Chirping cats, grunting dogs, the world is made of animal sounds including the croaks, shrieks and groans emitting from my own throat. It’s cold outside; cold enough to imprison the fish under a thin skin of translucent sky, making it impossible to feed them, though I imagine their metabolisms are slowed enough that it doesn’t matter.

I want to hibernate, go back to bed and pull the covers over my head, listen to the sound of my own breath and pretend death until I feel like living. Forgiveness? What’s that? Might I be let off the hook of karmic causality?

Hangovers can be caused by more than simple substances, and I have a doozy today, head pounding, eyes swollen. Still waiting for the aftermath though, the good part which I expect to be a doozy. Thinking positively, oh yes, goodness will come, storms pass and clouds part, green things grow in fresh-dampened soil. Even after a forest fire or flood, the cleared space quickly swells lushly with green new growth of fireweed and fast-thriving species of opportunists. On the other side of positive, the dead things are still dead. It’s all in the perspective, the point of view, the attitude.

It’s been a difficult day full of fighting and tears, and as we know, such days happen. The clouds do pass eventually; once the rain has fallen the sun may shine again, lalala. As clichés go it may be gagworthy, but that sun is warm and pleasurable, so never you mind. Don’t stare at it or you’ll go blind, just sit eyes closed blessedly breathing in hazy rays of delicious happiness, fleeting though they be. Pretend it will last forever and it will (for as long as it does). That momentary eternity is the best reward for living through pain.

Awakening to bright sun on snow, bound to melt soon and therefore precious, brought a lift to my day though falling back into deeps of sleep messed with my mood. Woke the second time to the sound of pounding which I thought a caller unwilling to surrender. I shouted “Coming,” threw on clothing and flew downstairs, only to discover it was P trying to dislodge gobs of dog food from a spoon. “Oops, sorry,” contrite and polite but now despite the pure bright white beauty outside I feel gripey and grey, just another tedious day to slog my way through.

The 100words.net website is no more; they had a site crash, as you’ll know by now if you’ve tried clicking on that ink. Now they are up and running at 100words.com, even better than before. I’m now posting all my 100 words exercises up there as I write them here. They say,

The idea is simple:
Write 100 Words a day,
Every Day, For one Month

You can write about anything you want. Anything. Some people open tiny windows into their lives; others write surrealist poetry. Some writers post finely tuned, perfectly crafted vignettes; others show up at the end of the night and spew drunken nonsense onto the screen.

You bring the content. We set the format.

This is an exercise in disciplined creativity. Writing exactly 100 words at a time — not a single word more, not a single word less — isn’t as easy as it sounds. The word count may be arbitrary, but the motive is not. To borrow from Proust, the tyranny of rhyme often brings out the poet’s best work. By working within a standardized form, the writer can concentrate on other matters. read the rest

I recommend it… it’s a great way to get into the flow and habit of writing every day. Every little bit counts! And, in case you didn’t know it, my story ‘Maggie May I’ which was last year’s February ‘100 words’ entry, starting on the first and ending on the 28th, has been published in a web anthology which is available here.

As for Beyond Hope, more will be coming soon. Watch for it!

And so now the gales lash the outside of the house, leaving islanders powerless and lacking in all but basic necessities, speaking for myself since we have running water here, heat and the capacity to cook. Celebrations and huzzahs! It could be so much worse, as it is often said, so thank all goodness, goddesses and gods that it is not. Hunched over my depleting battery I spew forth the few words I have committed mysef to today, then I shall sit by the fire and sip my hot drink, which is only not coffee because the percolator plugs in.

Days pass, mood changes from hope to despair, from self-affirmation to self-despite. This roller-coaster addles my soul and confuses my mind, making me blind and stupid except when I writhe in washes of brilliance too bright to handle followed by darkness. I declare it is worth it, for the resulting long-term gain is called by some growth, by others evolution, and I continue to become more of what it is I am becoming, though slower than I would wish. Eyes now open, now closed tight, hearing now numb with noise and now exalted by music, I swim through the world.

Perhaps it was the sound of rain on the roof in the night or the dream of glass alcoves full of moving pictures; more likely the long, sleepy, slow awakening into orgasm. The storm clouds are separated by slanting streamers of sunlight and prayer flags flap raggedly in the lusty breeze. I might wonder if this means something about the future, but the future is not happening yet, nor is it relevant to this moment. It must be enough to say, “This is good, I feel good right now.” This is a good day. Tomorrow comes when it does, inevitably.

Sipping port, sighingly satisfied, anticipating hot tubbing over the ocean and under the moon, once again shining high. Life is good, though caution whispers, ‘be careful what you say, remember what happened last time you were contented, the tree fell on the house, breaking confidence and creating chaos, signifying the beginning of a long month of power outages and storms’. Caution, be cool, it was only a coincidence. I wish I believed in coincidences, life would be simpler if less meaningful. The atheists are evangelizing in the news, and they say I should be ashamed of my wish for faith.

Back to wind and rain; ironic, since only yesterday I gloated publicly about my return home being connected to the return of the golden sunshine and the silvery moonlight. Humility is a pain. Someday I would like to stand proudly for a minute or two before being brought up short by the reality that in the greater scheme of things, I really don’t matter a bit. Of course, nobody else matters either on that scale, so I shouldn’t take it personally, but my nascent hubritic tendencies compel me to wish for global and even cosmic influence; how futile is that?