tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-57910089545444537212024-03-14T10:05:46.075-07:00shyonelungMy World in Words and PicturesS.O.L.http://www.blogger.com/profile/13516730967355152655noreply@blogger.comBlogger437125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5791008954544453721.post-72210160928183318482014-03-05T17:56:00.003-08:002015-03-11T14:30:15.138-07:00Falling In Love with Me<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I never liked my body.<br />
I dig some parts of it, my forearms, for example. And my hands. I know, I know but a girl has her favorites.<br />
But the rest of it, not so much. Most of my life, I could barely look at myself with clothes on, much less with them off. Mirrors were not something I had around the house.<br />
My secret was that I was a walking contradiction.<br />
Deep inside, I thought of myself as a beautiful, sensual woman. Yet, every time I would looked at myself or a picture of myself, it would crush my soul. I don't want to give the impression that I wanted to be too perfect or too thin or that my vision inside was of Gisele <span class="st">Bundgen. I know and appreciate that we all come in different shapes and sizes and that the general view of women and how we're supposed to look is sincerely fucked up. And yes, our society puts unhealthy and unattainable expectations on us. Any trip to the local mall or newsstand confirms all of that.</span><br />
<span class="st">But my view of my body was and has always been my own. I don't have any body role models. For me, it's matching the woman on the outside to the woman I was convinced I really am.</span><br />
<span class="st">For years, though, I buried her, deep, deep inside. I gained weight. I used excuses for not working out and I endured those trips to the mall when I could not find anything that fit me, when trying on clothes was an exercise in humiliation. It was on those trips when I'd feel regret, when I'd wonder to myself why I wasn't doing something to change my life, when the girl inside would scream "let me out!" But time marched on and she tumbled ever deeper into the abyss, far away from clothing stores and mirrors and from any kind of serious self-assessment, landing far, far away in a place where it seemd there was no return.</span><br />
<span class="st">With each passing year, I knew I was losing her to the rolling tide of my life. It was as if I was on the bank of a wild rushing river holding onto her hand, trying not to let go, but knowing it was inevitable, that I could not hold on forever. My girl was slipping from my grasp. Could it be that she wasn't really me?</span><br />
<span class="st">It was during a trip to Europe in 2009 that she started to talk to me again. Three weeks of eating and drinking, of the kind of general debauchery that accompanies a vacation with food and wine people took a major toll on me. Looking at me in the photos of the trip, I look awful, my face is sallow and tired looking. I seem older than my age and while I'm outwardly smiling, it's forced, chagrinned, like I know better than to think the world is mine. I was facing serious marital problems then, a pain inside that I have yet to truly understand or measure, drowning in a sea of someone else's relentless negativity. And, ugh, I am unbearably heavy -- more than 200 pounds and, I didn't quite appreciate, also adrift and alone. While I loved that trip for the time spent with my friends and for seeing Italy for the first time, the memory that endures of that trip is of the nightly stomach aches, how walking the streets of Venice should have made me feel more alive, but instead I just felt old and slow. How the song in my heart those days was so deeply and seemingly irretrievably sad. It brings tears to my eyes just writing about it now.</span><br />
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<span class="st">I had not only lost that girl, I'd lost me too.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0vkYkf9e96g5oKvoBe3t6SUXKyLDp2reW2fFF9H2tXCfYj-dGIArxfTmC2bFIDwWmUzzgXbj6m0ByM94EFvW3ZJ4XxJcyvQjRCOG8TeyKiyb7DIcHyD3gjtavOhaeCXYf3SXnNvKjQGY6/s1600/mefat.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0vkYkf9e96g5oKvoBe3t6SUXKyLDp2reW2fFF9H2tXCfYj-dGIArxfTmC2bFIDwWmUzzgXbj6m0ByM94EFvW3ZJ4XxJcyvQjRCOG8TeyKiyb7DIcHyD3gjtavOhaeCXYf3SXnNvKjQGY6/s1600/mefat.JPG" height="400" width="298" /></a><span class="st">The first place I went when I got home was my doctor. He suggested an elimination diet to see if I could figure out the stomach aches and general fatigue. I started looking around but it wasn't until the spring of 2011, when a friend sent me <a href="http://www.amazon.com/UltraSimple-Diet-Kick-Start-Metabolism-Safely/dp/1439171319/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1394063959&sr=1-1&keywords=the+ultra+simple+diet" target="_blank">The Ultra-Simple Diet</a> book by Dr. Mark Hyman. Let me stop here and say I am not a follower. I do not have gurus and I hate doing anything in a group. I believe people should find what works for them and that not everything works for everybody. But this diet changed my life to the point where I can draw a line in the Story of Me on the calendar at August 8, 2011 -- the day I forced myself to stand in front of my bathroom mirror so I could memorialize my out-of-shape, over-weight, tired old self for all-time.</span><br />
<span class="st"> </span><span class="st"> </span><br />
<span class="st">I post that photo here with with a lot of hesitancy.
because it makes me uncomfortable to look at that girl now. She's not me anymore. Which is also why I keep it around -- as a reminder of how far I've come. And it's motivation, too, for where I'm headed. At any rate, it's over there, screen right. </span><br />
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<span class="st">It's a picture that speaks for itself, clearly, but let me give you some more perspective:</span><br />
<span class="st">209 pounds, 45 percent body fat, 47-inch waist, clothing size: 2X. </span><br />
<span class="st"><br /></span>
Let those numbers sink in. Twenty fucking years of mistreating my body. How the hell was I going to fix that?<br />
<span class="st"><br /></span><span class="st">I started that day, following the new diet plan, which required me to eliminate coffee, alcohol, wheat, gluten, dairy, eggs, Nightshade vegetables, red meat, processed foods, sugar and predator fish.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3QkfK8dOq7RPXYa00AmHmO1oVy7F8O4oho8xZQ-eRDdbEitCS0lXUArcmjKlvSWX7cZDi0frz-SzHlDMmZohXWsMa49LbA9M1BUYM1T8TBmh5yQ8TO7SQxqkUmq3-L_bgLjytrFsfnRuC/s1600/melater.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3QkfK8dOq7RPXYa00AmHmO1oVy7F8O4oho8xZQ-eRDdbEitCS0lXUArcmjKlvSWX7cZDi0frz-SzHlDMmZohXWsMa49LbA9M1BUYM1T8TBmh5yQ8TO7SQxqkUmq3-L_bgLjytrFsfnRuC/s1600/melater.JPG" height="400" width="298" /></a></div>
<span class="st">It sounds like a lot and it is. As determined as I was, I wasn't convinced yet. I did not believe. I wasn't sure I could stick it out. I knew I had to try. And so I did. And honestly, that was the first of four major revelations -- which is not to look too far in the future. One day at a time. One step in front of the other. </span><br />
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<span class="st">My plan was to stay on the diet for three weeks and then re-access based on my progress and my discipline. I made it through the first three weeks and then went for another three and then another. Roughly eight weeks in, I took the second photo and, yes, I'm wearing the same shirt as the first shot.</span><br />
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<span class="st">The progress, if not remarkable, was evident. More important, I was hooked. While I've modified the Ultra Simple plan over the ensuring years, I've pretty much stuck to the idea. I keep my distance from gluten and dairy and, while I enjoy my liquor, I have all but given up beer. I eat as regularly as possible and I avoid processed food anything. I don't eat fast food. I try not to eat after 8 p.m. at night and I practice portion control. When I eat out, I stick to vegetables when I can, keep away from butter and cream sauces, skip dessert. I find I like vegetables a lot and I don't really miss my old eating habits. </span><br />
<span class="st"><br /></span>W<span class="st">hile the weight-loss was a great barometer of my progress, I came to my second revelation: I began to realize that my stomach aches were not only gone but I suddenly realized that I had <i>always</i> had them, that this was the very first time they were not a daily part of my life.</span><br />
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<span class="st">The third revelation came while on a visit to San Francisco with friends, all much younger and fitter than me, when we were all running to catch a Giants baseball game. To get to our seats, we had to climb the back steps of AT&T Park, which is a hill of concrete steps, close together, and straight up. A lot of fucking steps. In the past, I would have taken one look at it and taken the elevator. It was an easy choice because I could blame my shortness of breath on my having lost a lung to Cancer in my 20s, but the truth was that I was an overweight couch potato who had let herself go. That night I hurried up the stairs without thinking, realizing at the top that I was breathing more freely than I had in years. And my knees and back didn't hurt either. That moment I became a true believer.</span><br />
<span class="st"><br /></span><span class="st">Revelation four came when I added exercise to my routine. I started to ride my bike. I got serious. I fell. I got back up. I suffered to get through 10 miles. Then I got to 15, then 20. I avoided hills, and those I did attempt to climb would usually end in my getting off and walking my bike up them. But I persisted and then I was getting up bigger and bigger hills.</span>Two weeks ago I completed my first 50-mile bike ride with 2,000-feet of climbing -- with one freaking lung. A week later, I did 42 miles with a head cold. In the last 12 months, I've ridden 1,500 miles and covered 10,000-feet of climbing. I've come to enjoy the hard stuff, to welcome the challenges. I'm not surviving them anymore, I'm taking names and kicking ass. Two months from now, I'm planning to ride my first century -- or 100-mile bike ride. I have no doubt I will do it. Since the beginning of the year, I have added cross-training to my exercise routine. My knees and back don't hurt anymore. I do things I never imagined. I'm in the best shape of my life.<br />
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The numbers? They are hard for even me to fathom.<br />
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<span class="st">But they are real: 50 pounds lost, 12 1/2 inches off my waist, five inches off my thighs and three off my arms. I am at 20 percent body fat. On my last trip to the mall, I tried on size 10 jeans and they were too big. I can bench press 45 pounds on 15 reps. I can do 10 real pushups. I can curl 25-pound weights in both hands. I can run three miles without stopping. I can plank for a full minute. And I look like this:</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWZTTAFd7_OyUpNgs6FraHMQR_iM9l-8qq2ciDDTeJ0H8-r5hdbyuLiynX_JozZQAFVRNA9_LcVcWAUcRyn_QPtp58QPrD-v5FKywG-08f2qZlcjA8cqFcbQIwhMx0MQDRIcmlXUkabrEg/s1600/mework.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWZTTAFd7_OyUpNgs6FraHMQR_iM9l-8qq2ciDDTeJ0H8-r5hdbyuLiynX_JozZQAFVRNA9_LcVcWAUcRyn_QPtp58QPrD-v5FKywG-08f2qZlcjA8cqFcbQIwhMx0MQDRIcmlXUkabrEg/s1600/mework.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a></div>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0lYflh1TAqEqAb8CSMbJAisX5Vcy-d0omnukpnJS0zXU4iiYvzQ9qZS7ZILSQKmITFmOsMN3q8UR_KLAjWLPg2Ydn6EQ5t2gAQxq1WpRUQFXVz8csKrNHnllxs_jtO48cc9YPTNCkroqs/s1600/mebike.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0lYflh1TAqEqAb8CSMbJAisX5Vcy-d0omnukpnJS0zXU4iiYvzQ9qZS7ZILSQKmITFmOsMN3q8UR_KLAjWLPg2Ydn6EQ5t2gAQxq1WpRUQFXVz8csKrNHnllxs_jtO48cc9YPTNCkroqs/s1600/mebike.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a><span class="st"><br /></span><br />
<span class="st">And I ain't done yet. The woman inside me has shown
herself but we've come to an understanding, we two. We know it's only the tip of the iceberg. She wants
more. I want more. And I won't stop until she's all the way out. </span><br />
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<span class="st">And here's something else, I like my body now. I like the way clothes hang on me and I like going to the mall just to try stuff on. I like looking at myself in the mirror. Call it vanity, addiction, whatever, but it feels good to be in shape. It feels good to bust my ass in the gym, to sweat, to be able to climb mountains on my bike. It feels fucking great. </span><br />
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<span class="st">And you know what? I'm happy. I can't wait to find out how I'll surprise myself tomorrow. All I know now is that I'm up for the challenge. Any challenge. So seriously, bring it on. Bring. It. On.</span><br />
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<span class="st"><br /></span>S.O.L.http://www.blogger.com/profile/13516730967355152655noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5791008954544453721.post-90439122556233993882014-03-04T11:35:00.000-08:002014-03-04T11:35:48.357-08:00Gone Louie Gone <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWkUV9tzKnrOUQC6iLxZLuc9C3vjX6NpkRLakdlRgY6wA0IK0yAF-8xJHNAtnb_JnIjTi-SMRS9SJIALp3eC_G-vo1uLnp1VjJJDrAGROU37RpR8JzF68EQtZIi4DlL7ZLVa3nUxACXf63/s1600/IMG_3679.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWkUV9tzKnrOUQC6iLxZLuc9C3vjX6NpkRLakdlRgY6wA0IK0yAF-8xJHNAtnb_JnIjTi-SMRS9SJIALp3eC_G-vo1uLnp1VjJJDrAGROU37RpR8JzF68EQtZIi4DlL7ZLVa3nUxACXf63/s1600/IMG_3679.JPG" height="480" width="640" /></a></div>
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">It's a pretty eye-opening revelation when you get to my age and you realize your best friend was a half-blind, deaf pug named Louie who died in your arms on a cold and rainy spring morning, breaking your heart into more pieces than you've been able to pick up.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">He was in my lap when he died, the same spot where he first lay when we drove him to his new home as a rescue six years earlier. Only this time when I passed him to the vet, his warm, soft body was a dead weight. It was real. He was gone. I still cry thinking about it. I'm crying now.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">I could tell you how special he was but it's not the same as knowing him and that's okay. Take my word for it. The Tibetans believe pugs are descendent from monks. If you knew Louie, you would not find that idea farfetched. He would often sit at my feet as I worked. Sometimes when I would get stuck for a word or a thought or I would just feel lost, I would look down at him and it would help. I don't know how or why and I don't expect everyone to believe, but just looking into his face made the whole world seem okay, no matter what.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">He came into my life during a difficult period. Looking back now I know that it was the beginning of the end of my marriage, even though it took me years to figure that out. Give Louie credit. He kept us together, or tried to. I had some really bad days back then, but it was easy to hang out with my pug and think they would pass. It wasn't until I let him go finally that I started to see the light. The changes I've made in my life since began that rainy May day. If I look back, it's only to remember the warmth of his fur and those big bug eyes because I don't ever want to forget anything about him.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Louie built up my heart and when he left me, it broke and even though I didn't think I could ever live without him, I'm still here. And I'm stronger than ever. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">And, I think, that giving love is the most important thing you can do, even if forever turns out to have an expiration date. Our hearts are not always in the right place -- we're human after all -- but never lose faith in it.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Once a day like clockwork, Louie would lose me in the house. He would run around, his nails click-clicking on the floor at a frantic pace until he found me, and then his curly tail would wag something fierce, his chin would tilt up and he would slump next to me, leaning on my leg like my only purpose in life was to hold him up.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">The truth is he was holding me up. And he's still doing it now. Louie showed me the way. It just took me awhile to follow.</span>S.O.L.http://www.blogger.com/profile/13516730967355152655noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5791008954544453721.post-56944267694455534352014-01-17T23:06:00.001-08:002014-01-17T23:06:58.192-08:00The Road and the Sky<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3CfNLq6x6kqJKBhgOUqelHCGjJ3pd26e6MJUexA_Qa7xhs3zjUAoh-lv3iFcvcLBsyXqnatJWrA-8PqDsCu-e4vHBojgbhKhSo84IE170THaUx6408cQxsIMfuhRtJgvH9o2TBAqcRZj0/s1600/IMG_9795.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3CfNLq6x6kqJKBhgOUqelHCGjJ3pd26e6MJUexA_Qa7xhs3zjUAoh-lv3iFcvcLBsyXqnatJWrA-8PqDsCu-e4vHBojgbhKhSo84IE170THaUx6408cQxsIMfuhRtJgvH9o2TBAqcRZj0/s1600/IMG_9795.JPG" height="640" width="640" /></a></div>
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I wake up alone, at dawn, streams of the first light of the morning reflecting across my bed, the one that seems so big now. These days, my first thought at the beginning of the day is that I’m on my own. The second is fear. And then sadness and guilt and then a flood of a hundred other things I should and shouldn’t feel. I have to cover my head with the pillow to keep the train of emotions from boring into my brain and paralyzing me. Because really all I want to do is go back to bed and forget all of it.</div>
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I fight it because I know I should get up. And because I want to ride.</div>
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I’ve already prepared myself. Last night, I picked the route and ran through it in my head, promising myself as I fell asleep that I would climb some hills, put some miles on my bike, get out and just do it. But lying in bed, I can’t move.</div>
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My cell buzzes. I’ve been keeping it on vibrate lately. I want to feel when someone calls or sends me a text or email but for some reason, I don’t want to see it. Sometimes, I don’t even answer it anymore.</div>
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I look at the screen. It’s my sister-in-law calling to see how I’m doing. It’s unbearably sweet how she keeps checking in on me. Three thousand miles and three hours and three little children and she still makes time to call. I want to tell her how much it means to me but before we can start, my mom calls. That’s a call I have to answer.</div>
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Mom’s mad at me about something. I don’t really blame her even though I feel it’s not entirely in my control. Hell, I’m mad at myself, too, but how do I explain what I’m going through? That I can’t possibly keep my life in order when it’s splitting apart at the seams. How do I explain to my Mom how hard it’s been here, when she is all the way on the other side of the country alone with Dad, who is really not Dad anymore, not entirely. Jesus. More guilt.</div>
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The phone call is hard. We fight. She yells. I’ve “disappointed” her. Moms know where the soft spots are and she has said the absolute worse thing to me she could ever say. I course I feel awful about it. I know she’ll always love me. But now I’m the Child Who Disappointed Her. Ouch.</div>
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I hang up. I want to cry but I don’t and I don’t know why. Instead, I call back my sister-in-law and we talk and it’s nice but I start to get anxious again. I’m still in bed. The sun is out now and it’s one of those January days that makes living in California the best place is the world. Blue sky, a slight wind and that feeling that spring isn’t months away. Maybe we’ll hit 70 today.</div>
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I know I have to get outside so I beg off the call. “I’m going to get on my bike,” I say, though I say it half-heartedly like I don’t really mean it. Like when I was talking to my Mom. I gather my bike gear. The week has left me stiff and sore. A new workout regimen to start the New Year is kicking my ass. I find I’m starting to enjoy the pain a little like maybe I’m real cyclist now, but three days in a row and a night of drinking in the middle has left me feeling my years. Like all of them.</div>
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I don’t think much about having one lung but today, it’s on my mind. Why? Because it’s an excuse and it’s one I’ve used for years to keep from pushing myself. Over a few drinks the other night, my friend posed a question to me: why do we have one heart and two lungs? He asked that of someone who only has one of each which is crazy because, all things considered, I make it work somehow. One big lung, one big heart is how I see it. I wonder now if maybe what we really need is two hearts and one lung. Can you imagine? Human beings with two hearts? As if one isn’t enough. Talk about being road kill for your emotions. No, come to think of it, one is more than enough.</div>
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I think maybe my friend is convinced science doesn’t have all the answers. I used to think that was a bunch of bullshit, but now I’m not so sure. I’m clearly thinking too much.</div>
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Maybe I won’t ride today. Maybe I’ll listen to the voices in my head that are saying “you’ve done enough this week” and “take it easy”. I think about a blog a friend wrote recently about the same thing – how tough it is to get up and go exercise, the excuses we pile up like firewood to make ourselves feel better for skipping the hard stuff. It’d be so easy to say no.</div>
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But I’m not listening. I am in fact pulling on my tights and shoes, filling up my water bottle, stuffing a banana and some Hammer Gel into my back pocket. And then I’m out on the road, pedaling. My lower back is complaining, my knees are aching and my head is not clear. Not at all.</div>
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And it’s a burn day so the first mile the air is peppered with the thick, sooty smoke of the vineyard fires burning around me. I push on anyway, even though I feel like shit and my heart rate is pushing its limits and my hands are tired and shaking. I feel every little pain on my body, like the bruise on the instep of my left food, the one I got tripping over a friend’s coffee table in the middle of that night of drinking. I’m starting to think this isn’t my day to be out here. Even on this perfect afternoon as I spin along a spectacular two-lane that’s winding through the now-dormant vineyards against a blue, blue sky.</div>
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I get through the first few miles and I’m suffering like a stuck pig. These are rollers. In bike speak, that means these are supposed to be easy. The climbs ahead, they are going to kill me. I should take a day off. Give up the ghost. But instead, I coast down the short hill before the first climb and I start spinning. Nice and easy, my heart not into it. I go on up anyway. One hill. See if I can do it. A moral victory before I run back home, tail between my legs. It’s just as hard as I think it’s going to be but I just take it one stroke at a time, try to breathe evenly, find “my pace” as my friend always tells me. I know I’m not going to break any personal records on this ride. Today is about surviving.</div>
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The climb is a slog and my heart rate is too high and I start to think about all the reasons why I should go home. I have to quell the panic attack that’s brewing in my gut. The whole negative “you can’t do it” vibe that’s festering. I manage to clear my head just enough to concentrate on the climb. I’m almost half way up the hill now and wouldn’t you know it, but I get a second wind. I start to pedal faster and before long, I’m not just surviving this hill, I’m actually climbing it. Yeah, my legs are sore, the muscles are shaking and I keep thinking I’m going to cramp up but I go on anyway and I gain a little speed and I don’t cramp up. Wow. I ride past the turn I was thinking of taking home, the short cut. The way back. Instead, I head down the other side of the hill, pedaling for speed, feeling the wind on my face as I descend. I’m committed now. Six miles behind me. Twenty-four or so more to go.</div>
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It’s still not an easy ride. On the frontage road next to the freeway, I’m pedaling like my bike is going through mud not rolling on pavement. I feel every bump. The freeway traffic next to us is loud and there’s smoke and fuel in my nose. I know I’m trying to find excuses to stop, to call someone to come get me. My legs are feeling every pedal stroke. Damn, I thought I was in better shape than this.</div>
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Then I’m facing the Last Big Climb of the day. I ride up, sure I’ll never make it, stealing glances at the road ahead that’s sloped upward without an end in sight. But weirdly, I find another gear again. My breath is steady and easy. In out, in out. Huff, puff. I pedal faster. I pedal faster <i style="box-sizing: border-box;">uphill</i>.</div>
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At the top, I feel like shit but I’m over it. It’s pretty much all down hill from here. Still a good 15 miles from home but the big climbs are behind me. My legs are jello. The air so warm, I’ve unzipped my jersey and the tails flap in the wind behind me. I can see my </div>
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<span style="border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: 29.7px; margin: 0px; outline: rgb(0, 0, 0); padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">shadow keeping pace next to me, elongated like I’m tall and thin and lithe and graceful.</span></div>
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Grace is never the kind of word that would be associated with me. Except out here on the bike. Out here, I fly. Just like the wind.</div>
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I watch my shadow and I smile. I wonder if that’s really me or just what’s left of the me I used to me. Those last few miles are almost unbearable. My legs give in around mile 22 but I’ve no choice but to keep pedaling. It’s the only way home and anyway, it’s way past giving up time.</div>
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I keep up a pace and I feel it. In my legs, in my chest. My heart beats a steady rhythm again, I can hear it out there on the road like it’s just me and the bike, click, boom, click, boom. Almost thirty miles done on a day I could have stayed in bed.</div>
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I push the pedals harder. I’m almost there. Almost home. I keep my feet moving, my eyes focused ahead on the vast open sky, my thoughts buried somewhere deep inside my gut, too far away to make sense of, like their buried underwater.</div>
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I want to keep pedaling now. I want to ride right to the edge of the horizon and beyond an<span data-mce-style="font-size: 18px; line-height: 29.7px;" style="border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: 29.7px; margin: 0px; outline: rgb(0, 0, 0); padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">d never stop, not ever. I think it's where I belong, where the road meets the sky, where my heart will be free.</span></div>
S.O.L.http://www.blogger.com/profile/13516730967355152655noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5791008954544453721.post-17568024167351313852012-11-28T00:13:00.000-08:002012-11-28T00:30:34.626-08:00Inking<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigWnTswSUOKD406NlR50PXd6pMwzDUidaB3HPeiVr3oneV9y-zpDSRfONuVRC59LwB5W2sUTwqdhAXqcrEjDI8NjPvr7zvPFgFPpBA6OIZrthHN2FicoSp4Caz_DzN1nt1_RAjvxZUVknV/s1600/sunsetnapa.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigWnTswSUOKD406NlR50PXd6pMwzDUidaB3HPeiVr3oneV9y-zpDSRfONuVRC59LwB5W2sUTwqdhAXqcrEjDI8NjPvr7zvPFgFPpBA6OIZrthHN2FicoSp4Caz_DzN1nt1_RAjvxZUVknV/s640/sunsetnapa.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Setting sun, Silverado Trail, Napa Valley, California. </td></tr>
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So I'm writing a lot these days. A lot. Very soon there will be some new news on this front. Of the many projects I'm toiling on, the long-awaited novel that's been in the works for more years than I'd like to admit to, is right in the center. I did a major rewrite over the summer and will be putting pen down shortly.<br />
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I'll be posting more in the New Year as well. Hoping to be reacquainted with y'all and make up for the promises I haven't been that good at keeping. Life, ya know?<br />
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Here's a taste. This is the second chapter, a new addition from the previous drafts. It introduces the main character.<br />
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Please take note (this is not directed at my friends who I love and trust but anyone else who stumbles on this): This is copyrighted material. All rights are reserved to the author. Which is me. You must have permission to reprint or share this material anywhere on the Internets or anywhere else virtually, actually or ... well, don't steal my shit, okay? Thank you!<br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Christmas Eve, 2011</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Santa Monica, California</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"> There had been worse crime scenes, but this would be the one nobody would forget.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span> It was so bizarre, the unis who found the body thought it was faked, like a film crew set up a scene for a movie and then everybody got called away suddenly. And took all their equipment with them. And left the star actress playing dead on a faux polar bear skin rug next to a sliding glass door, in the big room of a rich guy’s house that hung off a cliff over Pacific Coast Highway and had a multi-million-dollar ocean view that would look really cool in 3-D Technicolor.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"> Only the body, like the rug, was real and when Perc and his partner walked in past the fancy chrome kitchen and into the largest living room they had ever seen, where the floor-to-ceiling Christmas tree looked like a model for a Norman Rockwell painting, they understood what the unis and CSI techs had been buzzing about outside. No further explanation was needed.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"> The white polar bear rug was still white. There was no blood. Not a drop anywhere.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"> Perc had been a step in front of Frank and saw it first but it was Frank who broke the silence. “What the fuck,” he said it like a statement. He’d been pulling on his latex gloves and he stopped with the right one on only halfway, the tips of the fingers drooped like a cow’s udder. “Are you seeing what I’m seeing?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"> Perc saw it and wanted to say he saw it, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t move. An old, old bad feeling had suddenly, without hint or warning, bubbled up in his stomach and brought back a terror he had long ago convinced himself he had conquered. He knew Frank was talking to him, could feel his eyes on him, could imagine the look in those eyes, the virtual switch in his brain that went from “what the fuck is wrong with this crime scene” to “what the fuck is wrong with my partner,” but he was frozen in place. All he knew was that he was standing in a room with a dead woman who he would later learn had been stabbed 29 times right where she was found and the only red in the room was the leaves of the Poinsettia on the coffee table. No blood. Not even inside her. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"> Even the coroner wouldn’t be able to explain how he had drained less than a tablespoon out of the body when in the most horrific case of blood loss he’d seen had netted at least three pints.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"> There were many explanations for what they saw with their own eyes and what the crime scene techs would later confirm, chiefly that the killer or killers had covered the floor, rugs, couch, even the walls and ceiling with such precision it was as if the entire room had been redone exactly as it was before. Until they found who did it, and up to this point it remained unsolved, there would only be speculations and guesses and what ifs.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"> Even among cops, though, talk about the big cold cases gets played eventually, the conversations turning to other mysteries. Like how homicide Detective Percival Baldwin, one of the city’s best cops and a son of a cop himself, had a secret – a near-debilitating fear of blood. And how walking into a crime scene devoid of any blood at all had set off a phobia he’d kept hidden for more than two decades from everyone who knew him.</span><br />
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S.O.L.http://www.blogger.com/profile/13516730967355152655noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5791008954544453721.post-20193932092670864122012-07-13T17:58:00.003-07:002012-07-13T18:00:24.671-07:00Roll Camera!Principal photography begins tonight on our short film, "<a href="http://elizabethcosin.4ormat.com/" target="_blank">The Other Dog</a>." So for the next few days, I go from writer to writer/director. It's my second try behind the camera and I'm excited and nervous, more nervous than excited. It's these moments leading up to when the cameras start rolling -- well, recording is the more apropos word these days -- when you worry if you've thought of everything, if you're prepared, if the people who are donating their time to you will show up, if you're not completely fucking insane.<br />
And yes, I realize it's Friday the 13th. I bow to the fates. Be good to me.<br />
Needless to say, I likely won't be posting during the shoot. We're trying to fit a lot of pages on a tight schedule -- it's the way we can shoot this without spending too much money - and every second will count.<br />
But I will stop by when I can.<br />
We've raised $1600 so far and I am humbled and grateful though we could use a bit more to finish this thing. If you can help us out, please consider <a href="http://www.indiegogo.com/projects/168568?a=16388" target="_blank">donating to our campaign</a>. Believe me there will never be a bunch of people so grateful. Just spreading the word about our project is worth a lot to us, though.<br />
At the very least, you can get yourself a t-shirt with this logo on it (drawn by my friend Nicole Kaufman who has some very cool characters on her <a href="http://slippysalad.com/" target="_blank">website</a>). And a portion of what we raise will go to pug rescue. The pug insists.<br />
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<br />S.O.L.http://www.blogger.com/profile/13516730967355152655noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5791008954544453721.post-52161308319432353132012-07-03T20:04:00.000-07:002012-07-03T20:04:08.101-07:00Putting on a showIn 2006, I shot a short film at my house in Santa Monica call "It's A Boy". I did it in part because I thought it might help me move into directing, which I've wanted to do since I was a kid. It was a last-minute crazy, on-the-fly project that in the end, netted a passable 15-minute comedy that I only show to friends now. The directing gigs I dreamed of never materialized.<br />
And my hope of getting the film into festivals fell by the wayside when the editor got a job and couldn't finish what we started and I didn't have enough money to fix all our mistakes in post-production.<br />
However, my directing dreams have not died. I guess I was just waiting for just the right moment to try again. Or maybe the right inspiration.<br />
Well, this month is gonna be that month.<br />
After several weeks of planning, a few friends and I have managed to assemble a great group of creative people here in wine country and we're going to "put on a show".<br />
You might not be shocked to discover that one of my pugs is in it (I'll post more about the story in a later blog).<br />
I've wanted to shoot something in wine country since I moved here at the end of '06 and have always been blown away by the can-do spirit of the people I've met in my little town. Well, I had no idea how great they were, how creative, how ready for anything until I launched this project. I'm very excited about it.<br />
It's pretty easy to make a movie these days, especially if you surround yourself with people who know what they're doing. But it still costs money which is why we've set out to crowd fund a portion of our modest budget.<br />
Our goal is to get our film into the upcoming Healdsburg International Short Film Festival. But first things first - while we start principal photography on July 14th -- we've begun a fundraising campaign to defray equipment rental costs, to feed my crew and also pay as many of them a small stipend as I can. We're also donating a portion of the funds we raise to a local pug rescue called Pug Savers that is in dire need of funds. I wish I could do more for these folks -- it was through Pug Savers that I got my pugs, first Chamuco and indirectly Ulysses who will have a role in the film.<br />
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Our indiegogo campaign is up <a href="http://http//igg.me/p/154273?a=16388" target="_blank">here.</a> Our website is <a href="http://http;//www.feedthepug.com" target="_blank">here</a>. If you can't help us but want to help the pugs, you can donate directly to Pug Savers <a href="http://www.pugsavers.com/" target="_blank">here</a>.<br />
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As time permits, I'm going to blog about our film as it happens. I hope you'll jump on the ride with me. In the meantime, I have a novel to finish. You know the one.<br />
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Here's a mockup of the movie poster. It almost feels real. Or should I say reel. <br />
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<br />S.O.L.http://www.blogger.com/profile/13516730967355152655noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5791008954544453721.post-31665592698448508082012-06-19T12:21:00.001-07:002012-06-19T13:41:23.702-07:00Out to the Edge of the World -- and Back Again<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Barely before ink was dry on the previous one, I got a chance to get off the grid and write for a few days. I'd been thinking about it for weeks, ever since I heard about a friend's house on the Northern California coast that he let folks use when he was there. No phone, no Internets, no t.v. Just what a little girl lost needed.</div>
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But the day to leave came up so fast, I had second thoughts. Not wanting to hurt my husband's feelings and knowing he needed a break too, I invited him to come along. The dogs came, too.</div>
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A day into it, we both realized this wasn't going to work. Off the grid needed to be completely off the grid, away from distractions, from stuff that reminded me of my obligations and certainly I wasn't going to get a lot done if the young pug kept wanting to play.</div>
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So, we all got back in the car and drove back home. And then I immediately turned around and drove back. Let's call it a trip interrupted. It was a lovely return drive. I had my music to keep me company and my getting-rickety wheels seemed just stable enough to get me there and back.</div>
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Two-thirds of the way, I realized I wasn't sitting on the edge of my seat anymore and my breathing was steady. In, out, in, out. </div>
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I went to work that night and quickly fell into a schedule of rising early, writing over morning coffee (or tea), a light breakfast and then a quick lunch followed by a 20-minute nap, more writing and finishing with a brisk evening walk along the bluffs.</div>
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At home it was pushing triple digits but out on the coast, it was sweater weather. The work was slow at first but slowly, I started to rediscover the feeling of writing well. I realized suddenly late on one of those nights that I had stopped thinking of myself as a writer.</div>
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When that happened, I've no idea. But after the first two days there on my own, I felt like I earned the title again.</div>
<div>
I didn't finish but I think I found something important out there on what felt like the edge of the world. This morning, I was up by eight, really early for me, and at my desk by 9:30 and writing. I'm going to hang on to this feeling with both hands.</div>
<div>
Let me tell you something else that I'm both loathe and bemused to admit: for years<i>, years</i>, my mother has been telling me I need to work on my prose more, I need to concentrate on the novels first and leave all the Hollywood stuff for when you're in between books. I guess a part of me knew she was right but it was so easy to follow the big money in t.v., the work was fun and the rewards were great. And, I told myself, books were so yesterday. I mean who was reading anymore.</div>
<div>
Well, Mom, you're right. </div>
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I hope one of you will remind me the next time I question her wisdom.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
Back to my little sabbatical. When I was writing my first novel, I was writing in a borrowed style, trying to make the words sound like the writers I admired. I didn't yet understand the idea of voice or even that I had could have one that was unique to me. Then one day, at a friend's house, I read Raymond Chandler's short story "Red Wind." Always a fan, I'd never gotten to any of his short stories before and to say it was a seminal moment in my development as a writer is an understatement. I'll never forget those first lines:</div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; text-align: justify; text-indent: 26px;"><i>"There was a desert wind blowing that night. It was one of those hot dry Santa Anas that come down through the mountain passes and curl your hair and make your nerves jump and your skin itch. On nights like that every booze party ends in a fight. Meek little wives feel the edge of the carving knife and study their husbands' necks. Anything can happen. You can even get a full glass of beer at a cocktail lounge."</i></span></blockquote>
<div>
<span style="background-color: white;">It stuck with me all through the evening and, apparently deep into the night, because in my dreams later, I imagined the opening page of my novel. I woke up, wrote it down as fast as I could and went back to sleep. The next morning, re-reading it, I'd realized I discovered my character's voice. In a way, she was born to me that night and I to her. I never edited those first pages -- they are almost completely as I dreamt them. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; text-align: justify; text-indent: 26px;"><i>"It rained the day I said good-bye to my best friend; the kind of storm that was packaged in a San Francisco-like cold front. December in Santa Monica could blow in off the Pacific like the draft from a meat locker. Perfect funeral weather."</i></span></blockquote>
<span style="background-color: white;">That kind of magic hasn't happened to me again since. Until Sunday night. I woke up from a half-dream, writing in my head, the words coming so fast they almost caused a pileup in my brain. When I got it all down on paper, I knew I had the ending to my novel. The best part, it was good. Damn good. It's true what they say, that no matter how far you go, you'll never outrun yourself. But I think the bigger problem is learning to get out of your own way.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;">There's still more work to do -- about one-third of the novel remains to be done -- but I'm determined to see it to the end and for that end to come soon. Days not weeks. No matter what.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;">That'll be me jumping in. Feet first, cannonball style. </span><br />
<div>
Don't wish me luck. Wish me pleasant dreams.</div>
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</div>S.O.L.http://www.blogger.com/profile/13516730967355152655noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5791008954544453721.post-53848847490289236832012-06-08T23:47:00.001-07:002012-06-08T23:47:34.923-07:00It's me, readers, are you out there?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://farm8.staticflickr.com/7179/6809090528_ce99e55e2a_b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="424" src="http://farm8.staticflickr.com/7179/6809090528_ce99e55e2a_b.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
I'm back. Again. I keep trying to recommit myself to blogging but life just keeps fucking up everything.<br />
I know I'm laying blame at the feet of the every day as opposed to my horribly inefficient use of time, but I've decided to try again with baby steps. Oh, there will be big, leaping, T-Rex baby steps for sure, but I cannot promise them every day.<br />
I can only try.<br />
Exactly what am I trying at?<br />
I'm not sure how to explain where I am in the world inside my head. Saying "I'm lost" is not accurate, but it's not so far off from the truth. I think perhaps that I am a writer who has filled her brain with too much stuff. It's not bad stuff, which is kind of part of the trouble.<br />
I have always valued my own curiosity for the world and it has served me well, especially for the writing. But often I feel the lure of the "I can do that" and this thing has arms like an octopus, each independent of the other, each yanking me in many directions. Oh, but they are interesting directions, and they fascinate me, endlessly. But like getting lost in the streets of Venice, you can walk off too far, and discover it's almost dark and you have no idea how to get back, you're hungry and your cellphone battery is nearly dead and your Italian, like your sense of direction, is not very good indeed.<br />
And this is where I find myself. I am on a narrow and dark street, its stones echoing under the soles of my shoes, bouncing off the ancient buildings like a tappity-tap of a clock ticking in my head. Like a bad omen.<br />
Work calls from a distance place, somewhere around the right corner, if I could even find it. But, if you'll pardon the stretching of this metaphor, I'll be damned if I know what's around the next corner and even if I can find my way back, it won't be the same way that I got here.<br />
And, really, the point isn't going back, it's moving forward. It's finding the love again, it's tapping into my soul of my soul, my writer's heart, the thing that is me and I it.<br />
So, I guess I'm on a journey now. Looking for me.<br />
I hope I can find her.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />S.O.L.http://www.blogger.com/profile/13516730967355152655noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5791008954544453721.post-67653948935862910182011-10-06T05:53:00.000-07:002011-10-06T05:54:52.028-07:00365 Photo Project - Day 277<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9h8bm36kx-MaviukHVugPSaQXOjUvgtoEoiKB3k1PzE4_uhH1B-pYrNKlOykyj5BKbAWi_7MKH60CTX7k3liape7kl6PLTyYYUb8GnYZhqrmLIAqLlparXcavcaVMFar_2mON-LUwFPX5/s1600/IMG_3235.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="478" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9h8bm36kx-MaviukHVugPSaQXOjUvgtoEoiKB3k1PzE4_uhH1B-pYrNKlOykyj5BKbAWi_7MKH60CTX7k3liape7kl6PLTyYYUb8GnYZhqrmLIAqLlparXcavcaVMFar_2mON-LUwFPX5/s640/IMG_3235.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
Taken: October 5, 2011<br />
Location: Brooklyn, NY<br />
<br />
I took a side trip to New York City this week -- for a bit of business and a chance to drop in a see some friends and relatives. The best part so far has been taking the East River ferries to and from Manhattan and to different stops along Brooklyn's waterfront. It's a beautiful week in New York -- yesterday the temperature was in the 70s. Perfect for a boat ride though that part of me that left New York for the West Coast can't help but wonder how this trip is going to be like when the temps drop and the ice and snow arrive.<br />
<br />
Makes me happy to be heading back to Northern California on Saturday. Still, as the song says, I'll always love New York.S.O.L.http://www.blogger.com/profile/13516730967355152655noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5791008954544453721.post-59066658302508601192011-10-03T15:42:00.000-07:002011-10-06T05:39:00.102-07:00365 Photo Project - Day 275<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnM-fKpN1WVO8T0W2-V4ToeoaMnkl07GByKG7-rS0rA8aumRsgHW2RZI84ATa3p4vFW2JV8zXdWHNwYvqLRYRJJ04zfWEhorCXTFikJUg_3iSbtjDGyU5iEBY7euDVYPhoIcGq_kahosLQ/s1600/IMG_2994.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="478" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnM-fKpN1WVO8T0W2-V4ToeoaMnkl07GByKG7-rS0rA8aumRsgHW2RZI84ATa3p4vFW2JV8zXdWHNwYvqLRYRJJ04zfWEhorCXTFikJUg_3iSbtjDGyU5iEBY7euDVYPhoIcGq_kahosLQ/s640/IMG_2994.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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Taken: September 15, 2011</div>
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Location: Healdsburg, Ca</div>
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Since I talked about our new little pug man a couple days ago, I figured it was only right to introduce him to y'all. That's Ulysses on the left. That striking fellow on the right is Chamuco, who also happens to be Ulysses' uncle. See the resemblance? Seriously, take a good look. Ulysses is a mister fluff ball with the most amazing teddy bear feet and a penchant for licking face, unfortunately. He has taken to waking my husband and I up in the morning with a full-on face-lick attack and we have taken to hiding under the covers until he goes away.</div>
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The first few weeks were very difficult. The new guy terrorized his uncle incessantly and we had to separate them a few times before someone lost a pug eyeball. But as any pug owner will tell you these are tough little dogs -- a big dog in a small package -- and they seemed no worse for wear. They're getting along famously now, according to my husband. I haven't seen them in nearly three weeks. I miss the little devils. Look at those faces -- I mean who wouldn't?</div>
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S.O.L.http://www.blogger.com/profile/13516730967355152655noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5791008954544453721.post-36388362560332030782011-10-02T15:41:00.000-07:002011-10-03T21:39:17.212-07:00365 Photo Project - Day 274<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTeIlsuXV-SsXCPpmVAPfZ-oiNs6YDHRwhyNp-0FVeXhBOME9d0QIpOAtc-bMfSQr93wxRmi456rPHgWII4mMj28X36anJGoiJI5cBfKIegoegdafZfTmExZ_o7jbBDVCGX6HU6hGtY0om/s1600/shoesbw.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="383" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTeIlsuXV-SsXCPpmVAPfZ-oiNs6YDHRwhyNp-0FVeXhBOME9d0QIpOAtc-bMfSQr93wxRmi456rPHgWII4mMj28X36anJGoiJI5cBfKIegoegdafZfTmExZ_o7jbBDVCGX6HU6hGtY0om/s640/shoesbw.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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Taken: July 10, 2011<br />
Location: Healdsburg, Ca<br />
<br />
Now that I've changed the way I eat and gotten over some of my more self-destructive habits, I've found some solace in working on my small but growing collection of Converse sneakers. I believe these are my oldest current pair, dating back about 20 years. I really didn't get into buying Cons until about three years ago when a friend gifted me a new pair for my birthday and when I bought these, I didn't have that much to spend on sneakers (and I probably had a job that required I wear something other than Chuck Taylors to work). Still, I'd like to think the obsession can be traced back to these simple kicks. Every few months, I go through my collection and give away or trade in the pairs I don't wear anymore. These ain't going anywhere.<br />
<br />
I often will drag my Cons out to practice shooting and editing pictures. This was from one of those sessions.<br />
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<br />S.O.L.http://www.blogger.com/profile/13516730967355152655noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5791008954544453721.post-71544120111067059082011-10-01T15:41:00.000-07:002011-10-03T21:38:38.046-07:00365 Photo Project - Day 273<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
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Taken: August 1, 2011</div>
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Location: Avenue of the Giants, Humbolt Redwoods State Park, Northern California.<br />
<br />
Hello again.<br />
<br />
I wanted to continue this 365-photo blog by putting up photos I take on the day of each post, but circumstances have conspired against me once again.<br />
I'm actually posting this from Washington, D.C., where I'm staying with my brother and his family as we care for my Mom who is recovering from major surgery. I've been here since September 16th and originally expected to be home earlier this week but while my Mom is improving every day, I was asked to stay and so here I am, hanging in the Nation's Capital for another week or so. I am armed only with my iPhone for a camera though as my fancy DLSR is at home. So in the meantime, I'm going to put up some photos from the last year instead.<br />
<br />
This one was taken in one of the coolest places I've ever been -- <a href="http://avenueofthegiants.net/">Avenue of the Giants</a>, a 31-mile road that winds through 51,000 acres of redwood groves that are surrounded by the Humbolt Rewoods State Park. This was one of the stops on a road trip to Calgary, Alberta my husband and I took summer. Our stops included Eureka, Ca., Portland, Or., Spokane, Wa., Fernie, BC., Calgary, over the Canadian Rockies down to Salmon Arm, BC., back across the border to Seattle, to Portland, Ashland, Or., and back home to Sonoma County. We drove more than 3,000 miles in 13 days. I love road trips but it's been a long, long time since I've taken one this ambitious.<br />
<br />
I usually take my road trips for a purpose -- like the time I moved across the country and decided to visit as many friends and cools places as I could on the way out West. This one was no different. As many of you know, I had to say goodbye to my beloved pug Louie on May 20. I have written about him a lot on this blog because he was such a big part of my life. Though we were together for only a few short years and he was sick for a good amount of that time, we had a true bond and he was a great friend to me. I loved him as much as I loved any person I've ever known, perhaps more. I know some people think that's nuts. I just think they don't understand and that's okay with me.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
It's hard to quantify this loss -- Louie was a part of our family, a constant
companion, a true friend, an original. He came to us as a rescue, sick and half-blind but proved to
be stout and full of life, defying some pretty good odds to have made it as far
as he did and as well as he did. He went deaf a year ago and was slowing down a
bit but he continued to patrol our deck barking at birds, squirrels and all
forms of invaders, kept our younger pug in line and never lost his appetite,
even at the very end when we fed him some of my husband's grilled skirt steak.</div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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He suffered a Grand Mal seizure, seemed
to recover at the vet's overnight and came home with us. The prognosis wasn't
good -- the general thinking was a brain tumor and we hoped to have a few
months left at least. But that night, it was clear his neurological functions
were already compromised -- he could barely stand up, cried and whimpered and
trembled the entire night, and the next morning couldn't even lift his leg to
pee. I stayed up the whole night with him and uncharacteristically he buried
his chin in my arm and did not move or complain, even though he always grumbled
in the past when his space on the bed was disturbed. I took that as a sign that
he had had enough.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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That Friday, my husband and I made the hardest decision we've
ever had to make and we drove to the vet's office, Louie in my lap and the window open
-- just as we all were when we first brought him home. This time, though, he
could barely lift his head to catch the breezes he loved. It's moments like that when you know it's time, as sad as that is. He died in my arms
with a belly full of steak. It was peaceful. I cried a river into his fur and
said my goodbyes. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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It's still so hard. I cried a little as I wrote this. I am fortunate to have so many wonderful friends and in the days afterward, many reached out to me with words of kindness and wisdom. Two stood out. One said, "I’m not one of those people who
says “it’s for the best” because it’s fucking awful and unfair. But I’ll bet
Louie knew how horrible you felt about leaving him…. and who wouldn’t want to
die with a belly full of steak in the arms of their favorite person in the
whole world? A true friend even in the end." All I can say is I hope that's so.</div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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What else can I say about the King of All Pugs, the dog who
we thought we'd rescued but who, if truth be told, really rescued us? He was as
good a friend as I've ever had in this world and his loss is like an
irreparable crack in my heart. Over the last few months, the pain is easing a little. I'm starting to think of the good days more than the last horrible days and I'm making peace with the decisions I made, only stopping occasionally to ask myself if I did the right thing, that question for which nobody has an answer. </div>
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Another friend said "the heart is big enough for the whole world." When she wrote this to me, I was in the first days of grief and a pug person I know (who bred my other rescue pug Chamuco) had offered me a 2-year-old pug that had been returned to her. I couldn't believe I was already considering another dog, a "replacement" was how I put it. But my wise friend said Louie could never be replaced, that it would just be a new pug to learn to love. She was right of course. </div>
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That pug happened to be on a ranch outside Calgary, Alberta and that is why my husband and I decided to take a road trip. It's been a long, hard year for us, full of personal challenges, family illness, new and difficult responsibilities to take on. We needed a vacation and I convinced my husband that this road trip would be just the remedy we needed, especially since waiting at the end would be a new friend. My husband was reluctant and we had some things to do before setting off -- weeks went by and then one morning, I noticed my 16-year-old cat had seemed to lose a lot of weight suddenly. Then I realized she had lost her eyesight -- just a few days earlier she could see just fine. I tried to get her to eat even brought her out to the deck for the sun she loved to roll around in. There was no rolling around, just stillness and a few sad meows and, eventually a trip to the vet. She had kidney failure. There was nothing I could do except say another goodbye.</div>
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That evening, I told my husband is was time to go on the road. We packed up my car and set off, most of the trip not knowing where we would sleep until we got there. It was crazy, ridiculous, liberating and invigorating and we picnicked and laughed and saw mountains and vineyards, valleys, winding roads and highways, towers, rivers, lakes and, when we pulled into our driveway on the evening of the 13th day, the pug we named Ulysses snoring peacefully in the backseat, we both knew the journey had been worth it. Even the bad parts.</div>
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See you tomorrow.</div>
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Note: I realized in prepping to restart this blog, I've missed a few days. I will fill them in as I go along. </div>
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S.O.L.http://www.blogger.com/profile/13516730967355152655noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5791008954544453721.post-2484966145470365692011-09-13T21:13:00.000-07:002014-03-08T02:00:11.965-08:00Time to Finish What I Started<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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It's almost been a full year since I last posted here. Every day that has passed without my posting on this project has been full of regret.<br />
<br />
Life happens and it sure as hell happened to me. Where have I been? Everywhere. To Florida and the Nation's Capitol and Raleigh-Durham to be a student for six weeks, I drove 3,000 miles through the Pacific Northwest, to Calgary and then over the Canadian Rockies, did my first 40-mile bike ride in 20 years, riding the biggest hill I have ever climbed. I even saw the Hollywood sign up close for the first time, which I never did once in the 15 years I lived in Los Angeles. I also lost my best friend, <a href="http://shyonelung.blogspot.com/2010/01/taken-january-24-2010-approx.html">Louie the Pug</a>, in May and my 15-year-old cat Sassy just two months later.<br />
<br />
It's not all bad news. There's a new pug in our lives and well, if you recall that <a href="http://shyonelung.blogspot.com/2010/08/365-photo-project-day-219.html">diet I started last year</a>, I'm still going strong -- less 40 pounds and nine inches off my waist.<br />
<br />
In all that time and those miles and the ups and downs, I never forgot the promise I made to myself -- and by extension to you, my loyal readers, and that was to finish My 365 Photo Project. Lying awake the other night, the thought suddenly came to me: who said I had to do it in 365 <i>consecutive</i> days?<br />
<br />
Hell, my project, my rules. And so, my friends, Shyonelung is back. In fact, that's me in Newport, Oregon at the <a href="http://www.rogue.com/locations/locations.php">Rogue Ales Public House</a> (this photo doesn't count -- it's an iPhone shot taken by my husband).<br />
<br />
I'm gonna finish this. Starting October 1, I plan on returning to the 365-day blog so I can finally bring closure to this project, day by day, photo by photo. These will mostly be new photos, taken each day though I will post some of my favorite from the last year, too. I hope those of you who remember this will drop by and say hello. You can follow me on twitter @shyonelung if you don't mind me blabbing about my sports obsessions. <br />
<br />
See you October 1.<br />
<br />S.O.L.http://www.blogger.com/profile/13516730967355152655noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5791008954544453721.post-42385090628560198342010-09-30T20:39:00.000-07:002010-09-30T20:39:18.910-07:00365 Photo Project - Day 272<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdrXwO-Tgv1MJekBYBM-Dz0YUyICgNZjdTDg1YzUv5jvP8ynB3EQLqbY9kd8ojz0c50PRp-shegO46eS7uNOEsKsu67ULwyKFheVx6z-SSxbE4FMtSC4HWsekwXWeAuW5T4ozRze16uh_S/s1600/hoglandscape1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="424" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdrXwO-Tgv1MJekBYBM-Dz0YUyICgNZjdTDg1YzUv5jvP8ynB3EQLqbY9kd8ojz0c50PRp-shegO46eS7uNOEsKsu67ULwyKFheVx6z-SSxbE4FMtSC4HWsekwXWeAuW5T4ozRze16uh_S/s640/hoglandscape1.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Taken: September 29, 2010, approx 4 p.m.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Location: Marshall, Ca.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">We spent the day down at <a href="http://www.hogislandoysters.com/">Hog Island Oyster Farm</a> in Marshall, Ca., which is right on the Bodega Bay. After two straight scorchers that reached over 100 degrees, it was the best respite ever. It felt like the last gasp of summer but somehow the coming fall and winter makes me more hopeful than usual. We packed a picnic and went with some friends to celebrate my husband's birthday. Beautiful day, wonderful friends, great food. It's all good.</div>S.O.L.http://www.blogger.com/profile/13516730967355152655noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5791008954544453721.post-50394498790965488252010-09-28T11:55:00.000-07:002010-10-03T15:22:01.068-07:00365 Photo Project - Day 271<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRbYbJvjXVUsycmwPPqYzmyc0wU-lTb02D3O651Ls2QHRf-hoRkae4Ms4As-3HF9E3tLba1X2oGw3-i-yO93yUfYccHXmadyZOBNZBJDOR5y065WdMJ2ii-k2a-BLVD72_LjnP-p5I0SiK/s1600/beer1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="402" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRbYbJvjXVUsycmwPPqYzmyc0wU-lTb02D3O651Ls2QHRf-hoRkae4Ms4As-3HF9E3tLba1X2oGw3-i-yO93yUfYccHXmadyZOBNZBJDOR5y065WdMJ2ii-k2a-BLVD72_LjnP-p5I0SiK/s640/beer1.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>Taken: September 28, 2010, approx 6 p.m.<br />
Location: Santa Rosa, Ca<br />
<br />
Whole Foods recently opened a huge market near us and, having shopped at Whole Foods, for almost 20 years, I was looking forward to seeing the new place. They have a lot of a lot of stuff - -most notably and incredible selection of local and international beers. I'm an old school beer drinker -- my husband and I met at a micro-brew bar and one reason we moved up to northern California was for the fresh, local beer (it's really "beer" country to us". I'm not drinking at the moment but that didn't lesson the pleasant jolt of walking around a corner and seeing this. They even have a beer bar in the middle of the store -- 30 locals on tap and they'll open any beer in the store for a dollar. However, it's most useful for me when I lose track of my husband in the maze of aisles. At least I know where to find him.S.O.L.http://www.blogger.com/profile/13516730967355152655noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5791008954544453721.post-69284407904911518412010-09-09T00:23:00.000-07:002010-10-03T15:17:38.728-07:00365 Photo Project - Day 252<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEincOgj19kaWC5XH_UZ0SZlpjx0o8_fdp9SjNpESfgy-WrzW-cePc9klOYJWih4lnLhsbAuuOxKZ1O6YK2MqTMk9VgkTBMDpkyJ92vTy4AgPR5NkcwWJ-_LYdK68APseJ0489Cxv2-pefaS/s1600/IMG_0998.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="478" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEincOgj19kaWC5XH_UZ0SZlpjx0o8_fdp9SjNpESfgy-WrzW-cePc9klOYJWih4lnLhsbAuuOxKZ1O6YK2MqTMk9VgkTBMDpkyJ92vTy4AgPR5NkcwWJ-_LYdK68APseJ0489Cxv2-pefaS/s640/IMG_0998.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br />
Taken: September 9, 2010</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Location: Rutherford, CA<br />
<br />
Whenever I say I live in Northern California wine country, most people assume I mean Napa Valley. Sonoma County is still behind Napa in terms of tourists if not its equal in winemaking. I would say most of us are very much okay with that as Napa has become very tourist-oriented and traffic can be awful there. That aside, every few weeks or so, I find myself driving through Napa -- in this case I was staying in St. Helena for a week to watch a friend's wonderful 13-year-old while they were away.<br />
<br />
I had a chance to take a drive around the valley and it was one of those days that make you glad to be alive. Temperate and sunny with some post-rain clouds drifting harmlessly across a bright, blue sky. Just beautiful. I didn't have my camera with me so I snapped this shot with my iPhone 4 hrough my windshield on a two-lane cut-through road between the well-travelled Rte 29 and the Silverado Trail.<br />
<br />
I pulled over about a mile down the road, got out my notebook and wrote under the shade of a row of olive trees. The thing about moving -- and committing to staying on in wine country is that you get reminders every day why the choice is such a natch. I guess the day I get sick of the view will be the day I move somewhere else. Not expecting that to happen anytime soon.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div></div>S.O.L.http://www.blogger.com/profile/13516730967355152655noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5791008954544453721.post-21395966652538992192010-09-06T00:22:00.000-07:002010-10-03T15:39:25.738-07:00365 Photo Project - Day 249<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgB5O3CmAmBuSrgmZRWD-Q5mMOBmScAZeWVmiHTnxs3E7TNHJcIxfr9ZLbn0G4Q8fOZwbWugYWSs6Se4OfrX2IrAm3RcjvdtawYynLRaNxoW-hJaGq0s2l7InzvMoFQtAYKD6Vsas-muIuS/s1600/IMG_0981.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="478" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgB5O3CmAmBuSrgmZRWD-Q5mMOBmScAZeWVmiHTnxs3E7TNHJcIxfr9ZLbn0G4Q8fOZwbWugYWSs6Se4OfrX2IrAm3RcjvdtawYynLRaNxoW-hJaGq0s2l7InzvMoFQtAYKD6Vsas-muIuS/s640/IMG_0981.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>Taken: September 6, 2010</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Location: Forrestville, CA<br />
<br />
I live in Northern California. Any questions?</div></div>S.O.L.http://www.blogger.com/profile/13516730967355152655noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5791008954544453721.post-27360353867059350922010-08-31T00:18:00.000-07:002010-09-30T21:01:55.481-07:00365 Photo Project - Day 243 (From the Archives)<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4076/4896617594_7fd875f5f1_b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4076/4896617594_7fd875f5f1_b.jpg" width="421" /></a></div><br />
Taken: August 15, 2010</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Location: Healdsburg, CA<br />
<br />
I shot this image in the same session as this shot. This is my "old man" pug Louie, who we rescued in Los Angeles about five years ago. We think he's around 10 years old and he's now completely deaf and blind in one eye. He's the dog that started my love affair with pugs and he'll always have a special place in my heart. I love him madly. Hell, everyone who meets him does too.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div></div>S.O.L.http://www.blogger.com/profile/13516730967355152655noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5791008954544453721.post-13348631982301868022010-08-30T00:18:00.000-07:002010-09-30T20:28:24.732-07:00365 Photo Project - Day 242<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvADE-Z0IxMS2WwoXXsdgcS1Wje-RCR_BDoMPFJbm8x8PPZKXf4TKNpWc2wQFIzustUOELB5VEg-wrp04uc07c0m3baLvJg31yzAh6vrJXxp9c5I4t4_VXj_kUs1Dou2-WPyNtnL1AhFlH/s1600/IMG_0970.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="392" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvADE-Z0IxMS2WwoXXsdgcS1Wje-RCR_BDoMPFJbm8x8PPZKXf4TKNpWc2wQFIzustUOELB5VEg-wrp04uc07c0m3baLvJg31yzAh6vrJXxp9c5I4t4_VXj_kUs1Dou2-WPyNtnL1AhFlH/s640/IMG_0970.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>Taken: August 30, 2010</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Location: Healdsburg, CA<br />
<br />
I shot this from the road where I live. My house would be off and out of frame to the right. I love the drama of the moment -- a late afternoon day on the day of or right after the first rain we got in months. No matter how much I've come to love color images and certainly no matter how easy it gets to work with them in the digital world, I'll always love the black and white shots the best. More of my Dad's influence no doubt.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div></div>S.O.L.http://www.blogger.com/profile/13516730967355152655noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5791008954544453721.post-60914162115176047012010-08-29T00:17:00.000-07:002010-10-03T15:34:19.016-07:00365 Photo Project - Day 241<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWhba39L4TNwqTaJ9Fmt4TZj4ua7UGsD1imYaBSfBVpSnCLPfUdppk1SKo5vo2MwcjI5H2ooH2v5gkw_oJWQCziEdKX3cKLgWgn3yNIOC4svQnOsl0RPfhxYMol1LpUn_TXxrtozxsvsJX/s1600/IMG_0965.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="478" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWhba39L4TNwqTaJ9Fmt4TZj4ua7UGsD1imYaBSfBVpSnCLPfUdppk1SKo5vo2MwcjI5H2ooH2v5gkw_oJWQCziEdKX3cKLgWgn3yNIOC4svQnOsl0RPfhxYMol1LpUn_TXxrtozxsvsJX/s640/IMG_0965.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>Taken: August 29, 2010</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Location: Healdsburg, CA<br />
<br />
It's been a remarkably temperate summer, not that I'm complaining. I think it got over 90 degrees maybe a half dozen times which compared to last summer is like Christmas in July. And August. The place we rent doesn't do well in extreme temps, especially the heat. My other pug, Chamuco, will park himself on the chaise lounge outside on the porch until well after sundown. It's almost always 10 degrees or more cooler out there than it is inside so it's hard to argue with him.<br />
<br />
This shot of Louie was taken (with my iPhone) on one of those hot, hot days. If pugs know anything, it's how to get cool. And pressing every available area of your fur-covered body against a cold wood floor is about as cool as it gets. Smart dog.</div></div>S.O.L.http://www.blogger.com/profile/13516730967355152655noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5791008954544453721.post-44755036627161041292010-08-27T00:15:00.000-07:002010-09-30T20:23:00.566-07:00365 Photo Project - Day 239<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFEQK-QYt-eCmF9gdX5uly7iQ5FxkzNcr_Y-ZJSmUeFndk5V8ZNbEo9u9K5gjZ_GN4K2GhmYnLlCEjbGTPYTngEzngJGvmQHLAElrmaCfA4h4H4TLOgfoiFL8buyMw4xj4oRD4qh3mRlbA/s1600/IMG_0955.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFEQK-QYt-eCmF9gdX5uly7iQ5FxkzNcr_Y-ZJSmUeFndk5V8ZNbEo9u9K5gjZ_GN4K2GhmYnLlCEjbGTPYTngEzngJGvmQHLAElrmaCfA4h4H4TLOgfoiFL8buyMw4xj4oRD4qh3mRlbA/s640/IMG_0955.jpg" width="478" /></a></div>Taken: August 27, 2010</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Location: St. Helena, CA<br />
<br />
This is one of those images I wish I'd taken with a camera other than my iPhone, but when is life ever perfect right? That's my hand in the picture. I love the composition of this shot -- a lucky break if ever there was one. But you know what they say about luck. I'll take it.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div></div>S.O.L.http://www.blogger.com/profile/13516730967355152655noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5791008954544453721.post-14283296280518156132010-08-25T00:13:00.000-07:002010-09-30T20:15:51.246-07:00365 Photo Project - Day 237<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiV_Y9Ll09cFWZToAmaILz2O3AW4q6sN0kjjcBclvaxINyPuwT_7Mmwp8zhZNkQGccN5otvCcgZDrHWs6vdArfWd-kh4Jl13U6nb23IAA_oySC9tmTHl0jQX_Sh_pERjTi5AIakzFsL3Jt1/s1600/IMG_0938.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="478" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiV_Y9Ll09cFWZToAmaILz2O3AW4q6sN0kjjcBclvaxINyPuwT_7Mmwp8zhZNkQGccN5otvCcgZDrHWs6vdArfWd-kh4Jl13U6nb23IAA_oySC9tmTHl0jQX_Sh_pERjTi5AIakzFsL3Jt1/s640/IMG_0938.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>Taken: August 25, 2010</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Location: Santa Rosa, CA</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
Shot this through my windshield with my iPhone 4 while I was driving through Santa Rosa. Not the kind of thing you see every day, even up here in wine country.</div></div>S.O.L.http://www.blogger.com/profile/13516730967355152655noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5791008954544453721.post-71578937394648971232010-08-18T00:08:00.000-07:002010-09-30T20:00:01.044-07:00365 Photo Project - Day 230<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4105/5013656223_4b9a094c69_b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4105/5013656223_4b9a094c69_b.jpg" width="516" /></a></div>Taken: August 18, 2010</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Location: Healdsburg, CA</div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
Another image using my twins-reflex camera. This is of my friend and her baby girl who was born in May. I shot an image of her just a few days after she was born, <a href="http://shyonelung.blogspot.com/2010/05/365-photo-project-day-133.html">here</a> and <a href="http://shyonelung.blogspot.com/2010/05/365-photo-project-day-138.html">here</a>. I love the depth of focus in this image -- and again, the rich colors. I can't quite put my finger on it but there's just something about shooting on film over digital. Maybe it's the richness and the depth. I don't know. I just like it. I got a few more rolls of film. I'll see what shakes out and post them when they come back from film developing.<br />
<br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande'; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 11px;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"></div>S.O.L.http://www.blogger.com/profile/13516730967355152655noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5791008954544453721.post-51856027667853568992010-08-16T00:06:00.000-07:002010-09-30T19:32:50.193-07:00365 Photo Project - Day 228<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4126/5028961166_f4e0a1b671_b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="624" src="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4126/5028961166_f4e0a1b671_b.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br />
Taken: August 16, 2010</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Location: Healdsburg, CA</div></div><br />
This is a first for this project -- an image shot with a film camera. Remember them? A few days ago, I <a href="http://shyonelung.blogspot.com/2010/08/365-photo-project-day-225.html">blogged</a> about getting some camera equipment from my Dad, who has been cleaning out a lifetime worth of junk out of his garage in our summer house on Martha's Vineyard. The one diamond in the bunch was the Ricoh twin-lens reflex he got from my Mom as a wedding present in 1959. I suspected it was in near-flawless condition, as he had stored it in its original leather case and with the lens protector. Well, here's the proof. This photo was edited only for size. I did no other touch-up.<br />
<br />
I'm way impressed by the deep color and clarity of the image -- I shot this on 400 film which accounts for the graininess of the image. But everything else, pretty much wows me.<br />
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The image itself is of our local Healdsburg Post Office, one of my most favorite spots in all of town, more for its convenience and the people who worked there than its architecture. It burned down yesterday in a fire that was initial reported as "possibly suspicious" for reasons that have never really been clearly elaborated to me. The next day, the road was roped off and I walked up to take some pictures. The guy on the left has "ATF" on the back of his shirt and the one of the right told me he was a federal agent. He came up to chat with me because he wanted to see my camera. Turns out he restores old cameras as a hobby. Funny I write about crime for a hobby. Now that's some very nice symbiosis yes?S.O.L.http://www.blogger.com/profile/13516730967355152655noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5791008954544453721.post-57435009215910429192010-08-15T00:05:00.000-07:002010-09-30T18:42:12.097-07:00365 Photo Project - Day 227<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeBy-9Jx6Xdn7XX20y7e3kxU7thRFYrMjMpZPxb5TZUKiW3FF_jDS24tUMvFawA88kBoIieElfF4iDMdL4ZTiAO9kosoG6ihRPdcx1ojjNHebRk73ei4wl0znUEDgFDW-ecK96xcSn6juK/s1600/ChamucoBWfix.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeBy-9Jx6Xdn7XX20y7e3kxU7thRFYrMjMpZPxb5TZUKiW3FF_jDS24tUMvFawA88kBoIieElfF4iDMdL4ZTiAO9kosoG6ihRPdcx1ojjNHebRk73ei4wl0znUEDgFDW-ecK96xcSn6juK/s640/ChamucoBWfix.jpg" width="480" /></a></div>Taken: August 15, 2010</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Location: Healdsburg, CA</div><div><br />
This is by far my most favorite image of my young pug, Chamuco. I love it because it perfectly captures his personality, I'm quite proud of this shot, as I am of little Chamuco who might be the most friendly dog in the history of dogs. My vet calls him the social butterfly. That's why I always worry he'll go home with one of our guests. :-D</div></div>S.O.L.http://www.blogger.com/profile/13516730967355152655noreply@blogger.com0