Pictures, You Need Pictures: Part 1: London and Just Outside of London

First of all, when I was planning this trip, my friend Sarah who hosted me asked me what I wanted to see. I told her that I wasn't interested in the royals or jewels, but I wanted to see Blake's drawings and watercolors at the Tate. THERE WAS A BLAKE RETROSPECTIVE AT THE TATE MODERN.

What are the chances?

 I might have geeked out seeing so much Blake in one place.

And the people in London were exceptionally London-like.

The show was so overwhelming that we went out into the country the next day. The country estate we visited was EXACTLY what I imagined the country to be like.  The house itself was old and shabby inside, and to be honest, I don't care much for fancy houses except the downstairs. I'm a downstairs kind of person, I declared. Sarah said that she would feel quite at home in charge. I imagined myself as Jane Eyre. Truly.

Did anyone else pretend that you were Jane Eyre, a poor orphan put upon by wicked relatives?

When we went to the "walled garden," I was Mary in "The Secret Garden." I realized how much these places lived in my imagination, put there by books and poems in a lifetime of reading. The apple orchard smelled like apples, something I bet you haven't really smelled in America unless you've been to one.

 Friends for more than 35 years, Sarah took complete and total care of me. Honestly, I was in a bit of a jet-lagged daze, and I vaguely remember having a bit of a mini, silent tantrum walking in the rain (Sarah agreed that I was quite a weather wimp), but she and her beautiful family.restored me. I am so very grateful for these dear and beautiful women friends I made so long ago.

Those are apples on the ground, and they smelled like apples.

Have you had enough?

Because there were sheep, too.

To top it all off, we went to a pub afterward and had beer with STEVE REED, my blogger friend that I've "known" for nearly ten years.

Honestly, it felt like Steve was someone I'd known for real for many years. We talked about books and Brexit (I still don't what the hell Brexit is and why it even happened in the first place, but then again, who the hell knows why we have Trump, either, and how the hell that happened) and movies and laughed and had such a good time.

Stay tuned for Part 2: London and then Part 3: Rome

Writing and Gifts from Old Friends and Sisters

I started meeting once a week for a few hours with a group of writers. It's not a workshop group but, rather, a real writing group. We really write. At the beginning, we sit down and chit chat for a few minutes, catch each other up, briefly, on what's happening. Then one person tears up a few strips of paper and we each grab one or two. We write down phrases or words, anything that comes to mind and can be used as a prompt. Then someone picks up a piece of paper, opens it and reads it aloud. Then we write -- the first prompt is for five minutes, the second is for ten minutes, then it's fifteen and then back to five minutes. When the buzzer goes off, we stop typing or writing and read aloud what we've written. We don't comment, except to sigh or smile or laugh or draw our breaths in. Then we're on to the next. We follow in a specific order -- whoever opens the prompt and reads it aloud is the first to read aloud what she's written. Then we go counter-clockwise. It works. This is so good, you writers out there -- so good and so inspiring in the way that writers need to be inspired. You just start with something, anything, and then you write. I've always thought there's way too much discussion about writing in general -- about how difficult it is, about whether or not you're good enough, about the anxieties and insecurities of The Writer. Lately, I've noticed a whole lot of hullabaloo about writing for free on the internet, how resentful "writers" are when they're asked to write online and not get reimbursed. My opinion is that there haven't been too many writers in history that got paid enough money to support themselves and that if you're a writer, you'll just write, whenever and however you can. If you're getting paid and can support yourself, I envy you. If not, get a job, but don't stop writing.

Here are the prompts from a week or so ago:

1. My skeleton
2. Blood-shot eyes
3. A Sense of place
4. The Rain They Say is Coming

This week, I got a spark of a short story from the prompt It Goes Like This. Think a man, tattoos, a bald head, the goods, the threat of a cult, Jesus freaks and the slippery slope of desire -- that's what I wrote about for five minutes.

When I got home this afternoon from the usual driving around the city, I had a pile of mail, including two mysterious packages. One was for Sophie, and when I opened it up I saw that it was from one of my oldest and dearest friends with whom I backpacked through Europe in the Let's Go Europe! days. Do you remember those? This beautiful, brilliant woman sent that mermaid to Sophie, and I'm taking it as a token of luck. Sophie did really well today, too, but who's noticing? The other gift was from my funny sister Melissa. She sent me a Ryan Gosling coloring book. She knows me all too well. Henry and Oliver took one look at the gifts and rolled their eyes. Are you really going to color that? Henry asked. I told him that I imagine it will be enormously relaxing to sit and color in Ryan Gosling's lines. You'd think I was stoned, but I'm not. I'm CBD'd excited.

Henry home from the mother country

Henry got home this afternoon from his school trip to Italy. He looked tan, handsome and taller, and I was so excited to see him and wrap my arms around him that I failed to take a picture. He chattered non-stop on the way home, telling us about everything that he did and saw, and then he gave me a present and I practically burst into tears. The kids went to a leather factory, and he picked out and bought me the above leather journal and had it stamped with my initials. Can you even believe that a fourteen year old boy would be so thoughtful? I saw it and knew right away I would have to get you one, Mom, he said. When we got home, I showed him my little leather travel diary that I wrote faithfully in the entire summer I traveled in Europe after graduating from college. We realized that I was in Italy, in the same cities, on the exact same dates, 28 years ago. Wow, Henry said, You wrote it all down. I didn't write a thing, but it's all up here. Now, I'm flipping through his iPhone and looking at Italy through his eyes.