A WORKING Magic Wand ...

News from the weekend front:

Wow, this magic wand really works! I waved it over myself and doink! HAPPINESS! And what happened then?

• 15 hugs today ... at least 4 from men (I know!) ('phfina's panthery claws must have been trimmed or something)


• 4 kisses from four girls! SQUEE! Three even ITRW! (*thud* faints!)


• Called my mom! She was happy to hear from me! I was happy with her! Aw!


• Smiles, smiles, and more smiles. (REAL smiles! Happy smiles!)

Didn't swing on a swing, nor smell flowers. I'll work on that today.

kisses, 'phfina

Epigrams

So I'm off to enjoy a lovely weekend, and I started it off at 4 am this morning reading a couple of epigrams. So, share-time! Enjoy.

"Valor grows by daring, fear by holding back."
Publilius Syrus

Ἄνθἐ ἀμέργουσαν παῖδ᾽ ἄγαν ἀπαλάν.
Σαπφώ

kisses, 'phfina

Magic Wand

Okay, whoa, Whoa, WHOA! and STOP!

Okay, sweeties, I love you; every one of you, but, sheesh! the significance!

Really! Look, you're going through stuff. I appreciate that. I'm going through stuff, too.

So I have a special request. When you write a PM/email to me, don't send it until you:

1. go to your mirror, smile a happy smile, then return to your computer, then


2. read your PM you're writing to me as if you are the receiver.

Smile still there? Okay, send it. Smile gone? Then revise the PM/email and sit on it for a day and start over at step 1.

Look, you don't need to sugar coat stuff to me, and I sure am planning on staying out of diabetics anonymous, but if you're going to send me what's so, then just be ready, 'cause I'm going to send you what's so and in spades right back. And this doom and gloom I've been getting? It doesn't work. It doesn't work for me and it doesn't work for you. Who wants to live doom and gloom? I don't.

SO! I have this magic wand here. It has unlimited charge, and bink! waving it discharges:

Happiness
Smiles
Laughter
Joy

I give you permission to borrow my wand (I have lots), to use it, on yourself firstly, and then give it to your friends, too! BONUS!

And, oh! Step away from the computer, please: go outside (yes, I know! Ooh, scary! Outside!), smell some flowers, swing on a swing, ride a pony, kiss a girl (ask her first), get some hugs, call your mom and tell her you love her. I'm going to do those things tomorrow (except ride the pony).

kisses, 'phfina

Bon Voyage, Jocelyn Torrent!

Well.

Jocelyn Torrent just published her final chapter of Rose Read, and with that is leaving fan-fiction. She's moved on with her life from fan-fiction.

God, I'm going to miss her and her writing.

Can't say I didn't see it coming, however. There were signs along the way, with long periods of silence here and loads of activity elsewhere. She's gone off to college, she's, well, she's put together differently than me: she has her friends and her self-reliance. Who needs little old fan-fiction when there's so much life to live? She didn't say this at all, of course, and she left very high recommendations to me.

Thank you, Jocelyn Torrent, for that long and beautiful run. I'm sure I hear the cries of despair echo across the fan-fiction community. Mine, too.

And in all that, I wish her well. And happiness. And I'm grateful for the tremendous amount of time she invested into her every story, every chapter, and every single review she received ... she responded to every one of them. There is an example of a writer on fan-fiction to follow.

It makes me wonder a little bit for myself. Do I tire of writing? ... Well, yes. At every chapter. Do I see myself calling it quits? No. Did JT ever see that? I don't know, perhaps in her second year (as I am now in mine), she just saw all this stuff to write about and not enough days in her life to write it.

Am I losing a friend? Yes, I think so. That's what happens in life, doesn't it? You get close to somebody, as a friend, and then she moves or gets an entirely new set of interests, and you try to stay connected, but that communication goes from daily, to ... never. Or a few years later, 'hey, how's it going?' and then nothing again.

So I'm grieving my loss. My loss, for JT is going out into that big, huge world of endless possibilities were she's probably learning and discovering and just filled to the brim and then overflowing with friends, happiness and joy. And for that my joy for her is great.

And for me, too. Is there joy and friends and endless possibilities to be found here on the little e-world of ffn? Oh, yes, indeed: there is. It's here for me, it's here for you, and it's here for JT if/when she comes back. Or if this indeed her final hurrah, it's still here for her and for anybody, just as the world outside of ffn has that for her, and for anybody, too.

JT is gone into that great big wild world, she says a sweet goodbye. I'm still here, sweeties. I'm still here, waving to JT's ship pulling out with my (well-used) hanky, and then, turning away from that ocean of the world, having taken it all in with my salty eyes and the smell of salt from the ocean filling my nose, and I walk back to my home, open up my laptop, reflect for a moment at the bittersweetness of goodbyes ... and now work on that next chapter, which is today: chapter 9 of "Our First Time."

kisses, 'phfina

The stranger in the mirror

What if. What if I'm really ... oh, God, I'm so lost. What if I'm not really this brave and bold and confident girl that I know I'm just pretending to be, all toppy and in control, because that's how I see I can survive, how I can make it through life, but what if I'm just a girl who wants to be loved and who wants simply to love and all this shit of all my confidence is just an act saying that I have it together, but I know I don't. I thought I was supposed to be finished asking these questions in high school! That was too hard already, and now I'm facing them again? And it's like nothing that I've lived is helping me cope at all! And if I'm not brave and bold and confident, but really, really, really this shy little weak thing ... I mean: how do I be now? Who the fuck wants to love a weak little mousy girl? I'm not that! I can't be that! I can't. How can I look in the mirror now and say 'I'm beautiful' like I asked you to when I don't even know what the 'I' is anymore that's supposed to be beautiful?

You know what did it to me? Me in a yellow sun dress, picking flowers. I just saw me like that, so happy, so loved by a woman who's so powerful and confident that she can just hold me as I sleep and just be there, just so be there that I can just give myself completely to her and just let down all my defenses and defensiveness and just be with her as just me and not pretend to be confident or strong or whatever.

And that's so not how it's supposed to be. I'm supposed to be the strong and confident one, independent, the kick-ass girl, reliable, a world-class writer. I don't need to be supported. I support.

But then why does this one little figment call to me so powerfully that I can't even think. And so just one little fancy and my whole world is ... in turmoil.

God, I haven't slept, and now I have to go to work and pretend to be a cheerful-busy barista. Maybe work will clear my head of this shit, and I can go back to pretending to be me.

But we've got to survive somehow, girls, right? And we so can't let anybody see into us. Because then they'd 'find out,' right? And we can't allow that, now, can we, Rosalie ... and Jasper? Yeah, spoiler alert, and yeah, I write what I know. This next chapter is just so much fun.

"Update soon, 'phfina." Yeah. Thanks for that. Here, have a cookie; sorry: there's some salt on it, and, yes, I just washed my face.

Yeah, my next screed will be about updating soon. And no, you can't push me even a tenth as hard as my demons push me, so you are so not allowed to have pity parties ... like I do. Yeah, working on that, too, okay?

kisses, 'phfina

My December

What if this is my December? And, yes, even what if December is my time of year? And I can have fun, like Oskar, playing in the snow with his Papa (Låt den rätte komma in), but there's also no denying that December gets dark earlier and more often, and it can be cold, bitterly cold, and quiet, so I can feel alone, and in that aloneness, lonely.

I can make a snowball in my mittens, and walk to work in the dark, both ways, and make snow angels, and I can do all these things.

And I can look out the window at that uniformly grey sky and at that uniformly white ground. And the snow falling, as it has fallen so much this last winter is a lovely sight. But it's a quiet sight and a sad one. I wonder as I hear the feather-soft pop of each snowflake touching the ground, was that snowflake an angel? Was she sad to fall to ground? Was that her dying, like the grain of wheat must fall to the ground and die? The inevitability of it? And ... but ... was she relieved that her time had now come to an end?

And I look at the untouched snow-covered ground, and admire the purity of it, and feel regret when my feet plod through it, making tracks in that snow, marring it. I wonder if that is my life: me, plodding through it, determinedly at times, sad at others, dancing and prancing even others, but making a mark on the world, and then the snow, falling behind me, erasing my tracks from sight and from memory.

Forever.

p.s. Happy 'ffn birthday' to me: I've been (delurked) on ffn for a year now. Yay! :)

On Writing Well

"'phfina, you write so well! I wish I could write like you do!"

No, you don't wish this.

I mean: really.

'Reaching' my skill level? I mean, do you even want to? 'cause every frikken chapter it's almost like that: I sometimes get sick, I always cry, at every single chapter I write, and then when it's time to publish the predominant thought in my head is 'I've fvcked this up, so badly, they are gonna find where I live and get medieval on my ass ... and then crucify me.'

Do you want that? Does anybody? I sure don't. I just wanna read good fiction. That's all I've wanted to do. But no. Now I have to write this shit and it fucking kills me every single chapter. And then some reviewers as soon as I publish say 'update soon' (and it's not their fault at all: they are brave enough to ask what at least a hundred other people dare not to ask) and then I'm in the bathroom, puking my guts out, 'cause I know I have to update soon or else I'm disappointing somebody, maybe even hundreds, no, now it's even thousands of somebodies, breaking their heart, but that means I have to look in the mirror into my soul and write something that isn't sh1t this time. Again.

Joy.

You want to write like I do? it's easy. It's so easy.

You put your heart on the line.

You put your heart on the line, knowing somebody will step all over it, and you do that with every single chapter. Knowing more and more people are going to get out their stomping boots on you.

So, that means: right now. You're PMing me or you just publish that brand spanking new chapter of yours. I mean: great! But did you put your heart on the line? Did you really, really write that stuff that really, really happened to you ... you know, stuff that's happening right there, right in your fragile little heart ... you know, stuff that really matters? So that, for example, you really, really told me how my story really, really impacted you? Or in your story, I read it and I'm like: oh, God! That's real. That ... God! I'm gonna cry and laugh and hug my pillow and call my mom and ...

See? That is what your writing from your heart will do. I know: I have PM after PM telling me exactly that. And you will know that, yourself, too, because when you do that, you will have that deluge of PMs, too.

So, share. Really share. Don't partially share, but get it right out there, and put your heart on the line. What else is your heart for?

And when I say share, I mean: share.

"'phfina, when 'you' said 'you' wanted to kill 'your'self, it brought me back to that time when I was 10 and I had the razor out and I was crying so hard I was screaming because I couldn't even see bc my life was so black and ..."

Or maybe that didn't happen to you, maybe:

"When 'you' brought that boy into 'your' room, that put me right back to my first time when he told me he loved me and I told him to wait but he wasn't waiting and he just pushed into me and then nothing and then I felt so used because he was like, 'well' and left and then afterwards it was all weird! And, God, I felt ..."

But how the hell do I know, and how the hell can I connect to you, if you don't share from the heart, but speak in generalities? And when you do really share from the heart, if I have one drop of charitable blood in my body, how the hell can I not cry with you or how the hell can I not rejoice in your triumph or joy?

Did you give me the chance to do either in your writing?

If this is something you aspire to ... something you need to 'work on' you work on it everywhere, including every single time you have another person that you're with, communicating face to face or otherwise, otherwise you aren't working on it, you're just saying you have to work on it, and that ... well, you tell me.

I just write from what I know and what I've seen, and I put my heart into it. If you did just that, you'd probably been twice the writer I am, bc your experience? Do you know how many girls have gone through the same things you have, and are just waiting for that one voice to say: 'Yes, it hurt,' or, on the flip side, 'Yes, it was wonderful' and they have that connection to another soul in the whole world where they had thought they were all alone?

And that's all there is to it. Well, that's all there is to 'writing at my level.' Not writing classes, not nothing, because high school has all the writing you need to share authentically from the heart.

So that means the only thing you need is to want it and then be honest and open about yourself, knowing full well that your going to get hurt, and then your writing?

You won't be wishing you could write as well as I can. I'll be wishing I could write as well as you.

Beauty and Truth

Okay, Bella deals with this; I SO deal with this; even ROSALIE deals with this, and I keep hearing this from you, in fact: three times this past week. So, more than likely, you're dealing with it, too, maybe?

Okay, put down your latte and don't you look away from me now. Look me right in the eye and you hear what I have to say to you.

You are beautiful.

"But, 'phfina ... I'm just not! Just, just look at me, I'm ..."

NO, YOU SHUT THE ... *ahem* ... UP AND LISTEN TO ME!

Look, I know you maybe don't see yourself as beautiful ("I'm okay, I guess, but 'beautiful'? No"), and that would total mystify me, if I weren't listening to what I tell myself all the time, so I just want you to stop listening to you for a sec and just get this, okay?

I've never met you. And chicken-shit that I am, if I ever do, it's because I'm passing you on my way to the bathroom to puke my guts out and then climb out the back window ("But, 'phfina, sbux girls' rooms don't have back windows ..." Yes, they do, or they will after I pull out the ball-peen hammer to make my escape route out of what used to be wall). So, yes, I don't have a CLUE what you look like, for most of you, so I don't have a leg to stand on, right?

Wrong. Sorry, gf, but you are so wrong. Look, I see all kinds, girls. All kinds, and my conclusion for nearly every single one of them? "God, I wish she saw herself as beautiful as I see her."

'Cause why? 'Cause in every single case where someone compliments that girl or woman, and she gets that (a little bit, there's often that disbelief), the smile that lights up her face ...

And I'm NOT saying your smile makes you beautiful (but God, does it ever! You tell me anything in the world that is more beautiful than a woman smiling joyfully? Hm. I should practice that, huh?). I'm saying YOU are BEAUTIFUL, just as you are, right now. FULL STOP! And, honey, I'm talking about YOU, because I have checked you out when you've come into sbux (I use my peripheral vision, don'tcha know ... um, am I gonna get fired now? *Ahem: 'The views expressed here do in no way represent sbux or its affiliates ... blah-blah-blah'), and I would be SO lucky if you saw yourself as you are, and you chatted with me for a sec ("Hey, violet ...") and smiled, as some of you do sometimes ... ?

God!

And when I say, "Thanks; enjoy your day!" in my cheerful-busy way that I do as I turn to make the next coffee drink at the bar? But do you hear the subtext? It's me, saying what I just said, yes, but also saying: 'You are beautiful. And thanks! Truly thanks for that moment, because I will treasure it the rest of my day.'

Ya. So, next time you look into the mirror, just take one more moment, and really look into the mirror, and see yourself, your perfections (God! your perfections!) and your imperfections (God! your imperfections, too!), and say 'I'm beautiful' and believe it.

Don't fight it. Don't second guess it. Just believe it.

'Cause it's true.

kisses, 'phfina

p.s. and next time you PM me, if you are wont to do that ... you know, along with *ahem* a review if you'd like, just tell me you did that: "'phfina, I did the homework you gave me." And call me to task, too: "Did you do yours?" I think every girl should be reminded of what's so: that's she's beautiful. It's like a civic duty, or something. I know I so need that reminder, sometimes, you know?

p.p.s. Pepe, this is dedicated to you. Thank you for believing this, and teaching your children this. I wish I got to know you; that great man everybody says you are, you know, ... before you took yourself away. I didn't get to know you, but now I just know I miss you and I love you.

You

I just wanted to say ...

Well, sometimes you can't write ... no, wait, let me put it another way. Sometimes I feel I need to write, and I don't. Like, for a month or more, and that really sucks. Big time. And, big surprise, it's, like, during a rather unfun time in my life, usually.

But, like now, I've been writing, and when I'm writing, the exact same 'stuff' can be going on in my life, but it's like magic how my life is just better.

And it's because I'm creating something ... I hope something beautiful ... and I'm doing something. And also, and very importantly, it's because of all you readers and reviewers and all the people sending me PMs and ...

Wow. That's what I wanted to say: wow. The things you write to me about my writing or things about your life or a pick-me-up or a hey-there or whatever. You all have been so wonderful and sweet and bossy and ... everything.

Wow. Thank you.

And, oh, do you know how special you are, my dear readers? I don't know most of you, and that's okay if that's okay for you, but I do know about the ones that I've read from and written to, so may I extrapolate a bit. I may not know you or what you are going through, if anything, but I have been amazed in what I've read from you. Amazed.

So here's what I wanted to say about you, that I hope you take to heart and believe, you are awesome. You are awesome.

Anyone But Me webseries review

I'm supposed to be writing right now, but I got the link from oml to Anything But Me, and I had to watch what was available of both seasons right now.

The writing is transparent. There isn't writing, it's just ... life, so unflinchingly presented yet in such a heartwarming way. And the relationship between Vivian and Aster. I want that. Both girls are so, so strong and powerful, so strong, in fact that they show their strength, but then they also yield to the other, and most times yielding without a single fiber of self lost in their deference to each other. They have a mutual respect that ...

I can't describe it. I can only watch them, and love them, as they love each other, in their humanness, with all their might.

God! This series gives me such hope for our community, that we can also have this as being, you know, just life. Two girls, loving each other, and being in the world. Weird? Different? No. Just life.

And just so beautiful.

Thank you for this series.

kisses, 'phfina

p.s. and now, after having just watched the tenth webisode of the second season, I’m conflicted. I mean, the whole second season has been building up to this, but why do girls (or people) have to do this to each other? You both love each other so much, why do you have to lash out to her and just hit her there right where you know it kills her, absolutely kills her like that? And why do you have to make her lash out like that? You’ve got the perfect person, why does your thoughts have to be so conflicted like this?

Why?

I am hating this series right now. I am seriously hating it so much.

Movie Review: Fucking Åmål/Show Me Love

Okay, here's an idea, watch the Swedish film "Fucking Åmål" (under the title of "Show Me Love" at rental stores, such as Hollywood Video) today. No, it's not what you think, even if the alternate title is "Show Me Love." It's about this girl, Agnes, with chocolate brown hair and eyes who's new in school and feels left out and not beautiful, even though she is, and about this blond, pale bombshell named Elin who is too cool for everything and too hot for everyone? And definitely enjoys her popularity.

And the thing is, watching them, it looks like Rosalie, that is Elin, is all in charge, and Bella, that is Agnes, is always pining and indecisive, but that last scene in the bathroom (again, not what you're thinking) shows the vulnerable Elin and the self-assured Agnes that defines the relationship between the two girls.

And when Elin opens up that door after that seven seconds in Hell? And faces down everyone's censure? And casts aside her need to be like and liked by everyone?

You've just got to see this film.

Moon Over June

Just finished reading "Moon Over June" up to just past the deliveries of Moon and June, by WocGirl on livejournal and deviantART.

May I say something?

Wow!

I did not, at first, like Hatz/"Brittnie", and I didn't like, when I got to know her leanings, Summer/transfinite/Aleph(null). But that's my problem. What isn't my problem is this story. This fiction is so grounded that it appears to be captivating autobiography, or, the autobiography is so compelling that it appears to be captivating fiction. I may not have liked (past-tense) Summer nor Hatz, but I love Summer and Hatz, and the relationship that they work so hard (casually) to deny that they have. "Moon Over June" is a refreshing breath of clean (dirty, naughty, cheeky, sweet) air from the icky angst of the work I write. It's so delightful to emerge from the heaviness of my angst to read and enjoy and laugh out loud, helplessly, at the groundedness of Moon and June mommies. Summer and Hatz both have a real background that includes real jobs (arguing the merits of tristing over a sonogram, no less) and real freckles and real (dumbass) brothers (is there any other kind?). They aren't (always) wrapped up in themselves or each other, they are out there in the world, or at home, dealing with each other, dates, babies, and the rest of the intimacies and intrusions of life. The artistry is lovingly crafted and so are the characters and story.

Oh, and if you have to read anything at lililicious(dot)net, read "Indigo Blue." Really. Read it. Sweet and angsty and sweet.

Gnocchi and ... nothing

My favorite dish is gnocchi, but I can never make it like my Nana made it.

'Made it.' She died of cancer two years ago, and it feels like yesterday that I was holding her nothing hand as her body was eaten away by the cancer in the hospice. But every time I do take out the left-over mashed potatoes and the bag of flour, I make them as I watched her making them, and smile, remembering how she guided my tiny hands in her powerful ones as we made gnocchi together.

That was my Nana, my Italian grandmother.

I don't have one memory of my Irish grandmother. My understanding is that she ... drank, and she died when I was only a little girl. So I don't have any experience of being Irish, really, just some stories and my looks and that's it, because my mom's, you know, American.

I don't know where I'm going with this, because I am an American girl, and, as you may have read, I'm proud of that, too, but I'd also like to have a connectedness to my history, also, I guess. I mean, America has history, but not like history as in history, like the Italians or the Irish or the Greeks where they can go back more than a thousand years without breaking a sweat, and they can show you the places and buildings that older than that.

People who know their cultural heritage have a rootedness to them that I ... don't.

And I want that. I want to know that by making this cup of coffee I'm repeating the action that my ancestors have been doing for a thousand years, and I do feel that sense of peace when I make gnocchi and feel Nana's hands guiding mine, even today. But I don't feel that in much else of my life: turmoil is more like it. Restlessness. Rootlessness.

So if you do have a connection to your history, your culture, your past ... please treasure it and pass it on, because here's one little lost girl who so wants that grounding in her life.

kisses, 'phfina

Tragedy Hurt/Comfort

Sometimes I open up to somebody, and I get hurt. But I don't know what hurts more, opening up and risking that, or shutting down, and risking nothing — that is, just not living.

I just heard today to "love until it hurts." I don't know what that means. I know it doesn't mean that if I'm Sam in Prowling Panther that loving Chris until she hurts is the deal. And I know I'm hurting, a lot, these days, sharing these stories, sharing myself, with you, my

dear readers. But am I truly loving?

I don't know, my dearies. And I don't know how up I am for any of this.

But I am trying. My best. Really, truly, honestly.

kisses, 'phfina

Being Brave

It is so, so hard for me to try something new, because I'm not brave. At all. And when I try something, and it goes down in flames, can I try something new again? Yes, I guess I'll try again, ... I guess I'll keep trying. For, at least I did try. And that sounds brave, doesn't it? But I'm only human, okay? So, if you are able, be kind and gentle, and I will try to be kind and gentle back, and I will even fail at that, and for that, I'm sorry.

But I am trying. My best. Really, truly, honestly.

kisses, 'phfina

A Gift

Do you know what I have? A gift.

ffn has given me a gift: for now I have more friends than I've ever had in my life. And real friends, too, not just 'cyber' friends. Friends with whom I laugh, cry (a lot), sigh, and giggle, and who make me feel all warm and fuzzy.

Now all I have to do is to realize that and appreciate that .. and thank my friends: my readers.

Thank you, my friends.

I enjoy writing stories. I hope you enjoy reading them.

kisses, 'phfina

Southern Bella

I've just come to a realization.

I'm a Southern Belle.

Shocker for me to say this: skinny little pale Connecticut Yankee(ess) that I am, but here I was, yesterday, at the Memorial Day Parade, seeing all those Connectians (is that 'people from Connecticut'?) from East Haven High School, all pale (and now, all lobster-colored, like me ... remind me never to wear a tank with spaghetti straps again) march by, looking exactly like me.

Except none of them would recognize me now, because I've turned into a Southern Belle. I hear the word 'ma'am' and don't rip off the sayer's face, I'm polite, and ...

And, at the parade there were at least three different bands of soldier-reenactors honoring the Confederated States and the men and women who fought and died in The War Against the Northern Aggressors (some carpetbaggers call it the 'Civil War' but there was nothing 'civil' about it).

And that's when it hit me: I'm in the South. I'm a citizen of the Old Dominion, the State that was home to the capital of the Confederation.

I'm a ... gasp! ... Southerner! Heck, I was even carrying an umbrella ... no, that's not right: I was carrying a parasol, because I'm a sweet little Southern Belle, trying (unsuccessfully) to keep those oppressive rays of the sun off my dainty Southern skin.

Well, okay, maybe I'm not a Southern Belle, per se, but I do see, in myself, how a place becomes part of you, as you become a part of the place.

So I have another insight into myself as to why it's so easy for me to see Rosalie as she is: for, at base, she is a New Yorker, and I breathe being a person from that area of the country. I breathe it; it's in my bones.

Question for you: Bella grew up in Arizona. What is that like: being in Arizona, and Arizona being in you, and then moving to the wettest place in the U.S.A.? What is that like? That dislocation? That rootlessness, coming from that clear, brown heat to this oppressive wetness?

And the people, so, so different. Looking so like you on the outside, all so pale to be almost yellow in complexion, but so different on the inside, being Washingtonians, not Arizonans.

What's that like?

And I see now why I can so identify with Bella, of all people, too: for this Connecticut Yankee is not in King Arthur's court, but she may as well be, being in a world where people speak the same language, but speak it so differently, and have a way of relating to each other so, so differently, so, so less directly (or antagonistically, as they would say) than they did up North.

So, now I see that I just don't relate to Bella. No: I am Bella.

After all, I did find out yesterday that I am a Southern Bella.

kisses, 'phfina