Husband is busy on his projects, but Molly isn’t. She’s slugging it out on another project, but it isn’t the one she comitted to — and the days slip by. It’s difficult for Molly to ignore this. That she’s committed herself to several other things — fundraising, teaching part time, organizing luncheons at the school, driving back and forth to music and dance lessons — and has not advanced any personal goal. Lots of paper, lots of labor but no advancement.

This must be marked. And remedied. At least there is a public acknowledgement of my awareness that I am behind schedule. This is a beginning. Awareness. Insight. Change? Improvement? Time will tell.

Reminded of Beckett’s harrowing line, “Ah, yesterday.” We groaned about today and tomorrow we long for it — because it was better. We were younger, we weren’t as sick, we didn’t realize. Alas, we didn’t realize. What will it take before I feel motivated to do what should have been so long ago?

Reminded of Henry James. Just got an e-mail, “Checks are ready at the front desk.” Indeed they are. Now I need to go and grab them.

I can turn this around. And I will. Will I? Yes I will.

I watch him. I see his action. He is determined and fierce. I love him so. He speaks the truth and then he moves toward his goal. With steady force, power and determination. I am living with a great inspiration. Now can I fix it and do it?

Shakespeare comes to mind. Hamlet.

I’ve decided that the one thing I like to do is include a photo on each post. It breaks up the language, gives a visual sparkle to the entire page and allows me to express myself. To accomplish this, I’ve asked that my cheap digital camera stay near my desk. But it is never here. You see, I have a 14 year old daughter. It follows that I will never have the power to organize my belongings if she has the remotest interest in any of them. This applies, of course, to digital cameras. It also applies to all forms of makeup, jewelry, clothes items (that have not been rejected in advance as being too hideous to consider) and anything else of the remotest interest to my 14 year old darling.

Many times, I have asked that the camera, in particular, not be taken from my desk. In the alternative, I ask that if it is “borrowed”, that it be returned promptly to the location from which is was taken.

Today, I decided that I would try to blog. I would attempt to express what it is my heart. I notice that there are millions of blogs — blogs about everything and the blogs are filled with photographs, music and ideas. Simple people, expressing their point of view into the internet ether. I want to jump on this bandwagon, to be a part of it, however inartfully, with my contribution.

After a complete search of the house, I cannot find the camera. Today’s photo will be taken from my collection of family photos, and has nothing to do at all with anything relating to this installment. It shall, instead, simply be a symbol of all the things I can’t find, can’t organize, can’t start or finish, because of my inability to take ownership of my own creative juices.

Here it is.

Inappropriate photo from my collection for the blog.

And, despite the eternal sunshine, the magnificence of the mountains and my fellowship with the lifestyle of Southern California, I must admit that every Autumn, I get a deep, powerful urge to be back home. In the leaves. In the rain and sleet and grey-gold rosy gloom of a Chicago Autumn. I just do. I do this, even though I know that the seasons here in California are distinct and subtly dramatic. The chill of the autumn air, the first of the rains – and the glamor of the few deciduous trees that do the autumn dance. The distinct spare loveliness of a California winter garden. The morning chill and afternoon heat and evening chill again.

It’s not the all-out mess you find in the mid-west and East. And, despite the occasional snow flurry in Malibu — and the appearance in Winter of snow on the tops of the Santa Susannas — there will be no first snow. Not like in the old neighborhood on my beloved, flat south side of Chicago.

I was in the midst of such an annual funk yesterday when I bumped into a dear friend at church. She announced that she and her husband were going to hike the national park south on Chesebro in Agoura. There were some sulfur beds and live and scrub oaks and a sheep farm at the end of it — and would I like to join them? Okay. Okay I said — I love a hike and it’s good to switch it up.

At 3:00 pm, we entered the national park off Chesebro and padded up the road, past the landfill to the trails. A cool breeze in a perfect 70 degree late afternoon sun. The way was dotted with horse manure: I guess there are riders along the path, although none could be seen. The sharp fragrance of sage mixed with live oak were alternately magnificent and mysterious in the dusky light and darkness of the late, long canyon shadows. Seven miles of easy, even, cool walking, aided by an urgent wind which could be heard in the distance, whistling and playing in the nooks of distant canyon. On the way back, a cocky young coyote locked arrogant eyes with us, stood his ground for a daring moment and then trotted off, his yellow coat fading nicely in the long gold grass. At 6:00 in the late afternoon, his brazen stare told us, he was getting ready to take over the trail. We had better hurry along.

In the deepest part of the trail, grey dried grass nestles around the trees in the distance to give a smokey, ghostly appearance to the trail. Eyes settle on the effect — is it fog? Smoke? Just the color of the dried grasses in the dusk? A stunning effect.

We trudge toward the sunset as the sun slips behind the canyons and gives a sharp, glowing edge to the silhouette of mountain rock. The silhouette of a half moon appears dim and then brightens against a darkening sky. Along the furthest edge of the peak, a smokey pink wisp of cloud fades a bit, darkens and then disappears in the darkening sky. Two stink bugs sommersault in the dust as we make our way home to the parking lot.

The blog cries out for photos, but I have none. Stretching my vocabulary and imagination to the limits to try to describe it. 7 miles of sheer loveliness. At home, we kick off dusty shoes and pour ourselves a cold glass of dry white wine. It’s a California Chardonnay.

It’s raining in Chicago tonight. And I miss it still.

My way of dealing with it was to joke around. I always had a line – a response and a way of pointing out the absurdity of living with fear as the prime motivator. “Girls like that don’t end up so hot,” my mother would tell me whenever some particular woman behaved in a way inconsistent with her notions of puritan morality. “Men don’t marry girls like that..” “do that, and you’ll starve..”

The greatest indignity in my mother’s book was to be a jackass. “She’s a jackass.” Whatever happened to me in life, I didn’t want to end up a jackass. We all knew the various routes to jackassdom. Give up your virginity before you’re married – that was first. Another way to get jackass status was to dress in a provocative manner. Makeup to school before you are 18 set you on a jackass course and calling boys, failing to attend church, practice the piano or achieve cadet status in girlscouts were high indicators of future jackass status.

Okay. So I’m trying not to be a jackass, except in politics where I’m a proud liberal democrat jackass. Trying not to be a jackass lately means meditating, staying focused on my projects, determination to be productive, physically, intellectually and emotionally. Not easy for someone who did a lot of jackass things for a long time.

One thing about the jackass. It is stubborn. The jackass is a reliable beast of burden. In the absence of something better, it will get the job done. For me, there is something noble about all this. We’ll start here.

Let’s test it out.

Celebrity pumpkins: George Clooney, Hugh Laurie and Groucho Marx

Now, if I have any slight readership, it will be entirely the result of my name-dropping. Nobody cares about the simple stories of a simple suburban woman, past her prime. But if George, Hugh and Groucho think it’s cool — well, then…

Yeah, so well then. George Clooney likes clean, fresh pumpkins. He likes the younger ones. Hugh Laurie doesn’t like pumpkins at all. He prefers to read poetry into the night on Halloween As for Groucho — he likes all pumpkins. He doesn’t care what size, what shape — he’s cool. Does this mere idle chatter attract the public? Does it matter? Does it amount to shameful pandering?

I dunno. I like those boys. And, William Shakespeare too. Does it make a difference? Let’s see!

Wiliam Shakespeare, man about town.

A half-empty or half-full glass of orange juice.

My husband enjoys every morsel of his life. He doesn’t make a big deal out of it, he just casually and completely enjoys everything — absolutely everything — he does. He takes pleasure in his sleep. He loves to eat. He loves to read. He has a quarters collection that he loves to mull over. He likes to cuddle. He loves sports. He loves history. He likes me. He loves our children. He loves our friends. He likes the garden. Despite his allergy, he even loves the cat. He is always busy but he loves to relax. He finishes every single project he begins. He never thinks that something won’t happen. He doesn’t worry about what might go wrong. When it does go wrong, he fixes it and moves on. He doesn’t ever really seem to need anything. He loves every gift he gets, no matter how small or insignificant or strange. He still has every gift he’s ever been given, including every plastic Cleveland Browns cup his sisters sends him for Christmas.

He never ever lies. And when he tells the truth, it is the kindest version of events possible. He does this without pretension or affectation. In other words, he doesn’t need to think about it.

Every so often, when he’s tired, he’ll be a little grouchy and bossy. You get the feeling that he just doesn’t notice when things really go sour — and sour they go in his life, as in all lives, from time to time. He doesn’t suffer. He doesn’t truly really understand suffering or anyone who has a process in which suffering plays a role. He makes mistakes, but doesn’t dwell on them.

Part of his satisfaction has to do with what he chooses to see. He really doesn’t notice anything that isn’t part of his comfortable view of the universe. Once, to surprise him, I put on a waist-length jet-black Morticia wig to see what he’d say. Instead of my cropped cut, I greeted him in the kitchen with a mysterious mane of hair. He went straight to the mail. “Is something different?” I asked. “Is that a new blouse?” he responded innocently.

I wish I was more like him. I can’t figure out whether he picked me as his mate because we are a good contrast or if he really doesn’t truly appreciate the dramatically different ways in which we approach the universe. I don’t suppose it makes a difference. I love him because I see the difference in us and he doesn’t care.

This has been one hell of a year. Not in the good way. A year of transition. The last time such turbulent, decisive transition occured in my life was in 1989. That’s the year I decided to move from Chicago to Los Angeles. 1989. A tough year. Highest highs, lowest lows. It turned out okay. But it was a shift.

Time to light the fire.

The first fire of the year, Woodland Hills.

Twenty years ago. That was the last time I remember having such a year. There was a defining shift. A cataclysm. A decision. And movement. That’s what’s happening now. A child leaves the nest. A professional shift. A physical shift. Lots of change.

Couldn’t it be good? Can it all turn out for the best? The shfit towards the inevitable happiness? Why not decide to see it that way? What the hell?

Aches, pains — to be juggled with projects and the struggle to find a job.

Reminds you how much you love your kids, when they’re sick. How precious it all is.

Daughter #2, the little one, is sound asleep and suffering symptoms of the flu. Husband, the great tolerator, is outa town. We all know where Daughter #1 is. She’s in college and I can’t tell you whether she’s got the flu or not. That’s just the way it’s gonna be from now on, so don’t keep asking.

What’s that? You didn’t ask? Oh, excuse me.

Thinking today about how important it is to make time count. You’ve gotta make sure that you don’t waste life worrying about it. Because, of course, in that case, it’s lost. Didn’t Henry James write a short story about that? YThe guy who never committed to anything because he was certain that his life was to be saved for something quite important. He never got around to doing anything. That was the point. That was the important point of his life — that he made a tragic mistake.

I have never liked the night. I feel in the darkness a sense of lost opportunities, wasted time. I regret, I rethink, I chase away unwanted thoughts, inventing things I should have done or said. I could have, should have. It’s exhausting. And such a waste of time. And effort.

But, tonight I am glad I have this blog. I will post a beautiful night photo — and remember what is good about the night.

Dinner at night, Topanga Canyon

Indeed, the economics of the college care package leave something to be desired. Cost benefit analysis is tricky: it’s difficult to assign a precise value to the emotional balm of receiving provisions from home. The kids clearly like it. Not as effective to send cash and a shopping list. Remember camp? Still…

Lovely shot of some poison ivy. Just because. Every time I do something that doesn’t quite make sense, I’m gonna cut to the ivy. Just because.

By the way: princess seemed to be delighted with the package but… she would like us to know that our package was not the largest received in her dorm to date. Why no cereal? Last week, I had mentioned that a large package was on its way. I used the word, “large” because at the post office, I was embarrassed at the size and weight of my submission. And I nearly threw out my back carrying it up to the mailing counter.

Live and learn. What was in it? Breakfast bars. Boston Baked Beans, my favorite candy. Pez, also my favorite candy. Strawberry Quik, my husband’s favorite drink. Some dried soups in a cup. Twix bars. A love note.

I am ashamed to admit that I sent off a second, much tinier package this morning containing dried figs and gum. Dried figs and gum? What was I thinking? What can I say? I’m sorry — and, darn it! — I gotta be me. More poison ivy. See above.

FLASHBACK: I picture my mother who sent me college care packages jammed with overflow items from her kitchen cabinet. FLASHBACK #2: Auntie Miriam who gave strange gifts with absolutely no useful value: a china hook, matching wall-mount planters, a small jar filled with colored glass stones, dime-sized tulle sachets — items usually found on the sale table at high-end stores. Made you feel ungrateful and spoiled when you opened them, but also made you wonder what the hell to do with the thing. Stuff was too nice to throw out; too useless to use. Part of the glamorous clutter of the garbage drawer…

Guilty. I am guilty as charged. Must try to channel my daughter when I’m shopping for the sweet nothings that make up the care package. Younger daughter very good at this. Must make a mental note to listen better and to stop packing care packages I dreamed about and never received…