For Mirror Mirror on CBS

I really don't believe you have to spend this kind of money for these things -- that was the theme I was assigned. I can make an argument for spending on certain things, certainly, but that's a blog post for another day....

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Excerpts from Notes from Paris: A Work in Progress, Part One

When I turned 30, I went to Paris for the first time, under circumstances far from what I'd envisioned when, sprawled across my bed as a teenager, I dreamt up a romantic vision of my adult life that included going there. But... I went, and it felt like home from the moment the plane wheels met the tarmac at Orly. Soon after, I made a decision to put all my spare hours into writing, to see what was there. Though I had written almost every day since I was 10, I wanted to try my hand at all it's forms in a disciplined way, and set the stage to discover once and for all if it was my calling. I was living in Hollywood then and so ripe to leave, but I had a few commitments there, keeping me from a wish to move to New York. To cope, I began to go to Paris on a regular basis, even rented an apartment for the span that a long-stay visa would allow (6 months), to see where it took me. By the time I arrived, unexpected developments caused me to cut that plan short. But ...

This Poem, A Song

"Bones" by Libby Roderick I come from a long line of dead people I come from a tall pile of bones My people lie sleeping all under the world Their souls turn to roots, leaves and stones. My grandpa went by whiskey in an L.A. hotel His dad died of Ohio coal And before him, and before that, they slipped under the ground Fewer bones walk above than below. My great grandmother's eyes stare out from my face Her skinny bones dance around in my clothes You can almost hear the whisper of her sweet southern song In this voice I've been calling my own. A toast to the living, walk us walk down the aisle So these bones can be married to the flesh for awhile. A song, a song for the living, though the flesh worries when These bones will be leaving to join family again. I come from a long line of dead people I come from a tall pile of bones My people lie sleeping all under the world Their souls turn to roots, leaves and stones.

From The Childhood Files: Growing Powder Trees

When I was a kid, we lived in a nice ranch house in a nice neighborhood. Directly behind our house was a bridge that crossed a double set of railroad tracks that came and went as far as I could see. Often the open cars would be carrying coal stuffed to the brim, and every jostle would litter blocks of it onto the ground. My main playground in the days before abduction was a concern, were those tracks. I'd climb through a hole in the fence to the left of my back yard and slide down the steep embankment, skidding in my Keds. Occasionally grabbing on to the hand hewn beams supporting the bridge to steady myself, my fingers might get sticky from the tar on the wood, but it made it easier to collect the coal. I brought them back and my mother would put the coal in a saucer, mix up some solution with amonia and food coloring and we'd pour it over. Before long there'd be a fantasy garden of pastel colored powder that had grown on the coal. Did you ever do this? CLICK HERE ...

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