Tooting One’s Horn

Bob is so right about this. I’m not into tooting my horn as a writer and struggle to emerge as a writer. There’s all manner of business matters I need to attend as a writer to increase my sales but it’s not what I like to do. It’ s outside of my comfort zones and it steals time from writing. But as Bob says “Promote I must….” So, I’ll be engaging on that side soon. As I’ve mentioned several times, “I will do better.”

gridleyfires's avatarGridley Fires- The Blog

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I can’t help but compare the business of writing to that of currently popular music, no matter the genre. A few common points, as I understand the business of both:

  • Technology has made it possible to be your own recording company and book publisher.
  • The traditional music/book businesses still tout big sales, but the overall quality in both industries is flagging.
  • There are no true genres any more. All genres are blended and mixed with the influence of others.
  • Indie book publishing and music recording is flourishing. This is the place for taking chances, for innovation, for newbie musicians and writers.
  • Whether you’re a musician or a writer, you’re responsible more and more for promoting you own work, no matter whom you work for.

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This last point is perhaps the most flummoxing for both musicians and writers. Speaking for myself only, I have so many ideas for new writing projects that it’s…

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The Dream Car

My dream memories are weakening. Perhaps as a subset of aging, we begin forgetting our dreams. Perhaps our dreams are the reality, and we’re forgetting reality. Maybe both are reality and both are dreams. Can we hold those two ideas in our heads?

Either way, I remember dreaming last night but don’t recall much of them. Perhaps that’s because I slept almost seven and a half hours. The dream I remember features an enterprise being conducted in my garage. I was recovering and re-furbishing junk and trash with other people. They were at a loss about what to do with it. But I was like, “Just fix it up and put a price on it. That’s what I do. Don’t overthink it. Just price it and forget it, and people will buy it.”

The garage, a double car space, was well-lit. One of my recovered treasures was a car parked alongside me. The car was an almost mint 1965 Ford Mustang convertible. I’d found it and fixed it. Now it was mine.

I had it in the garage but pulled forward. Behind it, in the garage, I’d spread a large blanket on which I’d collected and worked on items. Working on something small in my hand, cleaning it and putting it back together, I was absently answering questions posed by another. I neither remember the questions nor the questioner, nor my answers. What I recall is that some copper metallic exotic car rolled past with a howl of sound outside. And I paused to watch and identify it. I don’t know what make the car was, only that it was rare and expensive, which I was telling my companion, laughing as I did, wondering why such a car was in this neighborhood.

Then the exotic car returned. Slowing, the unseen driver executed a u-turn in the street but didn’t drive away. “Ah, they’re looking at the car,” I said as I realized it. “They’re impressed with this old Mustang.” As they should be, I thought, looking at the car. White, its top was down. It was rust-free, with clean lines, and waxed and polished.

“I should sell that,” I said, realizing that others would want this car, and then smiled, pleased that I had such a car.

Meep Update

“Do you have a cigar?” my wife asked.

I used to smoke them but haven’t in over ten years. “No. Why?”

“You’re a new father.”

“What?”

“Meep is officially our cat.”

We’ve been feeding Meep, aka the Ginger Prince, for a few years. Finding him huddling outside time and again, we added bringing him in to protect him from inclement and freezing weather to our practices with him a few years ago. What was once in while became every day and night. He’s flourished under the arrangement, gaining weight and improving in every way imaginable.

Another neighbor, Sue, came to tell us the news. I wasn’t home. My wife related it to me: Meep’s people moved away.

I’d always been doubtful they were his people. Meep, by my estimate, spends about eighteen hours a day in our house. The woman who came to tell us told my wife, “They were worried about Meep.”

“Wow,” I said. “They have a strange fucking way of showing it.”

My wife went on, “They were concerned that Meep is an out door cat. I told Sue, ‘You mean the cat that’s asleep on my chair right now?'” She then related that Meep loves being indoors and spends most of his time in our house, really only venturing out two or three times a day. He’s generally back within an hour.

I regret the life he ‘lived’ with them, and wonder about the back story. But it pleases us that he’s officially a member of our household. He has a mite problem we’ve been treating, but we’ve always been a little circumspect, to respect the boundaries of his ‘owners’. Now that’s removed so we can take him to the vet, etc. He’s a little sweetheart with a water fascination, although he is too willing to fight with Tucker and Boo. Tucker and Boo also don’t get along. The fur has flown, let me tell you.

We make it work. It’s not always easy. Tucker is segregated from gen pop, forced into isolation in the snug, where we work, generally read and watch television. We let him out in the yard for a few hours each day. Boo, likewise, is kept in isolation, in the master suite. He’s also authorized outside time. Each have food and water bowls, and kitty litter boxes. Meep is set up in the big room with food, water and a litter box. I play and talk with each several times a day. It’s a little exhausting, with the segregation and isolation. Boo also suffers PTSD, and general anxiety. Tucker, meanwhile, has auto-immune problems and is a grain-free and gluten-free diet.

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Only Quinn, the refugee from another neighbor, is permitted to visit with the rest and wander through whatever room he wants. He, alone, gets along with all.

 

One of Those Days

This is one of those days when the world is pile-driving my head, pulverizing my soul, and my defenses are breached and falling. I want to hide from my shadow, escape to an isolated beach, or maybe just stay in bed with the covers up to my chin in a dark room.

But I’ll walk. I’ll write. I’ll find moral and emotional sustenance and comfort in these routines. Maybe I’ll go have a beer somewhere, drain the glass by a fire, watch the weather, and enjoy this perk.

That’s for later. There are things to do now. I might go get a haircut. I don’t know how that will change the day’s balance, but I’m overdue by about two weeks.

Consumption

 

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Walking around, I’ve just recognized how much my little town of Ashland, population about twenty grand, offers visitors and residents. Of course, it’s all about experiences here. On center stage is the the Oregon Shakespeare Festival and the Green Show (free) but there is also the annual Ashland International Film Festival. Southern Oregon University generate learning activities. Your reading fixes can be attended through Bloomsbury, the Book Exchange, and the Book Wagon.

Want a marijuana high or need a medical high? We have you covered. Marijuana is legal in our state, county, and town. Several dispensaries are here to guide you through your choices. You can smoke, vape or eat to fill your need, although you can’t do it out in public, as signs will remind you. Locally produced chocolates are made at Branson’s to handle that munchie or go to Market of Choice and ogle their pastries, breads, pies, cakes, cookies, scones and cheeses, or ice creams, pastries and gelato at Mix, on the plaza.

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Prefer an amber or red ale, pilsner, IPA, porter, stout or lager? Local breweries, led by Caldera Brewing and Standing Stone Brewing, are doing great. Fill your growler at Gil’s or Growler Guys. Gil’s is alongside Ruby’s, where flavorful wraps and sandwiches can be ordered. Ruby’s and Gil’s share owners so you can buy at one place and consume the other. This is pretty cool; Ruby’s has patio sitting available where you can dine in sunshine. Gil’s patio is covered and has fire pits.

Growler Guys also have fire pits. Having a beer as the wind blows your face, the rain falls a few inches away, and a fire warms you as you watch people and cars pass is an an elemental experience.

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If beer and grass aren’t to your taste, you can enjoy wines from multiple local vineyards, like Weisinger, literally down the street from me. Or zip across the valley to Belle Fiori. Don’t want to drink and drive? Don’t worry, you can enjoy tastings at several locations and the local wines are offered in multiple restaurants.

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Yeah, like to eat? As a progressive town, vegans and vegetarians are taken care of, but places like Smithfields will satisfy carnivores. Lark’s is wonderful for more unique dining choices. Although we lack decent Mediterranean and Greek fares IMO, the downtown area and plaza can see you through yearnings for American, Sushi, Chinese, Mexican, English, French, and Italian. Martolli’s sells sensational pizzas whole and by the slice. Louie’s on the plaza is one of our favorite places to eat. Brothers, Breadboard, Morning Glory and Waffle Barn will do you for breakfast and lunch, but you can have an awesome Chicago style sandwich at Sammich. But the Ashland Food Co-op creates some of the best sandwiches and wraps, which are sold in several local stores and cafes.

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Naturally, there is a farmer and grower’s market, run by the RV Growers. Fresh produce, prepared foods like pies are available at the Saturday’s Grower’s Market. The Tuesday’s Grower’s Market has a larger location, and food trucks are present to serve you as you shop. Coffee shops all over the place, less now than there were a few years ago. Noble Coffee is one of several places roasting and grinding their own coffee beans. Zoey’s handles local demands for ice cream and milkshakes. If your burden is clothing shopping, the downtown is full of new and used clothing stores and boutiques. Every Saturday during the summer and fall, the Art

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Or just wander through Lithia Park by the creek, following the trails, or sitting by the ponds, watching ducks or enjoying the deer’s presence as they meander through town and the park, nibbling at plants and grasses, looking at you as you look at them.

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It’s amazing. Prefer skiing, hit Mt Ashland. Want to venture further away, we’re located just off Interstate 5, seventeen miles north of the California border, less than three hundred miles from San Francisco to the south and Portland to the north, and there are many amazing places between those two.

I’d write more about it all, but I’m hungry.

Glass

My dreams were like glass last night, slick and transparent, and then breaking with sound, jarring me from one direction and composure, launching me into a spin.

I saw myself in different worlds, and viewed myself in different times, leaving me to awaken and wonder, where am I now and where have I been?

My body was rigid. The colors struck me with hurricane force and the sounds were like boulders falling down around me. Stars stared down at me and I stared back. The Sun lit the darkness with a sudden flare, and I saw more, and further, in its blaze. I saw mountains and seas, buildings and cities, volcanoes and swamps, violent red sunsets and cold red mornings where my breath fogged the air into crystallized obscurity. I saw sunshine on ice and moonlight on ink.

But I stood straight and remained myself throughout the changes. And awakening, thinking and contemplating the melting shards of dream, I was pleased that I had that much.

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And sometimes, so I think. Withdraw. Disengage. Pause and let my thoughts settle like the mud swirling in stream, like the motes dancing in the sunshine, like the leaves caught in a whirlwind.

Finding the center is hard. Keeping the balance is difficult. Stilling the thoughts, impossible.

Yet, I try.

Amy's avatarMy Path with Stars Bestrewn

unplug

It’s more for me as with going into a forest:
if you sit quietly for a long time,
the life around you emerges.
As the world grows ever more clamorous,
my hunger for silence steepens.
I unplug the landline.

~Jane Hirshfield

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Drop by Drop

One drop,

one second,

one dribble,

one trickle,

one puddle,

one stream,

one minute,

one creek,

one hour,

one lake,

one river,

one sea,

one ocean,

one storm,

one day,

one night,

one week,

one month,

one year,

one century,

one era,

one world,

one galaxy,

one universe,

frozen,

static,

changing,

eternal,

always there,

always gone,

a second at a time,

seen,

forgotten,

remembered,

misunderstood,

drop by drop.

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