Here are the stones I've written since I last posted them on January 9. For more information about this practice visit Fiona Robyn's website Writing Our Way Home.
My young friend sat at the dining room table and looked through the book of her baby pictures I had made for her. She smiled, she chuckled, she complimented the rad style she had even then. I've known this girl since she was 18 months old. She is now 18.
I'm at Putting a Face on Suicide again today, still wondering what goes through such beautiful young minds that tells them to kill themselves. These people are 14, 16, 19, 22 years old and have so much to live for. We must find a way to save these precious ones who should be so full of life.
I'm racing around today like a whirling dervish. First a workout, next grocery shopping, a quick breakfast, a shower, then get dressed, make the bed, straighten up the rest of the house, and now I'm here at my desk with only two and a half hours to work before I make our lunch salad and the guests arrive. I am exhausted already. I need to drink my tea slowly and take a good deep breath.
Ben and Marissa made me go over my video lines over and over until I said them perfectly. I got so frustrated I even said oh, shit at one point which broke up the room. But after about a half hour of starts and stops I finally finished with the short three-minute piece. I certainly would never want to be an actor. Those guys have to memorize their lines every day and know how to say them perfectly. That is definitely not a profession for me.
I felt the chill down my backside from my waist to my calves as I trekked toward the beach this morning. My legs numb from the cold, they didn't want to move. Then intermittently the sun warmed my shoulders as I walked up the crest of the hill until, on my way down toward the sand, gusts of cold air blew and chilled me to the core again.
The actress on the screen transformed herself from middle-aged to a tottering and demented old woman, and I believed her in every scene.
I notice that my book club colleagues are not committed to coming to meetings. They find any excuse in the book. However, when one says her husband's appointment with the oncologist may preclude her attendance I take that seriously. Life and death issues are more important than eating and discussing a frivolous novel.
I bought a new little silver cube incense holder on Abbot Kinney last Saturday, and now I'm burning incense on my writing desk. The sweet smoke leaves the stick in a fine thread that dissipates as it reaches toward the ceiling.
I tried to speak. I opened my mouth and tried to get a word out. But the woman across the table from me kept on talking, and talking, faster and louder, not even taking a breath, and I had to lean back, look interested, and swallow my thoughts down until I thought I would choke.
Every morning it's the same thing. I wake up and the first thing I do is grab my cellphone. I check my emails, I open my Facebook pages, I look at my blog, and go to Amazon to see if there are any ranking changes for my book . I can't do anything until that's done. It's like having a morning coffee fix.
I finished The Paris Wife today, and I wonder how this woman could bear for even one minute her husband's lover and how she invaded their lives and marriage bed.
I feel an ache in my right groin, my upper thighs groan, and my left little toe cries out to me to take off my shoe and smooth out my sock. but I spin on in class this morning. The background song, "Hurts So Good," sings just to me.