Too cute not to share, courtesy of Failblog. It's just...perfect!

Now, I'm falling asleep over the computer, so it's off to bed with me!

Apparently a lot of people are more interested in Twitter than anything else this afternoon, as it is failing on me a lot. So I was sitting here, wanting to send a reply and not being able to, and of course my first thought was....

"Man, I'm gonna post on Twitter about this."

Me = dumb.

Anyway, I ate at my desk and so now I think I will go for a little walk. It's awfully nice out.

I say this now, in the morning, with vim and - to a lesser degree - vigor, but - AFI Silver is showing Ghostbusters (a restored print!) at 9:05 tonight. Is anyone interested?

Edited to add: This is the last night the movie's showing, and hey! It's also the 25th anniversary of the movie this year! Any movie that can make me laugh for a solid 25 years is something special.

At least, the universe according to one Rob Breszny, which I'm not entirely sure is the same universe that I inhabit...

Pisces Horoscope for week of July 9, 2009

Pisces (February 19-March 20)
"May you live in interesting times." That old toast is actually a droll curse meant to be heaped upon an enemy. "Interesting" implies rapid change, rampant uncertainty, and constant adjustment. What’s preferable is to live during a boring era when stability reigns. Or so the argument goes. But I reject that line of thought. I celebrate the fact that we're embroiled in interesting times. I proclaim our struggles to navigate the sharp turns and uphill climbs to be a jubilee of the first degree. What fantastic luck it is to be on the planet when everything mutates! May we be up to the task of bringing heaven down to earth. May we be worthy of the trust the universe is placing in us. Now get out there, Pisces, and enjoy the hell out of the epic and entertaining drama we're stewarding. This is your time to be a leader and a luminary.
--
Yep. Sure thing. No pressure, Rob. NO PRESSURE.
--
Well, off to inspire others!
--
Step 3: profit?
--
Tonight there's karaoke at the little bar in the village center across the street from me, the Second Chance Saloon. I'm playing tennis after work, though, so it remains to be seen if I have the energy to check it out.

Third post today, since technically that honkin' long one came after midnight. I have a weekend to run-down, though! Quickly, as I've got tons of stuff to do at work. How about bullet points? Bullet points AND an lj-cut?

( Rockin'. )

Attention film fans who lived through the '80s in whole or in part! The AFI is having an '80s extravaganza including - yes it's true, friends - a midnight showing of The Wall. Just like back in the day!

I am interested in a number of these movies. Perhaps there should be some kind of mass outing.

Originally published at Examorata. You can comment here or there.

It’s Wednesday, June 24, 2009 and I’m standing on top of Jockey’s Ridge, the largest sand dune on the east coast of the United States. The sun is hot and steady, not interrupted by as much wind as we’d hoped. “We” being myself and the rest of my beginning hang gliding class. I’ve found a helmet that fits. I’ve put my permit in my harness and wriggled into same. There’s nothing much left to do but hope there’s enough wind as I run as fast as I can down this huge sand pile.

A fairly circuitous route brought me here. Seven years ago, on one of my very first visits to the Outer Banks of North Carolina with my family, I climbed Jockey’s Ridge with my brother and his family. Back then, it was a big deal just to climb up the thing: I weighed probably about 85 pounds more than I do now, and that much sand going straight up was a nightmare. In the intervening time I’ve gotten more fit, but mere fitness wasn’t what made me think it was a good idea to hurl myself off this same dune at speed. In October of last year I came here again, on vacation with friends this time, and I watched some of those friends take their own first hang gliding lesson. There was only mixed success that day, but when it worked, it looked like so much fun! When the family made plans to come down this summer, I thought I would give it a try myself.

The winds were desultory at best back in October when my friends gave it a try. Once the lesson had to be called off in frustration, “wind checks” were issued, and further flights were postponed indefinitely. This particular Wednesday, they were better…a little. My group was made up of three women on vacation together with their own family, and me. Our instructor, Dave, was friendly and talked to each of us in turn. When it was time to start gliding, I deferred to the group traveling together, and one of them went first. She crashed, hard. She tried again, with the same result. There was clapping and cheering, pushing her on. “Next time!” we said. But as each woman tried and crashed with equal ferocity, the trend was set for the day. The winds were not strong; gliding was possible but not easy. Finally it was my turn.

I stepped into place and clipped myself in with the carabiner hanging off the back of my harness. I went through the ground check with Dave. I stood up with the hang glider, which weighs maybe sixty pounds. There were a lot of things to remember – have a loose grip, let the harness pull the glider, run as fast as you can, keep running even once you feel your feet leave the ground, keep your eyes focused on your target at all times. Yet at the same time I was supposed to “relax.” Thanks, Dave, I’ll get right on that. At last it was time. Several deep breaths and “clear!” and I was walking…jogging…running flat out off the side of this huge sand pile, here we go, I was really going to be doing it, any minute now the wind would sweep me up, loose the surly bonds of HOLY CRAP IS THAT THE GROUND?!

It sure was, and coming fast. So fast I couldn’t think, I just reacted, and my first reaction when falling down is to throw out my hands to catch myself. Turns out that was not such a great reaction. You’re hooked into the harness for a reason; it supports you within the structure of the glider and keeps you from actually going nose-first into the ground. You might hit a body part or three on the glider structure itself – I certainly did. That’s what the helmet is for. But I, nervous and not-thinking, had tried to catch myself, primarily with my left hand. This is the hand I just had surgery on three months ago. Did I mention how I was not thinking?

I’d bumped my arm on part of the glider, too, but my hand was what really hurt. I was certain I’d messed something up near the surgery sites, but it was impossible to tell. I muttered something about the surgery to Dave as he unhooked me from the harness and I stumped my way up the hill while he carried the glider. (The instructors carry all the gliders back up the dune for each of their students. Each student gets five flights. The instructors, it’s fair to say, are all in terrific shape.) We each tried at least twice for our first flight, so I hooked myself right back in and the same basic thing happened, but I remembered not to put my hands forward to catch myself.


Right around then the wind really died. We all sat hunkered under the wing for shade, and chatted idly with Dave as we waited to see if the wind would pick back up, or if we’d have to pack it in. “I don’t know if any of you are the praying type,” Dave said, “But if you are, now might be the time.” The others mainly shook their heads, with at least one definite “Not me,” but I said softly, “I’ve been known to pray.” “The thing to pray for,” Dave said, tossing sand lightly only to see it fall straight back down, “is patience. Praying for wind seems like a lot. That guy at the bottom of the hill,” he gesticulated, “he might be praying for no wind. Maybe you’ll just cancel each other out. But patience…” “That’s always worth asking for,” I said.

All told, we sat and tried to be patient for the better part of an hour. Eventually the wind shifted, now coming from the east off the ocean. We turned all the gliders around, and the instructors moved the course (guide cones set out in lines near the landing area) to the other side of the dune. It was time to start jumping again, trying to glide, back from the top of the batting order. One, two, three – more disappointing non-flights and crashes. Finally it was my turn again.

Patience? I found reserves of patience I never before suspected. I could have waited all day. Perhaps the wind would be a little stronger if I waited. Perhaps if we watched a few others do successful flights it would be helpful, you know, for observational purposes. The fact of the matter was that after my first few crashes I was covered in sand head to toe, I was scraped up, I was bruised, I was in a significant amount of pain, and I was scared.

There was a new view in this direction, a new place to focus as I tried again. My heart was beating and my hands were sweaty, but Dave remained calm, and I spoke confidently, yeah, this is it, this time we’re flying. Maybe if I said it, that would help me believe it. Maybe sometimes the appearance of confidence is the best we can do. Maybe sometimes that’s enough. I gripped lightly. I focused. I grinned at Dave. I ran like hell.

Once again, I crashed spectacularly. Walking up the hill my legs trembled. At the top, it was time to go through the batting rotation again. One, two, three, boom, boom – hey! One of the other women had a semi-successful flight, after running most of the way to the bottom of the dune. It could happen!

Something else was happening in the meantime. In a nearby group there were two older women, mother and daughter, and both had been unsuccessful in their early attempts. One of them was spooked so badly that she was declining to try again. The instructor was speaking to her softly, I couldn’t hear what he was saying, but I was thinking.

Acting in the face of my fear is often difficult for me. It’s easier to back down, not to take risks, not to do the things that might hurt or humiliate me. On that top of that dune, I wasn’t going to get humiliated any more than I had – which was not at all. No one was anything other than supportive. Now that I was learning how to fall, I wasn’t going to get hurt any more than I had, either. It’s hard to say exactly what happened to me. My last couple of “flights” were basically just as bad as the first few, though by the end I got very close. (I ran most of the way down the hill before gravity took over!) At the very last one, as I dusted myself off and Dave came over to unhook me, he stopped me for a moment. “That one was close,” he said, “and I’m really sorry that we didn’t get you a good flight today.” Suddenly I grinned at him and said, “It’s okay. Do you know, I had a lot of fun anyway?” I laughed, and dug my fingers into the sand a little as I lifted my body to create the slack he needed to release my harness. Smiling and laughing, we walked back up the hill. I had just paid nearly $100 for the privilege of spending three and a half hours crash-landing into the sand and injuring myself, and I was laughing.

My helmet worked, though. It wasn’t head trauma. I think it’s just what happens when you have the energy to work your way through your fear. I washed off what sand I could, and on the drive home, it seemed every muscle in my body wanted to have a serious talk with me about what we had just done. My left middle finger was definitely sprained, though it had nothing to do with either surgery site. By the time I got home my phone rang. It was Dave. He’d talked to his manager and gotten me a wind check for three more flights, so I could try again, maybe be rewarded for my determination. I thanked him, and disconnected, and thought I’d already gotten some kind of reward.

Here we go, busy at work, but taking a few moments to check in with ol' Breszny:

Pisces Horoscope for week of July 2, 2009

Pisces (February 19-March 20)
magic (ma' jik), n. 1. A mysterious event or process that seemingly refutes the known laws of science. 2. A willed transformation of one's own state of mind. 3. A surprising triumph that exceeds all expectations. 4. Something that works, though no one understands why. 5. The impossible becoming possible. 6. "Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic." (Arthur C. Clarke.) 7. A quality predominant in the lives of Pisceans during the period July 1 through July 20, 2009.
--
Woohoo!
Pick a card, any card...
--
Since I don't have guitar lessons anymore, there's nothing handy to tack on to the end of the entry, here. Someday I'll have more guitar stuff to report on, but for right now, did I mention this hang gliding injury? Where I sprained my left middle finger? Yeah, guitar's not happening much this week.
--
Speaking of my various bruises, the huge one on my arm (I think I have pictures of it I haven't uploaded; what is it with me and taking pictures of my various injuries/stitches/scars/etc.?) is going an unpleasant shade of yellow, but that means it's going away. My boss saw it today and asked what happened. I explained, and he said, "Are you crazy?!" This from the man who still rides a motorcycle after an accident years ago left him with pins in his arm. Sheesh.

Originally published at Examorata. You can comment here or there.

Of course, “they” say a lot of things, and that’s not a good enough reason on its own to listen to ‘em… Still. I have a post here that I wrote last week before I went on vacation. Ideally I should be writing one of several posts that are percolating in my head relating to thoughts and experiences from vacation – which I could illustrate with lovely pictures! – but first things first. As they also say. This is a companion piece to the bit about guitar. It’s a bit about therapy. Most of you don’t even know I’ve been in therapy, because it’s not usually something I want to go on about, but there was such a nice parallel with guitar! When I read it tonight, almost two weeks after writing it, I was still satisfied with it, so I will present it without further ado:

In an interesting parallel, this week my therapist broke up with me!

It’s true; her one-year contract with the practice ends in September and she has elected not to stay with them. We get along very well, and it was amusing to see similar vaguely-guilty, vaguely-over-explanatory reactions in her that I recognized from ending my guitar lessons the week before.

My six-month referral, part of the labyrinthine process I have to go through with my health insurance to be able to go to therapy, ends in August. It seems we have to break up one way or the other; we have to work on the right way to go about it.

To be very up front about all this, therapy is something I distrusted and disliked the idea of most of my life. My background was decidedly one of “bootstrappiness,” as in pull-yourself-up-by-yours. It’s hard enough for me to ask for help with concrete things; with abstractions? Most of me wants to say, “Oh, just suck it up” any time a problem comes along. The problem there is that while “sucking it up” might help one get through the moment at hand, in the long term sometimes it can be hard to get a handle on. If I “suck it up” too often, shouldn’t I look for a pattern of why I keep winding up in situations where things need to be sucked up?

I refuse to use the word “suck” for the rest of this entry.

Therapy, much like guitar, was another exercise in proving I could do it. I knew I could self-examine; hell, I found it hard to stop. What I felt I needed was an outside perspective, was someone it was not only okay to ask for help, but who was there explicitly for that purpose. For nearly six months we’ve done it, and I feel like it’s been a valuable experience. I’m more aware of some of my own patterns. I feel better prepared to deal with my regular pitfalls the next time they come up. Maybe most valuable of all, it got me outside my comfort zone.

My comfort zone’s a behemoth. It’s hard to escape from, but so very necessary to try. If I’ve learned nothing else, I’ve learned that. Guitar was part of that, even if I didn’t see it that way at the time. But over time, guitar became the comfort zone: directed lessons, a practice card to fill out every week, clearly defined goals, an outside force dictating it all.

One week in therapy I was talking about writing, and how I don’t do it enough. It’s a little absurd, when you think about it. I have kept a LiveJournal for nearly 8 years, and journals and diaries before that going back to when I was 11 years old. I write lengthy emails. I write humorous anecdotes. I write all the time; I don’t take much care with it. The look that I saw on my therapist’s face when she saw the look on my face when I talked about writing – that was a wake-up moment. The passion I feel for writing, for communicating this way, for sharing my concerns, ideas, fears, hopes, and over-use of cliches, is actual passion. It affects me on a level that guitar never did. I love music. I can’t imagine life without it. But I don’t have the urge to create it that drives the sparks up in my eyes. Those sparks show up when I talk (think, write) about writing. She saw that, and I saw her see it, and if for nothing else these six months have been worth it.

Basically, you have her to blame for this blog. I can direct your comments and complaints to her at our next session.

The bit about therapy; timestamp June 19, 2009, posted June 29.

Hey there! Thursday night's not usually much of a night for doing things, but this Friday is a holiday, so I would like to do a thing! This thing!

Now, the free concert starts at 5:30 smack in downtown Baltimore, so of course I haven't a prayer of getting there on time for the opening act. However, I'd like to try to make it up there for some free music and a little relaxin' to kick off the long weekend. Anyone want to come with, or meet up (lookin' at you, B'more peeps)?

Yes, I realize I just got back from vacation. This is in fact why I'm already so fixated on my next extended period of relaxing! Withdrawal.

Home again! I had a lovely time at the beach.

There was sun and surf...


There was family togetherness...


There was high adventure...


And its somewhat painful aftermath...


There were moments of breathtaking beauty...


And, to top it all off, I climbed a lighthouse! And got a sticker to prove it.


Oops! Don't want to leave without linking to the rest of the pictures!

It's fund-raising week for WTMD this week, and like many public radio stations, they are facing a somewhat dire situation with their listener support levels this fiscal year. If you have ever listened to WTMD, you'll know that they will play almost anything, at any time, and they are completely non-commercial and dedicated to promoting music you won't hear anywhere else, especially local Baltimore music. If you have a few bucks to spare, think about tossing a few their way, won't you?

Also, today they're wrapping up their nearly month-long adventurous countdown of the Top 897 Artists of All Time as voted by listeners. They're up to #8, U2.

First off, here's what Rob has to say this week:

Pisces Horoscope for week of June 18, 2009

Pisces (February 19-March 20)
I feel an expansive, permissive mood coming on -- in the cosmos, that is, not me. To be honest, I'm in a more conservative mood than the cosmos. But the planetary powers-that-be have decided to float you poetic licenses, blank checks, special dispensations, and wild cards. I just hope this free stuff won't make you forget about the finely-crafted containers and boundaries you've been working on lately. Maybe I'd feel better if you promised me to keep on doing the careful, conscientious things that seem to have earned you all the good fortune that's on its way.
--
Woo! Good fortune!
*does a little dance*
--
Yep, first week without guitar lesson. So I played some guitar! It was good. Nice that I didn't forget everything in a week. The fact that it was a bit too chilly and drear to want to take the walk helped get past that feeling that there was something I should be doing...
--
But back to good fortune...I have the extreme good fortune to be going on vacation this weekend. I'm heading down to the Outer Banks for a week with the family, leaving on Sunday, coming back the following Saturday. We have wireless internet at the beach house but I don't think I'll be using it overmuch. I may check in from time to time, probably more on Twitter than here. For right now I'm busy at work, trying to make sure everything's in order for the week away. Though of course right this instant I'm not doing that, I'm updating, so I need to finish up and get back to it!

Happy Bloomsday, everyone!

(Rare recording of Joyce reading his own work.)

It was a good one! Lovely weather! Could have used more sleep, though.

( Details! )

Checking in with Rob this week:

Pisces Horoscope for week of June 11, 2009

Pisces (February 19-March 20)
There has rarely been a better time than now to blend your fresh sparkly innocence and your deep ancient wisdom. The childlike aspects of your intelligence are especially available, and so are the visionary elements. Furthermore, the two have a great potential to complement and enhance each other. You might be amazed at how dramatically you could transform long-standing problems by invoking this dynamic tandem of energies.
--
"Fresh sparkly innocence"? Like a...vampire in sunlight? Hee, no, but really.

*cracks knuckles*
*looks for long-standing problems to transform*
--
Last night's cross-post from my blog probably takes care of the guitar-lesson part of the night, eh? Once I told him it was time for me to move on, we just spent the lesson going over a few technique things, then I picked a song I liked and he printed out the tab while I played it for him from my iPod. Within minutes, I was playing along. Which was the whole point of lessons, after all. Good deal!
--
Afterward, hit the Target for a few things I'd forgotten over the weekend. While there, I picked up a thank-you card for my teacher. After all, I have to mail him payment for these past two June lessons, so why not tuck it inside a nice card? I'll write that up tonight.
--
Between book club Monday and writing last night, I've been averaging less than six hours' sleep a night. While both book club and writing are awesome, tonight's goal is to go to bed laughably early. I need it.

Originally published at Examorata. You can comment here or there.

Tonight, I did it. I broke up with my guitar teacher.

Two years and three months ago, for my 35th birthday, I decided to sign up for guitar lessons. For years I had come to think of myself as a non-musical person, even though I took piano from the age of ten through the age of fifteen. The reason I classified myself as “non-musical” was that picking up an instrument did not come naturally or easily to me.

What that really means is that when I was ten and asked for (and received, thanks Mom and Dad!) piano lessons, I was deeply disappointed that I did not turn into Billy Joel overnight. I wanted to sit down and have my fingers fly across the keys, making cool sounds, the sort of sounds that might inspire people to sing along. When it turned out that, as it happens, learning to play piano is quite a bit of work, I got discouraged. Sure, I kept going for five years, but my interest waned each passing year. By the end I was barely practicing. Why my parents continued to pay for those lessons, I have no idea.

This time it wasn’t my parents paying, it was me. And I was still practicing. It was hard work. The hard work was exactly why it was so important to me. What I learned over time, in the years following The Piano Years, was that music is more than art, it is craft. Even the gifted need to practice, even the gifted need instruction, and patience, and time. None of that was clear to me when I was a kid, but when I went to my first guitar lesson I went with my eyes open. It was going to be tough, and it was going to be frustrating, and I was not going to turn into Eric Clapton overnight.

Every Tuesday night since March of 2007, barring the occasional illness or vacation (on my part or on my teacher’s part), I have gone to my guitar lesson. I have performed in four recitals, which make me stupidly, palm-sweatingly nervous every time. I have practiced faithfully, even when it was frustrating, even when I didn’t really want to, because I really wanted to prove to myself I could do it.

I’ve done it. I’ve become a guitar player. I have learned enough to go out on my own, to scout around for tablature, to peer intently at instructional YouTube videos, to learn to play a song I like. No, Eric Clapton has nothing to fear from me. But after years of telling myself I couldn’t play music to save my life, I can.

My teacher said tonight that everything we begin must end. I have spent months telling myself it’s time to give myself a break, to stop paying for lessons, to give myself time for other creative pursuits. (There is a lesson to be learned from guitar that I strive to apply to my writing, for instance.) With all that in mind, when I settled in this evening, after he’d said how pleased he was with my performance at the recital this past weekend, I said, “I don’t know if there’s ever a good time to bring this up…” Didn’t I say it felt like I broke up with him!? That’s honestly what it felt like!

I’m not sure what I expected. I was willing to give a few weeks’ notice, to continue through the pleasant summer months with my weekly walks and lessons. But once I brought it up, he said he didn’t need any notice, that there was no obligation. Tonight was my last guitar lesson. I’m happy with the decision, but at the same time I’m sad. Over the years I developed a good rapport with my teacher, and I am going to miss his calm and knowledgeable presence every week. When I sit down to play my guitar and I have to look up another chord, or get frustrated with a transition, or just plain don’t get it, I’ll wish I could ask him about it. Without his guidance and my own hard work, I would never have become the guitar player I am today, and I’m grateful. Most of all I’m proud of myself for setting a goal and achieving it.

It's true, last weekend I never got around to a standard play-by-play update for my Tennessee trip. This weekend, I will attempt to correct that, while I have annoying tasks running in the background here at work.

( Here there be weekend! )

Originally published at Examorata. You can comment here or there.

When I received word that my dear friends Mandy and Breezy were received into the Episcopalian church this Easter, I was not terribly surprised, as I knew they were studying for it. When I received a vaguely cagey email from Mandy not long after - “I have to ask you something” - I admit I was curious. When I spoke to her on the phone and she asked me to be godmother to their second son, Luke, I was overwhelmed. I said “Yes” almost faster than my tongue could form the syllable, tripping over myself to get it out.

Mandy and I have been friends for a long time - over 20 years. During that time we have each taken diverse and winding paths on our faith journeys. Of course I can’t speak directly to hers, but I know mine has quite literally been all over the map, even off the map entirely. In brief, I was raised Catholic, left the church when I was 19, wandered into a vague, hazy cloud of nonspecific Christianity, veered off into reading too much Thoreau and Emerson and staring far too intently into clouds and trees, took a bracing few years with agnosticism and another few with out-and-out atheism. I spent some time with Buddhism, and in fact still like spending time with it. The most valuable thing I’ve learned about the journey so far is that it is, itself, vital to my well-being. No matter what way I look at it, I never feel any religion is 100% correct. I have never had an a-ha moment in any designated worship space, a moment that made the path clear. A few years ago, missing the community aspect of church, I began attending again. I chose a Catholic church because it is my milieu.

I am not making a resounding argument for my suitability as a godparent, here. And in fact I only wanted to spend a short amount of time on my personal religious views, at least for now. The most resounding and profound part (again, thus far) of becoming Luke’s godmother is the very real strengthening of the ties of chosen family.

The baptism itself was this past Sunday, May 31, which happened to be the feast of Pentecost. From far and near, family and friends arrived in Nashville to be part of the celebration. We all bunked at their house, which made for a mad and merry time, especially for me, child of a small family, introvert, used to living alone. At first apprehensive, I was swept along in the excitement of the occasion and the fun of visiting. Everyone got along quite well, united for a joyous occasion.

On Sunday morning we met with the priest before the baptism itself. Perhaps he sensed a conspiracy afoot when he learned that the only three godparents who were able to be present that weekend were all Roman Catholic. It’s possible we shouldn’t have grinned quite so toothily. As the priest went over the basics of baptism and godparenting, it became very real to me. I do not have godparents, so I don’t have the clearest definition of what that means on a practical level. Reading the certificate I received, seeing the presents and cards we exchanged, speaking the ancient words I have heard so many times, it all came home. This was home. This was family. In the ceremony used to bring their children into the family of their church, with the direct gift of God’s grace, there was a tremendous sense of belonging. It didn’t matter that the other godparents were people I had only just met. It didn’t matter that the grandparents present came from quite a different faith background. We were bound together inwardly in a unique way, gathered to this family to become a part of it, officially. Didn’t I mention I got a certificate and everything?

Even in my eager acceptance of their offer, it wasn’t until I stood in that church and spoke those words in unison with the rest of the family that I came to a deeper understanding of what I was saying. Lifetime commitments, as it turns out, don’t just happen every day. They’re born out of time, love, and the thousand little tests that life throws our way. I couldn’t be happier that this particular test was given to me, and I pray that I pass.

Since I didn't work Monday my internal clock is all off. But apparently it's already Breszny day!

Pisces Horoscope for week of June 4, 2009

Pisces (February 19-March 20)
Dear Rob: I've recently developed a propensity to talk to myself. This is pretty weird. All these years, I've barely uttered a few words to myself on special occasions. Now I'm having long, convoluted gab fests, as if the little voices in my head had busted out of their holding cells, run amuck, and decided to NEVER SHUT UP! Am I crazy? - Out Loud Pisces." Dear Out Loud: It's a good sign that you're getting all the murmuring background noise out in the open. Not just for you but for many Pisceans, thoughts and feelings that had been hidden or secret are becoming available to your conscious mind. Once you clear out the backlog, the really useful revelations will begin.
--
Really? I talk to myself all the time, have since I was a kid. Does that mean I'm still clearing out backlog? I mean how much backlog can a gal have?!
--
Guitar lesson was good last night. I'm sick to death of at least one of my recital pieces, just in time for the recital Saturday. I haven't been pimping this one because, well, it's on a Saturday. Hardly do I expect people to shove their weekendin' schedules around for my guitar recital. It's at 6:30, too. By the time it's over and my folks and I get to Victoria's and get seated and eat? I'm gonna be starvin'! Yes, I am dropping a lot of "G"s today. Just feelin' that way, I s'pose.

I took a big chance yesterday. There was a thunderstorm watch on and I thought, "I'll make sure to bring my umbrella so I don't repeat my drenching of Memorial Day when I walk to my lesson!" But then I left without it, and by the time I remembered I didn't really have time to go up and get it and still get to the lesson on time. So I walked, with the clouds building ominously in the west, and prayed that it would hold off or at least not rain heavily until I got home. And it did! Hurrah!
--
Busy at work still, so thus endeth the update. Hoping for time to do some real writing tonight or (more likely) tomorrow night.