Patricia Morin

We finally reached New York and our old homestead. Grand View is a village saddled in between Nyack, NY and Piermont, NY. It has 125 homes with some very famous people. Our home, now painted all white, was once lilac (main color), black cherry, burgundy, and white. people stayed in our cottage for a respite or to find themselves, a segue way of sorts. LamaTuptin Gyatso, a friend of the Dali Lama, stayed there for several weeks. He didn’t want to leave after coming to the birthday celebration of the Dali Lama July 4th many years ago. Two houses down lives the writer Thomas Burger, famous in the 70’s, and wrote “Little Big Horn,” later staring Al Pachino, “Neighbors” later staring Bill Murray and others (based on his life in Snedens Landing in Piermont where many movie stars lived.Most of the house faces the Hudson River and the other floors are below the street. Then we have, about fifteen houses south, Toni Morrison’s .homeAcross the street from us was William Stanley Wyatt, born in Grand View, (died 1962–son lives there)painter and sculpture, who created the bronze statue outside of St John the Divine church in NYC, atlas obscura.Up about a mile south from our home was the home of William Hurt, now moved.Down into Nyack, a mile north, we have director Johnathan Demi, and then there is Helen Hayes old house that was bought by Rosie O’Donold, who found privacy and issue, planting the huge hedges, then moving.  Hope you enjoyed some of the pictures from the old hood. We loved noting all the changes in the area, and reminiscing about the “good old days”.

Then, home to 84th and Amsterdam.

Till next time.

Our Road Trip from San Francisco to New York City: a 3,200 mile excursion with Tayya, our 8   year-old Lab/Australian Cattle Dog,

And Coral, our 5 year-old Betta fish.Strapped in for safety for all of five miles, then the water sloshed, and the bowl wound up secured on the front floor in front of me. You should have seen the looks when I carried the fish into the hotels.

On the way to Sacramento, we road through Donner Pass–some history there (plane crashed many years ago and people ate people to survive). Of course Larry, my husband, had to ask me if I was hungry.

Then on to Utah, and the city with the cleanest street and calmest feel, Salt Lake City.  Larry had to buy a Duncan Donuts coffee, his favorite, and a fond memory from his New York City days.

Beautiful views leaving the city. See the salt mound in the second picture?

We loved Denver. We were so filled with the city, we forgot to take more pictures! However, we did visit the car show, and decided that since we move so much, we would buy one of these. The motorcycles fit on the back. Of course, we’d have to travel more north with that plow!

Although Larry truly would have preferred one of these two cars. 🙂

Wyoming is one of my favorite states.The winds howled and the gust exceeded forty miles an hour, with fingers threatening to touch land.

Stopping for meals at different ‘home-down” restaurants, we came across this very different cocktail recipe in Idaho Falls, a college town where half of the town seemed to be inhabited by all 35,000 students of the university. Young bloods all over the city! The sunset … well ….

I thought I would love Chicago. But between the cold weather, overpowering high buildings all in rows blocking the sky, and lack of beauty, I felt disappointed. My theatres were dark as most are on Mondays and Tuesdays, but

luckily, the Art Institute of Chicago had a French Impressionism show with pieces we had never seen! Yay!

We stayed at the Hilton, and instead of heading out to a fine-dining restaurant, we eased into comfortable chairs, ate way too many nuts, and toasted the falling snow–that the denizens cursed, yet again.Across from the street there stood a park with a lone rider.

Onward to home … pictures … tomorrow

 

 

 

 

Last we left the Gumby’s crew, Gumby dove into the pool where he had previously retrieved a plastic purse. He had remembered seeing the filtering system nozzle somewhat ajar, and wanted to inspect it. (At this point, I didn’t have a clue what Gumby would find. At first I thought a weapon, but what good would that do the story, especially jammed in the nozzle? The filter nozzle was too small for anything useful. Then I pondered a disk, hidden with spy information. But really, spy stuff is really not “in” right now. How about a drone sensor and a list of those to be murdered? Nah, didn’t feel right. That’s international stuff. I wanted to keep it lighter, unhappy person to unhappy person. Well, then maybe he finds nothing. I didn’t like that either. Time to end this story. Gumby would have to stretch his abilities and find the biggest clue of all, if not the motive.) He unscrews the nozzle and carries it with him to the surface, massive amount of water now running through the drain.

Once on the surface, Officer Blue awaited his return. The Officer gaped at Gumby, and Vim and Vigor, with Pokey, watched over his shoulder as he disassembled the filter. To all their surprise, (and mine when I thought of it,) was a laminated, hand painted, portrait of a panther. “I know that panther!” Gumby shouted. And on the photo was a a dollar amount and a short note. $3,000 for the mold of the sculpture. Aha, Officer Blue and the others yelled. Now, all we have to do is count the money! The officer, not concerned about crime scene evidence being touched–even though the money was soaking wet– unraveled the roll of hundreds, and sure enough, the amount totaled $3,100!  “She was going to pay for the mold of the un-famous panther! But why would someone kill her for this mold, and why did she hide the photo before she drowned?” Gumby asked. Vim hopped around like a Jack rabbit. “I know, I know! Call on me, I know!” The officer pointed to Vim. “Because, well it’s obvious, because the panther was going to become famous, and the murderer wanted more than $3,000, and not just a hundred bucks.” Vim smiled his widest smile. Vigor shook his head back and forth contemplating the option.  “I think the extra money was for her to get home,” Pokey suggested, “and maybe even have dinner along the way.”    “Well,” Officer Blue said, “We have a dilemma. I’ll take all the evidence back with me and we’ll go through it piece by piece.” He pocketed the picture and the money. Pokey, not liking what she saw said, “Have you ever been to this house before officer?”    “No, I haven’t,”  Officer Blue proclaimed. Siren could be heard around the corner. “A aha!” Gumby yelled. “We got you!”  “Oh! I was right! It’s police officer!”     “No, but close Pokey. You gave me the idea! It was the security person that protected this house that could get back in easily without a key, and that probably heard that the lady here was going to buy that mold for $3,000 bucks. I called the police right after you did!” Gumby turned to the fake Officer Blue. “i called and checked on this house after seeing the security sticker on the window. Nice try, but you’re going to end up in jail.”   Officer Blue ran to the gate where he was met with the police. Gumby was thrilled! He had the most exciting day of his life! “Pokey,” he said affirmatively, “I know what I’m going to be!”  “A detective? You did so well on this case, and look at you … you’re thrilled.”  “No, Pokey, I’m going to be a travel agent. I’ll be damned if I’m going into pools to retrieve dead bodies and hold my breath trying to find evidence. I’m going to be a travel agent.” Gumby was thrilled with his decision. It enlivened him. He invited the crew out for a drink to celebrate the end of the caper the beginning of being a travel agent career.                                                                                         Gumby loved being a travel agent!                                                 

PS… When I saw the picture of Gumby with the panther, I had my answer. Thanks to Peter Schmidt’s photos of Gumby on their vacation, and lots of other places—––

Next: We go back to the serious, the psychological, the lonely and “The Art of Being Alone.”

Last we left Gumby and his friends, he was swimmingin a pool toward a dead body with something moving under it. Vim ran and hid behind Vigor who stood near the edge of the pool in case Gumby needed help. Pokey squinted at the body in the pool after she called 911.

Gumby stayed still until a black shadow surfaced next to the body. A black plastic purse! It must be filled with air. Gumby swam to the body, and pulled her to the side of the pool by her suit jacket, the coat floating off of her body. Creeped-out Gumby jumped out of the pool, and stood next to Pokey waiting for the police. “Should we take the purse out of the water?” Gumby asked Pokey as if she knew what to do. “No, let the police do that.” They all glanced at the purse as it sunk to the bottom of the pool. “Well the police are going to have to dive in for that,” Gumby said. “So much for going for a swim.” He felt down again. Nothing seemed to be going right. Now, all he wanted was a drink and a smoke.

(Gotta do something with that purse, I thought)

Pokey inspected the body, and Vigor helped her turn it over so that the eyes face stared up at them. They gasped! Pokey moved aside so Gumby could see. Around her neck was a blue blotch of bruising. She was strangled! (I knew there had to be some clue on the body since there was no blood.) She was murdered! (yep, murder mystery) They all jumped back a step as if she would come alive.

Pokey trotted over to the house and twisted all the doors knobs. Locked. The gate was locked and the house was locked. Maybe there were keys in her purse? “Go get her purse, Gumby,” Pokey nudged, “Maybe there is a clue in there. We can help the police. Aren’t you curious? I am.” Vim ran around the pool. “Me, too! Me, too!” he shouted as Vigor nodded. “Go get it,” Vigor added. Gumby sighed, but had to admit he was also wondering about what secrets the purse held. “Okay.” He jumped in the pool and enjoyed the splash of cool water on his green skin. He dove to the bottom and grabbed the purse. No sooner did he pull himself out of the pool, Pokey snatched the pocketbook, opened it, and turned it upside down letting the contents fall onto the cement walk along the pool. What fell out of the purse as the police sirens could be heard approaching?

(Gotta go and figure the rest of this out. No, I don’t know what happens yet.)

Tune in ….

 

Someone name Peter Schmidt photographed his travels with his little green companion, Gumby, to Florida. I guess Gumby could work as a travel guide. Maybe not.

During the holidays, I thought about Gumby rarely, I must confess. I started to wonder if I had picked the right character for my next short story. I can’t imagine why now, but at the time in Santa Barbara, I felt a zing in my imagination, and said, “Gumby could be the ONE. Noodle some ideas around in your head and see what pops.” Nothing popped. In fact, Gumby fizzled. Gumby, Gumby, Gumby. Judy, Judy, Judy. Character. Imagination. Plot. Imagination.

Gumby went to Florida. Stood by a palm tree. No coconuts hit him. He pointed out the swimming pool. No one kicked him in. He swam at the beach (or kissed the sand), and didn’t drowned. He rested in a beach chair to get some sun and a deep, deep forest-green color. No one sat on him. What next?

A symbol of what I should do with my idea of a short story involving Gumby?

No! This is the beginning of how a short story forms. Anything goes, until something hits and whala! Maybe I have to look more into the heart of the character. It can’t be fun being so small and green, not to mention not even being alive. There is no heart in this character. Now I have to create the heart.

I’ll have to noddle this some more, maybe even get Pokey involved. Pokey was a horse, his friend. Pokey is female, well, I don’t know that for sure. But in my story, Pokey will be a female. She’ll be fun and feisty and full of herself, and an energy that introduces his boring world to vim and vigor. Hey, I can make them characters! Vim and Vigor are twins. Parents of twins often do that … like Janet and Joan … Peter and Paul … it’s a shred of believable reality that we can pull into the story. Yeah, I like it. I’m feeling invigorated again. Okay, so Vim will be impulsive, not thinking things through before acting, a bit weak when it comes to confrontation, but fun. Vigor will be the essence of the action, the strength, the grounding rod for Vim. So now we have Gumby, and Pokey (his best friend and one of his few), who acquaints Gumby to Vim and Vigor.

Gotta get Gumby out of the travel business … get his head out of the sand, and into something much more exciting.

Onward …

 

Walking down State Street in Santa Barbara, a desire to write another short story nagged my imagination. I had begun another novel, a dark psychological novel that subdued me for weeks. I needed a breath of fresh air, and my imagination needed to explore another short-story avenue. Can’t stay submerged in one writing arena for too long, I get anxious, restless to wander.

I studied items in the Fine Arts Museum shop window: books, jewelery, posters, toys, models of sculptures. Yes, a full window. Maybe I should write about something I see in the store, I thought. That would be new. Although I’m never lost for ideas, I wanted to write something different than my usual mystery. I wanted to practice writing something “out-of-the-box” for me. Although I tend to be very diverse, and many a critique has felt less than positive about the multiplicity, I wanted to stretch myself–like an artist does when doing a series of pieces and studying dimensionality.

I then decided I would take pictures of the items that most caught my eye, pick one to write about, and take you along for the ride.

Here they are as I photographed them: (Which one do you think I chose?)

One of my favorite cartoons as a young kid.

 

Love robots (Robbie the Robot being my first from Lost In Space.)

Psychologically who doesn’t feel this way at times?

Oh so pretty.

Photography makes the picture. Love it.

Ah, that gruesome side of humanity, the darkness, the depth, and the dead.

I came home and downloaded the pictures. I studied them and how I felt about each of them. Where did the story lie? I decided right-off that it wasn’t in the pretty dress … didn’t tickle my fancy enough. And “The Scream”–too psychological for me. Easier to write, not out-of-the-box enough for a wayward story. Beard and photography … I would save that for a later date. The front-cover picture unfolded its own story, and I wanted nothing to suggest the person, profession, or timeline of the tale. Darkness, depth, depression, and death–all in my new book–needed to get away from that. Okay, I was left with the robot, and the cartoon. Which would be the hardest to write? I had already imagined and started notes for “The Archivist”, A sci-fi story that takes place in the distant future. But I had stopped it dead in it’s over-worded tracks. Hmm, yes, I went with Gumby. I haven’t the foggiest clue where the Gunby team will take me, but we’re meandering the road together headed into a new light. I’ll need to noodle it around in my brain, in fits and starts, day and night, pieces floating through an untouched abyss until they meet and form.

To be continued … dreams, ideas, and characters

Thanksgiving and Your Shadow:

 

In Jungian Analytical theory there is a concept called the Shadow. The Shadow is the collection of unacceptable characteristics about ourselves, others, and society that we place in the dark nooks and crannies of our personality. As these characteristics expand, they form their own “shadow” personality. It does not enter the conscious pathway easily. For example: Only through years of repressed anger, will a simple comment by your mother release a venomous slip-of-the-tongue response that could slash her to pieces. It may feel good for a second, but then the shadow bolts back into the eerie subconscious, and you are left holding your guilt. So I wouldn’t advise you curse at your mother in front of everyone this Thanksgiving.

One aspect of our culture, and all cultures throughout the world, is the need for social mores, an important part of the function of the civilized world. As Robert Johnson says in Owning Your Own Shadow, “Some of the pure gold of our personality is relegated to the shadow because it can find no place in that leveling process that is culture.” Part of our culture is imbedded in traditions and holidays. Thanksgiving, a holiday formed from the bringing together of two disparate forces and giving thanks for the union, has changed over the years.

Football, turkeys, family meetings, Macy’s parade of plastic icons, and overeating.

“Every individual needs,” as Jung stated in 1966, “a revolution, inner division, overthrow of the existing order, and renewal, but not by forcing them upon his neighbors under the hypocritical cloak of Christian love or the sense of social responsibility.”

What is it you really want to do on Thursday? What does your shadow whisper in your ear?  Are you being hypocritical by being with someone you don’t like, and feel forced to “be good”?

Why? Really.

Well, I did it! I finished my novel, Seniors Inc.  I’m happy. Very, very thrilled, and relieved. Excited. Nervous. Not nail biting. No. A bit scared. Not panicked. No. Will send her off for reviews. Reviewing. Looked at. Studied. Scrutinized. Not anxious. No. Weary. Yes. Keep her home. Yes. Safe. Yes. No. She must go. Go. Yes. Good Bye. Never to return the same.

 

That was my reaction to letting my completed work go to reviewers, a trip it has yet to take.

 

Priscilla Royal, a fellow mystery author, who writes the Prioress Eleanor / Brother Thomas medieval mystery series from Poisoned Pen Press has graciously allowed me to reprint her blog post, and share author Anne Bradstreet’s poem on this exact subject. The tenth book in Priscilla’s series, “Covenant with Hell” will be released this December. Look for it. Her website is www.priscillaroyal.com.  Here is her post from The LadyKillers Blog.

 I offer the following 17^th century poem from Anne Bradstreet, often called the first published American poet. I think she speaks for many of us when we finish a book, send it off to the reviewing wolves, and hope against hope their teeth will not leave scars… 

The Author To Her Book  

Thou ill-formed offspring of my feeble brain,

Who after birth did’st by my side remain,

Till snatcht from thence by friends, less wise than true,

Who thee abroad exposed to public view,

Made thee in rags, halting to th’ press to trudge,

Where errors were not lessened (all may judge).

At thy return my blushing was not small,

My rambling brat (in print) should mother call.

I cast thee by as one unfit for light,

The visage was so irksome in my sight,

Yet being mine own, at length affection would

Thy blemishes amend, if so I could.

I washed thy face, but more defects I saw,

And rubbing off a spot, still made a flaw.

I stretcht thy joints to make thee even feet,

Yet still thou run’st more hobbling than is meet.

In better dress to trim thee was my mind,

But nought save home-spun cloth, i’ th’ house I find.

In this array, ‘mongst vulgars may’st thou roam.

In critic’s hands, beware thou dost not come,

And take thy way where yet thou art not known.

If for thy father askt, say, thou hadst none;

And for thy mother, she alas is poor,

Which caused her thus to send thee out of door.