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Project No-Poo (Part 1): Why no poo?

It all started when a friend of mine asked if I had read Curly Girl: The Handbook. This was a couple of years ago, and my friend started telling me about how this book was encouraging people not to use shampoo.

“No shampoo?” I asked. “That seems a little silly. How do you get your hair clean?”

The point of it all, she explained, was that most shampoos contained sulfates and detergents that stripped natural oils from your hair, which was bad for you and bad for the environment. You certainly don’t need to shampoo every day; she said she was only shampooing her hair once a week, and that kept everything plenty clean.

Intrigued, I started cutting down on my shampoo use and found that it didn’t make any difference at all in my hair quality. I asked my friend a little more about this Curly Girl thing.

“You’re also supposed to not wash out your conditioner,” she said. “And stop combing your hair.”

“I’m sorry, what?”

“You can use your fingers to get the tangles out, but apparently even combs can break the hairs. Plus, you don’t want to separate the hairs from each other once they have curled. The conditioner helps hold the hairs together.”

I started going through three times more conditioner than shampoo, with pretty good results. My hair, for the most part, retained a curl, or at least a wave. And I love the way my conditioner smells, so it was all good.

Or so I thought.

Then, several months ago, another dear friend pulled me aside and told me that he was highly allergic to something in my conditioner. He didn’t know what it was, but he asked if I could please use less of it.

I was stumped (and a little bit hurt). I knew my conditioner was fragrant, but I had gotten many comments over the years about how nice my hair smelled. Plus, I had been using the stuff since high school, and the shampoo/conditioner combination that I had been using was somewhat of a signature and a part of my own identity. Never mind the fact that I could only find this brand at Whole Foods Market — a sure sign that it was full of organic hippie goodness. How could he possibly be allergic to something so crunchy granola?

Just to make sure I was right about the organic nature of my shampoo, I went to my bathroom and checked the ingredients:

Nature’s Gate Herbal Shampoo: Water, Sodium Cocoyl Isethionate (Coconut Derived), Cocamidopropyl Hydroxysultaine (Coconut Derived), Disodium Cocoamphodiacetate (Coconut Derived), Glycerin (Vegetable Derived), Panthenol, Hydrolyzed Soy Protein, Hydrolyzed Vegetable Protein, Simmondsia Chinensis (Jojoba) Seed Oil, Borago Officinalis (Borage) Seed Oil, Tocopherol (Vitamin E), Ascorbic Acid (Vitamin C), Achillea Millefolium (Yarrow) Extract, Chamomilla Recutita (Matricaria) Flower Extract, Lavandula Angustifolia (Lavender) Flower Extract, Rosmarinus Officinalis (Rosemary) Leaf Extract, Salvia Officinalis (Sage) Leaf Extract, Urtica Dioica (Nettle) Extract, Prunus Serotina (Wild Cherry) Bark Extract, Thymus Vulgaris (Thyme) Leaf Extract, Ascorbyl Palmitate, Sorbitan Sesquicaprylate (Coconut and Corn Derived), Polysorbate 20, Hydroxypropyl Methylcellulose (Plant Derived), Sodium Hydroxide, Glyceryl Undecylenate (Vegetable Derived), Phenoxyethanol, Fragrance*.

OK, so there were a lot more multi-syllabic chemical names than I expected; there is clearly a lovely herbal element to it, with the jojoba and borage seed oils, yarrow and rosemary extracts, but only after the large amounts of cocamidopropyl hydroxysultaine and hydrolyzed soy protein. These aren’t the worst things you could find in a shampoo, but the fact of the matter is that they are synthetically produced chemicals: not very crunchy-granola-hippie at all! I could have sworn that when I first started using this product back in the 1990s, I could understand the label a lot better, which signals to me that Nature’s Gate may have tinkered with the recipe over the years. Maybe it was a good thing that I wasn’t using as much of the shampoo anymore.

Then I looked at the ingredients in my conditioner.

Nature’s Gate Herbal Conditioner: Water, Quaternium-87 (Vegetable Derived), Cetearyl Alcohol (Vegetable Derived), Glycerin (Vegetable Derived), Polysorbate 60, Panthenol, Hydrolyzed Soy Protein, Hydrolyzed Vegetable Protein, Simmondsia Chinensis (Jojoba) Seed Oil, Borago (Borage) Officinalis Seed Oil, Tocopherol (Vitamin E), Ascorbic Acid (Vitamin C), Chamomilla Recutita (Matricaria) Extract, Urtica Dioica (Nettle) Extract, Prunus Serotina (Wild Cherry) Bark Extract, Lavandula Angustifolia (Lavender) Extract, Arctium Lappa (Burdock) Root Extract, Yucca Schidigera Root Extract, Lilium Candidum (Lily) Bulb Extract, Nelumbo Nucifera (Sacred Lotus) Flower Extract, Quercus Alba (Oak Bark) Bark Extract, Ascorbyl Palmitate, Phenoxyethanol, Glyceryl Undecylenate (Vegetable Derived), Citric Acid (Vegetable Derived), Fragrance*, Caramel.
*Phthalate free

So maybe one of those funky alcohols or molecules was emanating from my scalp and causing my friend to have an allergic reaction. I mean, what the heck was Quaternium-87 anyway? I decided it was time for a new hair regimen.

I decided to take the no-poo movement seriously.

[Coming Up: Part 2 – Becoming A Dirty, Dirty Hippie]

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Masked Man Fallacy

[For Part 1 of this story, click here.]

“Wait, who was that masked man?”

Charlie ducked into the hallway and flattened himself against the wall. Stupid, stupid, stupid. He had crashed this party on an impulse and hadn’t really thought out any kind of plan. All he knew was that he had to see Rhonda.

He pulled off his mask to take a look at it. Who knew that such a little thing would attract so much attention? Yes, he’d made his own mask, because he had known that this party was supposed to be some sort of masquerade. But he’d imagined something along the lines of Kubrik’s Eyes Wide Shut, so he had created a papier-mâché Venetian mask with a certain amount of detail, including gold leaf and Swarovski crystals. He thought he would be able to blend in with the crowd.

Nothing was going the way he had expected. Rhonda, ever sensible, knew that most of her guests could not be bothered to come up with their own masks, so she had set up a table outside the ballroom with brightly-colored half-masks, some on strings and others on sticks, but none of them decorated. His elaborate design stuck out like a diamond in a plate of sand; he was instantly surrounded by people who wanted to know more about his mask, his art, and most especially, his name. Frustrated, he had fled the ballroom and now found himself alone in the hallway.

The door next to him opened rather rapidly, and a tall man in a plain white mask, clearly agitated, brushed past him on his way to the veranda. Curious, Charlie followed him outside.

“Do you have a light?” The man already had a cigarette in his mouth, but was shaking his empty lighter despondently.

Charlie pulled out a cardboard matchbook from his jacket pocket and handed it to the man.

“Thanks.” The man tried to strike the a couple of matches, but the striking surface was very worn, and he ended up breaking off the heads each time.

“Here, let me do it,” Charlie offered. He deftly folded the matchbook cover backwards, pulled the match through, and it instantly ignited. Relieved, the man leaned forward to light his cigarette and took a few puffs in silence.

“I owe you, man,” the man said. “My wife has been trying to get me to quit. It’s not as easy as it looks.”

“It doesn’t look easy at all.” Charlie had already pulled out his own cigarette and held it up as a salute before he put it in his mouth. “I’m sure I’ll quit eventually…just not now.”

The man chuckled and held out his hand. “I’m Rob,” he said.

Charlie grasped it warmly. “Charlie.”

“So,” Rob asked as he sat down in a wicker chair, “who did you come here with?”

“Well…” Charlie hesitated to reveal the whole truth to his new friend. “I showed up alone, but I was hoping to go home with someone, if you know what I mean,” he said with a crooked smile.

Rob smiled. “Uh-oh. Who’s the lady? Maybe I can smooth the way for you.”

“I don’t want to tell you her name, in case I don’t get so lucky,” Charlie hedged.

“Oh, come on. Most of the women here love me,” Rob said with a smile.

Charlie sighed. Maybe it was time to tell someone how he felt. “She and I were together for a while. It was great. No, it was more than great: it was smokin’ hot. I’ve never felt that way before. But for no reason, she just stopped calling. She won’t answer my texts or my emails. It’s been six weeks, and I know I should just get the hint and move on, but I can’t get her out of my mind. I…er…heard she was going to be here, and so I came.”

“Maybe she found someone else.”

“I don’t know. Maybe. I doubt it, though. What we had was unique. Earth-shattering.”

“Well, I don’t know what to tell you,” Rob said as he finished off his cigarette, grinding the butt on the concrete of the veranda. “All I can say is hold on to that feeling. My wife and I lost almost all interest in each other for a while and then out of the blue that feeling came back with a vengeance. Now she’s pregnant and I don’t know she feels for me from day to day. All I know is that if I don’t quit smoking before the baby comes, she might kick me out of the house.”

Charlie smiled and shook his head as he took a final drag off his own cigarette.

“You sure you don’t want to tell me her name? I am married to the hostess, after all.”

Charlie stopped breathing. “You’re Rob…Holmes?”

“I figured you knew I was that Rob.”

“Oh, yeah, it’s just…” Charlie fumbled around for words as he pointed to Rob’s mask. I’m in love with your wife.

“Huh,” Rob said as he removed his mask. “I didn’t realize how difficult it was to recognize someone without seeing the top half of their face.”

“Rob? Where are you?” Rhonda’s voice came from the hallway.

Charlie turned around quickly and started putting on his own mask.

“What the hell are you doing?” Rob sounded mildly amused.

He turned back around to face Rob, his mask secure on his face once again. “Do me one favor, man. Don’t tell her I’m here. She’s…kind of close to this girl, and I don’t want her to interfere.”

Rob looked at him quizzically, but then smiled. “No problem. I told you I owed you.” They shook hands, and Rob went back into the house as Charlie slipped into the shadows.

This week’s Indie Ink Writing Challenge comes from xtinabosco, who gave me this prompt:

A masked man

I decided to use it to continue the story of Rhonda, Charlie, and Rob, since I got so much positive feedback. Let me know if you want me to continue the story, or if you’ve had enough of the drama…

You can read Jamelah’s response to my prompt here by the end of the week.

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Song of the Procrastinator

One of these days I’ll be a world traveler,
Fluent in German, Italian, and French.
But I don’t have funds, so I’ll have to content myself
Reading through travel blog posts from the bench.

I have a project in mind for the garden,
Complete with gazebo and rose-filled archways;
But industrious weeds have some different intentions…
I’ll get around to it one of these days.

One of these days I’ll learn to play piano
Better than slowly tapping out Für Elise.
It’s tough, though, because if I want true proficiency
I’ve got to actually practice the piece!

One of these days I’ll knit a new sweater
But first I should finish that second green sock.
I won’t finish spring cleaning, not until autumn;
Forgive me if my messiness gives you a shock.

In the meantime, my hours are filled with such business
Of living and loving and writing always.
If I don’t reach my goals soon, I just tell myself:
I’ll get around to it one of these days.

This week’s Indie Ink Writing Challenge came from Joelyn, who gave me this prompt:

One of these days…..

I also decided to challenge myself to write a poem, which I very rarely do, because I don’t really think I’m a good poet. But that line scanned so easily, I figured I’d give it a try.

You can find the answer to my prompt written by octoberesque before the end of the week.

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Love, or Good Intentions

Photo by Loralynn Cross

Pregnant.

Rhonda placed the pee stick gingerly on the sink counter, staring warily at the evidence that had appeared moments ago. She took a deep breath and tried not to cry.

Pregnant.

She lifted her gaze from the sink to the mirror. So this is what a pregnant woman looks like, she thought. She leaned in and peered more closely, trying to find something different, that glow that people keep talking about. She didn’t really see anything particularly different.

She took off her robe and stared down at her belly. She definitely wasn’t showing yet, that’s for sure. But then again, it’s not like she had the tight, svelte figure she’d had in college anymore.

Sighing, she turned on the shower faucet and grimaced as the frigid water hit her arm. It was January, and she knew it would take several minutes for the hot water to make its way up three floors into the bathroom. She shut the shower door and let the water run while she ran a comb through her hair.

Funny, she’d always wanted children. When Rob had proposed to her back in college, he had told her that he’d wanted kids, too. “As many as we can make, babe,” he’d said as they lay in his dorm room, naked and sweaty and tangled.

God, he was so desirable then. And she was so young.

Steam rose from the shower and began to fog the mirror. Rhonda stepped into the shower and adjusted the temperature as the warm water pummeled the top of her head. She stood there for a minute, doing nothing but letting the water run down her face in rivulets, washing away the tears that she could no longer hold back.

Pregnant.

She lathered up her bath sponge and started scrubbing her body, covering her neck, her breasts, her belly, and every other part of her where hands and mouth had been. She didn’t want to wash him away. She traced the path that his mouth had taken, feeling that familiar heat building up deep in her core. She would need that heat to sustain her now.

More tears came now, this time in frustration. This wasn’t supposed to happen, she thought. I thought I couldn’t have kids. I thought I was safe.

She and Rob had come to the realization several years ago that they had only married to appease their parents. They thought they had loved each other; turns out they’d just had good intentions. Divorce, however, was out of the question. Rob was going to run for a Senate seat, and Rhonda’s position as a development director for a big charity was contingent on her social standing. No, it was better in the long run, they decided, to stay together.

And then she’d met Charlie. Beautiful, sweet, young Charlie, with long blonde hair and washboard abs. He was a playboy — oh, she was well aware of that fact! — but he made her feel like she was the only woman in the world for him. In public, they acted cool and casual; in private, they couldn’t keep their hands off each other.

She picked up her razor and began to shave her legs. In long, deliberate strokes, she pulled the blade up her calf, careful to reach the more difficult curves behind her knee.

Maybe this is good, she thought. Maybe this is exactly what I need to get away from Rob, from my life, from everything. It could be a fresh start.

But Charlie? To say he was a free spirit was putting it lightly. A self-proclaimed starving artist, Charlie never held down a job for longer than six months. Sometimes his only meal for the day would be a $5 burrito from the Mexican place down the street; he preferred to spend his money in bars every night. Not exactly the ideal father figure.

She flinched as her razor nicked her thigh. Blood welled up and was quickly diluted by the water. Shaking her head, she rinsed the razor and put it away.

What would Rob say? What would he do?

Oh God, what would he do?

She spent one more minute in the warm shower, rinsing all proof of Charlie’s touch and her grief down the drain.

Well, not ALL proof. She touched her belly.

Turning the faucet off, she stepped out of the shower and rubbed herself briskly with a towel. Even though the steam had warmed the bathroom, it was still cold in the house, and the water on her body was making her shiver.

Or maybe she was shivering because she knew what she had to do.

Slowly, deliberately, she rubbed her naked body with moisturizer, that scented stuff that Rob liked so much. She dabbed a couple of drops of perfume behind her ears for good measure. The smell made her gag.

It must be the hormones, she told herself.

She picked up the pregnancy test and looked at it one more time before throwing it into the trash. She closed up the trash bag and set it aside for the housekeeper to throw out later. She knew Rob wouldn’t be rooting around in the trash, not if he didn’t suspect anything.

Donning her robe, she stepped out of the bathroom and into the bedroom. He was in bed, she knew, but probably not asleep.

She had to do it now. While she still had the courage.

“Hey, babe.”

Rob looked up from the book he was reading. They hadn’t called each other that since college.

“I…um…” she opened her robe and let it slide off her body slowly.

He raised his eyebrows in surprise, but he did not protest as Rhonda crawled on top of him and began to undress him.

[Click here to continue to Part 2]

This week’s Indie Ink Writing Challenge came to me from the fabulous Jason Hughes, who gave me this prompt:

Love is more than good intentions.

You can find Katri’s answer to my prompt here before the end of the week.

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Ohana (Family)

Me, age 7-8 (?) in the yard of the Honolulu house

For as long as I can remember, I have looked forward to visits to Hawaii.

When I was little, my mother and I would get on a plane to Honolulu almost every summer for family reunions. She and her four sisters grew up in Hawaii, and my grandfather still lived there, so we always had a place to stay. Sometimes all my aunts and cousins would show up at once, but most of the time, each family unit would have overlapping vacations so that there wasn’t too much chaos at my grandfather’s house.

Even then, I remember the sleeping arrangements becoming more and more creative, what with three generations sleeping under one roof: there were two guest bedrooms, a basement apartment (which always smelled like mildew), the living room, a two guest rooms down the road at the Friends Meeting House (available at reasonable rates for our family, as we were Friends), and a tent in the backyard. I remember my cousins (all boys) vying for tent privileges; sleeping outdoors in the middle of Hawaii is not a bad way to spend your vacation, let me tell you!

My grandfather (we all called him “Gung-Gung”) had an amazing garden, resplendent with as many fruit trees as he could get away with on the property. A plentiful harvest of bananas, starfruit, guavas, mangos, and even breadfruit graced the table every morning. He also had macadamia trees, the nuts of which he would harvest, peel, and roast all year long. Our Christmas packages always included a jar of his very own macadamia nuts.

The best part about vacationing in Hawaii with our family is that we knew all the local hangouts. We would forgo the tourist-laden beaches of Waikiki and instead hop in the truck to Ala Moana. If we wanted to snorkel, we’d go to Hanauma Bay (this was before it was well-known; I thought it was our own little secret).

Invariably, we would all take a day trip to go to the North Shore. We would always stop at Matsumoto’s for a shave ice on our way to the Haleiwa house. Gung-Gung had built this one-bedroom house all by himself, and from time to time he rented it out. At the time that he had purchased the land, everything around it had been owned by C&H, and I remember driving through a forest of sugarcane to get to a house on stilts proudly standing in the middle of a rectangular area of cleared land.

Sam (but I knew him as "Gung-Gung")

Gung-Gung was fearless. I remember one time we were driving down the highway, and he spotted some ripe coconuts on a palm tree near the road. He directed my uncle to pull over, and my cousins and I watched in disbelief as he shimmied up the tree to retrieve the coconuts. His legs were cut from the rough bark, but he had the biggest smile on his face as he held up his trophies.

Now Gung-Gung is gone; he passed away in 2003 from Alzheimer’s Disease. My mother had moved to Honolulu a few years earlier to help take care of him, and now she is the new resident local family member. She lives in the Haleiwa house that Gung-Gung built, and she always encourages us to come visit as much as possible!

My cousin Sam, in the same yard that I posed in almost 30 years prior.

When I got married in Hawaii, the trip ended up being a three-generation affair once more. My cousin’s daughter (named Sam after Gung-Gung) was one of my flower girls, and her grandmother (my aunt, who she calls “Po-Po”) was also there. Everybody stayed in neighboring bungalows on the beach, and that large extended-family comfortableness that I recalled from my childhood was back, just as I wanted.

I think there is something very magical about Hawaii, especially where my family is concerned. I know my husband loves Hawaii (“Everything moves at my pace,” he says), so the only discussion we have about vacation spots is where in Hawaii we want to visit next. If/when we ever have any children, there is no question we will be making family trips out there regularly so my kids can be infused with that same magic.

This week’s Indie Ink Writing Challenge came from Tara, who gave me this prompt:

A three-generation family vacation.

I challenged xtinabosco, who will answer her prompt by the end of the week here.

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Intermezzo

I’m gearing up for another week at the Indie Ink Writing Challenge. After taking a week off, I’m happy to get back in the saddle.

But we’ve had quite a week over here in this corner of the blogoverse, and that, coupled with seemingly endless rehearsals for the Month of Moderns (Latvian and Swedish and Seneca, oh my!), has made me a little loopy.

Therefore, I bring you: ADORABLE KITTENS.

Itchy

These are pictures of Itchy and Scratchy when they were kittens, while they were still cute.

Scratchy

I’m just kidding. They’re still cute, even though they’re no longer kittens.

Itchy & Scratchy, napping

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Featured Writer – Studio 30+

I have been asked to write a featured post on the website Studio 30+, which is a gathering place for bloggers over the age of 30. I think I fit in that category nicely.

Anyway, as I was trying to come up with topics, there was one thing that I’ve been meaning to write about for a while: the side show that is Jackie Evancho. I have a feeling my singer friends who read it will be nodding their heads in agreement. I’m not so sure about the avid Jackie fans who think she’s a prodigy with a bright future. Please feel free to leave comments, as always!

Also, the video I reference in the article didn’t embed for some reason. Here it is:

Watch the full episode. See more Great Performances.

For those of you who can’t find your way over there (although you should; it’s a great place to find new blogs!), I’ll be reposting the story on this blog after a couple of days.

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Famous People

On Friday, I spent the whole day with a famous person.

Well, okay, he’s not A-list celebrity famous (my husband had never heard of him), but in the music world — the choral world, especially — he is quite well-known.

Photo by Malcolm Crowther

His name is Gabriel Jackson, and he wrote a song for The Crossing, which will be premiered Sunday, June 5. He has written an awful lot of gorgeous music, much of it choral (which is why he’s a bit of a celebrity with choirs), and The Crossing was able to commission him to write the first piece for their commissioning project, Seneca Sounds (works based on the writings of Seneca the Younger).

You know what my biggest worry was before I met him? That I wouldn’t have anything to say. I always get tongue-tied around celebrities.

My celebrity complex all started, I think, when I met Peter Tork. Apparently my dad and he used to be close, back in the day, and once my dad realized Nickelodeon had made me a fan of The Monkees, he thought it would be the coolest thing in the world to introduce me to Peter. And it was such a cool thing that I turned into the most awkward, shy preteen you could imagine, and even though I knew I had every capability of being smart and funny, I couldn’t formulate a single witty thing to say.

When I was a freshman in college, I went to a masterclass and recital by Frederica von Stade, my favorite mezzo and idol at the time (I still love you, Flicka, but I have since broadened my horizons!), and my friend convinced me to go backstage and say hello. I was at the end of a long line of well-wishers, and I think she may have been getting a little tired by the time I got to her. This was our exchange:

Me: You were great.
FvS: Thank you.
Me: I’m from the Bay Area too.
FvS: Oh?
Me: Yes. Say hello to San Francisco for me! (nervous, high-pitched giggle)
FvS: …uh…okay…have a good evening.
Me: You too! (walking away with a smile pasted on my face and the distinct urge to bang my head repeatedly against a wall)

After that, I gave up trying to make conversation with famous people. I was riding the subway in New York about ten years ago, and this older gentleman got on the train and sat down next to me. I glanced at him briefly, and here was my thought process:

That guy looks a lot like Henry Winkler.
Heh…I bet he gets that a lot.
Can you imagine being mistaken for Henry Winkler?
OMG, that actually IS Henry Winkler.
Henry Winkler is sitting right next to me!
Henry.
Frickin’.
Winkler.
The Fonz!
What do I do? What do I do what do I say what should I do?
Okay, be cool. Just be cool. Act like you don’t notice.
He doesn’t want to be bothered.

At that moment, some guy got on the train, took one look at him, and said (in a really loud voice), “Hey, you’re the Fonz! How are you? That’s the Fonz, man! Eyyyyyyyyy.”

Henry Winkler just nodded, mumbled, “Thank you,” and got off the next stop. I breathed a sigh of relief that I had not offended Mr. Winkler like that rude guy. But I realized that I was pretty darned close to doing the same thing, and if I had opened my mouth, something idiotic like that would have come right out. I’m sure of it.

So all of these botched celebrity meetings made me doubly nervous to meet Gabriel Jackson, a composer who I seriously admire, and whose very rhythmically complicated music I had been practicing for the last week, trying desperately to get perfect. And what was I going to say to this man? What was he going to be like? I had to pick him up from Newark Airport and take him to his hotel in Philadelphia, a good two-hour drive. Would he be cold and distant? Cranky from the long plane ride? Sleepy and jetlagged?

Was I going to say something incredibly stupid?

When I arrived at the airport, his plane had just touched down, and it took another 30-45 minutes for him to retrieve his baggage and go through customs. All the while, I was nervously waiting with the other limousine drivers, my sweaty palms clutching the paper proclaiming “GABRIEL JACKSON” in big letters — bigger than any of the other drivers’ signs, I noticed. Was that a faux pas? I sighed. His more difficult passages played in a tape loop in my head. Over and over again, my mind subconsciously practiced while I waited for him to appear.

People started trickling out of customs into the waiting area. I studied the face of every man that came down the hallway. Oh, no, I thought, would I recognize him? I’ve only ever seen his headshot! I know he has a big mustache, but maybe he shaved it off before the flight. Well, at least I have the sign. If I don’t recognize him, he will surely see me with the sign.

Turns out, I had nothing at all to fear. Not only did he still have the mustache, but he was wearing the same hat he wears in his photo. I knew it was him the moment he rounded the corner, and I saw him long before he saw me. I waved at him.

He didn’t see me.

I waved again, this time, bouncing his sign up and down.

Finally he saw me. And we shook hands as he entered the waiting area.

“How exciting,” he said in a charming English accent. “I’ve never been met at the airport by someone with a sign before.”

All of a sudden, the pedestal I had been holding him up on disappeared, and he was just an ordinary musician, just like me. We spent the long drive chatting about all sorts of things, from politics to human nature to religion and everything in between. I enjoyed his company immensely, and he even convinced me to come out for a drink with a few folks after rehearsal (which, for those of you who know me, I do very rarely! I’m such a homebody).

Maybe I should stop thinking of famous people as being famous and start remembering that they are just people. I mean, heck, if I ever get famous, that’s how I would want folks to think of me.

Oh, also? If you’re wondering about this group, The Crossing, that I mention from time to time, they just released this video that gives you an idea of how much we singers love being in this ensemble. Seriously, it is AWESOME.

And come to Sunday’s performance. You might even get to meet Gabriel Jackson too.

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Powerless

Photo by KK Lo

Day 1
The President announced yesterday that due to the mounting energy crisis, we would all have to start rationing electricity. I think the idea was that they would wean us off electricity, but something must have gone terribly wrong. Today, when we woke up, there was no electric current running anywhere. And I do mean anywhere: not in our township, county, or even, as far as I understand it, the larger cities.

That’s OK; I’m sure they’ll get things up and running soon. I could use a vacation from electricity anyway. I just have to make sure I eat all the stuff that’s in the fridge before it goes bad.

Day 2

We realized yesterday that we can’t really use our cell phones to talk to anyone since none of the cell towers are working. That certainly put a damper on our communications. And since there were no electric currents running through any of our wires, even the land lines weren’t working. We have been relying on our neighbor for news; he has been driving around the township, checking up on people.

The other annoying thing is that our stove is electric. I didn’t think about how much of a problem it would be until I tried to cook up all the perishables. We just ate everything cold. It was pretty gross.

Apparently the hospital is working on backup generators, but I’m not sure how long that’s going to last. I’m just happy nobody has started looting.

Day 3

My husband decided to look at the gas line for a possible source for heating food. We do have an alternate stove in our living room: it’s a kitchy old-timey wood-burning stove that’s been modified to run on gas, just like our fireplace. Apparently, the gas still works, so now I’m cooking with gas. Thank goodness for hot meals!

The police came around today. They wanted to remind us to lock our doors and not go outside at night. Apparently there has been some looting a couple of towns over. I’m not too worried; our neighborhood is pretty safe.

Day 7

We keep hearing rumors of looting going on in the neighboring towns. One thing I do have to say has been a great thing about this electricity outage is that we have started talking to our neighbors. I mean, until now I haven’t known my neighbors’ names, their personalities, or what they do! I think I like most of them. I’m still not crazy about the rat dog across the street.

The postman came by today with a newsletter from the White House. Apparently this is how they are getting out “essential” information these days. I read it, but it’s just a lot of nonsense, really, about how we shouldn’t panic and that everything will be back to normal soon. I’m not sure how much I believe it.

Day 8

It was a sleepless night last night. It was really hot, and of course the air conditioner doesn’t work. We can’t even use the ceiling fans. All the windows were open and the covers were off, but it didn’t make a difference. I was also beginning to worry about that newsletter we got from the government. Is there a reason we should panic?

Day 9

We decided to try to go to the bank yesterday. They turned us away. The looters had gotten there before us, and all the money was gone.

I also realized that our pantry was starting to get a little empty. Even though it’s the beginning of summer, I think there’s plenty of time and opportunity to start growing things. I went through my old seed packets to see what I should start with.

Day 14

My husband has been busy. Since we have no money on hand, we’re trying to figure out ways for us to either barter services or make cash on our own. The trouble is, everyone else is in the same boat. The kids across the street have started making muffins to sell every morning, and the smells that come out of that house are spectacular.

My husband, on the other hand, has been using his knowledge of electronic circuitry to good use. “We may not have access to the grid anymore,” he said, “but that doesn’t mean the laws of physics have suddenly disappeared.” He has now modified our exercise bike so that it will power one of his pinball games.

Day 16

Yesterday, the kids across the street came over to try out our new self-propelled pinball games. One of the kids got on the bike to power it, while the other one played the game, and they took turns. They loved it, and they absolutely wanted more.

We charged them $2 or 2 muffins to play for one hour.

My husband has four working pinball machines and two that need some repair, but I think the idea is that we may be able to create a little arcade here in the house, just to make some money.

Day 30

We got a letter from some friends at the Renaissance Faire today. Letters have become so precious nowadays; it’s our only connection with the outside world. The postman is the most popular man in town, especially since he’s the only guy left allowed to have gas in his car. (Don’t tell anyone, but we siphoned the gas from our cars a while ago and we’re keeping it in jugs in the garage. You never know when you might need it).

Anyway, our friends have invited us to come live with them on the fairgrounds. They want to form a community of people who all know and trust each other. Apparently there have been many incidents of rape and looting in Philadelphia, and many of our friends have already begun making the pilgrimage out to Lancaster County, where the Amish have lived without electricity for centuries.

Day 45

Things certainly have changed. Our arcade is the hit of the neighborhood, but our notoriety has also gotten us some unwanted attention from thieves. My husband has been talking about fortifying the house, whatever that means.

I harvested quite a few vegetables this week, so we’ll have more bartering leverage, at least for a while. I also think it’s time to start pickling and canning the extra food. Winter is going to be really difficult.

Day 50

Photo by Benny Hill

Last night, we got hit. The looters took everything. We were sleeping upstairs when they broke in the windows and took as much as they could carry: food and anything wooden or metal, which included many of the components of the pinball setup. We knew they were there; we awoke while they were still in the house. But neither of us had a firearm and we knew that these guys were packing. We stayed in the bedroom, holding each other.

There’s almost nothing left. We talked it over this morning, and we decided that it was time for us to move on. Our gas, hidden in jugs in the garage, is still here, but every last scrap of food is gone. I still have two spinning wheels, and although both of them are wooden, the looters seem to have overlooked them in their zeal to pick apart the pinball machines.

We have decided it’s time to take our friends up on their offer and make the long trip to the Renaissance Faire. I know they have livestock there; that will be helpful. I can definitely spin wool and knit what I spin. That’ll be useful out there too.

We’re going to leave tonight, so I need to harvest the rest of the plants in the garden, whether or not they are ripe, because we don’t know when our next meal might be.

This week’s Indie Ink Writing Challenge came from Dafeenah, who gave me this prompt:

You wake up and the entire electrical system has collapsed beyond repair. Describe how the world changes. How it changes you and how you adjust in the new society with no electricity.

I challenged Seeking Elevation, who will answer it here before the end of the week.

Posted on

Creation


When Gaia was just a child, she and her siblings loved to dance around their father, chasing each other in wider and wider circles. She would throw stardust in her father’s face and giggle as he feigned anger, puffed up his cheeks, and incinerated the dust with one breath.

Sol told his children that he loved them all equally, but Gaia knew that she and her father shared a special bond. “Gaia,” he would whisper in her ear, “You are exceptional. I know you are destined for great things.”

As she and her siblings grew older, they ventured farther and farther away from the safety of her father’s arms. Mercury, the baby of the family, still stayed close to home, but Neptune, who had always been erratic and emotional, drifted the farthest, preferring the cold of nothingness to the warmth and companionship of his family.

And though Gaia’s siblings were far from each other, they would wink and wave to her as they danced through space; she would wink back to them, singing a song of love and joy across the void.

Sometimes, though, as she danced across the vast blackness of space, she found herself all alone. She cried tears of regret that she had grown older and wandered away from the bosom of her family. Those tears ran down her cheeks and gathered themselves between her bosoms, falling into the cracks and crevices of her body, and for the first time, Gaia saw the reflection of her father in the pools of water.

She called out, “Father, I miss you!”

Sol burned brightly in the darkness, but said nothing.

“Father,” she called again, “why are you so far away?”

Again, Sol was silent.

Finally, Gaia cried out in frustration, “Why must I be so alone?”

Sol sighed. “Oh, Gaia,” he whispered, too quietly for her to hear, “you are not alone.” And although he knew it would probably make his other children jealous, he blew a warm kiss directly towards her.

A few minutes later, the kiss made its way to her cheek. She touched her cheek and suddenly knew what she needed to do. She put her arms around herself and recalled all the love she had for her family. Her strong heart beat faster and faster, and electricity began to flow through and around her hands.

Lightning flashed between her hands in the sky and the pools of water on her body.

And then…something HAPPENED.

Gaia felt it deep down inside. She felt different. She was more than just a daughter of Sol. She had created something.

She stared at her body. Nothing really seemed that different. The salty tear-water was rocking back and forth as she danced through space. But then, she saw something gleaming: something new, something very, very small, way down in the depths. “I think…I think it’s moving!” she said in horrified fascination.

And it was. It was life.

A life.

Alive.

Not only was it moving, but it had begun to multiply. And there became more of them, and they kept changing form and shape, becoming increasingly diverse in their living, eating, and mating habits. Some of them swam around in the oceans, but others crawled out of the oceans and began to live and move on her body proper. Some didn’t move around at all, but dug their feet deep into her body and stretched their arms up-up-up towards her father.

And so she continued her dance of joy across the void, ever circling her father, full in the knowledge that no matter how far away she was from her family, she would never, ever be alone.

This week’s Indie Ink Writing Challenge came from Wendryn, who gave me this prompt:

Write whatever you like, but include this line: “I think…I think it’s moving!” she said in horrified fascination.

My prompt went out to Kerri, who did a fantastic job answering it here.