April 3, 2003 Back in the day, when I was young and foolish and strangely conservative, I said I would never live in the city. I was going to leave the New York Metropolitan area and go to college in Oklahoma and then find a ranch somewhere. Of course, I was sixteen then and pretty much a total idiot. I swear everything that came out of my mouth between the ages of 13 and 18 was either a study in complete jackassery or a lie. (Which, let me tell you, is the main reason I fear having children. Well, actually why I fear having a DAUGHTER. Adolescent girls – not the most loveable creatures on earth. You know, as opposed to 30-year-old women who still act like adolescent girls.) Anyway, complete jackassery or not, for a while at least, I was determined to live in the country. Of course, this was probably more because of my father than my love of good, clean country livin'. He worked in the city during the Seventies and Eighties – a bad, bad time for New York – and while it didn't bother him, a man who had grown up on Harlem's Vinegar Hill, the stories he told at the dinner table of subway muggings and broad daylight assaults scared me out of my mind. Ah, my father, King of Inappropriate Dinner Conversation That Terrifies His Children. So, yeah, I was scared of urban living. I think there was also some typically-teenaged-girl plan to buy a horse or some other animal so I'd need a lot of land. A barn. Maybe a pond. And a big, beat up Ford pickup. This plan lasted through my junior year of college. Then I read Truman Capote's In Cold Blood and suddenly, a farm with no neighbors close enough to hear me screaming didn't seem like such a hot idea. I tried suburban living for a while, but eventually I came to my senses and figured out that my father's Urban Tales of Horror be damned, I'm a city girl. I moved into Center City Philadelphia in the summer of 2000 and so far, it's been a slice of heaven. Except I haven't seen a freaking tree in it's natural habitat for three years. You wouldn't think that would be such a big deal. I didn't at first. It's not like there aren't trees in Philadelphia. There's one right outside our house. And then there's Rittenhouse Square and Washington Square and University B's campus has fields and trees. So, no, Philadelphia is not one long stretch of concrete and asphalt. But starting last December I have been seized with this urge to go to the woods. Okay, so it isn't an urge to run into the woods, cast off my earthly possessions, strip naked, cover myself in mud, and howl at the moon; but still, it's been strong enough to knock me off kilter for the last five months. Because, despite this constant need to get back to nature, you know I haven't done anything about it yet, right? Instead, every few days I turn to Holden and say, “I need to get out of the city. We need to go the woods.” And he says, “Okay, we'll go this weekend.” And then the weekend comes and I invariably end up trading twelve hours of sleep per day for my much desired nature hike. And it's got to be the forest. It can't be the beach or the desert (like there's any deserts in the Philadelphia area anyway) or anything. Mountains would be nice. A river, a lake, a creek, a puddle would be preferable. But no matter, I NEED to see trees. Lots of trees. Clustered together in a seemingly unending stretch of quiet, woodsy glory. Christ, half the reason I cried through 90% of The Two Towers was the frickin scenery. I took one look at Edoras and thought my heart was going to break because I couldn't be there instead of in cramped South Philly where nature means the ball field across the street from Pat's Steaks or, if you're lucky, maybe Columbus Park. Of course, Holden says this is all because I've watched Lord of the Rings (both Fellowship and Two Towers) too many times. His theory is that I've watched those movies so damn many times that the repeated viewings of the gorgeous natural settings in the films have created this need in me. He also likes to remind me that even if I do get off my ass one day and go to the Pine Barrens, I'm more likely to find the cast of Deliverance than Frodo, Sam, Merry, and Pippin. I don't agree. Well, I understand I'm never going to find Pippin frolicking in the woods (mostly), but I still don't agree with Holden's cause-and-effect reasoning: You watched Lord of the Rings 10,000 times and that is what has made you desperate to see a tree that's not stuck in a planter at the King of Prussia mall. In fact, I think it's actually the reverse. I think that one of the reasons that the LOTR films have captured my heart is because of their majestic natural settings, which appealed to me because I was already longing to reconnect with nature. Repeated viewing of the films just brought it to a head faster, that's all. I mean, look at it this way: I also love LOTR because of darling Billy, but repeated viewings haven't made me want to move to Glasgow and stalk him much more than I did after watching the films only once or twice. (And, yes, I love the films for their lovely adaptation of a heroic story and universal themes, not just for Billy Boyd and picture postcard scenery. I'm not THAT much of an arrested adolescent.) So Holden's putting the cart before the horse. Besides, I doubt if any film, even one as great as Peter Jackson's, could summon the strength of feeling and desire that I've been feeling in terms of missing the natural world. Because ultimately when I think of dapples of sunlight falling on a shady forest floor, I feel almost homesick. Which is bizarre, in and of itself, because my home (in the literal, where-I-spent-my-youth) is a small, post-WWII bedroom community in North Jersey, where you're more likely to find trees in planters in the Paramus Park Mall than rolling miles of forest. I mean, it's not like I grew up in the Little House in the Big Woods, for Christ's sake. Lately, though, I am more convinced of the truth in the idea that we all carry a genetic past, one linked to our heredity and the places our family lines originated. It would explain the draw that pre-Christian spirituality holds for me, particularly in a more Celtic sense. Wicca can be a very individualized belief system; for me, it certainly is. But as I am building my own spirituality, taking pieces from different cultures and both ancient and modern traditions, I find that most of what appeals to me is Celtic in some way. I suppose, you could attribute this to the fact that being half Irish, I would naturally be drawn to things that represent my cultural heritage. Again, I think there's more to it. I think I respond on a deeper, less rational level to these cultural representations because it's ingrained in my genetic makeup. Of course, this does call into question why I don't feel more of a pull from the Italian side of my makeup. I could say that my first interest in pagan religion and the first inklings of my spirituality were awakened by a fascination with Greek and Roman mythology and that certain aspects of my own faith are derivative of a pagan Roman belief system. But still, there isn't much of a draw there for me. (I mean, outside of wanting to someday be standing in the middle of Saint Mark's in Venice with Billy Boyd like we were starring in one of those “buy-your-wife-a-diamond-or-else-you-are-a-total-bastard” commercials that I hate so much – obviously, only in terms of the commercial's message, not the fantasy. But Billy's Scottish, so what's wanting to be in Venice with a Scotsman say about my subconscious, genetic memory?) Anyway, the thing is this: while my mother is technically Italian, I think her actual family line derives from elsewhere. She doesn't look Italian in the least. Chances are she's descended from some barbarian who came along for the ride when his horde decided to topple the Roman Empire. You know, just for kicks. So, really, my mother could be from anywhere. My father could be too, but the pull I feel to Celtic history and culture is too strong to be explained only by the fact that my father listens to the Clancy Brothers and forbids the wearing of the color red for three weeks before St. Patrick's Day. I think it's just part of my physical makeup. Which could explain this absolute desire to return to a natural setting, particularly one that is reminiscent of a Celtic region. There's no denying that the LOTR films have a Celtic feel. We won't even get into my need to get to Stonehenge. But even more than Stonehenge, Ireland holds a tremendous pull for me – one that goes beyond wanting to see where Oscar Wilde was born and visiting the Dublin Post Office where the Easter 1916 rebels barricaded themselves. It's a longing to see a countryside that I've never seen, except in pictures. It's a desire to breathe that particular air. And feel that particular rain and sun. And I don't know how to explain that desire except in terms of genetic memory. Again, I look at pictures of Ireland and I get a feeling of home. A feeling I didn't get when I was physically in Italy – even though I loved being there. Lately, I find myself thinking that if anything were to ever happen to radically change my life – something that would leave me at loose ends and unattached – that I would move to Ireland. Just pack it all up, take a suitcase, and get on a plane. Get a job and live there for the rest of my days. Sometimes, I think I should have done it when I graduated from college and was free and without the ties of love and commitment that I have now. But the past is nothing we can change, so for now, I just rest certain in the fact that if my life were to change that radically (and really, I don't want it to), I would go. Of course, I also spend a lot of time trying to ignore the fact that Ireland, or at least the Republic, is a CATHOLIC country. Steeped in pre-Christian history or not, Ireland isn't the place you're going to be finding that many Druids running around anymore. Jeez, I can't believe how New Age I'm getting. Genetic memory? Next stop, past lives.

7 Deadly Sins and Other, Less Fatal Diversions Pride: It only took me two months to update this time. Envy: Whomever outbid me for the malachite necklace on Ebay. Wrath: The other night I'm watching Law and Order -- actually the original series, you know with Sam Waterston and Jerry Orbach? So I watch the first half -- the LAW half -- but when it gets to the ORDER half, which is where you find out Jack McCoy's brilliant plan to get the bad guy and put them away, freakin' NBC switches to war coverage. I know. I know. I'm a terrible citizen of the world. Let's leave it at that. Sloth: I owe MANY, MANY emails. For this, I apologize. Avarice: Been on a jewelry-buying kick lately. Gluttony: Corina gave me the recipe for these roasted tomatoes and now I cannot stop eating them. I guess roasted tomatoes are better than not being able to stop eating chocolate cupcakes, though. Lust: Billy's still tops, but..... And even I'm a little embarrassed to admit this one.... French Stewart. (Or, in this "Go on, hate the French. All the cool kids hate the French" day and age, has he changed his name to Liberty Stewart or perhaps Freedom Stewart?) In any case, he was the dopey alien on Third Rock from the Sun, a show I watched very infrequently and didn't feel any particular inklings about Mr. Stewart while watching it. No, it's those damn Inspector Gadget 2 commercials on the Disney Channel. Holden likes to watch endless repeats of Boy Meets World on the Disney Channel. So I've been bombarded with the Inspector Gadget 2 ads and somewhere around the millionth airing of the video for the Rose Falcon song from that film, I found myself thinking, "Hey, who knew French Stewart was so cute? When he's not walking around with his eyes permanently squnity, he's not bad." And from that realization, it was only a matter of time before the lust developed. Naturally. Maybe it's the trench coat and the hat. Or maybe it's the endless possibilities for fun those "go-go-gadgets" hold. ;) Book: April Witch by Majgull Axelsson. I assigned it for my Perceptions of Witchcraft in Literature class this summer so I figured I'd better read it. Great, great book. Tune: Rose Falcon, "Up, Up, Up (Theme from Inspector Gadget 2)": Hey, you, don't let 'em see you frown. C'mon, turn it upside down. Don't ever crack. Get up. Get up. When life puts you to the test, There's nothing better than your best. Show 'em what you got. You got a lot. Task at Hand: Dyeing my hair Quest for Publication: I sent out 15 more submission back in February but since then, nothing. None of my other stuff is ready to go yet. I've gotten a bunch of rejections in the past month, but I've got 20 still out there. The last round was the comedy short story and it's been coming back faster than the previous piece. Scott says it's because one of the characters is bulemic. He hates the bulemia thing. Keeps telling me to change it. I won't. Besides, one of the rejections had a hand-written note telling me that I had really good imagery. So there. Total Submissions: 51 Rejections: 23 Acceptances: 1 Withdrawals: 7