Whether you’re a mother of children, or of doggies or kitties … or just mothers in your hearts, may you each find this day filled with fun, peace and — maybe breakfast in bed and later, a nice bubble bath.

Happy mothers day to all who mother, not just to mothers.

There is no clever picture to announce this post.  Plainly said, more people than ever are showing up with Alzheimer’s or some sort of related dementia.  One in two over eighty and many as young as 45 or 50 are diagnosed every day with this tragic disease.  This isn’t really good news for Boomers or their children.

Alzheimer’s is a trickster.  A very mean and wily trickster.  The word, dementia, is from the Latin de–“apart, away” + mens “mind.”  I watched Dan’s parents struggle, hide, ignore, accept and then disavow their own dementia.  Clearly, they fit the definition of the word.  They were “away” from their “minds.”  Eventually, they knew only endless days filled with nothing past, nothing future, only the everness of right now.

I watched also my young neighbor in his early fifties who was diagnosed with early onset Alzheimer’s.  He and his wife were valiant against their thief in the night.  But in the end, that thief (aka, Alzheimer’s), stole his thoughts, his dignity and finally, his life.

To honor their struggles … to allow a glimpse into their inner workings, I wrote a story entitled, All the Dancing Birds.  The unpublished manuscript was a Pacific Northwest Writers Association literary finalist and the inspiration for the name of this blog.

One day I hope for this story to find its way to bookstore shelves.  Hopefully before I’m eighty and one way or the other on my own spin of the Alzheimer’s wheel-o-fate.

Alzheimer’s, once a hush-hush topic, is now — at last — being talked about.  On Monday, I’m heading out to buy the most recent guidebook to finding an agent willing to look at my manuscript.  I just need one someone who’s willing to say “yes” to a fictional portrayal of the dark and twisty corridors that wind through a mind in full-throated Alzheimer’s disease.

This Dancing Bird is ready for prime time and just needs one able-bodied person interested in championing one small story.  Until then, I’ll continue to revisit the manuscript until there’s not one errant word contained in its pages.  I’ll continue to revamp its synopsis and accompanying query letter until I’m blue in the face.

If that doesn’t work, I still have the nub of that really nice candle that recently turned my dear friend from a possible breast cancer patient into a smiling I’m-too-sexy-for-my-bra woman.  Hey, maybe it’ll work for a manuscript that desperately needs to see the light of publication.

Here’s where I place a smiley face!  🙂

Now and then I come across an excellent quote.  This one I especially love:

I find myself using the word “bandwidth” now, and feel the mounting urge to say “megabit” and “gigabit” and “terabit” as though these are normal words like “tree” and “rock” and “bunny.” I’ve learned the meaning of the word “photonics,” and now, like many techies, believe the most important fundamental particle in the communications industry of the future will be the photon, not the electron. You know your world has changed, has become more innately technological, when a distinction like that strikes you as interesting.

-Joen Achenbach

A while ago, I became interested in Stephen Hawking-ish astrophysics where they get down and dirty with the teensiest little particle thingys in order to study and catalog their behavior.  No, I don’t read about this stuff because I’m a genius, silly!  Rather, in my teensy little thoughts, I decided that if I read about how those cute little fermions, leptons and bosons behave in their purest essence, I might catch a clue into human behavior.  I could use that information to map out characters.  You know what they say … As the nucleon goes, so goes Aunt Mildred in the third chapter. Or, as in … I submit, Mr. Watson, that it was Ms. Quark, in the solarium with the heliocentric theory.

My premise in wading through words I don’t have a chance of understanding is that — if we’re all made of these little atoms and protons and whatnots — maybe we behave like they do simply because we’re influenced by our merest essences.  Yeah, yeah, I know.  That sounds so geeky.

Let me set you to rest.  I understand nothing of it.  Nothing!  With all my reading about the subject, I still can’t walk past a gluon and say with a straight face, “I know you.  Sure you’re indirectly involved with the binding of protons and neutrons together in atomic nuclei.  But what have you done lately?”

Well, now you know my dirty little secret.  I read about quarks.  It could be worse.  I could understand that stuff and be really insufferable.

Splitting an Order

I like to watch an old man cutting a sandwich in half,
maybe an ordinary cold roast beef on whole wheat bread,
no pickles or onion, keeping his shaky arms steady
by placing his forearms firm on the edge of the table
and using both hands, the left to hold the sandwich in place,
and the right to cut it surely, corner to corner,
observing his progress through glasses that moments before
he wiped with his napkin, and then to see him lift half
onto the extra plate that he asked the server to bring,
and then to wait, offering the plate to his wife
while she slowly unrolls her napkin and places her spoon,
her knife, and her fork in their proper places,
then smooths the starched white napkin over her knees
and meets his eyes and holds out both old hands to him.

-Ted Kooser

I shall split my order with Dan.  We will look up quickly while we pass a dish across the table, then we’ll go back to our tiny, elegant thoughts — thoughts that we’ll mull over while we chew.  If we find our thoughts worthy enough, we might talk and share what we’re thinking.  If not, when lunch is over and the waitress is paid, we’ll walk to the car hand-in-hand … knowing we’ve shared a meal, as well as, our quiet, delicate hearts.  It gets no better than that.

Those of us who work from home in our jammies as tortured writers have, at last, been given the best excuse to stay abed until noon — swine flu.

It’s our duty, as stay-at-home writers to … well, perhaps stay at home and work out those plot kinks that have been bugging us.  Maybe tweak some stilted dialogue in the third act of our latest play.  Perhaps write some dark and twisty poetry.  Or, at the very least, play with a Random Name Generator for some really cool character names.  In fact, playing just now, I found the name, Carmella Crinklaw.  I’m keeping that one for future reference.  Carmella Crinklaw.  Doesn’t that just sound perfect for the nosy neighbor in a mystery story?

This may be the opportune time to be that solitary, angst-ridden writer; lonely in the pursuit of excellence, but happy nevertheless for some meager progress.

At the very least, we can work on a design for those now-fashionable flu masks that even movie stars and fashionistas are sporting.

Happy angsting.

Today is the second national Poem In Your Pocket Day!

The idea is simple: select a poem you love then carry it with you to share with co-workers, family, and friends

To prepare for our soon-to-come summer in the desert, here’s a tanka-style exercise I recently penned and will carry in my pocket for the day:

A humming desert

Lifts its skirt of sand to kneel;

Its prayers scorch the eye.

Rabbits run from grazing hawks,

Scorpions waltz in the moon.

Morning comes early.

Midday wears its beggar’s coat,

A dirt rag of sky.

Summer’s so close I can feel

It’s breath going up my shirt.

My skin is a heat;

Air thermals rise in the throat.

Orange blossoms dangle

Hope, yet midnight I’m shaking

Those scorpions out my shoe.

Auburn McCanta

Last Friday … before Bunco night with the girls, before I got sick later that night, before spending the next days in bed doing battle with a very obtuse and stubborn flu bug … I went to Costco.

I loaded my cart with the requesite Bunco items — a bag of organic tortilla chips, Costco’s hip bulging, yet oddly satisfying six-layer dip, a bottle of Chardonnay, a tray of assorted muffins (guaranteed not to be lard-laden).  Of course I added a number of other essentials:  a pair of cute little capris, two new light fixtures for the master bath, a giant supply of toilet paper (little did I know), two jars of Gertie’s Artichoke Tapinade, other odds and ends, what-nots and whizits.  Of course, I browsed the book aisle.  Of course!

I checked out and turned toward the exit.  Just ahead of me was an elderly woman, obviously fragile, barely able to push her own enormously-laden cart.  I probably might have noticed how tender she looked, but all I could focus on were her pants — pink sweat pants.

Emblazoned provocatively across the seat were the words, Pink Power Baby.

I’ve never loved anyone like I loved that woman in that moment.  Pink Power Baby.

Her tiny bottom barely filled out those sweat pants, but in spite of her frailty, her significant years, that lovely woman was everything that causes people’s heads to turn.  For all her grey hair and hesitant gait, she still had that “It” factor.

She was the ghost of Marilyn Monroe.  She was future Madonna, Britney Spears, every little girl who wraps herself in Pink, Pink, Pink.

She was who I hope I’ll remember to be when I reach her age.  Her vision is memorized into my psyche now — The Pink Pants Woman from Costco who told me to remember that beauty walks the Costco aisles if only I’m available to notice.

I’ve discovered that part of being a writer is to foster one’s opinions to a fine degree.  Dan says I’ve got a lock on the highly opinionated part, but he doesn’t know so much about the fine degree part.  I have an opinion about that, though I’ll save my thoughts for another post.  Just know that the Mister of the House is hiding behind his newspaper right about now.

Many of you know that I served as an Election Correspondent for the Huffington Post prior to our recent national election.  The journalistic bug, once it bites, is hard to shake off.  Just to keep my chops up, I’ve added blogging on the Arizona Republic online newspaper to my list of daily writing duties.

Click HERE to read the post.  (Sorry.  I’m not nerdy enough to know how to do anything but add a simple “click here” link, but if you know how to pretty it up, I’d sure appreciate the help.)

Now, maybe you don’t want to increase your workload, but if you feel so inclined, please feel free to drop by this AzCentral blog and leave a comment.  I’d love to hear opinions from my DancingBird writers … and the nice folks at the newspaper would be especially delighted to have your opinion.  Someone told me that AzCentral.com is one of the top 20 online news outfits in the country.  If you leave a comment, you’ll be able to perhaps mention in your resume that you provide comment for a nationally-prominent news source, without stretching the truth too much.  Smiley-face, smiley-face.

Remember, one man’s opinion is another man’s opinion … or something like that.

The point is that we’re living in a unique time when we are being encouraged by our top leaders to express our thoughts, offer solutions to some unprecedented issues, rant and rave if we must, but then turn ourselves toward the notion of listening intently to the wisdom of others.  Somewhere within our wildest disagreements, there resides lovely kernels of inspiration.

When we offer our opinions, we open ourselves to the possibility of learning from others.

Also remember:  We’re writers!  The words we receive in return for allowing others to hear our thoughts often become fodder for characters, story lines, conflict, drama and magic.

So, come on, folks!  I need you — Come on … Become a character in my next book.  I dare ya.

I’d have been home well before now, had I not been so very, very late for lunch with two friends I hadn’t seen for nearly a year.  I circled the mall parking lot more intent with the ticking time on my watch than the location of the space I scooted into.  The mall is one of those outdoor sprawls with parking nooks and crannies that can swallow a car the moment you exit and turn your back.

As an aside, it’s also the mall where I broke my leg last summer.

We were to meet at the fireplace (in Phoenix, a fireplace?) located in the center of the main mall area.  Walkways from the giant parking lot circle the main area and spiral inward like a concrete spider web.  Checking my watch, if nothing more than to confirm what a crud I was for being so late, I located my friends and off we went for two hours of iced tea, the best Cobb Salad in town and conversation more delicious than lunch.

Promising to meet more than once a year, we hugged and went off in search of our respective winding walkway back to what shall henceforth be known as the car-eating parking lot.

I wound my way to the lot only to discover my car wasn’t there.  Ah … wrong pathway.  Backtracking, I found another spoke within the wheel-o-parking-lot-fortune.  Nope.  Not there.  Again.  Once more.  It took a good half hour on a nearly one-hundred degree day to finally locate the right path where I finally found my car.  I hope no one watched as I slid in and kissed the steering wheel.

Did I mention this is the mall that broke my leg?

P.S.  Happy Earth Day, to all my Dancing Bird friends!

“A serious writer is not to be confounded with a solemn writer.  A serious writer may be a hawk or a buzzard or even a popinjay, but a solemn writer is always a bloody owl.”

Ernest Hemingway

I’m not sure our friend, Hemingway, carefully thought through this statement.  In fact, none of my writer friends are either hawks or buzzards, nor do I know any bloviating popinjays except on the teevee machine.

If you could be any bird, which bird might you be?

Me?  I think I’d like to be a bluejay — vocal to the point of annoyance, but darned striking while being so … and with a hint of wild, green vocabulizing parrot useful for dialogue and descriptive scene.  Also, go ahead and give me a touch of that solemn owl for sensitivity, yet add in the enthusiasm of a hummingbird.  I might look a bit odd, but I’d be a useful writer.

So, which bird do you envision yourself to be?