December 2011

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Life is so fluid that one can only hope to capture the living moment, to capture it alive and fresh … without destroying that moment.

Anais Nin




I am not a fan of Formula One racing, the mind numbing sound of high powered automobiles traveling on winding, swirling, looping tracks of asphalt and concrete.  I’m afraid I land on quite the opposite end of the spectrum, the kill joy who watches in horror as I contemplate environmental degradation through the excessive use of fuel and rubber and who knows what else to make it all happen.

I am, however, fond of stories, in particular of those who have found precisely their intended métier, as the French would say, without equivocation or second thoughts.  The often brave men and women who hear distinctly the voice of God, Buddha, Allah, or perhaps a brilliant collection of cosmic dust, depending upon their persuasion, to move this way, along this path, despite the din of voices screaming otherwise.

Ayrton Senna was such a man, brilliant, charming, handsome, and a great knower of speed on macadam.  He found his passion early, behind the wheel of a go-kart, and would hone his skill over years and continents, through awful politics, pettiness, and ill conceived and implemented rules to dominate the sport, and win, win, win.

He was a gentle man, a patriotic Brazilian, close to God and his family, and an absolute pleasure to watch, behind the wheel, moving in ways I can hardly fathom, or speaking about that which mattered to him.

What great testament too, to the fine direction of the filmmakers to create such a touching portrait and have this naysayer on the edge of her seat with fascination and anticipation.  My soul was cracked.  Very well done, indeed.

Thank you, Bert, for the recommendation.



When twilight drops her curtain down

And pins it with a star

Remember that you have a friend

Though she may wander far.

Lucy Maud Montgomery



Hello dear readers,

How are you?  Wrapped up, warm and wonderful, I hope.  I am cold, despite a multitude of layers and a hat on my head.  And busy, writing, revising my novel, spending days in a flurry of words and fleeting thoughts.  It’s been rather lovely and satisfying, though all consuming, too.

The workers are done, the last out on Friday, and the quiet’s been blissful.  No more banging or wondering when someone will arrive.  No new dust being scattered by labor either, though plenty of the old dust is still getting kicked around.  I’m thinking we’ll have one of those furnace cleaners come after the new year, and then we will paint the basement, too, so very, very many gallons.

I’ve still not hung the pictures in the bathroom, nor decorated our house for the holidays, save two candles and a festive plaid cloth on the dining room table.  To be honest, I don’t really miss it.  I’m just so happy for quiet and grateful to get things done, that it doesn’t seem to matter.

In the evenings, after my mind is spent, and I’ve made some sort of soup for dinner, last night was possibly the best fish chowder, and the night before minestrone, I settle in on the sofa, knit, and watch movies.  It’s about all my little brain wants or can handle.  The hubster plays the piano (he’s learning music from Amelie), types away on his very old Commodore-64 in his new man-cave, or sits with me, a cat on his lap and mine.

It’s a wonderful life, sometimes busy and hectic, but mostly exactly what we want, and always good, lovely, and fine.

Don’t Look

It’s not what you look at that matters, it’s what you see.

Henry David Thoreau


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