Easter April 2018
Last year, during autumn 2017, a friend commented to me that moving to a new house would really get my creative juices flowing! I dryly explained that most of my creativity was currently going into the design of the new house.
One volume of poems, 5 short stories, and many Art Gallery Essays later, I concur with Said Friend, and with great satisfaction!
I presently await the construction of a Dream Home that I did indeed help design. That work-in-progress will compete for my attention as I continue translation of THE DAWN into L’AUBE, all while I inhabit the spacious but temporary living space of my life, known as The Rental.
I have all that I need for many happy translations:
The Canvas Saddle Bag containing the Dictionary, French Verb Tome, Newly Printed Chapter, 8-1/2x 11 legal pad, and 2 reference file folders.
What more could a gal-writer ask for?
Oh, yes, her laptop. It fits well into the canvas bag.
And it seems I’ve got another novel on the prod. Dear Husband says that I’m about to write my first Western. He may be right. I’m always the last to know whenever I’m about to write another novel. THE SILENT HEART is a lot less silent these days! And nights.
There’s a song by Roy Rogers that I love, and it comes from the film of the same name: Don’t Fence Me In.
In this 1945 Hollywood Western, Wildcat Kelly has been dead and buried for years. Or maybe not. The plot of this flick revolves around finding out the true story of this long-dead highwayman.
The movie, it’s a good’un. And so is the song!
Wildcat Kelly, lookin' mighty pale
Was standing by the sheriff's side
And when that sheriff said,
"I'm sending you to jail,”
Wildcat raised his head and cried:
Oh, give me land,
Lots of land
under starry skies above
Don't fence me in
Let me ride through the wild open country
that I love
Don't fence me in.
Let me be by myself in the evening breeze
Listen to the murmur
of the cottonwood trees
Send me off forever,
but I ask you please
Don't fence me in.
Just turn me loose
Let me straddle my old saddle
Underneath the western skies
On my cayuse,
Let me wander over yonder
Till I see the mountains rise.
I want to ride to the ridge
Where the west commences
And gaze at the moon
Until I lose my senses
I can't look at hobbles
And I can't stand fences
Don't fence me in!
The Rand-McNally Road Atlas traditionally tucked under the upholstered sofa is no longer necessary for this artistic soul. My wanderlust is being fulfilled in so many ways these days that it’s hard to describe, but I’ll try:
Exhilarating, liberating, a bit overwhelming, intermixed with a lot of satisfaction and a little fatigue.
I’ve hauled my last fire logs from the stack outside, in to the big stone fireplace. I’ve done my last Spring Cleaning of this house and I’ve washed my last window!
There’s also been some elbow-grease applied to thinning out the herd in the pantry and cobwebbing the ceilings with my trusty broom. I’ve also secured my millinery-crown jewels in Hat Boxes and packed into Banker’s Boxes all The Stuff.
The French call such personal possessions « les biens » or « les affaires personnelles », which lend such a lovely ring to Things You Own.
Truth to tell, this day of déménager, of moving out, has been a long time coming. Years, in fact. Part of me déménager’d with Camille Richarde when I began to write THE DAWN in late 2008.
That part of me never quite moved back to this Master House of my occupation and pre-occupation. It is that part of me that feels very “in the moment” as these happy trails come true for me.
This morning I woke up to sunshine streaming in through windows without curtains. Most of the furniture has been moved into the parlor, along with the big Persian rug, all-rolled up, and copious boxes. The Stuff awaits 2 Guys and a Truck for the momentous move to the Rental House.
On this day, The Master House looks wide open and ready for me to take flight from it —
“Like Nike,” I told Dear Husband.
With winged feet!
To every one who chances upon this writer’s website, I am wishing good luck, glorious victories, beautiful dreams-come-true, and a pot of gold at the end of every rainbow.
