Found this button online, a steampunk theme with cursive writing. I do so little writing by hand these days that my penmanship is atrocious. But I do know how to write that way, and I well remember all the handwritten letters I received in my younger years (truth be told, I still have most of them, though I hope all the males to whom I ever sent letters have thrown all of mine away–or could send them to me, so I can roll my eyes at my younger self).
I already had journals and journaling on my mind when I was looking at buttons today. Yesterday, as I searched for my original essential oils inventory list, which I never found (finally just started a new one and input it to a computer doc, so I’ll know where to find it when I need it again), I opened a file folder that contained a tangle of embroidery thread and a ticket stub. I suspect the embroidery thread went with a cross-stitch piece I started back in the 1990s of a white cat sitting in a window (you can read about that in an old post here).
When the stitching remained unfinished, I finally wrote a poem about it and put the partially finished piece in a frame with the poem. It hung on my wall at The Compound for years, and now I have no clue where it is. I added it to my list of inexplicably missing items.
In the same folder, I found a ticket to a matinee showing of Star Wars: The Last Jedi from February 2018. That faded ticket, at least, I could put inside my current Moleskine.
As you can see, I’ve rarely used my Moleskines for capturing my sloppy cursive writing.
Like the one above, the Moleskines (and some are Moleskine knockoffs) are filled with mementoes of all kinds, and they get very fat; too fat for shelving. So they have a bin they go into when they’re full. I do still journal from time to time, but I mostly scribble a day’s events or thoughts in whatever kind of day planner or daily appointment book I keep.
Do you still handwrite your letters? Do you journal or keep a datebook or diary?
P.S. I have now reread all five of the TJB novels. I was amazed at how many things I’ve forgotten and how moved I could still be by those characters and their stories. This book, in particular, required a box of tissues right next to me. I kept having to close the book and cry.
Now I need to get back to The Musician in the Neverending Saga before he writes mean songs about my neglect.
Doing inventory of my essential oils and essential oil blends to see what I need to reorder is a quiet, serene task. It reminds me how important it is for us to make space in and around our homes for those things that give us peace and maybe help us do a little self-inventory, as well.
ETA: I never forget my mother’s birthday. I never forget my parents’ wedding anniversary. But almost always, June 1 slips by me. I’ve been confused by what day it is for two weeks now, so I was surprised when I noticed it’s June 1. THIS time, at least, the memory of my family being together on June 1, 2008, to say goodbye to Dorothy Jean, didn’t get by me.
A couple of days in a row (Tuesday and Wednesday), we had storms. On both occasions, the power has flickered but hasn’t gone out. One thing I’ve learned, however, is the bad weather a couple of weeks ago definitely had an impact on my dogs. When the sky gets dark and there’s thunder, they all have strong reactions. This didn’t used to be the case, and I feel sad for them. I try to distract them, let them be where they feel safest, and I talk to them (which I do all the time anyway) in my normal conversational voice.
Anime and Eva are hiding their heads, Delta’s trembling, and Jack seems to be in protect mode closest to the door, but I think he’s just sleeping.
Meanwhile, I am not writing, but I think what I’m doing is probably good for me as a writer. As I predicted might happen, after reading the first couple of TJB books, in between dog management, cleaning up after dogs in the backyard, and doing housekeeping, I’ve kept going and read numbers three and four of TJB’s books.
I’ve wondered sometimes about things we might have missed the mark on, plus there’s so much I’ve forgotten and wondered how I’d react to all of it. Every time I stopped, instead of the things I feared, I was caught up in the stories and only wanted to keep reading. Time and distance have been friendly, and I need to remember this when I’m being hypercritical of my new writing. Trust the process and trust that eventually, there will be early readers who’ll give me feedback before I hit “publish” on anything.
Looking forward to reading number five, the last of the TJB books.
Something else I did while the power was out was unplanned but not unprovoked.
From time to time, readers of the TJB books mention to its four writers, or on social media or book sites like Goodreads, that they’re reading the five Manhattan novels again (the fourth of those isn’t set in Manhattan but is connected peripherally with two or three cameo appearances by or references to the Manhattan characters). There are also people who say they reread my two Coventry books (especially A Coventry Christmas during the holiday season). There are still people who tell me Three Fortunes In One Cookie (written with Timothy) is their favorite of all the books I’ve cowritten (and some who contend that in The Deal, the main character chose the wrong man at the end, which always tickles me; as readers, we bring our own histories with us to the books we read).
I understand this compulsion to reread, because there are novels I’ve been rereading since I was a kid. They’re comfort novels, or novels connecting me to childhood, or funny novels that still make me laugh, or novels with love stories that I never tire of. There’s nothing like a satisfying ending to a love story. One set of novels I’ve reread more times than I could count, written in the 1940s/50s, is a series that tracks a family from the American Revolution to World War II. It connects me not only to my joy of reading as a young teen, but to my mother and sister, who also read, treasured, and reread the series. (Note: The last time I read these, I said, “Debby, these novels would be problematic now,” and she agreed. I guess they’re like early love: recalled with affection, but with awareness that it probably wouldn’t appeal to you at a wiser age.)
Additionally, beginning around 1990, I read a lot of gay fiction (and non-fiction, for that matter), much of it recommended by my late friend Steve, a bookseller and avid reader. It was Steve who said to me, “One day, when you write, please tell our stories. Please don’t let all these things be forgotten.”
In the early to mid ’90s, every attempt I made to do so (mostly in short stories) felt flat to me. It could be because I felt flat. There was a lot of loss to take in over a few short, intense years. I knew I’d rather write nothing than write it badly.
And then into my life came very much alive men who urged me to write those stories, and the three men who began to write them with me, with the outcome of that: books on bookshelves.
About those novels I wrote or cowrote: I read them so much when writing, editing, and proofreading them, that by the time they were released (usually about a year after the final manuscript was submitted), I didn’t have a lot of interest in revisiting them. As soon as a novel was released, I’d read it once, for two reasons: I looked for any errors that made it through all those sets of eyes (ours and our publishers), and I wanted to refresh my memory before I read industry reviews and reader reviews, and before I/we started getting reader email.
Not including short stories in anthologies, the nine novels I’ve written or co-written were released over the years 2001 to 2007. I likely haven’t reread any of them since their publication year, other than quick checks to ensure continuity (since characters are shared in the TJB books and they are linear, and the same is true of the Coventry books).
Upon the release of the TJB novels, I could say with pinpoint accuracy which of the writers wrote what scenes, as well as recall discussions of what edits were made by us to all of us. And now… I have discovered that’s no longer true. While the power was out, during daylight hours, I picked up the first Manhattan novel, It Had To Be You, and read it again. I was amazed by all the things I’d forgotten. I knew the general plot and how it would end, but mostly it was like reading it for the first time. The most startling thing was that I COULDN’T REMEMBER WHO WROTE WHAT.
All that made for a much more pleasurable read. I’d worried about a couple of things over the years: that the books would be dated (especially with how technology has changed); and that some things might seem insensitive, because we understand or are learning so much more about LGBTQ+ lives and issues in 2024 than we did when that first book was written (beginning in 1998 and up until publication in 2001). All of those concerns melted away as I got to read that book with fresh eyes. Would I rewrite the book? No. Are there word choices I might edit? Sure. Always. But none of that took away my enjoyment of the characters, the humor, the pathos, and the drama–because some characters are actors, female impersonators, or drag queens, of course there is drama. Drama is their profession. And after all, outside of novels, we are each of us the main characters/heroes/villains of our own ongoing stories.
I don’t know if I’m ready to reread all of the novels I’ve written or cowritten, but I don’t mind admitting that when I closed the back cover on this one:
I immediately returned it to the shelf and took out this one:
In both novels, though I couldn’t say for sure who wrote exactly what, there are points when I said, “OH, this sounds like me, and I hope I wrote that. Either that or part of it.” And points when I realized there are connections/similarities between things in those first two novels to things I’m currently writing. That leads me to believe those things were written by me, or if not, as I texted Timothy and Jim, “Don’t sue me.”
I was putting something away in the living room display cabinets when this caught my attention. A small silver box, in the shape of a star, that’s badly in need of polish. (I will take care of this.)
I had a vague recollection of its contents, so I pulled it out, opened it, and first found this disk, about the size of a quarter.
Not sure where I got this, although my friend Sarena, whose business had “serenity” in its name, could have given it to me. Trying to help people find serenity was a big part of both our businesses in the 1990s, and remains so for her. (Not that I wouldn’t still like to give people serenity, but I no longer operate a business for that purpose.) On the back side, the disk says Peace Of Mind.
I’m also not sure where I got the star box (Lynne?), but it did contain what I thought it did: this necklace.
The pendant on the right, containing a quartz crystal with amethyst and small bands of smoky quartz, has a little compartment on the top (with a tiny amethyst set in its top) that opens. I may have bought this in Yellow Springs, Ohio, on a family visit. I remembered there was once a note in the compartment. It’s still there, and it reads: Forever in my heart…Steve and Jeff. Steve is the first friend I lost to AIDS, in 1992.
The pendant on the left, with a small stone of either smoky quartz or topaz, also once contained three green tourmaline sticks. The sticks symbolized, to me, Steve, Jeff (who I met through Steve), and me. I was at work one day in 1995, looked down at the necklace, and realized one tourmaline was missing. This was when Jeff, from whom I was estranged (his choice), was really ill, and I felt like the missing crystal was a harbinger of bad news. People at work searched, with me, offices, the atrium, and other rooms I’d been in, but the crystal was never found. Not too many days later, our mutual friend Tim R called to give me the sad news that Jeff was gone. Several years later, I went with my friends Amy and Richard to the house that had been Jeff’s, where I’d spent so many happy times, and buried the remaining two tourmalines, which had been cleared then programmed with love and good energy, in one of Jeff’s flowerbeds.
I no longer remember where I got the middle pendant: an amethyst, with a unakite disk above it that has a small garnet in the middle. I’m sure it had significance connected to these friends–Steve, Jeff, Tim R, and John–but some memories remain more vivid than others.
Observed on the last Monday in May, Memorial Day is a federal holiday in the U.S. for honoring and mourning military personnel who died while serving in the Army, Marine Corps, Navy, Air Force, Space Force, and Coast Guard.
Speaking of unicorns, it’s Timothy J. Lambert’s birthday today! Wishing him a happy one and looking forward to celebrating it when we can all convene. Thought I’d share photos from most of the birthdays we’ve celebrated with him since he moved here in late 2001. Missing years are likely photos inaccessible on a maimed computer; if he was in town, we celebrated on or around his birthday.
She smiles at a face that smiles through leaves from the mirror.
She breathes the fragrance; her dark eyes close . . .
Time is dissolved, it blows like a little dust…
Lines from Conrad Aiken’s THE HOUSE OF DUST: A Symphony
This was our living room sofa at The Compound. It was a sofa bed, so we could accommodate guests. Besides the master bedroom, we had only one bedroom with twin beds for guests. This sofa opened to a queen-sized mattress, and it was used when family and friends visited and our guest bedroom spilled over.
Mother lived in the garage apartment (the Dollhouse), and she used the space upstairs for her bedroom and living area, and the downstairs had her dining room table in the open space that included the kitchen.
After Mother moved (several times, to many places in three states), and Timothy moved to Houston, the Dollhouse became his. That’s when couches began moving around. I’d given the twin beds and the hutch that matched them to Lynne, and moved an off-white sofa (that my mother left) into that bedroom.
Guinness, Margot, and River playing chase on the off white sofa.
There were also two workspaces in that room, turning it into an office for Tim and me (we were at that time writing books together, and it was very efficient for us to office in the same space).
Tim with Rex, the silent TJB partner, in the office he and I shared.
Tim bought a leather sofa from Amy for the Dollhouse living room. And we eventually got rid of Mother’s off white sofa and bought a smaller blue sleeper sofa to put in The Compound’s second bedroom. It, too, was used a lot, so it was very convenient.
Rex and Sugar, napping on the little blue sofa bed.
We didn’t NEED any more couches. They were everywhere. But one day, shopping for something else, I found an antique love seat and chair. IMPULSE BUY.
Penny and Pixie, deciding the antique love seat is just right.Queen Margot chooses to sleep alone on the antique chair.
The big brown sofa bed went downstairs in Tim’s apartment. And then Tim got a sectional sofa group from a friend, and Amy’s old leather couch came to The Compound, and damn if I remember where we put the antique love seat and chair.
AND THEN WE ALL MOVED TO HOUNDSTOOTH HALL in 2015, where there was so much more room, inside and out, for dogs. And for the sofas they sleep on!
The little blue sleeper sofa was in our library along with the antique love seat and chair. Amy’s leather sofa was in our living room. And the big brown sofa bed was in the spacious office.
Anime, deciding she’ll take this bedroom, please.
Tim had his sectional in Fox Den; Debby brought her furniture from Ohio when she moved into Fairy Cottage; and all was well. Until…. the 2017 flood. Goodbye, Debby’s chair and couch. Goodbye, Tim’s sectional. Goodbye, Becky and Tom’s brown sofa bed and little blue sleeper sofa. And thank goodness for flood insurance!
Amy’s leather sofa was undamaged in our living room. Then we had the antique love seat and chair reupholstered (along with a chair Lynne had given us and a chair Sarah had given us years ago that were also flood damaged). We were in no hurry to replace the brown sofa bed.
Debby and Tim replaced their furniture first. Then Tim decided that his replacement sofa (almost the same color blue as our old sleeper sofa) wasn’t durable enough for his large dogs, so we took it and he got something a little tougher.
Jack and Delta: New Blue Sofa is ours.
The blue sofa worked, but look where Jack is.
“I need a lot of mattress so I don’t feel the pea.” –The Princess Anime
And look where Anime is.
Those two and Delta always wanted to sleep on those back cushions, often all three of them at the same time, which I knew would gradually break the cushions down. I was constantly plumping them and making the dogs move. Finally, I made a decision. Years ago, Tom and I had a daybed in one of our guest rooms (pre-Compound), and I’ve always missed it. I decided I wanted another daybed in the office, and we could donate the blue sofa while it was still in very good condition.
Pollock is one of the reasons I wanted something that could be slept on in the office. Back in the old days, before the flood, Pollock and his sisters would hang out in our house while I worked from home and Tom and Tim worked elsewhere. But all the dogs were apart for a month after the flood, and when Tim and his dogs returned, Delta and Jack didn’t like Pollock coming over anymore. It was fine. Pollock, Pixie, and Penny were cool in Fox Den, and Debby was nearby with Harley and Stewie.
In the seven years since, a lot of things changed because of aging dogs. Harley went to the Rainbow Bridge. Then Penny. Then Pixie. Then Stewie.
After pandemic restrictions eased, Tim’s work schedule got very busy, requiring him to be away occasionally several nights in a row. After Stewie was gone, Pollock would hang out with Debby. When Debby scheduled a couple of months away on her current trip, I decided if I went ahead and got a daybed for the office, Pollock and I could sleep back there. The Dutch door would keep him and our dogs apart and avoid any drama. (It’s not bad drama. There’s no fighting. But there’s a lot of trash talking, and Tom and I both like to sleep.)
After a suggestion from Lynne, I checked Ikea’s site for daybeds and found exactly what I wanted, and they had it in stock. Tom went to get it. The idea was that he’d put it together weekend before last, and he and Tim would take the blue sofa in Tim’s new truck to Goodwill.
Oh. Did you know Tim has a new truck? His ten-year-old car had served him well, but it had a LOT of miles and was at the point where repairs would be needed.
He’s happy with his purchase, but neither man nor beast will be sleeping in the truck.
Then I read that rain was forecast last Wednesday and Thursday, and since Tim was pressed for time, he and Tom packed the blue sofa into my SUV and Tom took it to Goodwill on Tuesday. That evening, he decided to assemble the bed instead of waiting for the weekend. (He’s one of those people who likes to put things together from diagrams, and they always turn out right. This is not a skill I understand at all.)
So. Daybed was in place. I had plenty of time to get linens and maybe some new dog-friendly throw pillows, and change the room around a little before Debby left and Tim would be away at night, leaving Pollock free to come over for slumber parties with me.
Except as we all know now, we got that rain that was forecast and WAY more drama from wind than dogs ever cause. Without electricity, I ended up sleeping on that daybed days before intended. It was right by windows that let a breeze into the room. Our four dogs could go between sleeping with Tom and with me; there wouldn’t be four hot dogs and two hot humans in any one bed.
When the power came back Wednesday, I was finally better able to ready the new setup for when Pollock sleeps over.
I ran off dogs so I could take this photo of the new daybed and the old quilt.
ETA: I never forget my mother’s birthday. I never forget my parents’ wedding anniversary. But almost always, June 1 slips by me. I’ve been confused by what day it is for two weeks now, so I was surprised when I noticed it’s June 1. THIS time, at least, the memory of my family being together on June 1, 2008, to say goodbye to Dorothy Jean, didn’t get by me.
