In case you can’t read the writing in the bubble, this says, “This next song was going to be about writer’s block, but … “

From now on, whenever I have a moment of hesitation and I’m not certain where next to go in my writing, I’ll think of this.

Unfortunately, the aftermath of Christmas continues to be a whirlwind here at the Bloggybirdery and I can’t think of much else.  My body is moving, but my mind is still on Holiday.

Look for something worthy of a writer … perhaps … tomorrow?  Maybe I’ll show off my gifts from Santa.  Or tell you about the Christmas Eve party of all parties we attended.  Or, perhaps, we’ll all just sigh our contentment that 2008 is nearly over and work on crafting our Resolutions for the New Year.

Who knows?  Suggestions, anyone?

Arizona is beautiful in winter.  Snow dusts the Catalina Mountains near Tucson, while below, saguaro nod in approval.  The desert humbles us once more.

Happy holidays to all my friends here at the Bloggybirdery.  May we each discover during this coming year that our writing has turned wild with adventure, is touched with the brilliance of angels, and serves, in even a small part, as a deft gift to mankind.

Here are words from four past writers to remind us that our words shall forever grace those kind enough to read them.

Martin Luther
Good news from heaven the angels bring,
Glad tidings to the earth they sing:
To us this day a child is given,
To crown us with the joy of heaven.

Emily Matthews
From home to home, and heart to heart, from one place to another
The warmth and joy of Christmas, brings us closer to each other.

Clement C Moore, A Visit from St Nicholas
‘Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse;
The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,
In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there

William Shakespeare
At Christmas I no more desire a rose,
Than wish a snow in May’s new-fangled shows;
But like of each thing that in season grows.

MERRY CHRISTMAS, HAPPY HANUKKAH, HAPPY HOLIDAYS, AND BRILLIANT WRITING DAYS, EVERYONE!

Auburn

P.S.  For those following the escapades of Wilson the Labradoodle, I’ll post graduation pictures soon.  He’s still trying to recover from an unfortunate Santa encounter and has asked everyone to respect his privacy during these most trying and sensitive days.

Against doctor’s orders I’m sneaking a quick howdy to my dear friends.  After half a box of cheap wine, my wrist says, “Go for it, baby.”

So, Howdy!  (We tip our ten gallons and say “howdy” here in the southwest.)

It’s cooled all the way to 60 degrees in Phoenix, a bit lower at night.  Please don’t hate me.  I know everyone else is suffering under frozen skies and icy grounds.  Not here.  Nope.  We’re playing golf (at least those of us with good wrists) and we’re hiking the hills (at least those of us who haven’t recently broken their legs) and we’re shopping (now we’re talking my language!)

I hope Santa is good to you all.  I’m asking for a new wrist so I can write again.  I’ll bet Poe never had a bad wrist.  Or Shakespeare.  Of course, then there’s Finkelstein.  Oh, never heard of Finkelstein?  Well, he had a bad wrist.  Poor old Finkelstein.

Hi Everyone, Auburn here.

Dan doing the typing. (Hi Everyone, Dan here.)

I’m suffering with a conditon called DeQuervain’s tenosynovitis – fancy name for holy cow my wrist hurts.  Bottom line is I’m unable to type for quite a while.  I am also unable to, since this effects my dominant right hand, style my hair, put on my makeup and do all my girly things.  I have a doctor’s appointment on December 31st with a doctor who will tell me YES! you need surgery!  I’m sure his enthusiasm will be contagious.  I expect to have surgery sometime in January 2009. In the meantime, I have a dear little wrist brace that disallows me from typing, from communicating, from being a visible presence on this website.

Rats!

This could not have come at a worst time.  When I was a child, I was sick every Christmas.  Actually, even as an adult I was sick every Christmas.  Recently, I’ve managed to escape the Christmas curse.  It caught up with me.  The curse has found me again and is standing on my neck with all its weight.

Please bear with me because I know my posts will be erratic.

But know I love you all my dear readers.  I’ll keep you posted as I can.  In the meantime, please stay safe from your storms and enjoy your holidays.

Merry Christmas, Happy Hannakuh, Happy Kwansua, or whatever holiday you enjoy this beautiful season.

All my best to you, Auburn

For you living in the north, suffering under the cold … this is for you.   (Here, in the desert, it’s cooled all the way down to 70 degrees — sorry.)

Here is Wilson’s dramatic reaction upon hearing the news that a number of senators have decided to block legislation to loan money to America’s big three automakers.  Coincidentally, these particular Republican senators each have foreign automakers currently housed and operating in their states.  It seems their purpose in blocking the legislation is to bust the UAW and thereby lower blue collar wages and–without union representation–also lower health care and pension benefits for workers.

Millions of current jobs, pensions of elderly retirees and health care for families (read children) ride on this deal.

Being a future blue collar service dog, Wilson is, shall we say, rather anguished over the news.

Scarlett tries her best to console her junior colleague, but I’d say her ministrations aren’t working.

When Dan’s mother passed away this past September, he took bunches of tranquilizers (strongly ordered by our doctor) and bravely crawled into the backseat where he traveled from Phoenix to Seattle with our son at the wheel.  I couldn’t go because I was fresh with a broken leg and stuck on the couch.  The funeral was beautiful (I hear) and the graveside ceremony was lovely (I also hear).

We miss Dan’s mother terribly.  She was a beautiful woman with incredible grace.  Today we received a letter outlining Dan’s inheritance.  It’s just enough to take a small trip should Dan be so inclined and be able to step aboard a plane — something he’s not been able to do for a while now.

But the question is:  If someone were to travel anywhere in the United States, where woud be most fascinating?  We’ve never been anywhere.  Would it be the south with its trees dripping in kudzu?  Would it be the eastern seaboard big cities of Boston and New York?  Would it be Wyoming … or Minnesota … or Kansas?

Where would we go?  What would we do?  Should we drive and take our two GIANT dogs?  Should we fly and board?  So many questions about what probably won’t occur.

Such dreams.

All in all, maybe we should just stay home and hide the tiny bit of money in the mattress.

I think Boomers all over the country are wrestling with this same dilemmma.  Maybe yes … maybe no.

My husband is unable to travel.  Just the thought of winding through green covered hills or flying off to exotic places makes his mind do crazy things to him.  His palms sweat, his heart races.  He flushes and stammers.  His stomach is ill.  He has debilitating panic attacks just thinking of the unfamiliar. 

Rather than drugging him to incapacitation, we stay home.  It’s not a problem.  Really.

I have those fantastic BBC videos of Planet Earth.  I watch Rick Steeve’s Europe.  I travel in books and in my dreams.  Most often in my dreams.

I wonder this, though.  Where would you like to go if you could travel anywhere?

I’d like to know where you’ve been and where you’d like to go.  I’d like to travel through your journeys.  Climb things.  Dive into cool places.  Struggle with the blinding beauty of other lands.  Touch a rose in England.  Ride an elephant or see a whale.  I’d like to be mystified.  Touch ice.  Walk on cobblestones or sit in a gondola.  Hang upside down and kiss a rock.  Dance.

Tell me where you’d like to travel.  If you could go anywhere in this world, where would it be?

Where would it be?

s

This is Ireland, with the Atlantic Ocean to the west and the Irish Sea to the east.  I am much, much farther to the west and then somewhat south.   Ireland is really green from space.  Probably from all the rain and the potato plants and the terrible troubles, you know.

I have relatives from Ireland.  My grandfather on my father’s side came from Ireland and immigrated through Canada as an infant.  My maternal grandmother’s relatives have been traced back to the 1400s — something about some king or something.  Doesn’t everyone have a king in their background?

So why am I so interested in Ireland?  No reason, really.  Except this is one of the places on my bucket list I’d sure love to see in person.  I hear the Irish like their beer too.  I’m sure I could be persuaded.

Yes, Scarlett and Wilson here.  The Masters are … one on the couch and one in the bed.  The Woman Master, the one called Auburn, the one who usually does the writing, takes the couch.  Nnnngggh, Nnnngggh, she says with her nose now and then, white papery material waded up next to her face.  Nnnnngggh.  Disgusting!  We hope it’s not catching and wonder if antibacterial hand wash works on doggie paws.

The Man Master, Dan is his name, has taken the high spot in the bedroom.  He ignores us.  Even at the times of day when we are always fed, he ignores us.  We hate him for it.  He is evil for not bounding through the house like he always does.  His shoes are tucked in the closet where we can’t get to them to show our disapproval.  Evil.  Evil.

She, the Woman Master, pulls herself to her feet and manages to spoon food, Nnngghing with her nose into our bowls.  Yuck!  We’re not sure we should eat, but our hunger is beyond great.  We eat. We eat.  Looking for more, we roam through the house only to find our Woman Master returned to her perch on the couch, those white papery things in a box next to her.  We hate her for her opposable thumbs.  If we had them, we wouldn’t need her.  Hah!  We wouldn’t need anyone.

He, the Man Master, neglects our walks.  We’re keeping our eye on him.   His shoes remain in the closet.

We play bone wars in the living room and neither the She Master nor the He Master rise to tell us to hush, or to settle down, or to knock it off, or anything.  Maybe they’re dead.   Who then will distribute our cookies?

We’re saddened beyond consolation.

They must be dead … except for the times they get up to sit on the things that they refuse to leave open and available for our thirst.  Our thirst, our thirst.  Such evil masters we’ve never known.

So, we play the bone wars through the house and wait for one of them to rise from the dead.  We’re taking bets on which one is first–the man or the woman.  We’ve formed an offshore corporation for our online betting service.  We take Visa and Master Card.  Place your bets, pigeons, place your bets.