This blog is for all ages, so I will confine my opening lines to @##!!!%%&&!!! So the wrong movie was announced for Best Picture of 2017. BFD!
Did anyone die because of a mistake that was subsequently corrected? How many people lost a limb from this mistake? How many people filled the hospital from heart failure? How many buildings fell down? Did the Earth move?
I like movies as much as the next person, and more than a lot of persons, but I don’t consider it a national emergency if that ugly little statue is held by the wrong set of sweaty palms for a three minutes.
I am not an advocate of drugs, but in this case, take a valium and chill.
P. S. Correcting a mistake in public during the Oscar awards does not count as “grace under pressure” in my book.
Two Thousand Seventeen crept into the second week of February, before I was finished with January. I’m holding on to my crown with one hand while running madly to stay in the same place: just like the Red Queen.
I lived most of January against a canvas of rain, rain, rain: except for the last weekend. I spent that under the cold, blue skies of the Sonora desert. Good friends “flew me” on Southwest from Oakland to Tucson. During the drive from Tucson, to their home in Oro Valley, I discovered the special beauty of that desert. Cactus were never on my list of “wonderful things in the world.” Until I experienced the Saguaro forests: amazing those tall pipes standing against the blue skies.
Most of Saturday was spent at the Pima Air and Space Museum. I am told its beginnings were humble. But the Mars family of candy bar fame took an interest. Their funding elevated the museum into a wonderful tribute to aeronautics. They are close to having one of every model of commercial and military planes. There was even a Stinson L-5, the plane my Dad flew in the China theater of WWII. In the interests of breaking up this text a little, I am inserting an old photo of this plane flying the a low pass between mountains. (Sorry about the tape marks).
As they used to say in hill country “I’ll be over for supper if the creek don’t rise.” Fifty feet behind the back gate, the creek IS rising. Rain sluices down in sheets. It has been sluicing down for hours. It will continue sluicing down today and well into Monday. Drought has been cancelled for 2017.
What’s up for 2017
This year I replaced the usual list of resolutions with an operating theme. This new year of 2017 is the Year of Imagination. What sparked this idea is the following quote by Maxwell Maltz from New Psychocybernetics.Continue reading “A Week Into 2017”
Christmas is coming! Soon! So much left to do! Stress!
Take a chocolate break. I found this wonderful post about chocolate drinks. It was too good not to share. I re-posted for this weeks news update. Revel in the recipes, and tell me which ones turn on your chocolate cravings. The link is below.
A moment of personal silence for the loss of my Aunt Carol who left this life a few days ago. Many are feeling the loss of that bright life. When the initial impact has dimmed, I will write more about her.
I am so glad I stumbled upon the NaNoWriMo organization. That is the “shortcut” version of National Novel Writing Month. For many writers, would-be writers, and hopeful writers, this is the event of the year. Starting the first of November and ending on the thirtieth of November, folks around the world write fifty-thousand word novels. There are all kinds of pep rallies, write-in meetings and other events. The local library hosted a writers space every Tuesday from 4 p.m. to 6 p.m. where NaNoWriMo participants came to write.
This year, I fell short of the goal by several thousand words, but I learned so much from simply pounding out words in volume. I started this project without a plot. In fact I didn’t have the faintest idea what I wanted to write about. So I just started typing. Gradually a plot emerged. Characters began to grow. It was a bad plot. The characters were cardboard cutouts. Nevertheless, there was a book blossomed. I plan to finish it this year. November 2017 is already booked.
For friends, relatives, neighbors who are in the dark. NaNoWriMo is the short, catchy and unpronounceable version of National Novel Writing Month.
This happens every November, when thousands of people actually sign up to write a 50,000 word novel in one month. This year, I am one of those crazy people. So for a couple of weeks you won’t hear much from Sybal’s Front Door. I am wearing my typing fingers to the bone.
Here is the good news. The novel has to be 50,000 words. It doesn’t have to be good. It doesn’t have to be coherent. It doesn’t have to be grammatically correct. Words don’t have to be spelled correctly.
Not one person reading this will EVER be asked to read this novel. Don’t bother to ask because no one will EVER get a chance to read this novel.
Will it be a clue for you if I tell you I am changing the title to “Watching Paint Dry on the Barn Door.?”
Something I wrote on day 187 was quoted on another website this week as advice to someone who just hit 9 months and is having that sloggish feeling. You know the one. Some of the difficulty of getting sober has worn off, but so has some of the novelty. You haven’t gotten that pony you wanted yet–and worse, you suspect you may never get your pony, and even worse than that, you suspect there isno pony. So there you are: sober, bored, awkward, and horseless.
I’d feel lousy under those circumstances, too. I did, in fact, which is why I clung to the idea in that post: that sobriety accumulates, even if it doesn’t always feel that way in the moment. That if I could just make it through the grayness of those days, they’d add up to something.
That was 853 days ago. In those 853 days I’ve upgraded…