
vii
What did one ghost say to the other ghost? Do you believe in people?



2
Page 7

“What would make you feel safe?” he asked one night.

“A fire breathing dragon,” I replied. “Her name is Lucy.”

“A girl dragon?” he asked with curiosity as if a female dragon was unheard of in the realm of dragons.

“I’m a girl—why would I want a boy dragon?” I reasoned.

“I guess it would be icky, the boy dragon would have to look the other way whenever you changed into your jammies. Okay, where will she live—in your closet?”

"No—under my bed—she’ll also keep the dust kitties away—they make me sneeze."

"Oh, I see, she’ll be a double-duty dragon—bad dreams and dust kitties."



3
Page 11

A little bit at a time, I started to give a damn about things like a man named Nixon, the president of the United States of America. I pledged my allegiance to the flag of our country in school even though I had no idea what half of it meant because no one ever explained it—I just did it because the teacher expected me to follow without question. Being a little kid and fairly sheltered in a comfortable life, I had no reason to question the things expected of me. Democracy was still an abstract concept of freedom given to me in big word form, and Capitalism, unbeknownst to me, had everything to do with how many pennies it took for me to buy bubble gum at the corner store. Communists, nuclear bombs, and Vietnam were bad things in our world that the television reported with nightly regularity when I would much rather be watching Popeye kicking the tar out of Bluto to the tune of Columbia, Gem of the Ocean.



4
Page 16

Distinguished is an indistinguishable looking critter—blue, pear-shaped, and fuzzy with ping-pong balls for eyes and a pink plastic curler for a mouth; he’s an alien from a faraway planet of blue fuzzy critters. In spite of his startling appearance, he is a benign little guy, often confused by the world around him, but happy to be here.



5
Page 39

...the longer I stared up at the canopy with restive eyes, my imagination got the better of me; the canopy scared me because of that old movie Thirteen Ghosts. “Lucy, I’m scared,” I whispered.



6
Pages 48-49

I secretly went there to lie on my stomach with my arms flung open to embrace the earth; I’d press my face into the sun-warmed grass, loving its ancient being with its memory of the world carved by glaciers; a life that emerged from the rubble of time.



7
Page 53

“Wow, you live in the Witch’s house!” Dede blurted out. “It’s so creepy—how cool is that? Is it really haunted? Is it true that Phoebe Lamoureux hung herself in the attic?”



8
Page 61

“Engine, Engine Number Nine going down the Chicago Line, if the train should jump the track, do you want your money back?”



9
Page 81

“Easy there, Dede Sage, pull up your socks, I have no quarrel with you—I deserved the fat lip fair and square,”



10
Page 88


“Mommy, Mommy, the school is throwing up!”



11
Page 106-107

“I regret deeply any injuries that may have been done in the course of the events that led to this decision. I would say only that if some of my judgments were wrong, and some were wrong, they were made in what I believed at the time to be the best interest of the Nation.”—Richard M. Nixon, August 8, 1974



12
Page 138

Some little kids are like that, nigh indestructible, they can wipe out as bad as the Agony of Defeat Guy on ABC’s Wide World of Sports, and get up to go about their business like nothing happened except for the annoyance of a scrape or bruise.



13
Page 140

Why hadn’t they walked with her? Because, they said, Sandy wanted to stop at Mooney’s for candy. Why? Because she found a quarter on the playground. Why didn’t you go with her? Because we can’t walk downtown because we aren’t allowed to go there without our parents. Sandy should have known better because there’s no Safety Patrol on the corner of Broad and Church Streets because it’s dangerous.



14
Page 157

“Why do I see these things, why do I hear everything from the past—I can’t touch anything in this house and not have it talk to me or show me something—I need to understand why am I like this?”



15
Page 180

I hated to think that my relatives were a bunch of boring girls who did nothing but sit on their bustles, drinking tea, eating cake, darning socks, and popping out as many babies as humanly possible during their child bearing years.



16
Page 184
Tell me you wouldn’t do the same if you could stop the diabolical deed of choice from happening by hitching a ride with Dr. Who in the Tardis, traveling to the past to make a particular bad person go away. Okay, I’ll leave you with your pondering feet dangling from that metaphorical fence.



17
Page 187
What’s she gonna do, scare me? Yeah right, “BOO!” I ain’t scared of no ghost.



18
Page 207
Today has been one of those days in which I thought boredom might kill me; I don’t know why I feel this way, but sometimes I have this overwhelming urge to implode or something messy—



19
Page 217
“I think you need to go to the shut-the-fuck-up room,”



20
Page 260
"Everything’s wrong—what the fuck, I can’t even die right!"



21
Page 266

Tag, I’m it—he got me—now it’s my turn to be dumbfounded. Just because he’s dead, he ain’t stupid—I’m the smart-ass idiot, who suddenly thought she knew, but I didn’t, and I still don’t. He’s the one dead, yet more alive, I have unfortunately fallen into a natural progression of prejudice that occurs when there are differences between people—I’m alive, he’s dead; I’m tangible and he’s not. Just because I can’t touch him—or to be crass—can’t fuck him, it doesn’t make him less of a being without his human parts. “He ain’t nobody without no body,” you say? I beg to differ, especially after this day.



22
Page 292
“Don’t ever try to surprise me without asking ever again.”



23
Page 294

I definitely looked like some moldy leftover rock star that got forgotten at the back of the music industry fridge—I was a walkin’ freak show. “Hi, I’m sore thumb, nice to meet ya.”



24
Page 297
“Listen, honey—I know how hard it is being a girl on her own. I’ve disentangled myself from enough relationships with men to know what you’re going through. You feel guilty for leaving him because you’re afraid he can’t take care of himself, or he’s gonna kill himself, or find you and drag you back to the cave by your hair—whatever flavor your nightmare is, it will pass. Forget him—you need to take care of you. Trust me, one day will come you will look him in the eye and know in your heart you did the right thing leaving him.



25
Page 320
I looked up at the solitary white cloud in the blue sky—its shape shifting, a spirit from a puddle somewhere—or a ghost from a river—now a mysterious little goddess figure, and then a god, its existence shredded to pieces by the lack of faith of its followers.

So...what do you think so far???

Any questions, comments, giggles? Feedback is always helpful...

The book cover

(Click image for a closer look)

Here it is...the cover for my little novel Dusty Waters...I've been reading the whole thing through cover to cover this weekend, and just finished reading a couple of hours ago, and then went immediately into the garden to do a little bit of work cleaning up the left over hollyhock and sunflower stalks...it's been a gorgeous day...now I'm very tired, my body humming and my head buzzing...I lay down on the porch floor and sunned myself with my little dog-friend, listened to the birds squabble at the feeder, and a little mole squeaking and rummaging around under the dead leaves in the flower bed...it just felt so good to have the sunshine on my face!

What an odd little book I have written! I love it just as much as I did when I first finished it...I've been away from it long enough to have forgotten a little bit...there are times where it's quite funny, Dusty has a fun-loving grasp of the absurd things in life...yet she's serious about the things that matter, I call it a compassionate rage. It's a ghost story, there are lots of ghosts in it...but there are things that are scarier than ghosts in the world, much scarier...people are sometimes scarier than ghosts.

I was asked more than once last week...how long did it take me to write this book...well, I started it in 1999...which is sort of true, because I started most of my manuscripts around that time because for some reason I hit a sweet spot and everything came at me all at once, and I just made up my mind to finally do something about them...it just took a very long time to write everything down! The stories found in Dusty Waters are really much older than that...I started thinking about this stuff in the 1970's when I was flailing around in those awkward phases of growing up. I loved telling stories, I would claim that they were true (cross my heart and hope to die true) and I told them like I believed every word...but I was often accused of being a liar and I would be indignant...

Funny isn't it?

Well, fun stuff...ghost stories...

I need to sit down with my Fred and go over the things that I want to change...and then...well, then it'll be ready for public consumption...I'll keep you posted!

The photos used in the design are mine...the house used to stand at the old Fox Sister's homestead in Hydesville, New York, it's gone now, burned down some time ago...I took the pictures of the place sometime in the mid to late 1980's...it's where the Spiritualist movement began, the girls (Kate and Margaret) allegedly heard rappings in their parents house and devised a "code" to talk to the dead, and held seances. It was just one of those things that set my imagination on fire way back when I was young and impressionable...

So much...at time too much...for now, all I can say is "Wow."

As soon as we're done tinkering, and I approve the next proof...I'll make it for sale...

Playing with a spider...

Not really playing with it, just took a picture of one on my bedroom wall because the angle of the light made a cool, yet creepy shadow...it was just an itsy-bitsy spider...the photo turned out too blurry to be anything great, so I made it look like a drawing instead...


I'm in the process of self-publishing my novel, Dusty Waters through Createspace, I just ordered the proof of the book this morning and should have it in hand in about a week or so...stay tuned...my Fred and I worked on the book cover Friday night, burning the midnight oil...I've shared it with a select few supporters for feedback, so far everyone that has seen it, loves it...I'll post it here as soon as it's "For Sale"...I almost did it this morning, but changed my mind...

What in the world does a spider have to do with my book...nothing really...tho' my character Dusty Waters would've probably found the spider cool too...her birthday is on Halloween...the book is a good ghost story...

I'm very excited about becoming published...I'm trying not to get too excited tho', know what I mean? There's potential for disappointment and more frustration...let's just say, I'm being realistic about this process. I have no high expectations about making millions, maybe some pocket money if I'm lucky, trust me, self-publishing isn't that good of a deal, I would have to inflate the price to an unaffordable price for the reader to really put a bulge in my wallet. I'll do what I can to self-promote it through blogging, hand selling it, making it available for Kindle and other e-book readers...I'll muddle through...it's all a learning experience. Over the course of ten years, I've written five novels (I'm working on my sixth)...in the line up Dusty Waters is the fourth one that I wrote, it is the first one to be published...since I can't seem to get through the gatekeepers the traditional way, I had to crash the party on my own terms...I'm not doing it to make the money, I'm doing it to get it out there...

It's a wait n' see...

Here's a picture of the heart of one of our trees...

Work in Progress and Cat Naps

Work in progress...a little more green than the last time...there are about a half dozen other half finished works on paper floating about...I'm on a break from working on my new novel, Layers of Illusion...meanwhile, I'm re-reading The Fractured Hues of White Light...I felt it necessary to read it again since I'm sending it around to agents...

I finally finished reading Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell...such a nifty book, very enjoyable...

It's been a busy day, I just got done being the white tornado, cleaning my house up and down, now its time for a nap...

Nap time...

Fatty Woo works hard at sleeping...it's serious business according to him...I am also learning the art of napping, and usually there's a fat tabby showing me the way...it's that hypnotic purr...it's magical...

When one is sleepless, read this...

It's so good, it's narcotic. I'd guarantee that you'd be asleep soon...it's all that yawning, it's very contagious!

I don't know...

It seems I say this a lot lately...I don't know...just coming up with a post this weekend has been clouded over with a fog of unknown, so I'm going to wing it here...it seems there's a good deal of people out there grappling with a similar unsettled feeling of unknown...the "Where am I going?" question.

How do you get there?

Keep going forward, aim for a goal, do what you gotta do to achieve it.

And...
Don't forget to have a good time. (Ani DiFranco's latest mantra, I'm sure the Little Folksinger won't mind if I share it with you.)

This little drawing on my table in the upstairs studio hadn't changed much...


...because I didn't know where else to go with it...then I added to it, and I feared I ruined it and should've left it alone...well, when that happens, I just take it in hand and really do something to it to mess it up some more...there are some things that will get worse before they get better...it's too sopping wet at the moment to take a picture...I'll post the result another day...

I've been struggling with a new manuscript, it's rawness is troubling me. I'm pulling things out of my head, but not fast enough to suit me...not quite writers block (thank goodness), but I'm feeling impatient with the process. Along with that, I'm impatient with the process of getting published. I'm still mailing queries to agents (although sporadically because I'm picky about who I write to, and research them to death before I actually send the letter.) Thankfully, I've stopped the agonizing depression part after receiving the rejection letters. Don't get me wrong, I still feel disappointed, but I'm less indignant about it, it' s just business, it's nothing personal. That doesn't mean the frustration factor isn't any better. I have one book that's ready to be self-published, but I'm hesitant to do it just because I'd rather go about the more traditional way of getting a book on the shelf with the backing of a publisher, rather than me with my pitiful resources. (I'll let you know when I'm ready to take the plunge.)

Writers tend to chase their emotional tails a lot...no wonder we like to tip a few...

I'm also feeling uncertain because of my health issues, Fibromyalgia is a pain in the ass (and everywhere else.) I try to maintain a sense of humor about it, but it's getting old fast...I'm tired of feeling 86 rather than 46. At least it won't kill me, right? My coping skills are maxed out.

There's a lot of uncertainty out there, nationally and personally...so I don't know is all about that too...

Some of this I don't know business has to do with things I'm missing, and was recently reminded about my love of horses by fellow blogger, Kate...several months ago, I found this picture of a mustang on the BLM website where people can go to adopt horses that have been rounded up from the public lands...I fell in love with this little fella's face and his fuzzy ears, I don't know what happened to him, I hope he found a good home (isn't that velvety soft muzzle kissable?)

Honestly, I'd rather see them free to roam.

This winter is getting on my nerves...March is coming...the light at the end of the tunnel. I was checking the pussy willow bush down by the garden, I saw the silvery tips of kitty toes sticking out, there's a fuzzy bit of hope...(she smiles at a furry little friend who just found a paper bag to be a play thing, the little clown.)


So, I don't know...did I do what I set out to do with this post? Maybe a little.

This pencil drawing's title is I Want More Out of Life... says it all...I really do love this drawing!

Studying Stones

I do love stones...they inspire me to make my pictures...I've acquired several over the years...lately they have made excellent models for photos (they don't move much, it's usually my shaky hand that makes them blurry)...these aren't the sparkly ones from the beach (I'll save those for another day) these are just field stones from my acre of the world...even some of the plainest ones have the most lovely patterns on them...you have to wonder about the forces that made them...
Some are scared by the plow that used to churn up the field around us...


What I really think is cool...they've been around for millions of years...


They're the bones of the earth...
Weathered and worn...a piece of our blue marble...Earth...

...their mineral amalgam is a synopsis of their ancient origins, the elegant remains of a landscape long gone...

LJW, from Washed Glass

Happy Thoughts!

As a Man Thinketh by James Allen, published in 1902, a classic self-help book, the language is a bit dated, but the message "As a man thinketh in his heart, so is he" is always a good lesson as any...

Suddenly Mom comes to mind, she used to say...Don't look like that, your face might freeze that way...there's wisdom in that...

One of my friends at work used to call out during moments of stress..."Happy thoughts." There are many of us who still call it out as needed...it's an instant smile.

Anyway, back to the book...a friend of mine brought this little book to my attention over the summer, I liked what she quoted from it so I went on line and found a copy, since I love old books, and bought it sight unseen, I was very pleased with the result (I love the cover), this sweet little thing came cheap, I bought it to add to my old book collection.

He sort of looks like Sean Penn...just sort of, in an old fashioned sort of way...

The quote that my friend mentioned is on page 39:

The dreamers are the saviours of the world. As the visible world is sustained by the invisible, so men, through all their trails and sins and sordid vocations, are nourished by the beautiful visions of their solitary dreamers. Humanity cannot forget its dreamers; it cannot let their ideals fade and die; it lives in them, it knows them as the realities which it shall one day see and know. Composer, sculptor, painter, poet, prophet, sage, these are the makers of the after-world, the architects of heaven. The world is beautiful because they have lived; without them, labouring humanity would perish.

Then during my page turning, I found on page 40:

Cherish your visions; cherish your ideals; cherish the music that stirs in your heart, the beauty that forms in your mind, the loveliness that drapes your purest thoughts...

Dream lofty dreams, and as you dream, so shall you become. Your Vision is the promise of what you shall one day be; your Ideal is the prophecy of what you shall at last unveil. The greatest achievement was at first and for a time a dream. The oak sleeps in the acorn; the bird waits in the egg; and in the highest vision of the soul a waking angel stirs. Dreams are the seedlings of realities.

Most of my stories are about my characters struggles with dreams and realities...and just being an artist and a writer is all about that...making it happen on paper...I try to make it happen everyday.

One day I made this little bit happen...it's just a bit of splashing on a small piece of scrap matboard that I snagged from the recycling...I swear, I love making the little 'uns more than the big'uns...this one is full of happy thoughts...I was happy at the time that I made it and it makes me happy every time I look at it!

Home sick in bed with a stupid cold

And it's been a bitter cold day too...but I didn't go out in it to take this picture...this is from another frosty morning a while back...

I've done a bit of sleeping, brewing tea, more sleeping, lying about drinking tea...and of course, you drink enough tea and one must pee...it's always good to flush the sickly body...

My tea cold tonic is a special blend:

2 bags of chai
1 bag of ginger (or a chunk sliced off of a fresh ginger root, which I did today)
1 bag of lemon zinger (if there are not fresh lemons in the house)
5-9 peppercorns (whatever looks right)
12 cups or so of hot water.

I just run the water through our coffee maker, have the fixin's in the pot and let it brew and keep warm (refrigerate what you don't use, warm up for later)...fill the cup, add honey...it's very spicy, very soothing for an irritated throat and an unwell body...

I thought I'd talk about my little kitty, Picky-Picky. Here she is...the little button...she found a patch of sunshine, or it found her...in my dictionary, her picture is next to the definition for 'Adorable'...
This unique little kitty came to us in the late fall of 1997, one of the many kittens that were born that year in the empty barn across the road from our house. When I first became aware of her I didn't know for sure she was a cat because of her unusual mode of transportation, and incredible speed. When I finally got a good look at this little creature that would appear at the food dish out on the porch, but it would quickly disappear by tumbling over the edge and hiding underneath the porch...I discovered that she was dragging her hind legs behind her, and was just running about on front leg power. Poor baby (she was only about three months old, if even that old, a definite runt of the litter, but with a will to live. I tried capturing her one day, but got my thumb bit in the process! She was so vicious it was startling, hissing and growling, holy crap she startled me! So I dropped her, and watched her scuttle away, pitiful, but I had to admire her spunk. (She had chomped on me so hard that it bruised the thumbnail through my work glove!)

The snow came early that year, and every day I put the food out for the barn orphans, I'd watch for her, and didn't always see her, I feared she was dead by November when I hadn't seen her in so long. Well, I was wrong. Our son was setting out to catch the school bus one snowy day before Thanksgiving, and there was the little one in the midst of the feeding frenzy around the food dish, she couldn't scamper away, he plucked her up, and handed her to me "Here, you want this?" he asked. I took her, stuffed her inside my coat, struggling and hissing, thank goodness I always wear lots of layers (I think she peed on me too!) I took her inside and stuck her inside the bathroom where my Fred was taking his morning bath, it was warm and steamy in there, so she hid behind the toilet with that "don't look at me" attitude. Soon enough she became quite tame, being warm and having food all to herself without sharing with her mom and siblings took the edge off. Lap became acceptable rather quick too, within an hour we became friends.

This is the very first picture I took of her...

Okay, so where's the wind up key, right? She looks like a toy...or maybe a cartoon character. All I know is this wee thing effectively broke my heart...the cuteness factor was off the scale.

I studied this wee cat, little pug-nosed face with large round green eyes, black and white fur, the little soul patch on her chin always makes me laugh, and the nasally meow that is more like "Ewe", and sometimes she says "Oot?", then she has that scrappy shriek that is still startling, I don't think I can spell it...it scares me too much.

To my relief, the little hind legs worked once she warmed up, I had feared that she had been hit by a car, but there was definitely something not right. The vet saw her the very next day...I always fear the worst when a wee kitty has their first check up, especially this one with her kind of troubles. He took one look at her sitting on his exam table, big eyes and very undersized for her age, he proclaimed "What a unique little kitty." For a vet who sees hundreds of cats a week to say that, I knew she was special. He looked her over, other than having a case of worms, being under nourished, she was healthy, but the ligaments in her knees are displaced, so she walks with a bowlegged wobble, and her spine is slightly crooked between her shoulders like scoliosis, her tail flails around behind her like a rudder to keep her going straight...pitiful, but it makes me happy to have her happy and alive. The vet didn't think she'd live beyond her first year. Well, she's becoming an old lady now, 12 years this summer...she never grew much beyond the size of a 6 month old kitten, she tips the scales at about 6-7 lbs at her roundest, tiny paws the size of my thumb pad, her little black bit of a nose is smaller than a pencil eraser, she's very wee compared to the four boys...but she's feisty, and can handle those stinkers. She's blind in one eye now, although we thought she might lose it, it seems to be getting better all on its own (well, as good as it's going to get).
A very tiny white mitten with black pads...

She's such a little character...she chases shadows for fun these days, she's waiting for one here...

This is one of her favorite baskets by the woodstove...that is a toy mouse...the darn thing does look a little bit too real...the cats love them.

So that's my story of wee Picky-Picky, the Picky Pie...

Favorite Old Books

I have many favorite books, and some I especially treasure...like this one...


The books that inspire a writer in those early years before she became a writer...I already loved ghost stories and such, this is one of the best...it's so dark...

This gorgeous old copy of Emily Bronte's Wuthering Heights illustrated with wood engravings by Fritz Eichenberg is a treasure...they just don't make books like this anymore...


At the age of 14 when I first picked up a paperback copy that I found in my sister's college texts, I was hooked by the first page...there was something magical happening from the start that sent my imagination out to those wild and windy moors...




"I'm come home: I lost my way on the moor!"


"Here! and here!" replied Catherine striking one hand on her forehead, and the other on her breast: "in which ever place the soul lives. In my soul and in my heart, I'm convinced I'm wrong!"





"...they may bury me twelve feet deep, and throw the church down over me, but I won't rest till you are with me. I never will!"



"I love my murderer - but yours! How can I?"




“We’re dismal enough without conjuring up ghosts and visions to perplex us...”



“No, Mr. Lockwood,” said Nelly, shaking her head. “I believe the dead are at peace: but it is not right to speak of them with levity.”

Frosty out there...

Cold outside again tonight...I just took a hot bath, and I'm finishing off my Guinness before taking Max for one more walk...I had hoped to do some writing, but not much has happened, it seemed the evening at home just slipped away from me...

There's more photos of the frosty window on my other artsy-fartsy blog Follow Your Bliss...

Thought I might post a little bit of what I've been working on lately, the latest labor of love, there's still much to do, but this little bit came out of this weekend's work...this is a bit from chapter 4 of Layers of Illusion...the story of Eleanor Dean and Howard Macrae...

Ten years. I’ve been such a hermit these days I rarely pay attention to anything beyond here and there, home and work, there and back again. Ten years ago is a long time. Ten is a magical number—a reckoning on the timeline—a milestone, the memories measured, leveled off, and poured into a sieve; happier times slip through with relative ease, and the heavy clumps of pain that remain are examined closely—what do they mean?

Why remember the things long past? Well, because on page one of The Post Standard there is a name that brings everything back with clarity. Howard Macrae.

Curiosity killed the cat, need I say more? It was much like that predictable feline curiosity that made me pick up the phone and buy a ticket—just one—I said to the voice on the other end, I got lucky—there was one left, well, more than one, there were several. Did I want Orchestra or Mezzanine, she wanted to know.

Mezzanine.

Just one?

Yes.

After I hung up, I guess that voice who asked thought it curious that I only wanted one ticket, I mean really, who in their right mind would go to a play alone? Did anyone ever say that I was in my right mind? I plead temporary insanity. But, of course, Howard Macrae would probably think I am perfectly sane. Sam Shephard’s The Tooth of Crime was one of his favorite plays—or so he said when I knew him and we went together along with a pack of our friends to see it way back when, and through his influence, I loved the play too. Tonight I will see him again, ten years older—has he changed?

Is he balding?

Has his firm, young man body started to turn into the plush, padding of a grown man?

I wonder.

When he appeared in the spotlight leather-clad on his throne as the main character ‘Hoss’, my eyes absorbed every inch of his being from my perch on the edge of seat AA 20 in the Mezzanine. I haven’t seen him since the day he knocked on my dorm room door—he’s still the same—heartbreakingly handsome and ridiculously arrogant, strutting around the stage with his chest puffed out, heavy biker boots clomping on the boards, perfectly on the mark with his lines, his voice in full throttle as he belted out song after song during the duel with Crow—in the end, Hoss is frantic—beaten.

I’m pulled and pushed around from one image to another—

Nothin’ takes a solid form.

Nothin’ sure and final.

Where do I stand! he cries out

I watched with horror as the end came in the lightning flash of strobe lights, the brief twinkle of the gun barrel, his eyes wide as he fit it into his mouth—the lights went out as the gun went off.

Heartbreaking.

Hoss is dead. Becky Lou’s loyalty quickly shifted to the very razor Crow. That bitch. I brushed a few tears from my cheeks.

The members of the cast came out to take their final bows, and as much as everyone seemed to love the tall, slender, young Crow, Howard Macrae as Hoss received a standing ovation when he stepped out from behind the curtain—he was magnificent in his sweaty glory.

When the lights came up in the small theater, the magic of the evening dissipated as everyone rose with a low murmur of voices, gathered their coats, hats, and gloves—the light felt oppressive after being in the dark for so long. In the light of reality, I hated him—well, I really wanted to hate him for what he did to me all those years ago, but looking back on it, it was really a small matter—a matter of the heart—our hearts, his and mine, both of us wanted something different. He didn’t want me, and I wanted to hate him, but I love him instead.

When I saw his name in the paper as the director and the leading man—Howard Macrae—I knew then that I had never stopped loving him—if I could even call it love—I barely knew him, I loved looking at him, I loved the image of him. Infatuation is maybe more like it—my racing heart doesn’t know the difference—pit-a-pat pit-a-pat pit-a-pat pit-a-pat pit-a-pat a mile a minute—Howard Macrae-Howard-Macrae-Howard Macrae-Howard-Macrae-Howard-Macrae-Howard Macrae. The two dark arches over each brown eye, the thick forelock of hair falling over his pale brow, the disarming toothy grin—always ready for a close up, a head shot—a pretty boy—now a handsome grown man. He once said that he wanted to be on Broadway—I thought he should’ve gone for Hollywood, but he’s not in either. Instead, he’s in a dinky theater in an Upstate New York college town, so far off Broadway the lights of the Great White Way aren’t even a glow on the eastern horizon.

That's it. Sigh.

Oh, Elly, Elly, Elly...Eleanor Dean. I do have my hands full writing this woman...Howard has been easy...almost too easy. Buck Orion is going to be a tough one when I get around to him...even tho' I've known him longer...writin' books takes years...especially a good one. This one will be a good one someday...

Here's more winter inspiration...Frost, 1995, watercolor on a scrap piece of BFK Rives...