EEEP! Andrew Eccles, famous photographer–my dream photographer, emailed me and has generously offered to do my picture for the book! This man’s work is art and I can hardly believe he will photograph me. I feel like Cinderella here!

Check out his some of his beautiful works www.andreweccles.com

It’s true, life changing events will not come as you predict, but rather when you least expect: blind siding you on some idyll Tuesday afternoon.

On Tuesday, June 3^rd I received a very important call from a publisher.

I almost didn’t answer the phone as I’d lost my voice due to allergies. And I’ll never know if the publisher was calling to once again reject my work or calling to give me a final chance to further pitch my manuscript. It was an enjoyable, comfortable call that stretched to almost two hours. And I knew when he made the offer somewhere during that 2 hour call, I’d picked the right publisher to publish my memoir.

The only thing that would make this sweeter would be to receive a blurb from Jeannette Walls, author of The Glass Castle and Dave Pelzer, author of A Child Called It. I admire and respect their works.

And it wouldn’t hurt to have my dream photographer, photograph me for my book’s jacket. Andrew Eccles, a world famous, notable photographer, a man I had privilege to meet, and the rare opportunity, several years ago, to closely watch him at work: a

man whose works I adore.

A girl can dream…

Stop the world a minute, God. I’m getting off. Catch you on the next spin.

What’s playn’ on my CD: Katie Melua, Nine Million Bicycles
Read: Audio, A Breath of Snow and Ashes

How Can I Love You When You Are A Hundred Years Away

a bay horse on cobbled streets

in vieux carre’

breaks the silent wisps of steam

 waterlogged sheets

 soak

in a cowhide bucket, 

 waiting

 an  attempt  to mitigate heat

 i wrap my body cold

in the clinker-brick building

encased in bougainvillea

 and

a wrought iron veranda

 my fingers cradle an old tea cup

cracked,

 but filled with absinthe

 the smell of floral

hidden beneath weathered slate roof

holding heat,

 holds it

 eternal

cool of lisle melds with flesh

i loosen my wrap

and

look up

his eyes are blue,

they grow dark from shadowed hues of overhead slate

darker from want

they should be brown,

brown eyes

i look away,

turn back,

 suddenly immersed in pools

of still cave waters

he does not know;

he does not yet remember,

 and over a hundred years must pass before he does

my breathing quickens

he hands me a rose,

the rose has such beauty;

a red so rich and deep,

black,

unlike any i’ve seen

thick velvet petals brush my lips,

 timeworn kisses caress

movement,

unspoken words

 i do not like roses,

it is sunflowers i love.

cranky motors on cobbled streets

in vieux carre’

break the silent puffs of blue smoke

damp silk embraces my body

in the chalk-dust brick building

intertwined in trailing english ivy and

rusted wrought iron

my fingers wrap around tall sweated glass,

smooth,

filled with lemoned sweet tea

an overhead havana spins slow,

stirs citrus air,

teases

complex aromas of earthy,

 male musk rise,

fuse,

 stirring primeval memories

cool of silk molds to heated skin,

i peel away sodden threads,

expose glistened flesh,

and look up,

searching

his eyes are brown,

wide wading pools of sun-lit amber

growing narrow with need

they should be blue,

blue eyes

i look away, remember,

he is a hundred years away,

my heart shatters

he lays a sunflower on my lap,

the sunflower is aged,

its face dulled, brown,

 with

 spent petals

fingers curl,

withdraw,

reach for timeworn kisses

i do not like sunflowers,

it is roses i love.

What’s playn’ on my CD:  Nickelback , Far Away

I wore out my favorite: Mazzy Star, Flowers In December

Finished: Thousand Splendid Suns, def a fan thumbs-up all the way!

Current Read: Gerald Jones, Ginny Good  and in case you stop by, Gerald: I’m loving it– and thanks for the audio too!

::smooch::

.

intense workouts- to reduce the stress.

The groundhog saw his shadow today and I look out and see; winters bleak, the warted barks of brown, naked trees, sleeping grasses and I hear cold winds whistle — snake between ill-fitted panes. I wrap myself tighter in flannels and fleece, and like the lover who chanced and lost, I weep and wait for another’s spring kiss.

Current read: A Thousand Splendid Suns, by Hosseini, Khaled

Whats playn’ on my cd: Jeff Buckley, Grace

The Red Tent was a wonderful, lyrical read, very satisfying.

Update on my ms:  still on hold, waiting for pubs decisions, but, but, but, one major publisher who turned it down has now requested it again–a rarity and I feel so blessed, whether it’s a nay or yah.

And as always, Dave compliments complete–encourage me:

“That is a beautiful para above there kiddo-if your writing is as that you will get a positive answer from your publisher. And as a lover does-think only of the heart for it is the still small voice that speaks to you in those time of inbetween.  love Dave”

I’m to share three tips for my fellow writers and tag five others according to Janna.

Finally, don’t think you have to follow every literary rule. Some of the most successful make their own. 

Remember, a lot of rules are no more than guidelines.

ToT left yesterday, leaving behind the fun memories we shared. It was a great visit from Chi baby and the night before I captured this beautiful sunset on the river.

It was such a beautiful winter evening on the river.

Current read: The Red Tent, by Anita Diamant

Playn’ on my CD: Mazzy Star, Among My Swan

This morn, Dave, wrote this beautiful poem for me.

Thank you, Dave, it’s awesome like you!

Unmeasured, too deep mortal mark

My mind alone my soul?
Where is it this soul
that Grace declared
was God’s immortal thought

Starved the child that does not hold
that hand with eyes which guide
tween twixed and Never Never Land
unmeasured, too deep mortal mark