Wednesday, February 28, 2007


When I first moved to Boston, I lived in apartment with one of my good friends. The apartment looked over a reservoir. I spent a lot of time studying the reservoir 'cause I had no money to do anything else. I was poor student.

I arrived in Boston on January 1, 1999. The reservoir was frozen solid. Temperatures were between four and ten my entire first week. Over the following months before class, I noticed the ice would move and melt and then refreeze again.

If this sounds a tad boring, give a Georgia girl a break. I had never seen any water so sizable frozen.

I am still fascinated by frozen lakes. A pond not too far from where I live now hosts skaters on the weekends when the temperatures fall and the ice will allow.

For music lovers: check out this site: .... Hmmmm. I dispute some of the songs... Thank you Paperback Writer for the link.

Monday, February 05, 2007


Something about cleaning always seems to resurrect old memories. Some would say memories are like ghosts; they linger and sometimes haunt. I prefer to think of memories as mummies. Dust them off and the recollections arise, temporarily, again to walk the earth. Real and unencumbered.

Saturday morning I woke up late after being out with some friends the night before and decided to begin sorting through my junk closet. My junk closet contains all manner of stuff; exercise stuff, albums, papers I decided I need for a reason which was clearer at some other time, off season clothes, and tons of notebooks.

I love to write. Even in elementary school I would write down my dreams and create stories in notebooks. English and History were my favorite subjects; one, I could write or learn about writing, and the other, I could hear stories.

Mysteries have always been my preferred genre; the turns and twists, looking for possible clues. The first story I remember writing was detective thriller. I was eight and very proud of the way the detective hunted down the jewel thief; reviewing all the clues in the shower - the way I would think of plot lines.

I still have the story. I have kept it with a bazillion other notebooks and journals.

I found eighty pages of historical fiction and thirty pages of a CIA mystery. Both started about eight years ago and yet to be finished. I flipped through them reminiscing the countless hours I'd sit at a bar stool writing while Maria, my best friend, was tending bar. Mummies.

I'd always ask Maria’s opinion about what I was working on. She’d flood me the possibilities in which path the story could take. I’d pick one, maybe incorporate two or three, and start writing again until the bar closed for the night.

The hours I engaged in writing, crafting are non-existent in my day now, but I see the joy of pen (yes, I said pen) in hand scrawling out ideas and plots and elementary poems. I hated typing them out later on the computer. Now I rather type than write even though I miss the feel of calluses on the inner part of my index finger and thumb.

Maybe my junk room should be renamed as the "remembrance closet"; remember to finish, sentimental memories; cleaning memories… Maybe this is why I have a junk closet because I like watching mummies arise and walk.